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 . . .
Disciplining other people’s children can be a dicey business
This essay originally appeared in The Globe and Mail on January 26, 2016.
Disciplining other people’s children can be a dicey business. I sometimes face this issue at our neighbourhood park, where I often take my kids after school.
I am a former teacher, so the playground is very familiar to me: It’s where a different type of education . . .
A story by youngest, as told to Dad
Plot developed by youngest, aged 4 at the time.
"S, are you sure you don't want to play outside?" asked Dad.
"I'm going to stay inside with Fuzzy Bunny," said S.
"Okay, I'll be outside with J," said Dad. "I'll check in with you every five minutes."
S turned to Fuzzy Bunny and said: . . .
It was the height of hubris to think I could outwit my father
“When are you going to stop sneaking out in the middle of the night?” my dad asked, poker-faced.
The gig was up.
When I was a teenager, in order to join my friends for some late-night debauchery, I had to circumvent our home security system. I couldn’t risk waking my parents by disarming the alarm and leaving through the front door. My only . . .