Posts Tagged ‘pays de naissance’

How I spent the Fourth of July in Canada

From Toronto

Photographing tall ships, getting sunburned, and coming home for our annual re-watch of JAWS.

Oh yeah, and finishing the re-writes of my novel. The latest iteration now rests comfortably in my agent’s inbox, and I would have done a celebratory dance of some sort once I clicked “send,” had it not been a quarter to five in the morning. I took a four-hour nap before we headed out to look at the tall ships, I’m exhausted, and my skin is far too pink, and I’m sure I’ll have some sort of sender’s remorse later. For now though, I have an air-conditioned bedroom.

The Bebop re-caps will re-commence very soon.

Share/Save

Officer punches girl; Internet approves.

On June 14, a bystander shot this video of a Seattle police officer punching a 17-year-old girl in the face during an altercation with her 19-year-old cousin.

My pal David Forbes tweeted this bit of news to me this afternoon, and I’ve been trying to wrap my head around both the video and the responses to the video ever since. The response is overwhelmingly in support of the officer. Here are a few choice snippets:
Read the rest of this entry »

Share/Save

The crossroads.

Peter Watts has been convicted of a felony.

Since Tuesday morning when the trial started, my week has felt like the moment between feeling the pain of cutting yourself, and looking down to see how bad the bleeding is. Well, now we know. Sort of. Sentencing isn’t until late April.

I haven’t felt this same anxious ache since my immigration experience — the waiting, the wondering, the knowledge that I might not see my family for years. Even after obtaining my Permanent Residency card, I was afraid that my newfound country might for some reason close her doors to me, that I might be forced out, pushed away from everything and everyone I’d come to love here. In customs lines, I could barely breathe. Shopping at an IKEA, I felt anxiety triggers fluttering across my heart. Why are you so afraid? I asked myself. Oh, that’s right. The lines. The numbers. The herding.

I was such a fucking wuss. I was so worried about myself. My fears. My needs. My inconveniences. They seem so little, now. Now Peter is facing a possible jail sentence, and I’d give anything — anything — to keep that from happening. “There’s always the Devil,” Dave told me, this afternoon. “Yeah.” I nodded. “One thing you can say about that motherfucker. He gets the job done.”

I wish I could tell the Devil about Peter. Actually, I wish I could tell his jury: “You don’t get it. It’s bad enough that you don’t understand the concept of jury nullification. But what’s worse is that you don’t know the person you’ve done this to. The person who dropped everything when I fainted at a blood donation clinic. The person who rescues cats. The person who fixed the strap of my dress with a safety pin and his teeth. The person who stands up for me in critiques even when he thinks I’ve fucked up the ending (because I always do), who talked me through the ideas of my novel. The person who gives the best hugs. That guy. My brother.”

And I wish I knew how to feel about my country, too. Somewhere, there’s video of me crying on the day of Obama’s inauguration. Dave shot it. I wish I could grab the person in that footage and shake her. I wish I could slap her in the face and tell her not to let her guard down, not for a minute, not ever. I wish she’d known. I wish everyone knew.

Share/Save

The zone takes care of its own: Peter Watts in trouble

Tuesday night, my friend Peter Watts was beaten, pepper sprayed, and detained by US border security.

Peter, a Canadian citizen, was on his way back to Canada after helping a friend move house to Nebraska over the weekend. He was stopped at the border crossing at Port Huron, Michigan by U.S. border police for a search of his rental vehicle. When Peter got out of the car and questioned the nature of the search, the gang of border guards subjected him to a beating, restrained him and pepper sprayed him. At the end of it, local police laid a felony charge of assault against a federal officer against Peter. On Wednesday, he posted bond and walked across the border to Canada in shirtsleeves (he was released by Port Huron officials with his car and possessions locked in impound, into a winter storm that evening). He’s home safe. For now. But he has to go back to Michigan to face the charge brought against him.

The charge is spurious. But it’s also very serious. It could mean two years in prison in the United States, and a ban on travel in that country for the rest of Peter’s life. Peter is mounting a vigorous defense, but it’s going to be expensive – he’s effectively going up against the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, and he needs the best legal help that he can get.

…On Tuesday, I received a panicked email from Caitlin Sweet, telling me about Peter’s arrest. She told me to find Dave and I did, and for the next two days the two of them wrangled lawyers, called jails and judges, and focused on bringing Peter home. They barely slept. (I know I didn’t.) Tuesday afternoon, I burst into tears just thinking about my friend in pain and in cuffs and in jail. Finally, Peter was allowed to leave. But as Dave points out above, the fight is not over. Peter needs money.

Thankfully, he has a PayPal account where you can give him some.

I don’t really want presents for Christmas. I don’t really need more DVDs or more books or fancy soaps or a new pair of boots. All I really need is the knowledge that the best damn lawyer money can buy is working his ass off to keep my friend free. Mom, this means you. Do not get me anything for Christmas. Please donate it instead. I can go without, this year.

The same goes for everyone here. I don’t really have any concept of how many readers I have, but let me put it to you this way: a lot of my stories are free. Consider this your opportunity to pay for them. Because if you ever liked them, if you ever derived any enjoyment from them or if they ever made you think, it’s partly Peter Watts’ responsibility. Peter is a member of my writers’ workshop. We get together pretty regularly for anime binges and beer. He’s the one who always asks the tough, nagging questions that make my stories better before they’re even written. I don’t do everything he tells me, story-wise, but I know I’d be a poorer writer without his influence. And every minute he spends helping me is another minute he’s not working on his own revenue stream. So please, even if it’s not very much, give it.

When I needed Peter, he was there for me. I phoned him last October after fainting at a blood donation clinic, and he dropped everything to come and get me. Then he spent the afternoon fetching me food and blankets and episodes of True Blood. That’s the kind of man he is — the kind of man who takes in strays. I know that if our situations were reversed, he would do for me exactly what I am doing now.

More fundraising will follow. Those efforts will be promoted here, and I’ll let you know if there are other ways that you can help. But for now, please just think of this as a gift to me.

UPDATE: My mom, the lovely and talented woman who raised me, has in fact donated to the cause. Thank you, Mom. I love you.

Share/Save

How I spent the inauguration:

Sitting in council chambers, next to the person who invited me specially, taking photos and eating cookies and being offered coffee by friendly cameramen.

And clapping for science.

Share/Save

Back home, y’all.

I have returned home from Texas. And I brought back pictures!

From Texas

It’s a very small collection, but most of the photos taken this trip were of my family (or me) and I don’t like sharing those. But there are action food shots, and a Houston billboard promising 150-foot crosses in the city’s future.

Texas is special. There is something self-indulgent about the scent of climbing rose and heliotrope this late in November. It was unnerving, at first, that transition from the dry bite of Toronto wind to the damp choke of Houston’s breeze. But there are other things, more human things, that emphasize the dislocation: the fact that even chain restaurants serve whimperingly good steak, or the way men apologize when a woman opens a door for them, or panicky hotel browsers. That dynamic keeps my little corner of Texas interesting: geophysicists who can chart the growth of our planet living alongside midnight preachers who insist it never happened. It’s this very dynamic that keeps America interesting in general. 

Canada, however, has its own dynamics, and I’m happy to be home. I have projects to finish, and tomorrow I very much need to begin working off my more gustatory indulgences: the afore-mentioned (juicy, tender, bleeding, perfect) steak, smooth and spicy pumpkin cheesecake, fried catfish… Whatever you may think about Texas, try the food (and meet the people) before making up your mind.

Share/Save