Classmates made fun of his seaweed sandwich
"Dad," youngest said quietly at the dinner table, "some people made fun of my food today."
All the memories came flooding back. I told him when I was a kid, sometimes A-Ma packed cold chicken legs in my lunchbox. Although I loved chicken, I felt different from those with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (back then it was okay to bring in . . .
In dealing with depression, I have become a better, stronger person
Teaching and parenting are very similar. Both involve educating children, and both require great patience. My first foray into teaching wasn’t successful, but it helped me become a stronger person and prepared me for eventual parenthood.
In May, 2000, I earned my teaching degree from the University of Ottawa. I white-knuckled . . .
A Sexapalooza billboard prompted some curious inquiries
“Oh! That sign says ‘Sexapalooza!’ ” my boys giggled, as we drove past a billboard advertising the consumer sex show. After calming themselves, my eldest son curiously asked: “What’s Sexapalooza?”
I glanced at my wife, both of us temporarily unsure what to say.
“It’s a show for . . .
at the "Colourful
hues: RGB, CMYK
colour by addition,
colour by subtraction,
colouring my memories
of joy and childhood,
of myself at
Posted in: poetry
Rejecting my ethnicity exposed a childhood insecurity with being different
“Dad, why do you look different from us?” my son asked, over dinner.
“Whaddya mean?” I replied, glancing at some stir-fried bok choy.
“You're darker than us,” he said, comparing my skin tone to his and his brother’s. “Why is that?”
“Um,” I stuttered, “the ingredients that A-Kong and A-Ma made me with are a bit different than the . . .
When Mommy goes out
it is our favourite time,
for it is our time—
it is boys' night.
Crack open the chips,
turn on a flick;
what shall it be?
Doesn't really matter—
it is boys' night.
Daddy, sit beside me!
No, Dad, sit beside me!
Boys, I'll sit in the middle.
Geez, Dad, you're smart.
No . . .
Helping my son write is quality time together
Youngest makes his way downstairs and asks: “Dad, can I help you?”
“Help me with lunches?”
“I'm done. I did them while I made supper.”
“What are you doing?” he inquires.
“Can I write a story?”
“Sure!” I answer. He cuddles up beside me. “So, what do you want to write? You need a title.”
“Um, my title is The Name . . .