Love & Courage

by Jagmeet Singh

  After just four months in the new place, my parents tried to sell the house. Times were tough in Windsor, so it wasn’t a seller’s market. The few buyers who did come by all had the same question: “You just built this house, Dr. Dhaliwal. Why are you so quick to sell your home?”

  My dad’s answer never changed. “We’re running out of room—we need a bigger house.”

  Back in school, I was in eleventh grade and really wanted to earn my first varsity letter. Soccer remained my favourite sport, but I was starting to fall behind my friends’ ability level. I relied on hustle and grit, but I was getting out-skilled. I didn’t make the varsity team and instead made the cut for junior varsity. It wasn’t a varsity letter, but I still enjoyed it, so I played out the season. Not making the varsity team turned out to be a blessing, though. I wanted to earn my letter and doubted I could do so in soccer. This forced me to try out for another sport—I still had to earn my mandatory blue point—which is how I discovered wrestling.

  It had been five years since I’d quit martial arts, and I had been missing a more productive way of releasing my energy. By eleventh grade, I’d been in my fair share of street fights, but I’d never fought a formal match with rules and a referee, not even in tae kwon do. I was inspired to join the team after watching some of my favourite martial artists compete in the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Inspired by fighters like Royce Gracie and Dan Severn, I tried out for the wrestling team on a whim.

  I loved the physical grit and utility of grappling. I loved the technique, strategy, and skill behind the takedowns. I enjoyed the intensity of going for the pin. I also liked how practical it was to learn how to wrestle. Grappling was an incredibly important skill for a well-rounded martial artist. I knew its importance to be true from first-hand experience: a lot of street fights ended up in grappling on the ground, so there was a functional benefit to learning techniques that I could use to disrupt my opponent’s balance and take him down. In that sense, wrestling was another way to develop the skills I needed to stand up for myself. And never far from that thought was my ever-present worry that I should be able to protect not only myself, but my family.

  On the advice of my coach, I took up weightlifting, strength, and fitness as my secondary-school sports. My body seemed to change overnight. Gone was the gangly boy. Suddenly I was a seventeen-year-old with a strong core and powerful legs, back, and chest.

  “You clearly enjoy wrestling,” my coach told me after a midseason practice leading up to our first tournament. I was sitting cross-legged on the mat, and I grinned at the thought of my first fight ahead.

  “There is one problem, though,” my coach said.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “The refs won’t let you fight like that,” he said, pointing at my head. My hair was wrapped up in a cloth and covered by my wrestling helmet, and I had a modest goatee with a moustache and light beard just covering my chin. “It’s against the rules to have any facial hair in high school tournaments.”

  The news worried me. I wasn’t going to cut or shave my hair, but I wanted to compete. Neither my coach nor I knew what to do.

  “I might have an idea,” he said. “Put this on.”

  My coach handed me a round, rubbery mask with a hole for my mouth and giant circles for my eyes. I held the mask in my hands, confused as to how it even went on and even more curious about how it would look when it did.

  One of my teammates walked by and saw the mask in my hand.

  “That’s scary as hell. You’re going to have all of your opponents psyched out,” he said, slapping me on the back in encouragement.

  Maybe he has a point, I thought. I could turn the mask into an advantage. I figured out how to thread my wrestling headgear straps through the mask and put it on. It was a bit claustrophobic, but when I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror, I had to laugh.

  “It’s actually kind of intimidating,” I said, before lunging at my teammates with a growl.

  I would need all the help I could get. For my first match, I was scheduled to face one of the highest-ranked high school wrestlers in Michigan. Like most of the top wrestlers in my division, he’d probably been training since elementary school, so he had years of experience on me. He was a great finisher—a master at turning his opponent’s mistakes against them for a quick pin.

  I stepped into the blue circle as the favourite to lose. He must’ve known it, too, because I got a quick takedown in before he knew what happened. We got up and I hit him again. And again. He kept hitting the floor, over and over again, until he was so worn down that I could go for the pin.

  It was a bit of beginner’s luck, so the rest of my first wrestling season was up and down. Each loss was a learning opportunity, a chance to literally and figuratively pick myself off the mat. Looking up at an opponent from your back, knowing you’ve lost, is an awful feeling. But it just made me want to work harder, and every victory inspired me and buoyed my confidence. So much was changing for me. Just a couple of years before this, I was so shy I couldn’t even pick up the phone to order a pizza for dinner. I dreaded the idea of talking to a stranger at the other end of the line. I’d have Gurratan make the call, and then, because he was only a little kid with a squeaky little voice, the vendor would think the call was a prank and no pizza would arrive. My mom would ask what happened and I’d have to confess that I’d made Gurratan make the call.

  Now, though, because of wrestling, I felt a stronger sense of self. I wasn’t as afraid to speak up or to be seen. I’ll never forget how overjoyed and humbled I was when, at the end of the season, my coach asked me to be the team captain the next year and awarded me my first letter. Earning my varsity letter and becoming captain of the team, no less, was an awesome feeling.

  “I want the team practising during the off season and it’s going to be your job as captain to help me keep them motivated.”

  I was all for that. That summer, my coach arranged for me to go to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to attend a wrestling camp. I went all on my own, and I loved it. I trained hard and earned the respect of high school students like me who loved the sport and who had come from all across the state. I also earned the respect of college wrestlers and coaches. Away from the pressures of home, I felt grounded and strong. But, naturally, the experience didn’t last forever.

  Once I returned home, it was back to reality. My dad’s drinking was worsening. Home was full of mess and uncertainty and a series of battles big and small. When I stepped onto the wrestling mat, though, all of that dropped away. It was just me and my opponent, the rules defined, the boundaries clear. For the first time in years, I had a place again where I could be confident, where I could feel in control of my mind, my body, and my future.

  It seems wrestling made a real difference at the right time, and people around me noticed the change in me. My brother and I hung out a lot during this time. One night, we went to watch a movie, Liar Liar, starring Jim Carrey. For some reason, my newfound lightheartedness came pouring out of me. In the past, I had been pensive and serious, but not anymore. I was laughing so hard at Jim Carrey’s antics that Gurratan was actually worried I was choking. I assured him I was feeling fine, better, in fact, than I’d felt in a long while.

  When it came time to consider universities, my school counsellor helped me put together a thorough application for a bachelor of sciences, majoring in biology. My goal was still to get a medical degree. The counsellor suggested I apply to the University of Michigan, the default school for Detroit Country Day students. It was renowned for its science research excellence and sports programs, including a wrestling team with seventeen national championships.

  I thought about it. I had come to realize that, wherever I went for university, I wanted to live away from home. At the same time, I didn’t want to abandon my brother and sister. I also knew that I wanted to go to school in Canada. Going to school in the US was my parents’ decision, and I understood why they had made that decision, but for me, I wanted to be back
in my own country. Eventually, I applied to the University of Toronto, the University of Waterloo, and Western University in London, Ontario, all just a few hours away. As I waited for responses, I grew increasingly conflicted between the desire to get away and the need to be able to come home quickly if my family needed me. And the closer I got to graduation, the more I sensed they’d need me a lot. Especially my mom.

  Gone was the woman who’d raised me to be studious and resilient, to be disciplined and tough, to steel myself from pain, and to keep my head held high. Now she was fragile and defeated, completely worn down. Her deep, husky voice was higher-pitched and strained, and it often cracked as she pleaded with my dad through tears.

  “You’re so mean to me,” I overheard her say to him one morning after a particularly bad night of his drunken behaviour.

  “I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over, their voices muffled.

  “You hurt me so much.”

  Though he kept saying sorry, he truly didn’t know what he was apologizing for. He had no recollection of their screaming match the night before, the crashing and banging, her begging him to stop drinking and him yelling, “Get off my case!” His kids remembered it, though. I heard every word of their arguments through the pillows I pressed against my ears.

  My mom started to have regular meltdowns. It wasn’t just heartbreaking to witness, but surreal. My dad had always been the emotional one. I’d always thought of my mom as gruff and stoic, a bit of a Superwoman. Now, when something set her off, she’d dissolve into tears. It wouldn’t even have to be about my dad’s alcoholism or our finances; it could be a totally innocent argument about Jugnu.

  “We can’t keep opening and closing the door to let him in and out of the house all winter,” she complained to me. “The house is freezing.”

  “What should we do?” I asked. “He’s high energy—he needs to blow off some steam.”

  “Jagmeet . . .” Her voice cracked on my name. Her eyes turned red and watery.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, hurrying toward her. She melted in my arms, shaking and sobbing. I held her tightly as she cried.

  “It’s so tough, Jagmeet, it’s so hard,” she said. “He’s so bad to me.”

  “We’ll get him to stop drinking,” I said.

  “He won’t.”

  “He will. He still loves his family, I know he does.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said.

  “It won’t work. I don’t know what to do.”

  I felt awful thinking of being away from her. “I won’t go away for school. I’ll say no to London and Toronto,” I said.

  “You have to get your education.”

  “I’ll go to university here, so I can help us get through this.”

  “Beta, no. You have to live your life.”

  And then, just when it seemed like the burdens on my mom couldn’t possibly get heavier, they did.

  A few days later, a man in a suit visited my dad’s office unannounced. He introduced himself as an inspector from the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Ontario in Toronto and shook my dad’s hand.

  “What is this about?” my dad asked, closing the door behind them and gesturing for him to take a seat opposite him.

  “Dr. Dhaliwal,” he said, “we have a report that you have a problem with alcohol that may affect your ability to practise medicine.”

  “A report from whom?”

  “I can’t say, but we take these claims very seriously.”

  “Has there been any complaint about my patient care from a patient or their family?”

  “No, there hasn’t, but we have to follow up on the claim.”

  “They’re making it up,” my dad responded. “Anyone can make a report and I can just lose my licence?”

  The inspector held up his hands to calm my dad down. “Nobody’s suspending your licence. That’s not why I’m here. But I have credible claims that your drinking might affect your ability to deliver care and I need to ask you a few questions.”

  He opened his notebook and asked my dad about the frequency of his drinking, where he drank, and how he’d been affected by drinking. My dad answered honestly.

  “From what I’m hearing it sounds like you need help,” said the inspector.

  “No, no,” my dad protested.

  “You need to see an addictions specialist and—”

  “I don’t have that kind of a problem,” interrupted my dad.

  “Dr. Dhaliwal, if you don’t cooperate, this becomes an investigation,” he responded. “Do you understand me? We’ll go back as far as we have to in order to get to the bottom of these claims. And we’ll suspend your licence if we need to. There haven’t been any patient complaints at all, so you still have options.” He let my father think about it for a moment before continuing. “For your own sake, take the easy route.”

  The inspector explained that on top of getting treatment at an addictions centre, my dad would have to enter a physician monitoring program. My dad would be assigned a colour, and each weekday morning he’d have to call an automated line that announced one of five colours. If the voice message said “blue,” “green,” “yellow,” or “white,” he’d continue with his day. If the voice said “red,” he’d have to go straight to a medical lab and leave a urine sample. The system was random. He could go ten business days without hearing “red,” or he could hear it two days in a row. If he wanted to drink excessively, even in the privacy of his home the night before work, he’d have to play the odds.

  He told my mom what had happened as they drove home together after work. “How long will they monitor you?” she asked.

  “Five years,” he said. “How do they expect anyone to last that long without making one mistake?”

  “You have to get clean, Jagtaran,” she said. “You have to manage it.”

  He squinted at my mom, assessing her silently. My dad found her calmness and lack of shock suspicious, but he didn’t say anything until they got home.

  They removed their shoes and hung up their jackets. Manjot and I were out, probably tied up with after-school programs at school, but Gurratan was home from school.

  “Take Jugnu outside,” my dad told him before following my mom into the kitchen, where the ingredients for dinner were chopped and prepared to cook.

  “Look me in the eyes,” he told her.

  My mother froze and slowly turned to him, unable to meet his gaze. He slammed his fist on the counter. “You betrayed me,” he said. “Do you realize what you’ve done? We could lose everything—this house, the car, the children’s education, all our savings.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” she said, sobbing.

  As Manjot and I pulled into the driveway and parked, we saw Gurratan on the front steps with Jugnu huddled against his legs. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Mom and Dad were fighting.”

  When I entered, my mom immediately hurried upstairs. “What did you do?” I asked my dad.

  “Ask your mother,” he said angrily.

  I found my mom hyperventilating in the meditation room. She explained what she’d done.

  “I’m sorry, Jagmeet,” she said through her tears.

  “Never apologize,” I said gently. “You did the right thing.”

  I put a comforting hand on her back and held her tightly. “We’ll get through this together,” I said. “We are all connected.” I repeated the words and teaching my mom had taught me my whole life, passing them over to her with all the love I could muster.

  Chapter Ten

  ROLE REVERSAL

  I threw a duffle bag of clothes over my shoulder, lifted a box from the trunk of my vehicle, and shut the trunk with my free hand. My eyes met those of another student in the parking lot whose parents were struggling to pull some large boxes out of their minivan, and I nodded to say hi. I turned to my new home: Saugeen-Maitland Hall, two L-shaped towers housing 1,200 young adults
on their own for the first time in their lives. As the biggest coed residence in North America at the time—nicknamed “The Zoo”—Saugeen single-handedly put Western University on a variety of “best party school” lists.

  Music, whistling, and orientation cheers from the front parking lot reverberated off the residence’s concrete, beige walls. On my way in, I dodged students in neon T-shirts chasing each other across the lawn with Silly String. “This is awesome,” I said to myself.

  The main floor carried the aromas of the cafeteria (which turned out to offer pretty good food). I lined up with the other students and received my student residence orientation package, including the keys to my room. As I headed up the stairs to the first floor, I felt the excitement mounting. I couldn’t wait to figure out what my room would be like and who my roommate would be. I had reviewed the room layout so I knew that rooms in Saugeen would be two to a room, with a common bathroom and cafeteria. Saugeen had actually been my last choice; I had chosen two other residences, both of which had four private bedrooms with a common living room and kitchen. When I opened the teal door of my suite, I saw two single beds. One bed was empty. The other already had sheets on it, and the wall above was plastered with Marilyn Manson posters. The “Antichrist Superstar” sneered at me behind white contact lenses, his emaciated, nearly translucent body smeared with black paint. “That’s going to give me nightmares,” I said to myself and chuckled.

  I unpacked some of my clothes, freshened up in the communal bathroom down the hall, and returned to find my roommate sitting on his bed under his goth art. To my relief, my roommate looked nothing like the guy in the poster. Mike was a friendly, jolly dude who loved philosophical conversations. He had a kind face and a strong, stocky build.

  Mike and I quickly became close friends. You wouldn’t think that would happen since on the surface it seemed like we had nothing in common. We liked different music—I was into hip hop, R & B, and reggae, which he thought was the most painfully boring kind of music, with unoriginal repetitive beats. Meanwhile, Marilyn Manson, Megadeth, and other forms of rock sounded like loud screaming noise to me. He liked bars while I liked dance clubs. And we didn’t like any of the same sports or activities. Despite all that, we regularly stayed up until the early morning hours engaged in debate about the origins of the universe and faith itself. A staunch atheist and rationalist, Mike saw spirituality as mythical mumbo-jumbo, and he wasn’t afraid to press me on my beliefs.