The Letter...

I've been corresponding with my grandmother for some time now via hand-written letters.  It is an age old tradition that is cherished by the well-read of her generation, but nearly lost now in the virtual frenzy of the 21st century.  While studying medieval history in university I had the opportunity to read many primary sources - often letters between loved ones - which gave us a candid glimpse into the ordinary lives of people almost one thousand years ago.  Today,with hard copies few and far between, and our correspondences simply floating around in cyber space, I wonder where future generations will look in their own attempts to unravel the past.  It is said that the internet is the way of the future, but as we continue to clean up our in-boxes and hit the delete icons, it seems the future will be sparse of the most revealing vestige of time - the letter.

Perhaps it is with such thoughts in my mind that I chose to continue corresponding with my grandmother.  She has a long and eventful history, born and raised in Germany, she survived the second World War before immigrating to Canada.  As a child, she would show me black and white photos taken in Europe in the early part of the 20th century while my grandfather told me war stories.  She lives in a large house alone with her cherished cats, every room filled with articles from years gone by.  Antique furniture clean of dust and mysterious boxes containing secret histories.  I know that it is contrary to her nature to throw away such things as personal letters, and so there is a comfort that I gain from knowing that my words will forever be a part of her legacy, a part of her house so full of mementos.

When I read her letters I picture her as a beautiful young lady with dark hair, those black and white photos of her come alive, for her written words speak with a wise youthfulness that is not so apparent when I see her and talk to her.  Her mind is as sharp and as sound as ever it has been, even as time creeps upon her body year after year.  Through her letters, she has often provided me with words of wisdom and a voice of assurance while I've taken difficult steps in my own life.  I know our letters provide a mutual and reciprocating comfort, and I smile when I think of her opening my letters with excitement, as I do when I open hers.

Lately I've been rather anxious, ready to take the next step in my life and move on again.  I've found it hard to enjoy the moment, to enjoy the everyday things.  As if she was reading my mind, the last letter that my grandmother sent me included the following words:

"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things."
-Robert Brault

I'm going to do my best to take her advice.

Occupied

"What are these people protesting? What do they want to accomplish? I think that these people need to stop occupying and instead get occupations."  This was what a good friend of mine said to me as I called him from St.James park to tell him about the protest taking place.  While I gave him a well deserved chuckle for his wit, I also took note that his understanding of the protest was obviously quite poor.  I'm not one to get out and join a protest.  I've always found that there are other ways for me to express my discontent, like through writing for example.  That is not to say that I don't sympathize or understand those who choose to join mass protests.  The feeling of solidarity and connectedness that a positive protest promotes is unparalleled, and for many that feeling is the whole purpose.  I still remember vividly the protests that I witnessed in Honduras as a human rights observer.  People were protesting against a coup government, an illegal and false election, and a terrifying state of repression where activists were disappearing and ending up dead.  The final protest that I witnessed was a caravan through the hilly streets of the city of Tegulcigalpa where people came out in thousands raising their fingers in the air to show that they had no stamp, meaning they chose to boycott the elections.  It was a movement that stirred something inside of me, that forever left me with an appreciation for different forms of dissent.  Yet as the Occupy Wall Street protest arrived in Toronto, I found myself searching for answers to those questions that my friend asked me.  What is the point? What do you want to accomplish? I can't say I have a definitive answer, I don't think anyone can.  But just because such answers are elusive does not mean the protest is a failure.  On the contrary, the fact that such questions are being asked is a clear sign of success.

Simply put, everyone has their own reasons for protesting, and with experience comes perspective.  Many of my friends who have good jobs and who have always lived pretty comfortably can't understand why people are protesting.  There is this idea amongst many middle class North Americans that somehow everyone has it great in this country, that no one has a right to protest against our system because it provides so much.  Well it is true that compared to poor countries, one like Honduras for example, we do have it pretty good, but should relative prosperity on a global scale condemn us to a state of inactivity? Should we not always strive for something better?  I grew up in a middle class family and I know that I have a good life - that I am lucky.  But I've also witnessed the way we create class distinctions and inequalities within this very system that we call fair.  I spent the last six months doing manual labour, working in one of the most physically demanding positions there is, yet for minimal remuneration.  I provided a service that this society requires in order to function, yet the very people that we helped often looked down upon us, because our occupation implied that we were at the lowest of classes.  I worked with people who had no other options, and who struggled from week to week to provide for their families even though they were working harder than most people.  All because this great system that we call fair has deemed their labour as unskilled and therefore undeserving of fair remuneration.

It is these personal circumstances of different people that have fueled the fire of these protests, and regardless of whether the discontent will bring about a change in our system is irrelevant.  They will bring about awareness and discussion, and they will cause people who don't think about such things, like my witty friend, to do so.

Nueva York...

I traveled to New York City a lot when I was younger, but growing up my own lack of culture and worldly knowledge denied me of any sort of appreciation for the giant metropolis.  It was just a huge, dirty city that never ended I thought, where consumerism and crime alike was rampant.  While the latter points may arguably be true, it is an incredible place that I only now am understanding. My latest trip left me stunned and exhilarated that such a place lays just eight hours away from my home city of Toronto, and I'm anxious now to return there.  I suppose when I was younger I wasn't really given the opportunity to explore, and I didn't really know what to look for anyways.  Now having spent several years traveling, the internationalism of New York City, and its appeal to global wanderers has become obviously clear to me.  New York seems to have something for everyone, no matter who you are or where you are from.  It is the epicentre of all things human, the epitome of modern day civilization.
I couldn't believe as I strolled through a neighborhood in Queens that I was in the United States at all.  I suddenly found myself back in Latin America, surrounded by tiendas and comedores, groups of old men sitting outside in the sun, vendors selling cheap items on the street.  I went looking for a clean razor shave with my brother and after passing about five peluquerías we finally settled on one where a group of young Dominicans in matching barbers robes laughed and spoke in their fast tongued native spanish as they carefully lined up other Latinos´ hair.  They spoke to me in spanish, english was not an option, it didn´t seem to be anywhere in this part of the city.  I was given a perfect shave and left a tip for the caballero, he deserved it spending extra time lining up my beard just perfectly.  I then walked out and we hopped in a taxi, and of course the driver only spoke to me in Spanish.  Even though he knew exactly where my hotel was located, as we headed there chatting and laughing I became lost, unsure if I was in NYC or back in Guayaquil, not wanting to leave that cab and those memories behind me.
That night I attended my cousin´s wedding and had an amazing time, bonding with my extended family, reminding me of why its so good to be close to home again.  The next day, after a night of great festivities, we went exploring in a completely different part of the city, the place where most tourists seem to flock.  We drove to Manhattan and strolled through Central Park, eventually making our way to Times Square.  It wasn´t quite how I imagined it to be, my imagination lacks scale apparently, because everything was so much grander and larger than I expected.  The giant flashing screens and lights, the towering buildings.  There was so much to take in, a lady posing in a bikini in the middle of bustling traffic, the activist shouting about the war, the military recruitment station with doors wide open.  
My time was so limited and I had to hop on a plane home that same night.  Sitting in the airport waiting, like I have so many times before, left me feeling confident and happy about where I was, both in that moment and in life.  I look forward to exploring NYC much more in the near future, I know that I have only touched the surface.