Kensington Market, Toronto. Last Month

Guest Vignette by Arnab Majumdar            Professional Writer Extraordinaire 

 I find myself in a dusty corner of Toronto’s Kensington Market, working in a French diner with 1-star yelp reviews. I grab the mop with bleached and burned fingers, scanning the tables in an ever-increasing paranoia of bumping into someone from my past. Out in the distance I make out the skyscraper at First Canadian Place, that plain jewel of my ambitions where I sat just moments before. Uganda isn’t Canada, she explained. You’ll have to prove yourself. Stepping out to the floor, I catch the face of my father in the mirror, laughing at the overlap between his journey abroad and my return home. By the cash register the owner fires the recent illegal hire. I remember to go pick up my suit.

Lil' Mike's Birth. July 19-20, 2014

“I know it is meant for the baby’s butt, but we need it for our lips,” she said plainly with one hand up to her parted mouth and one pointing out to the hospital basinet. My family’s eyes darted around the crowded white room searching for sense. “Pass us the Vaseline, please”. Laughter littered the room. My brother crossed to her with his new father face—all apprehension and joy. The grandparents cooed a creole prayer and soft Haitian song by the large windows, as the new mother lay beautiful and glowingly spent in her bed and gown. “You just had a baby and ate an entire bag of gummy worms!” I made my way to the blue hat bundle. A new Black boy with long fingers and little mahogany rimmed ears. There he was lying eyes-wide in my brother’s tattooed arms. An inked chain coiled down from his shoulder to his forearm where his new son’s head rested just above the broken chain link. He lifted up the child of promise and whispered, “I love you little Mike.”

Hebron, Palestine. Last November

Guest Vignette by Dani Lynn Walker Kreutter http://www.fortheloveofwonder.com/daily-inspiration/

My hostess just bought me a scarf to cover myself before we pass through the checkpoint and into the holy site. She was overcharged by an opportunistic vendor, strategically posted between the stone walls of the old city. She goes through the checkpoint first, cowering and avoiding eye contact with them, wanting to pass through as quickly as possible, fearing delay may increase the risk for disturbance. I follow, head held high and eyes pointed straight at them, as if challenging their confused gazes. It is only my race and nationality that make me different from her.

1 Hour Outside Port-au-Prince. Sunset

There was something distinctly American in his body. Perhaps it was the way he tucked in his checkered shirt so that it bunched slightly just above his belt buckle or the way he puffed his chest and smiled as he walked toward us. Real Haitians walked with strong, swinging arms. He launched into the tour of his school without invitation, opening doors to computer labs and air-conditioned staff-rooms with long egg-shell white floors. I gave my purse to the tallest of the young girls who trailed us and she immediately changed her stride to carry it daintily, like a real woman. We sat down on the second floor patio benches and looked out at their beachfront compound. “Do you know what’s wrong with Haiti?” The little girl’s hands were as soft and dark as my purse’s fake leather. “Voodoo! Haitians sold their soul to the devil for independence from white slavery”. A piece peeled off of the strap and she looked up at me with innocent terror. “Out of slavery and into the storm”, he concluded with a feigned compassionate sigh.

London Underground . Transit to Hen Do

Found a picture of it!

The wind in the subway car was so strong my hair blew across my face creating various masks and mustache patterns. There’s no wind in the New York subway. It seemed a good deal smaller too or perhaps Londoner’s are taller…or both. People watching is less entertaining here. Soft faces without secrets. I find myself in a meditative state—focusing the mind on the strength of the wind. My only distraction is the strange caution sign above the small doors:  “Naughty passengers will be crushed”.

Soroti , Uganda . 2014

I never knew Joseph Kony’s insurgency came this far south and this far east. My young, bright-faced staff member speaks matter-of-factly about his middle school shutting down back when only the town center was safe at night. He indulges my strange desire to go “deep” in the village to a three-room school surrounded by nothing but orange and mango trees. The ten-story tall glacial boulder that marks Soroti town disappears from the skyline and we enter the buzzing Educate! classroom of 40 hopeful young students. I sigh with relief that even in the farthest, most rural school in our network, everything in our class is as it should be.

Central Park . Summer

Looked like this kid

The key to making the New York City street face is in the eyes: narrowed and crossed slightly to the center to make everyone, even people coming straight at you, be seen only in your periphery. You must appear to be seeing everything but watching no one. Eye contact is either invitation or accusation. Two boys playfully tussle in the sun and grass and I falter. My face softens towards them for only a moment. “Excuse me miss, you ever had sex outside? Would you do it with me?” My answer is a simple lip twitch and furrowed brow. Continuing on the path, I don’t look up from the gravel until I can shake the giggle out of my eyes.