Wednesday Evening at AGO

Wednesday Evening at AGO

We walked into the Art Gallery of Ontario, welcomed by families with kids in their snowsuits, couples in clothes reminiscent with the 90s, hand in hand–or hand in camera– and a signs that said “Wednesday Nights Free!”

After cruising through left side of the gallery–passing through contemporary Inuit and First Nations art, works of Manasie Akpaliapik, and a mutual favourite by Paul Peel in a gorgeous maroon room, we stopped for a coffee. The espresso bar reminded me of the top of the CN tower except we saw a view of tall street houses homing local businesses, and which also gave the realization of the recent time change. The sun was out and it was hardly after 7pm. This architecture, man. Wood and curved glass with the grey view of the quite parts of town? I’ll take it to go. I told myself I wasn’t going to film anything but couldn’t hide from this abundant inspiration. Even the way they served my iced latte was like dropping a bucket a blue paint in Niagara Falls. I decided to do a stop motion.

A couple things to note:

  • AGO is free admission from 6-9pm every Wednesday
  • My mom’s favourite piece was After the Bath by Paul Peel while I was drawn to Augustus John’s Marchesa Casati. The art that captivates is the art that extracts feeling, both in tears or in thought.
  • And yes, I bought a postcard of the Casati painting to take home.
  • There were rooms and rooms of (of  course) The Group of Seven which had me teaching my mom everything I knew about the famous Canadian artists. From each of their different techniques to Tom Thompson’s supposed murder. I surprised myself at how much I knew about Art history. I repeated this at the gift shop which had books about Frida whom I could talk about forever.
  • My favourite member of the Group of Seven is obviously Lawren Harris. I painted (basically a replica) of one of his pieces for grade 9 art culminating.

I loved getting this reminder of Canada’s grandeur.

Something From Nothing

Something From Nothing

 

look how far I come

look how far I come

look how far I come

Immigrants

We get the job done

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Neil and Jocelyn Preclaro, a young, hardworking couple photographed with their three kids under five years old. Those colourful jackets were given to us from other immigrants that came before us…Which most likely were handed down to them by more immigrants.
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Family breakfast.Pancakes, eggs, bacon, and PLACE MATS! It should be noted that our table is a  coffee table (an upgrade from our very first dinner table–our suitcases), and we’re all sitting on the floor except Andre who is  using a car seat.
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Cardboard jungles where dreams are made of.
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Andre and our first television. With dials. And went green, flickered, and had to get warm before it stopped and actual pictures came up.
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Dad and the kids on our first bed– single mattress (from friends) and a comforter to extend it in our bachelor’s apartment.
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My mom said whenever the three of us got homesick, she would take us inside the tent. It was the only thing we brought from the Philippines–the only familiar space we had from our old home.
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The Philippines has never seen snow. Canada sees too much of it. Contrary to popular belief, us Canadians are not all eskimos and we don’t live in igloos… But we come pretty close in this photo.
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Our rickety, hand-me-down, two seat stroller that we used to walk Andre to Kindergarten.
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Andre off to Kindergarten, his early 2000s attire complete with light wash jeans, colour block bubble jacket,  and Garfield backpack.
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The park on Paisley Boulevard. And yes, matching jackets.

Now, we’re living in house in the suburbs. We all have our own rooms. We have two dinner tables. We finally got a dog, a golden retriever/yellow lab mix called Caeser. Mom’s an entrepreneur. Andre is in his third year of university, studying abroad in Paris. AJ is writing for a magazines and facilitating workshops for the LGBTQ community. Daniele can speak Canada’s two official languages.

On March 7th 2001, my family and I immigrated from the Philippines to Canada. We are proud immigrants.

My parents saw this great country and took a leap of faith. They built our lives from the bottom. Because of that, I believe the five of us are developing into the best versions of ourselves. Though a lot has changed since that first step out of Pearson Airport, a couple things remain. One being we were then and still are hardworking and driven by dreams… and love.

look how far I come

look how far I come

look how far I come

immigrants

we get the job done

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The Preclaro Family, December 2016

Rose of the Underworld

IV – Rose of the underworld (A chapter from Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables)

A quite young girl was standing in the open doorway, facing the pallid light of the one small window in Marius’ garret, which was opposite the door. She was a lean and delicate-looking creature, her shivering nakedness clad in nothing but a chemise and skirt. Her waistband was a piece of string, and another piece tied back her hair. Bony shoulders emerged from the chemise, and the face above them was sallow and flabby. The light fell upon reddened hands, a stringy neck, a loose, depraved mouth lacking several teeth, bleared eyes both bold and wary: in short, an ill-treated girl with the eyes of a grown woman; a blend of fifty and fifteen; one of those creatures, at once weak and repellent, who cause those who set eyes on them to shudder when they do not weep.

Marius had risen to his feet and was gazing in a sort of stupefaction at what might have been one of those figures of darkness that haunt our dreams. But what was tragic about the girl was that she had not been born ugly. She might even have been pretty as a child, and the grace proper to her age was still at odds with the repulsive premature aging induced by loose living and poverty. A trace of beauty still lingered in the sixteen-year-old-face, like pale sunlight fading beneath the massed clouds of a winter’s dawn.

The face was not quite unfamiliar to Marius. He had a notion that he had seen her before.

‘What can I do for you, Mademoiselle?’

She answered in her raucous voice:

‘I’ve got a letter for you, Monsieur Marius.’

So she knew his name. But how did she come to know it?

Without awaiting any further invitation she walked in, looking about her with a pathetic boldness at the untidy room with its unmade bed. Long bare legs and bony knees were visible through the vents in her skirt, and she was shivering.

As he took the letter Marius noted that the large wafer sealing it was still damp. It could not have come very far. He read:

My warm-hearted neighbour, most estimable young man!

I have heard of the kindness you did me in paying my rent six months ago. I bless you for it. My elder daughter will tell you that for two days we have been without food, four of us, including my sick wife. If I am not deceived in my trust in humanity I venture to hope will relieve your feelings by again coming to my aid.

I am, with the expression of the high esteem we all owe to a benefactor of humanity,

Yours truly,

Jondrette

P.S. My daughter is at your service, dear Monsieur Marius.

This missive threw an immediate light on the problem that had been perplexing Marius. All was now clear. It came from the same source as the other letters–the same handwriting, the same spelling, the same paper, even the same smell of rank tobacco. He now had five letters, all the work of one author. The Spanish Captain, the Fabantou, all were Jondrette–if needed, that was his real name.

As we have said, during the time Marius had been living in the tenement he had paid little to no attention even to his nearest neighbours, his thoughts being elsewhere. Although he had more than once encountered members of the Jondrette family in the corridor or on the stairs, they had been to him no more than shadows of whom he had taken so little notice that he had failed to recognize the two daughters when they bumped into him on the boulevard; even now, in the shock of his pity and repugnance, he had difficulty in realizing that this must be one of them.

But now he saw it all. He realized that the business of his neighbour Jondrette, was the writing of fraudulent begging letters under a variety of names to persons of supposed wealth benevolence whose addresses he had managed to secure, and that these letters were delivered, at their own peril, by his daughters: for he had sunk so low that he treated the two young girls  as counters in his gamble with life. To judge by the episode of the previous evening, their breathless flight and the words he had overheard, the girls were engaged in other sordid pursuits. What it came to was that in the heart of our society, as at present constituted, two unhappy mortals, neither children nor grown women, had been turned by extreme poverty into monsters at once depraved and innocent, drab creatures without name or age or sex, no longer capable of good or evil, deprived of all freedom, virtue, and responsibility; souls born yesterday and shriveled today like flowers dropped in the street which lie fading in the mud until a  cartwheel comes to crush them.

Meanwhile, while Marius watched her in painful astonishment, the girl was exploring the room like an audacious ghost, untroubled by her state of near nakedness in the ragged chemise which at moments slipped down almost to her waist. She moved chairs, examined the toilet-articles on the chest of drawers, fingered Marius’ clothes and peered into corners.

‘Well, fancy! You’ve got a mirror,’ she said.

She was humming to herself as though she were alone, snatches of music-hall songs, cheerful ditties which her raucous, tuneless voice made dismal. But beneath this show of boldness there was a hint of unease and awkward constraint. Effrontery is an expression of shame. Nothing could have been more distressing than to see her fluttering about the room like a bird startled by the light or with a broken wing. It was plain that in other circumstances of background and education her natural, uninhibited gaiety might have been made of her something sweet and charming. In the animal world no creature born to be a dove turns into a scavenger. This happens only among men.

Marius sat pondering while he watched her. She drew near to his writing table.

‘Books!’ she said.

A light dawned in her clouded eyes, she announced, with the pride in attainment from which none of us is immune: ‘I know how to read.’

Picking up a book that lay open on the table she read, without much difficulty:

‘General Baudin was ordered to seize and occupy, with the five battalions of his brigade, the Chateau de Hougomont, which is in the middle of the plain of Waterloo…’

She broke off and exclaimed:

‘Waterloo! I know about that! My father was there. My father was in the army. We’re all real Bonapartists in our family. Waterloo was against the English.’ She put the book down and took up a pen. ‘No spelling mistakes. You can see for yourself. We’ve done some schooling, my sister and me. We haven’t always been what we are now. We weren’t brought up to be-‘

But here she stopped and gazing with her dulled eyes at Marius she burst out laughing. In a tone in which the extreme of anguish was buried beneath the extreme  of cynicism, she exclaimed, ‘What the hell!’

She began to hum again and then said:

‘Do you ever go to the theatre, Monsieur Marius? I do. I’ve a young brother who knows one or two actors and he gives me tickets. I don’t like the gallery, the benches are uncomfortable and it’s too crowded and there are people who smell nasty.’

She fell to examining Marius with a coy look:

‘Do you know, Monsieur Marius, that you’re a very handsome boy?’

The words prompted the same thought in both their minds causing her to smile and him to blush. Drawing nearer, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘You never notice me, Monsieur Marius, but I know you by sight. I see you by the stairs, I’ve seen you visiting an old man called Père Mabeuf in the Austerlitz quarter when I’ve been that way. It suits you, you know, having your hair untidy.’

She was striving to make her voice soft but could only make it sound more guttural, and some of the words got lost in their passage from her throat to her lips, as on a piano with some of the notes missing. Marius drew gently away.

‘I think, Mademoiselle,’ he said with his accustomed cold gravity, ‘that I have something belonging to you. Allow me to return it.’

He handed her the wrapping containing the four letters. She clapped her hands and cried:

‘We looked for that everywhere!’

Seizing it eagerly, she began to unfold it, talking as she did so:

‘Heavens, if you knew how we’d searched, my sister and me! And so you’re the one who found it. On the boulevard, wasn’t it? It must have been. We were running, and my sister went and dropped it, the silly kid, and when we got home we found it was gone. So because we didn’t want to be beaten, because what’s the sense in it, what earthly good does it do, it’s simply stupid, we said we’d delivered the letters to the people they were written to and they hadn’t coughed up anything. And here they are, the wretched letters. How did you know they were mine? Oh of course, the handwriting. So you’re the person we bumped into yesterday evening? It was too dark to see. I said to my sister, “Was it a gentleman?” and she said, “I think it was.”‘

By know she had fished out the letter addressed to ‘The Benevolent Gentleman outside the church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas’.

‘Ah, this is for the old boy who goes to Mass. Well, it’s nearly time so I’d better run along and catch him. Perhaps he’ll give me enough for our dinner.’ She burst out laughing again. ‘And do you know what that will mean? It will be breakfast and dinner for yesterday and the day before – the first meal for three days. Well, who cares? If you don’t like it you’ve got to lump it.’

This reminded Marius of why she had called upon him. He felt in his waistcoat pockets, while she went on talking as though she had forgotten his existence.

‘Sometimes I go out at night and don’t come home. Last winter, before coming here, we lived under the bridges. You had to huddle together not to freeze and that made my little sister cry. Water’s dreadful, isn’t it? Sometimes I wanted to drown myself, but then I thought, No, it’s too cold. I go off on my own when I feel like it and sleep in the ditch, likely as not. You know, at night when I’m walking along the boulevards the trees look to me like pitchforks, and the houses, they’re so tall and black, like the towers of Notre-Dame, and when you come to a strip of white wall it’s like a patch of water. And the stars are like street lamps and you’d think they were smoking, and sometimes the wind blows them out and I’m always surprised as though a horse had come by and snorted in my ear; and although it’s night-time I think I can hear street-organs and the rattle of looms, all kinds of things. And sometimes I think people are throwing stones at me and I run away and everything goes spinning round me. When you’ve had nothing to eat it’s quite queer.’

She was gazing absently at him. Marius, exploring his pockets, had now succeeded in retrieving a five-franc piece and sixteen sous, all the money he possessed at the moment. Enough for today’s dinner, he reflected, and as for tomorrow, we’ll hope for the best. So he kept the sixteen sous and offered her the five francs.

‘The sun’s come out at last!’ she cried, eagerly accepting the coin; and as though the sun had power to release the torment of the popular jargon that was her every day speech she declaimed:

‘Well, if that isn’t prime! Five jimmy-o’goblins! Enough to stuff us for two days. You’re a true nobleman, mister and I tip my lid to you. Tripe and sausage and the tipple to wash it down for two whole blooming days.’ Hitching up her chemise and making Marius a profound curtsey, she turned with a wave of her hand towards the door. ‘Well, good day to you, mister, and your humble service. I’ll be getting back to the gaffer.’

On her way to the door noticed the crust of stale bread gathering dust on the chest of drawers. She snatched it up and started to devour it.

‘It’s good, it’s tough – something to get your teeth into!

And she departed.

 


She sees your impression of her–ugly, unfortunate, pitiful, repulsive, a creature not worth more than dirt between cobblestone, given not so much as a proper name–and raises you a girl that is oh so in love.

Beautiful.

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I drew this of Eponine when I was 13.

 

 

 

 

 

His Story

His Story

An incredible story of an incredible guy, which I think deserves to be told by he himself– the best way possible. So today, I’m passing over the keyboard to him. Enjoy.

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My name is AaronJames (AJ for short). I use he/him pronouns. I am 18 years old as of today. I love spending time with my sister who makes me laugh so hard I feel like I’m drunk (and vice versa) as well my friends in the LGBTQ+ community which I am a proud member of. But I’ll get to that later. I have a variety of interests, which  include but are not limited to: 80s and 90s movies and TV shows (Full House, Boy Meets World, Smart Guy, Sister Sister, Friends), and especially, the magic of Disney. I feel like I strongly I feel that I identify with Peter Pan because I refuse to believe that anyone grows up. My favorite Disney movies are Beauty and the Beast (1992) Oliver and Company (1987) and Mulan (1998).

 Ever since I was little facing every hardship in life, two simple phrases from iconic Disney movies got me through it all:

“Hakuna Matata- it means no worries” –The Lion King

“Just Keep Swimming” – Finding Nemo and Finding Dory

I believe that my greatest strength is writing. It provides me with an opportunity to express the emotions that I am unable to verbally. I always say that my love of writing first started when I learned how to read and use a computer. The first thing I did with a computer at school was write a story about a lonely dog. It is my dream to write a variety of novels and memoirs, which will hopefully turn into best-sellers.

Without further delay, here is the story of my life as told by me.

My life began on December 11, 1998 in Manila, Philippines. I was born to a wonder mother and father in addition to an energetic older brother; who had just turned 2 exactly two months and ten days prior to my arrival into this crazy, mixed up world. From then on I was diagnosed with multiple exceptionalities such as hydrocephalus, epilepsy, cerebral palsy (with that, left hemiplegia) and at age 12, autism spectrum disorder. I’ve been told by several teachers and friends that that is more than any adult will see in even half their life time.  As I grew and became more aware of all that was around me, I knew that I was different but it would soon become evident in more ways than what my family and teachers already knew. They say there are no do-overs in life, well, I was about to get my mine as I discovered what it truly meant to be myself.

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a picture says a thousand words.

I believe my gender journey began when I was around 8-9 years old; which was in the midst of the 6 year period when my sister and I shared a room. Though we were different in many ways, we were still as close two peas in a pod. What else can you expect from being born 14 months apart? We shared a lot of things, including clothes. There came a time in my life when I felt as if she looked better in everything in our closet. So when I asked my mom for a bowl haircut and received my brother’s hand me downs and looked at myself in the mirror, I thought, “this is who I was meant to be.” Eventually life had me refusing to wear dresses, getting my first crush on a girl, wanting to be the man she could marry some day, and experimenting with different male given names whilst alone on the playground at school such as: Leo, Oliver, Jack and Joey.

Upon initially telling my mother how I felt at age 9, she was very supportive but wanted to ensure that this was something that I really wanted. So she told me that she would love me regardless of my gender but I should further explore femininity until I was one hundred percent certain that becoming a man was what my heart truly desired; which I agreed to. I even graduated elementary school in a dress. But deep down inside, I still felt like I was going to grow up to be a brilliant man.

As time passed, it seemed harder and harder for me to break out of my shell and voice my true feelings once again, especially with the expectations of my teachers, educational assistants and my underlying fear of the school board’s by the book attitude. The summer before grade 11, I decided that enough was enough. I was through with playing a role I was literally and unfortunately born to play. I took off the mask of science and society’s expectations and revealed my true identity to the world. I knew going in that the journey would not be easy. I would encounter people who didn’t understand or refused to understand, I would learn to cut toxic people out of my life and overall I would grow to be more confident and stronger than I was already made to be. I vividly remember the first time I was gendered correctly by a sales woman at H&M; she escorted me to the male fitting room when my mind had been trained to enter the women’s. I was over the moon and realized that the world could see me the way I saw myself.

Coming out and finding the courage to be who I believed I was meant to be was the best thing that has ever happened to me. If I didn’t have a supportive family and some amazing staff in high school, I would have never met the amazing friends that I have at an LGBTQ+ support group that I attend every Tuesday.

When I was younger, I used to look up at the stars every night and think: “why was I made this way?” I was just a child riddled with confusion and self-loathing. But as I have gotten older and found ways to be involved in my communities, I realized something very important. Everything that I have gone through in the past 18 years all happened for a reason– simply because I was made to make a difference in the world. So today I hold my head high with pride in saying that I am an advocate for the LGBTQ+ and special need communities.

It may not have happened right away but I do embrace who I am every day as I continue to grow. My hope for the future is that people will learn to do the same if they ever feel that they differ from what society expects.

If you are reading this and you are in the midst of exploring your identity or thinking about it, I leave you with one piece of advice. Things will get better; maybe not right away, but soon. And there is no better feeling than being your true self. No one can tell you who you can and cannot be. The only one who can determine your life is you.

This has been the story of my life thus far. As I enter this new chapter in my life with optimism, I would like to thank everyone who has been there for me over the years. Special thanks to my sister for being my best friend, therapist and personal jester when I need it (or don’t). Love you, Chummy!

Thank you so much for listening. Who’s next?

Yours in writing,

AaronJames (he/him pronouns)

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Find more of AJ’s story on his blog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Getting to Know You, Mom.

zzzzzz.jpgI remember being younger, putting my hands around her cheeks, and being jealous of how soft her face was. I told her this too. Mine were dense and hers caved in like a soft pillow when I pushed my hands against her skin. When I told her I liked her skin, she thought I was crazy and even returned the compliment. She smiled a lot more than me and her face stretched out with years and years of having pulled every kind of expression.

She’s really pretty. Like really. I admired her almond-shaped eyes, how her face was slim, how she had cheekbones and naturally full lips . Her side profile is statuesque and she smells nice. And while we’re on the topic of things I admired, she’s been to so many places and done a lot of things. Even if she had never been on a plane once, she grew up in a time of constant adventure. I hear a lot of her stories at least twice but I have to say I like hearing them.I even like hearing stories about her from other people, people who knew her before I did. How she was popular. How she dressed and presented herself. It’s always weird to think about who she was before she was my mom.

Continue reading “Getting to Know You, Mom.”

An Open Letter to Alexandra Silber

An Open Letter to Alexandra Silber

Processed with VSCO with m5 presetDear Alexandra Silber,

I want to start my blog this way because I think life is too short to go on without telling someone how much you mean to them.

I’ve actually found this hard to write even though when the idea fell into my head driving back from New York one night, I swear I had written a perfectly eloquent novel. So this may or may not be my third attempt (three months later) and I’m determined to make this one sound less dramatic and not creepy at all.

Wow– me in a nutshell.

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I touched on this subject a little on my Instagram

Al, nothing I can say to you can be condensed into 140 characters. It would sound (and I guess it has been sounding) like I like your hair and like, everything else. What I’m really trying to say there is cutting your hair short is just the icing on top of my admiration for you. I feel like you do nothing less than extraordinary– nothing less than inspiring. You and your haircut has done more for me and my outlook on life than any Chicken Soup for the Soul or any daily quote accounts on Twitter and it all started with Maria Callas. 

That’s hard to understand, right? Maybe? Ok. I’ll step back a tiny bit.

Continue reading “An Open Letter to Alexandra Silber”