by Lisa Grekul
Barbie meets me in the corridor outside the bathroom.
“You’re up next!” she says, handing my guitar to me. “You’ve only got twenty minutes with them. Make every word count.”
I feel dizzy.
“Don’t worry, though!” Barbie puts her arm around me and squeezes. “Just relax and be yourself! The committee will call on you when they’re ready.”
Barbie joins Vanessa’s Dad and Caroline’s parents and Caroline on the other side of the room. Caroline is in the centre of the group talking about herself. She’s describing her volunteer work with aids victims and homeless teenagers and heroine addicts. Are there heroine addicts in St. Paul? I’ve volunteered at bingos for the Ukrainian dance club, to raise money for our trips to festivals. That’s it, the extent of my volunteer work. Bingo.
The interview room is long and rectangular; it’s decorated in pastel colours. A pastel blue carpet, pastel blue and pink chairs – high-backed, plush chairs that swivel – and pastel pink vertical blinds on the windows. Hanging on one wall is a pastel pink print of coral and seashells and, on the other wall, a matching pastel blue print of the ocean. The room is filled with a long rectangular table, and faces. Six faces, six people, each with a pastel pink name tag. Tim Van Leuwen, the committee chairperson, extends his hand. He’s balding. The top of his head, I notice, is pale pink. It matches the decor.
Tim takes me around the table, introducing me to the other committee members one by one.
J.J. Bowers, physiotherapist, University of Alberta Hospital. Pacific College Alumnus.
Craig Jefferson, Immigration Canada. Pacific College Alumnus.
Gena Fontaine, Alberta Teachers’ Association. Pacific College Alumnus.
Heinrich Bauer, Bauer, Franke, and Associates. Atlantic College Alumnus.
Fiona Clarke, Director of Marketing, peta. Atlantic College Alumnus.
Three women, three men. The committee is perfectly symmetrical. They even sit symmetrically – boy girl, boy girl, boy girl. Half have attended the Pacific uwc in British Columbia, the other half, the Atlantic College in Wales. There are no alumni of the Adriatic uwc in Italy or the College of the American West in New Mexico. No representative from the Southeast Asia uwc in Singapore. No one from the Southern Africa uwc in Swaziland. What a disappointment. I wanted to ask questions about the college in Africa.
There is no small talk. The committee goes straight into the questions.
“It’s standard procedure,” says Tim, “for us to begin by asking each candidate to explain his or her response to question 32.2(d) on the United World Colleges application form.”
Question 32.2(d)?
Craig takes a turn at speaking. “In your case, Colleen, we’re particularly interested in the way you chose to answer 32.2(d).”
Craig has short, spiky hair. He’s tanned, broad-shouldered. Well-built. The opposite of Tim, with his shiny head and his scrawny neck and his white-blue complexion.
I try to visualize the application form – 32.2(d), 32.2(d). It’s been two months since I filled out the application.
“I don’t quite recall question 32.2(d). Could you refresh my memory, please?”
Tim and Craig exchange glances. This, I think, is a test. A test of my memory. And I’m failing.
Tim clears his throat. “The question asked that you rank the colleges from one to six according to your personal preferences: one being your first choice, six being your last. On your application” – he sighs as he sifts through a stack of papers – “you failed to rank the colleges altogether.”
Tim pushes my application toward me; I pick it up, my hands shaking. My response to question 32.2(d) has been highlighted in bright yellow.
I remember now, of course. Instead of ranking the colleges, I simply marked my first choice. I circled the college in southern Africa. I drew tiny stars all around it. I placed an enormous number one beside the words Waterford Kamhlaba United World College of Southern Africa.
“We would be less than honest,” says Craig, “if we didn’t communicate to you the degree to which your application form – particularly, your response to question 32.2(d) – stands out as unusual among the other candidates’ application forms.”
“All of our other applicants completed the question as asked,” says Tim.
“That is to say,” says Craig, “they ranked the colleges from one to six.”
“And almost entirely without exception,” says Tim, “they relegated Waterford Kamhlaba to the bottom of their list.”
Craig interrupts. “You should know, Colleen, that we don’t – as a rule – send students on scholarship to Swaziland. I imagine that – given your obvious interest in Waterford Kamhlaba – it must be disappointing for you to hear this now. Perhaps your guidance counsellor or your teacher – whoever passed the application on to you – perhaps that person wasn’t aware of our policy?”
“The region is too volatile,” says Heinrich, the lawyer on the committee. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms behind his head. “Political upheaval, civil unrest. Violence. With the potential dismantling of the apartheid regime by militant black factions and makeshift guerrilla groups, it’s simply not in the best interest of our committee –”
“– or our candidates,” Craig says, interrupting him –
“– to involve ourselves with the college in southern Africa. It’s too dangerous.”
Craig cuts in again. “Safety,” he says. “The safety of our students is our number one priority.”
For a moment, nobody speaks.
“You don’t know that it’s not safe,” I say.
“Pardon?” says Tim.
“You don’t know that it’s not safe. You don’t really know what’s going on in South Africa. How could you? You haven’t been there and you haven’t sent any students there.”
The more I talk, the more assertive I become. My hands stop trembling, my stomach settles. It’s like being onstage, like a performance.
“All you know is what you read in the newspapers, and what you hear on tv. Do you believe everything the media tell you? I don’t. The media are in business. Selling papers, high ratings – that’s their business. They sensationalize everything. I don’t trust them. I want to know what’s really going on in the world. I want to see apartheid first-hand. If you’re worried about the danger, give me a waiver. Something that says the committee won’t be held responsible for any harm that might come to me. I’ll sign it. I’ll sign it right now.”
“What we’re asking,” says Heinrich, ignoring my little speech, “is that you select another college.”
“Keeping in mind,” Tim adds, “that Waterford Kamhlaba is really out of the question.”
For a split second, I think back to a conversation that I had with Mr. Kaushal, about the colleges. A week or so before Sister Maria died.
“I’ve read about the other colleges,” I say, “and they all sound wonderful. Don’t get me wrong. They sound beautiful. The campuses in New Mexico and Wales are both built around castles. The college in Victoria is surrounded by the ocean. But I’ve also read in your scholarship literature that when scholarship recipients have completed their year at a United World College, they’re obliged to return to their communities to share what they’ve learned from the United World College experience.”
I’m not sure if this is the right or the wrong thing to say. Probably it’s the wrong thing. I keep talking, though. I can’t stop now.
I tell the committee that Waterford Kamhlaba interests me because it was the first multi-racial school in southern Africa. It was designed to challenge the apartheid system, to show young people that it’s possible for individuals of all races to live and learn and work together. And the apartheid system – the system that forces black people to live in homelands – was modelled on Canadian Indian reserves.
Mr. Kaushal told me this.
“My hometown is St. Paul. And St. Paul is surrounded by five reserves. Saddle Lake, Frog Lake, Kehiwin. Good
Fish, Fishing Lake. We’ve got our own apartheid happening right here, right now. It seems to me that if South Africa learned about apartheid from us, who’s to say that we can’t learn from South Africa how to dismantle it?”
Now I’m sure that I’ve said the wrong thing. The committee members are all writing in their notepads. I’ve insulted them by saying that Canada is like South Africa.
“Thank you,” says Tim, pursing his lips. “I think that’s enough. We can move on to the next question. Gena?”
Gena’s hair is curly and red, her face is pale and freckled. She says, “If a – if a Swazi student, let’s say, were to ask you what it means to be Canadian, what would you say?”
I pause, wondering how I should answer. Mr. Kaushal and I didn’t talk about what it means to be Canadian. But Sister Maria and I did. I showed her a song, once, that I sang in my elementary school choir, and we had a good laugh together about all the clichés that the songwriter had packed into it.
Finish this sentence, says Gena. “My country, Canada, is –”
Canada is fresh maple syrup
Canada is red-coated Mounties
Canada is the boreal beaver
And the bison and the loon
Without thinking, I recite lines from the choir song. I should stop myself before I go any further. I don’t think that I’ve ever tasted real maple syrup. We buy Aunt Jemima’s, it’s cheaper. And the rcmp only wear red on special occasions. I’m sure the committee members know a cliché when they hear one.
Canada is the Rocky Mountains
Canada is the northern tundra
Canada is Niagara Falls
And the Great Lakes and the plains
Tim tries to interrupt me. I ignore him. I’m on a roll, making up my own lines to the song. It’s like I’m reliving my conversation with Sister Maria, and the memory of her laughing makes me smile while I come up with a new verse.
Canada is the Maritime miner
Canada is the Calgary oilman
Canada is the Saskatchewan farmer
And the West Coast –
“Great,” says Tim. “That’s great. Let’s move on. We’ve got to keep our eye on the clock. J.J.? You go ahead.”
Damn it. I’m not finished. I wanted to say something about the Québécois language and Hibernia and the midnight sun in the Northwest Territories.
“As Tim mentioned,” J.J. says, “I’m a physiotherapist at the University Hospital in Edmonton. My primary interest is in body consciousness: healthy eating, physical fitness, active lifestyles.”
It doesn’t look to me as though J.J. is interested in healthy eating. It doesn’t look like she’s interested in eating at all. The skin on her face is stretched tight across her cheekbones and eye sockets. She wears a sleeveless shirt so I can see her arms, thin and sinewy, blue-green veins bulging down the length of her forearms and across the backs of her hands. I think she’s overdone it with the physical fitness and the active lifestyle. She looks anorexic.
“I’d like you to elaborate on your involvement in sports. Team sports and individual sports.”
I could lie. I probably should. Make something up about running, aerobics. Volleyball, tennis, badminton. I could play the part, pretend that I’m a jock. J.J. would never know the difference, I’m not wearing a sleeveless shirt. But what if they send me to a jock college? I’ve heard that the college in Victoria specializes in water sports like sailing and swimming and ocean kayaking. They do rock climbing in Wales, cricket in Singapore. I’d never make it at one of those colleges.
“I have to be honest. I’m not really one for sports, organized or individual. In fact. No. That’s an understatement. I hate sports. I always have.”
J.J. gasps. The other committee members lift their pencils off their notepads. They’ve probably never seen a candidate make so many mistakes in one interview. I have to be myself, though. I can’t pretend to be something I’m not.
“I’ve never tried out for the school volleyball team, basketball team, track team. Never played after-school sports, like softball or soccer. Wait – no – that’s not true. My parents signed me up for T-Ball one year.”
“You know the game, right?” I ask. “It’s sort of a tiny tots’ version of softball.”
Gena nods. Craig nods.
“The coach never played me. He said that I wasn’t aggressive enough.” I pause. “For t-Ball.”
“So, I suppose that set a precedent in my life. Ten years of phys. ed. classes and not once – ever – did I break a sweat. Never. I don’t think it makes me a bad person, really. Sports just aren’t for everyone, and that’s all right, in my opinion. For me, it’s the competition that I can’t stand. I mean – imagine. We’re playing floor hockey in phys. ed. and my best friend is the goaltender on the other team. Now, why would I want to go and score on her? She’s my best friend. I’m not going to shoot at my best friend. Or, let’s say, my best friend is on the other team, and she’s playing left wing and she loves to score. Scoring means everything to her – and she’s good at it, too. Why not pass her the puck and let her score? Scoring doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
J.J. looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind.
“You’re telling me,” she says, “that you have never engaged in any cardiovascular activity? You’ve never worked out? You’ve never – perspired?”
“Oh no. No. I’ve perspired lots of times – just not in phys. ed. In Ukrainian dancing I used to get completely drenched. I Ukrainian danced twice a week, all my life. It’s a pretty good workout. But, technically speaking, Ukrainian dancing isn’t a sport. You asked me about sports.”
I try not to look smug.
J.J. turns to Fiona, shaking her head. “Your witness,” she says.
Fiona says, “I want to pick up on something that you mentioned when you were talking about Canada. You talked about the beaver in relation to Canada. You know, many of our students – past and present – are actively involved in the protection of endangered animal species. A lot of us are strict vegetarians. I’ve personally made a career of animal rights, working with peta, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.”
I look around the room at the other committee members. Gena has set her pencil down; Heinrich and Craig have crossed their arms over their chests. Tim interrupts Fiona, asking if she could perhaps get to her question.
“Could you tell us about your interest in and your experiences with animal rights activism?” says Fiona.
“Animal rights activism,” I repeat. “That’s a tough one.”
It is a tough one. Mr. Kaushal and I have had an ongoing argument about animal rights. Fiona is on his side. She wants to hear that I volunteer at the spca with abused pets, that I write letters protesting the sale of ivory. That I spray paint on rich women’s fur coats. I don’t think that I can do it – play into her hand, tell her what she wants to hear. I can’t and I won’t.
“I’ll be straight with you,” I say. “I grew up on a farm. I’m fairly pragmatic about killing animals.”
“Pragmatic?” Fiona raises her eyebrows.
“I’m all for animal rights. I really am. I think senseless cruelty to animals is awful. But – take gophers, for example. They spell trouble for farmers. Gophers are big-time pests. They destroy crops; cows break legs because of gopher holes. They can’t be allowed to live. Not in large numbers anyway.”
“And farmers’ fields are more important than animal habitats?”
“Let me put it this way. If I had to choose between human life and animal life, I’d choose humans. Think about lab animals. Mice, rats, rabbits. Scientists need to use them in their research, to make medical advances. If we need to sacrifice a few rats to save human lives, so be it.”
I explain, then, that some animal rights activists seem to be selective about the animal lives that they fight for. “Mice and rabbits are cute, so they deserve to live. Cows are ugly, so they deserve to die. Where’s the logic?”
“By my logic,” says Fiona, �
��all animals have the right to live. I’m against the killing of all animals, so-called ‘ugly’ cows included. We could feed entire villages with the amount of grain that a single cow eats. How do you respond to that?”
I shift in my seat. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Is there not,” she says, “something inherently wrong – something inherently cruel – about the ways in which we privilege livestock industries over human life?”
“But killing itself isn’t necessarily cruel.”
Fiona stares me straight in the eye as I repeat a story that I once told Mr. Kaushal when I was arguing with him about cruelty to animals. It’s a true story.
“Have you ever taken a walk in the bush in northern Alberta in the spring? I have. My dad took me on a walk in the bush near our farm once in the spring. And we found fourteen half-rotten deer carcasses, all around the same spot, their undersides all red and raw and bloody. Dad says that we’re over-populated with deer. So when there’s not enough food for them in the winter, in the bush, they head out to farmers’ fields to get at the grain under the snow. Except that there’s this hard, icy crust over the fields and it scrapes the fur off their bellies. They don’t usually get to the point of starvation. They freeze to death first, bleed to death sometimes.”
“So you would support – culling, I suppose,” says Fiona, “as distinct from killing.”
“Exactly. I come from a hunting family. My dad and my brother Wes hunt. We all grew up on deer meat. Deer meat and moose meat, sometimes elk meat. We’ve got freezers full of wild meat. There’s a friend of my dad’s at Saddle Lake – one of the reserves by St. Paul – and he takes the hides and the antlers. We use everything except the guts. Dad leaves the guts for the coyotes. I don’t think it’s cruel, I think it’s natural.”
I’m feeling smug now. Like I’ve won the argument after all.
“And your dad,” says Fiona. “Does he keep the heads of the animals he kills for trophies? Or the antlers perhaps?”