While Cory stood cautiously over her, Laura ate Cheerios until Ms Hina had no more milk in the fridge to accompany it. Laura then resorted to eating the cereal dry by the fistful. When she had her fill of food, she sat on the centre`s rocking chair, rocking back and forth and silently watching an inexplicable circle of light dance around the room.
“You see that?” asked Ms Hina, pointing at the flash of light. “I think that’s from my wristwatch.”
Laura observed Ms Hina twisting her wrist to catch the sunlight, like it was magic on the ceiling, magic on Laura’s palms, magic on her cheeks.
Cory’s face was red, what with this towelhead observing the state of their trashiness, acute poverty hanging like the mucus drying under Laura’s nose. He cautiously removed his black satin bomber jacket, glancing at the stitched-on logo of a Prussian eagle from back in his days of shaved heads and beers with the boys, and sat down on one of the school chairs. His knees were too high for comfort, despite being short for an adult. He used his jacket to cover the Iron Cross tattoo on his forearm.
“I’m going to give you this,” Ms Hina said to Cory before they were set to leave. It was an information pamphlet on lice removal. “I know that lice shampoo is expensive, so I have this large bottle of olive oil. We use it here at the centre for making playdough. But we have more than enough. You can take it home with you. Just apply it to her head for the next three days, and let her sleep with it on. Remove the nits, and clean her clothes. Works just as well, if not better, than lice shampoo. But we will need her to be treated before she can return to the centre.”
Cory snatched the pamphlet and the olive oil from that Paki, powerless to this brown woman he hated so, for he, too, was hungry for Cheerios.
After school, back at the apartment, poor Laura looked like she had been licked by a dog, there was so much oil everywhere. Cory did all the laundry by hand in the bathtub, using Palmolive dish soap from the food bank. His little girl was oily, shiny, sticky, and without lice. Anything to get free breakfast in the morning.
DAILY REPORT
September 22, 2011
Facilitator: Hina Hassani
Location: Rouge Hill Public School
Attendance:
Parent/Guardian/Caregiver
Children (one per line please)
Cory Mitkowski
Laura Mitkowski
Edna Espiritu
Bernard Espiritu
Helen McKay
Finnegan Everson Liam Williams Sebastian Dennis Chloe Smith
Fern Donahue
Paulo Sanchez Kyle Keegan
Marie Beaudoin
Sylvie Beaudoin Johnny Beaudoin
Pamela Roy
Evan Roy Yanna Roy Tasha Roy
Lily Chan
Aiden Chan Jennifer Chan
Amina Mohammed
Waleed Mohammed
Notes:
Much better attendance today. My biggest grab seems to be parents who have kids on their way to school. That thirty minutes before the national anthem is when this place is packed with children. They play, eat breakfast, then head to their classrooms. Those moms or dads who want a place to play with their younger preschool kids will stick around. I am thrilled word is spreading.
Today’s favourite activities included the water table, much to the chagrin of the grownups. I’ve had numerous complaints about it, as we’re heading into fall and winter. Purple-dyed water was drunk by the handful or splashed on other children. It was a bit disastrous. Parents and caregivers are asking if we can nix the water table and perhaps replace it with shredded paper or other found objects. They just don’t want the kids to be catching colds or other nasty bugs. Let me know your thoughts. It may have been a full moon, but circle time was also equally disastrous. I almost lost my voice trying to sing songs with the kids, they were so rowdy. They all just wanted to keep playing with the water table. Ha!
There are two older kids who seem to enjoy each other’s company, Bing and Sylvie. Today I gave them both the task of creating their own comic books. Sylvie agreed to write the story, and Bing agreed to illustrate it. Bing’s teacher, Mrs Finnegan, has asked me for my thoughts on whether or not Bing should be assessed for giftedness designation. I agree that he should, but I will get back to her next week with my formal thoughts.
There is a father, Cory, who comes in here with his daughter Laura. I am not sure what their story is yet, but Laura often comes in pretty hungry. I would ask what the situation is, but the dad seems rather antisocial toward me. I am going to strategize over the next couple weeks about some ways to gently integrate Laura in with the other children.
Weekly supplies requested:
2% milk
three bags, please
crackers
one box
cream cheese
two tubs
Shreddies
two boxes
raisins
one box, bulk carrots shredded carrots, please! The toddlers seem to find it easier to eat. Maybe the other centres would benefit, too—less coughing up orange all over the tables.
oatmeal
one large bag, quick oats
yogurt
small serving sizes, variety of flavours
Jane Fulton
September 22, 2011
11:50 a.m. (8 hours ago)
To
Hi, Hina.
Thanks so much for your detailed notes. We are so happy that attendance is increasing at the new Rouge Hill Public School centre. These numbers are crucial since our funding depends on solid statistics. Having these forms truly helps our marketing and development officer get those dollars put toward each centre!
May I suggest you take some time to flyer the neighbourhood around the centre as part of the outreach to get those numbers even higher? This strategy has worked well in our downtown Toronto locations, and given the vastness of the geography of the suburbs, I imagine this kind of outreach would be even more effective in Scarborough.
I want to give you a word of caution about making food the main draw for families. We know you are located in a low-income neighbourhood, and I want to assure you that the resources are there to feed these community members elsewhere. That’s why we provide small portions of snacks, but the serving of a formal breakfast sends the wrong message. The focus of the centres is to encourage healthy parenting and literacy. So while food is included in our programming, the purpose is school readiness, since sharing food will be a part of the daily life of a student. The centre is not, however, a soup kitchen.
If you need clarification, please let me know.
Take care and great work!
Jane Fulton, MSW
Supervisor, Ontario Reads Program
Reading is a way for me to expand my mind, open my eyes, and fill up my heart.
—Oprah Winfrey
Me
September 22, 2011
1:15 a.m. (6 hours ago)
To Jane Fulton
Hello, Jane:
Thanks for your feedback. Are other facilitators across the province doing the same flyering you are suggesting? Also, I am wondering if this time doing “outreach” will be included in my paid work schedule or if this will be paid outside of my schedule on an hourly basis? Please advise. I know community-building is part of my job description, but off-site activity was not part of my contract.
Re: serving food at the centre. If there were thirty attendees throughout the day who also happened to be present for snack time, would it look any different than thirty children who are fed in the morning before school, using the same supplies we would use for snacks? And know that this is far from a “formal breakfast.” I’m just substituting cheese and crackers with more oatmeal and yogurts, for example. I’m not trying to be adversarial; however, I do feel the centre is being used appropriately, since servings of breakfast seem to be needed in this neighbourhood.
&
nbsp; I would love to discuss this with you further. Are you available to drop by during our centre hours sometime next week? Sincerely,
Hina Hassani, Facilitator
Ontario Reads Program, Rouge Hill Public School
Jane Fulton
2:30 p.m. (5 hours ago)
To
Hi, Hina.
We can most definitely discuss this. But since our main office is located downtown, perhaps we can do so at your next performance review, in November. (In the meantime, I would love your thoughts on where you can flyer. There are so many opportunities for connection that I don’t want you to miss. )
I assure you that the centres were designed after years of trial and error. We pride ourselves on solid relationship-building with communities, and I tell you now that dangling food in front of hungry people is not what draws parents back to your site. They love having a warm cup of coffee in the morning while their kids enjoy circle time. They love watching their children run around during gym. We are trying to cultivate the next generation of good parents, not just full tummies. I know your sentiments, and I have felt them too. Trust me.
As for flyering, I am sure it won’t take too much time between your leaving work and dropping them off at a few apartment buildings. That Native Child and Family Services place is also right around the corner, don’t forget!
Again, great work. I am so pleased to have a worker with their wheels turning! Cheers!
Jane Fulton, MSW
Supervisor, Ontario Reads Program
Reading is a way for me to expand my mind, open my eyes, and fill up my heart.
—Oprah Winfrey
LAURA
“Why is your hair so oily?” asked the fancy girl during lunch recess while she twirled the plastic handle of a skipping rope. The girl wore a plum red beret positioned neatly to one side. She rubbed her perfect button nose while she surveyed Laura’s getup: My Little Pony lunch bag, blue leggings, quilted red jacket, oily hair.
“Ah, come on, Clara. Why aren’t you turning the rope?” said a brown girl behind her.
“Are you new?” Clara kept her eyes on Laura, who nodded silently. Clara looked at the brown girl and screamed, “I think she’s new!”
The brown girl approached with the other end of the skipping rope. Although she was only a few inches taller than Laura, she crouched down and placed her hands on her knees, like she was looking at an injured animal. “What’s your name, sweetie?” She sounded like a grown-up.
“Laura.” She looked down at her shoes.
“My name is Sylvie.”
“You’re dirty,” said Clara.
“Goddamn it, Clara. That’s why my mama says you’re nothing but a snooty bitch.” Sylvie snatched the other end of the skipping rope from Clara’s hands and skipped away, the rope all to herself.
“That’s it! I’m telling Mrs Finnegan!”
“Go on. If you tell, I’ll never let you play with my skipping rope.”
“I’ve got five skipping ropes at home. I don’t care!”
“I don’t care either. I know your dad doesn’t let you bring your skipping ropes to school cuz he thinks everyone’s gonna steal them from you, because you’re a rich, snooty bitch.”
They continued their bickering while Laura quietly made her way to the side entrance. She watched as a flurry of children exited, then she sneaked in while the door was open. The school felt so different without children inside it. It felt kind of nice. Laura looked around at all the drawings on the walls, at all the indoor shoes lined up outside each closed classroom door.
One door remained open. Classical music was playing on a radio. With yellow rubber gloves on, Ms Hina walked to the radio and turned the volume up before continuing her wipe-down of a box of wooden blocks. Three toddlers quietly played around a sandbox in the middle of the room while their parents chatted over coffee. Ms Hina saw Laura in the frame of the door and removed her gloves.
“Hi, Laura.” She knelt down to meet her eyes. “It was nice seeing you yesterday. How are you today?”
Laura shrugged.
“Are you supposed to be outside playing?”
Laura shrugged.
Ms Hina spied Laura’s My Little Pony lunch bag and her tiny fingers wrapped tightly around the handle. “That’s a cool bag! Can I see?” Laura showed her, half smiling. “I love My Little Pony. My favourite one is Minty because I love green and pink.” Laura grinned widely. Minty was her favourite, too. Carefully, and with a warm smile, Ms Hina asked, “Can I see inside your lunch bag?” Laura’s face flushed. She nodded yes. The lunch bag was empty. Ms Hina took a breath. “What a beautiful lunch bag. I bet cold things stay cold, and hot things stay hot in here.” Ms Hina stood up and looked around the room. “Guess what today was? It was make your own muffin day. While the school-agers were in class, all the parents learned how to make yummy oatmeal muffins. Do you want one?” Laura nodded. Ms Hina grabbed one of the muffins and an apple from the fridge, then placed them inside Laura’s lunch bag. “There you go.”
“Daddy says you eat babies.”
Ms Hina paused, then smiled. “Do you think I eat babies?”
Laura shook her head.
“No. I don’t eat babies, that’s for sure. I love eating carrot cake and coffee. What do you like to eat?”
Laura shrugged her shoulders. “What’s that?” Laura pointed to Ms Hina’s hijab.
“It’s my hijab.”
“Why do you wear that?”
Ms Hina paused, “Because it reminds me of who I am.”
They stood for a brief moment looking at each other. Ms Hina took another breath, then headed to a storage cabinet. She returned with a small foam letter h and held it inches away from Laura’s face. Magic.
“Do you know what letter this is?” Laura shrugged. “It’s the letter h. Every letter makes a sound. And all those sounds together make a word. And all those words together can make a story.” Ms Hina placed her hand in front of her face and exhaled to make a huh sound. “Huh–huh–horse. If I give you this letter, can you promise to give it back to me?” Laura reached out for the letter. “But,” Ms Hina pulled it away playfully, “you have to tell me words that make a huh sound. You pinky promise?” Ms Hina presented her pinky finger. Laura linked her finger. A deal.
“Okay. You’d better go outside and play. And let me know if those oatmeal muffins are any good, okay?”
Laura scurried out to recess, lunch bag and all.
BING
“It seems Bernard here had a bit of an incident on the bus today,” Principal Sankiewicz reported solemnly to Edna, summarizing the incident succinctly. “A couple of the grade sixers were a bit rough with him. We had some words with them, and we think it’s in Bernard’s best interest to head home for some rest.”
The clock on the wall behind Ma’s confused face ticked relentlessly. Sankiewicz compared the time with the clock on his iPhone. Two minutes faster.
The principal’s condensed and abridged description of the afternoon’s bus ride from the Toronto Zoo left out numerous details. He failed to tell Ma that I had been struggling to open the wrapper of my granola bar when the back of my head was swiftly slapped by Aiden Redden, who’s in grade six.
“Stop eating, you fat fuck,” Aiden said, his look of disgust framed by his Justin Bieber mop.
For a reason I still cannot understand myself, I got onto my knees to search the ridged floor of the bus for the remains of my granola bar.
Cole Hester, also in grade six, seized the opportunity to step on my hand with his second-hand Blundstone boots. I yelped, and the children squealed with laughter.
Mrs Emerson, who reluctantly sat at the front of the bus, ordered everyone to quiet down. They did. But the torture continued, just quietly.
Aiden rallied everyone to loom over me on the floor of the bus, helpless and crying.
“Open up your lunches. This beached whale needs to be fed.” Bol
ogna. Crackers. Cheese strings. Cellophane. It all hit my face with such hatred.
“Sto-o-op! Stop it now!” said a voice that no one listened to. I felt a sweaty hand grasp the fabric of my button-up shirt and pull me up. It was Sylvie. She looked down at my pants, and I was ashamed at what she saw. She opened the window, told me to sit, took off her sweater, and handed it to me. “Go on, put it around your waist to hide everything,” she said. She crossed her arms and looked out at the distance to ensure I didn’t feel embarrassed. The hair standing up on her arms told me she needed her sweater back, but I had no choice.
After we left the principal’s office, I whispered the obvious into Ma’s ear. “I pooped my pants.” The teachers refused to clean me up.
Ma choked on her tears.
The rest of that entire day, I sat on her lap, clean, with hair still wet from a long bubble bath. We watched anything and everything on TV, while she caressed my skin with her motherly touches. I am loved. I will be loved. I am loved. I will be loved. I am perfect just the way I am. She has me repeat it. I practically suffocated under her loving grasp, but I dared not escape.
For the rest of my life, I will remember the names of Cole Hester and Aiden Redden. Their faces and names are etched on my chest. I will remember the bus driver who saw it all through the rear-view mirror, his eyes looking listlessly at me as I cried for help. I will remember Mrs Emerson and her empty orders. I will remember Principal Sankiewicz and his abridged version of what happened to me. I will remember Sylvie and her sweater around my waist, hiding my poop-stained pants.
But at that moment, on my mother’s lap, I languished in the sheer size of me. I was forced to rejoice in every fingernail, every hair on my head, the dimples in my cheeks. She kissed my eyelids so fiercely, in a Filipino way, her lips pressed together to reveal no lip. More a smell than a smooch.
Scarborough Page 4