Heavy, hot smog covering the city. A ghost city. We all feel under Martial Law.
I’m glad you’ll be in France during August.
I’ll stay here. As an act of duty, I guess. So to witness history in the making.
The police knocked on my door yesterday. They checked my papers and gave me a sound advice: Never to open my door to strangers…
The college where I work will be closed for the Olympics. I’ll spend those two weeks at home. Almost all colleagues and friends will be gone.
I’ll stock food and cigarettes. I might go out once in a while to count the number of security vehicles circling the compound where I live. It’s located half way between the central government buildings and some of the sites where Olympic events will be held. I feel truly in the way.
I didn’t buy any tickets when the Olympics were held in Montreal in 1976. And I haven’t bought any for those of Beijing. I will have lived twice in a host city without ever attending one of the sports events.
I’ll be honest, dear one, I don’t remember a lot about the summer of 76. I have flashes. Of a terribly dirty worn-out sofa-bed in a small room on St-Urbain street. There were so many cockroaches there that I slept with the lights on. The building housed junkies, prostitutes, old, lonely people. You could hear fights or parties, sometimes both at the same time and at the same place, late into the night through the paper-thin walls.
As furniture, also a small wooden table and one chair. On the table, there was my only book. I can still see it with clarity, the design on the cover, the lettering: L’Homme approximatif by Tristan Tzara. I guess I must have stared at it often and for long periods of time, evening after evening, with little else to do.
I was pregnant. Twenty-one years old. And in a way, fresh out of jail.
Oh, I didn’t spend much time there, just a few hours. But enough to deeply scare me. I heard for a long time afterward in my mind the sound made by the electronic doors being shut behind me with a loud metallic bang as I was escorted to a cell.
I used to live in a large apartment on Sherbrooke street with a group of drag-queens. I was the only “true” girl in the gang. They made a living doing lip singing shows in a couple of sordid bars downtown, dressed as Marilyn Monroe or Liza Minnelli. And to make ends meet at the end of the month, they would also “do the parks”… In particular, the Parc Lafontaine. That’s what attracted the police. And we all got arrested as the cops retraced their whereabouts back to the flat.
I felt happy with the drag queens, little one. They were good friends. The best I had ever had.
Kindness and a sweet, tender despair. Plus lots of witty laughter. Their tongues were sharp, reply was an easy game for them. They knew, with very few, but well-chosen words, how to defend themselves. They were quick. With an edge of snappy sarcasm that impressed me so.
They seemed fearless, never missing a chance to answer back whenever people insulted them. They had that kind of intelligence, made of speed and boldness, taking their adversaries for a ride with a twist of the mind.
I was hoping to become like them, proud and brisk. Able to face and defeat the world with only caustic remarks. I loved them for that. They were teachers.
As for the tender despair, in the privacy of our home, they held hands. Playing at being lady-like, doing each others' hair or toe nails, borrowing and lending clothes, fake jewelry, or wigs. Imagining costumes for a new show. Or practicing the manners and expressions of famous actresses. They took care of each other. Very protective.
I was a bit like their younger sister. They had this project of making a woman out of me. Because they knew, and I didn’t. They had closely studied feminineness. I hadn’t.
So I would let them buy me high-heel shoes, or drape me in rows of plastic pearls. They glued false eyelashes to my face and chose the right lipstick color for my skin. They would suggest ways to walk or sit. Different kinds of smiles for different occasions. They even taught me how to dance.
This is how we spent our time. Discussing how women should be.
I did not have faith in their views about gender-based behavior. But I needed the caring. And most of all, the simple fun of togetherness. I enjoyed every minute I’ve spent with them. How long? A little more than a year until we got disbanded and headed each our own way.
My way wasn’t far. I had no place to go. I was working as a part-time waitress. And had no plans.
One day I noticed a young woman entering the restaurant with a baby in a carriage. People got up, opened the door, helped her find a seat. And I thought she represented respectability. I decided on the spot to have that for myself. I wanted respect.
And a reason to live.
This is how, alone, I had my first child. Spending the summer of the Montreal Olympics hidden in a cheap room, watching my belly grow. Reading the only book I could afford. All my money, every week, invested in baby stuff. Buying a baby spoon here, there a bib, later, a pacifier or a tiny cotton hat. Little by little, building my ‘respectable’ future.
I kept all these objects in a cardboard box. Everyday I took them out and laid them in a row on the sofa-bed just to contemplate how new, clean, neat these little things were, how they spelled my new status, how they carried, one by one, the name I would soon have, that of mother. Weeks and months went by like that. Transferring all my aspirations on baby booties and a teddy bear.
A book, baby articles to stare at. No idea whatsoever that the Olympics were happening.
Today, I'm well aware they’ll be staged in two weeks. The city looks deserted following the measures: shutting down much of the factories, sending migrant workers back home, banning half the cars off the streets. But to no avail. The pollution remains. People stay indoors, afraid. Too many security officers. Surface to air missiles. An entire city, nervous, paranoid, unsure of itself at the dawn of an era full of unknown, hoping to impress, dreaming also of respectability as it stares at its rows of never-used ultra-modern buildings. But deep down petrified. Nightmares of failures, rejection, inaptitude, and misunderstandings. Moving quite awkwardly in the darkness of the smog. Probably as much as I once did, striving to transcend my gloomy surroundings on the wings of colossal expectations.
Love, Laolao
I’m glad you’ll be in France during August.
I’ll stay here. As an act of duty, I guess. So to witness history in the making.
The police knocked on my door yesterday. They checked my papers and gave me a sound advice: Never to open my door to strangers…
The college where I work will be closed for the Olympics. I’ll spend those two weeks at home. Almost all colleagues and friends will be gone.
I’ll stock food and cigarettes. I might go out once in a while to count the number of security vehicles circling the compound where I live. It’s located half way between the central government buildings and some of the sites where Olympic events will be held. I feel truly in the way.
I didn’t buy any tickets when the Olympics were held in Montreal in 1976. And I haven’t bought any for those of Beijing. I will have lived twice in a host city without ever attending one of the sports events.
I’ll be honest, dear one, I don’t remember a lot about the summer of 76. I have flashes. Of a terribly dirty worn-out sofa-bed in a small room on St-Urbain street. There were so many cockroaches there that I slept with the lights on. The building housed junkies, prostitutes, old, lonely people. You could hear fights or parties, sometimes both at the same time and at the same place, late into the night through the paper-thin walls.
As furniture, also a small wooden table and one chair. On the table, there was my only book. I can still see it with clarity, the design on the cover, the lettering: L’Homme approximatif by Tristan Tzara. I guess I must have stared at it often and for long periods of time, evening after evening, with little else to do.
I was pregnant. Twenty-one years old. And in a way, fresh out of jail.
Oh, I didn’t spend much time there, just a few hours. But enough to deeply scare me. I heard for a long time afterward in my mind the sound made by the electronic doors being shut behind me with a loud metallic bang as I was escorted to a cell.
I used to live in a large apartment on Sherbrooke street with a group of drag-queens. I was the only “true” girl in the gang. They made a living doing lip singing shows in a couple of sordid bars downtown, dressed as Marilyn Monroe or Liza Minnelli. And to make ends meet at the end of the month, they would also “do the parks”… In particular, the Parc Lafontaine. That’s what attracted the police. And we all got arrested as the cops retraced their whereabouts back to the flat.
I felt happy with the drag queens, little one. They were good friends. The best I had ever had.
Kindness and a sweet, tender despair. Plus lots of witty laughter. Their tongues were sharp, reply was an easy game for them. They knew, with very few, but well-chosen words, how to defend themselves. They were quick. With an edge of snappy sarcasm that impressed me so.
They seemed fearless, never missing a chance to answer back whenever people insulted them. They had that kind of intelligence, made of speed and boldness, taking their adversaries for a ride with a twist of the mind.
I was hoping to become like them, proud and brisk. Able to face and defeat the world with only caustic remarks. I loved them for that. They were teachers.
As for the tender despair, in the privacy of our home, they held hands. Playing at being lady-like, doing each others' hair or toe nails, borrowing and lending clothes, fake jewelry, or wigs. Imagining costumes for a new show. Or practicing the manners and expressions of famous actresses. They took care of each other. Very protective.
I was a bit like their younger sister. They had this project of making a woman out of me. Because they knew, and I didn’t. They had closely studied feminineness. I hadn’t.
So I would let them buy me high-heel shoes, or drape me in rows of plastic pearls. They glued false eyelashes to my face and chose the right lipstick color for my skin. They would suggest ways to walk or sit. Different kinds of smiles for different occasions. They even taught me how to dance.
This is how we spent our time. Discussing how women should be.
I did not have faith in their views about gender-based behavior. But I needed the caring. And most of all, the simple fun of togetherness. I enjoyed every minute I’ve spent with them. How long? A little more than a year until we got disbanded and headed each our own way.
My way wasn’t far. I had no place to go. I was working as a part-time waitress. And had no plans.
One day I noticed a young woman entering the restaurant with a baby in a carriage. People got up, opened the door, helped her find a seat. And I thought she represented respectability. I decided on the spot to have that for myself. I wanted respect.
And a reason to live.
This is how, alone, I had my first child. Spending the summer of the Montreal Olympics hidden in a cheap room, watching my belly grow. Reading the only book I could afford. All my money, every week, invested in baby stuff. Buying a baby spoon here, there a bib, later, a pacifier or a tiny cotton hat. Little by little, building my ‘respectable’ future.
I kept all these objects in a cardboard box. Everyday I took them out and laid them in a row on the sofa-bed just to contemplate how new, clean, neat these little things were, how they spelled my new status, how they carried, one by one, the name I would soon have, that of mother. Weeks and months went by like that. Transferring all my aspirations on baby booties and a teddy bear.
A book, baby articles to stare at. No idea whatsoever that the Olympics were happening.
Today, I'm well aware they’ll be staged in two weeks. The city looks deserted following the measures: shutting down much of the factories, sending migrant workers back home, banning half the cars off the streets. But to no avail. The pollution remains. People stay indoors, afraid. Too many security officers. Surface to air missiles. An entire city, nervous, paranoid, unsure of itself at the dawn of an era full of unknown, hoping to impress, dreaming also of respectability as it stares at its rows of never-used ultra-modern buildings. But deep down petrified. Nightmares of failures, rejection, inaptitude, and misunderstandings. Moving quite awkwardly in the darkness of the smog. Probably as much as I once did, striving to transcend my gloomy surroundings on the wings of colossal expectations.
Love, Laolao
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