GIANNA!

Gianna Patriarca is a poet I've admired for such a long time.  I remember in my undergrad years at University of Toronto we were taking a course that heavily included her work, and I was blown away by her way of writing.  She said the things that other poets were coy about, or referred to only tangentially.  Not Gianna.  She has her laser vision set on that thing, and she's going to say it directly, at whatever cost.

Recently, I learned that Gianna Patriarca was having a poetry reading and a book launch at the Columbus Centre, and I thought, "Here's my chance".  I called up my longtime friend John Robert Colombo, asked him if he'd like to attend, and even offered to be the chauffeur, to sweeten the deal.  He accepted, we marked our calendars in pen, and on the appointed evening we headed over to the Columbus Centre.  It has been one of the cultural meccas in Toronto for decades, and it is located very near the street on which the Colombo family lived, so it was their neighbourhood social club.  John Robert knows everybody in the poetry world, and of course he knew Gianna, too.  She used to visit him and his late wife Ruth at their home, and she adored the pair of them.  It was mutual.

I dropped John and his friend, Ann Cameron, at the entrance to the Columbus Centre's art gallery, where the poetry reading was held, and went to park the car.  Oof.  To misquote Shakespeare's Romeo: "Parking is such sweet sorrow".  There is a massive parking lot at the Columbus Centre, and I had no idea where on earth I had parked my tiny white car;  I just abandoned it in some random "reserved" spot and rushed back to the art gallery where I'd left my friends.  The  place was packed.  We got seats for ourselves in the second row, mostly due to my telling a seated audience member, in the voice of authority:  "my friends would like to be seated in this row, but it will not be possible for them to reach their seats unless you stand up and make it possible for them to do so", accompanied by a look of steely determination. It worked.

Watching Gianna on stage was magical.  She's like a floodlight.  She lit up the stage, and it was easy to tell that Gianna Patriarca is a born performer.  Ciociara/?/Canadese is her 13th book of published poetry - an auspicious number, if you are from Italy - and the very enthusiastic audience came out in numbers that evening to celebrate the birth of a book of poems that were written first in Ciociara, the Ceprano dialect, in standard Italian, and in English.  Gianna had that audience eating out of her hand.  She used the performer's trick of timing her performance just short of what her audience had come to hear, leaving them hungry for a little more.  When she concluded, and left the stage, I slipped up to where she was standing and introduced myself, telling her how much her poetry had affected me.  My friend John Robert Colombo sauntered up after me; he moves in a more measured way, but as soon as her eyes locked on him, her arms were open and she welcomed him with loud affection.  It was glorious.

On the strength of that encounter, I emailed her the following day and invited her to lunch.  Yesterday, that lunch took place and they were pretty much turning off the lights in the restaurant by the time we stopped talking.  Gianna very kindly brought me a gift:  three of her books that I hadn't yet read, in which she wrote inscriptions,  and honestly, I haven't had my nose out of them all my waking hours since.

I'm a fairly reserved person normally.  I don't just go up to super-accomplished people I've just met and invite them out to lunch.  Well, maybe I do nowadays, but that's a function of getting older, no longer taking myself seriously, and frequently hanging out with people of every age other than my own.

This woman is a force, and I am so glad I met her.  I already have a long list of things that I forgot to ask her, or didn't have enough time, but there's always next time.  And there will be a next time.

CONVOCATION (Jack of all Trades, Master of Arts)

 October 26, 2026 was the date of my grad school convocation.  I'm now a Master of Arts in Italian Studies.  This photo was taken by my good friend and former Ethnomusicology professor, James R. Kippen, who with his beautiful wife,  my dear friend Annette Sanger-Kippen, was sitting up in the balcony of Convocation Hall, looking down on the proceedings.

Judging by the way my phone blew up once I was outside and turned it on again, my entire family was watching the livestream.  And this was a very important weekend because the previous day my youngest nephew and his fiancée were married in our nation's capital.  Even the newlyweds were watching my convocation.  I finally got to meet Hafsa, the friend who introduced the pair of them.  I should leave Hafsa a small fortune in my Will, quite honestly, because she has fabulous taste: these two kids are perfect for each other.  Anyway, from here on in, Hafsa is on my Christmas card list.  Note to self:  get a Christmas card list, and put Hafsa's name on it in block letters.

Thank you for reading this self-congratulatory blog post.  

IL PELLEGRINO, ANNE CARSON, & MY NAVY BLUE SOFA

Yesterday was Ivaan's birthday.  If he'd lived, he would have been 82.  This year, he celebrated his birthday in style.  First of all, I guess he must have arranged for the timely delivery of a new sofa to my place, because I've been without a sofa for well over a year and truthfully, I'm getting a little tired of perching on a dining room chair, or watching my guests look around anxiously for somewhere to put themselves.  But honestly, you can't renovate an entire place with a sofa right in the middle of things, so I gave my existing sofa to my nephew Angus (who was in the middle of renovating an entire apartment with his bare hands) and I made the best of things.  Anyway, I was studying full time and writing my thesis, so I really didn't get too stressed about it.  I ordered a new sofa and knew I'd have to wait for ages till it arrived.  

I suddenly got a phone call a couple of days ago to say my sofa would be delivered the following day, and that was just great, because I knew I'd be at home to accept the delivery.  I worried that the presence of a large navy blue leather sofa might overwhelm my minimalist space, but so far I think it's great.

But that's not all.  Yesterday I was sitting here writing an email to someone when an incoming email caught my attention.  It was from a poet in the States called Dante Di Stefano.  He's also a professor at SUNY-Binghamton University, and I know him slightly because he was immensely kind to me when I encountered an insurmountable obstacle while writing my thesis.  Got a problem?  Ask a poet to help you get it sorted.  They're in the habit of  grappling with insurmountable obstacles.

I was intrigued: what could he possibly be writing to a lowly grad student about?  In my fantasy life, I am the sort of person who regularly receives emails from celebrated poets, so this was just too good to be true.  I hastened to open his email.

Now, I recommend you sit down, and I offer up my new sofa for that purpose, because Dante Di Stefano was asking me to contribute a scholarly essay of several thousand words to an anthology that is to be published in 2027, entitled Paterson Aria, in tribute to the life in poetry of the subject of my Master's thesis, Maria Mazziotti Gillan.     

I'd like to say I waited a decent interval before replying, but in truth it was about one hot minute.  No one has ever invited me to write a scholarly essay on anything, but in my (pretty active) fantasy life I'm confident I write a fabulous scholarly essay.  In fact, I was already mulling over titles.  I was torn between screaming and emailing my Emotional Support Thesis Supervisor to share the news with him.  Then I went outside and practically ran to the Beltline Trail so I could walk in nature, inhale this gorgeous news, and then exhale so I could get my swollen head through the door when I got home.

This morning, news that Canadian poet and U of T alumna Anne Carson had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature hit the airwaves.  She was in Reykjavik when she got the phone call.  Back in the days when I was able to travel outside Canada, I was frequently in Reykjavik, so that's one degree of separation.

As usual, Ivaan is full of surprises, and his death has not halted the arrival of astonishing events in my life to make me wonder what, if anything, is the meaning of this sojourn here on earth.  I had a private nickname for Ivaan: Pellegrino.  It's the Italian word for pilgrim. He always seemed like a traveller on earth, not here for a long time but just passing through. On this Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, I have Pellegrino to thank for his many lessons in how to appreciate the present moment.

ELEVEN

 I think we waste a child's eleventh year by not raising topics with them that we feel will be beyond their emotional capacity.  The age of eleven is a golden year to absorb some important life lessons, and if we don't feel equipped to do these lessons justice, we need to find a trustworthy mentor for the eleven year old  to handle these topics for us.  As a mentor, I'm not recommending a fourteen- or sixteen-year old, because yes, they're older, but three or five years older is just a hiccup in terms of emotional development.

Why is eleven such a great age for clear-headedly absorbing life lessons?  Because you can't just suggest something to an eleven-year-old and have them start doing that thing before they turn twelve.  You need to let it percolate in their eleven-year-old brain for a long while.  It's the same as teaching ethics.  An eleven-year-old is generally keenly aware of issues of justice and injustice, and they're ready to give you chapter and verse of a whole range of ethical dilemmas they've experienced.  Their thinking is not at all  nuanced; it's black or it's white, hot or cold, the truth or a lie, honest or dishonest.

One of the important lessons they'll need to imbibe is, how do we break up with someone as kindly and firmly as possible?  This could be a friendship or it could be a romantic relationship; it's basically the same thing when you are telling someone that you need to put some distance between the two of you. 

Now, talking to an eleven-year-old about being in a relationship may seem early, but when the child is eleven, you're conveying a corollary message to them:  you're saying, I have confidence that you are a person worth being in a relationship with.  Even at eleven, that's a confidence booster.  They'll be all ears, and feel that they are learning the secrets of the pyramids.

And here are the secrets of the pyramids (just in case you need a refresher):

1.  Start with saying something positive about the other person.  "I really respect the way you stand up for things you believe in".  "You have so much compassion for animals/vulnerable people/little kids."  "You have such a generous spirit".  "I admire how good you are at gymnastics/school/music".

2.  Make sure it's just the two of you having this conversation.  Don't have anyone else present.

3.  Sit or walk side by side while you're having this conversation.  Don't be facing each other.

4.  Tell them you've thought a lot about it, and you are confident about your decision.

5.  Let them save face by agreeing it was a mutual decision.  Tell them you won't gossip behind their back.

Offer to give the eleven-year-old a refresher in a few weeks just in case they've forgotten.

And that, dear reader, is how it's done.

CROWS

 I recently defended my Master's thesis.  It was on the subject of an Italian-American poet whose writing really affected me.  She wrote about her sense of not belonging, either in America or in Italy, and thereby being effectively an exile in both  countries.

She also wrote about the "crow on my shoulder", always whispering in her ear everything that was wrong about her: that she wasn't good enough, attractive enough, outgoing enough, charming enough:  all the criticisms a person can heap upon themselves to create reasons for not going out into the world and doing what they wish they could do.

I wondered:  where did crows ever get such a bad reputation?  My experience with crows comes from having lived alone in rural Ontario for over five years.  Crows are not pretty, but they are beautiful.  They create a sense of awe in me, wherever I see them.  I admire them a great deal.   Crows are a necessary part of rural life - and probably urban life, too.   When an animal dies, or gets killed, along the road - often as a result of getting hit by a vehicle -  the only decent thing a rural dweller can do is to get a shovel and move it safely off the road, so other drivers don't suddenly swerve to avoid it.  It's not fun, but it's part of rural life.  We don't just move it to the gravel shoulder, either, because people sometimes walk there, especially when their car has broken down.  We move the animal right off the road, preferably onto an elevated area of land. Then the crows come in and do their part.

Crows' beaks cannot pierce, say, a raccoon's hide, or a squirrel's, or a beaver's, so ideally a cut in the fur should be left exposed, so the crows can land on the deceased animal and eat its exposed flesh.  They do this so neatly and efficiently, I marvel at how organized they are.

Out on the land, if a Canada Goose is found dead, I get a shovel and a rake and move it to a secluded area of land, far away from the lawn tractor's orbit.  Now, those birds are weird.  An adult Canada Goose looks pretty large, but honestly, it's all feathers and very little flesh, so you can hardly even feel its weight on your shovel.  Crows don't even try to peck at their feathers, so you'll see the evidence of a Canada Goose fatality for about two years afterwards.

Now that I live in midtown Toronto, on a fairly elegant street, my contact with wildlife is limited to the dogs and squirrels I pass while walking daily on the Beltline Trail, and I miss hearing beaver tails smacking the surface of the water in the ponds to warn other beavers that danger is approaching.  I often think of the crow sitting on my poet's shoulder whispering to her that she doesn't belong.  I kind of laugh.  I wonder if I - a septuagenarian,  going to grad school with students in their twenties and thirties - might ever be inclined to listen to a crow on my shoulder telling me I don't belong.  Maybe I've grown a thicker skin in all these years of being alive.  All I know is that a crow's beak, sharp as it is, can't pierce a thick skin.

Which reminds me:  I saw a t-shirt for sale online, and while I'm not going to buy it because the seller is located in the U.S.A., I'll take a screenshot of it for you.  I'm studying the Italian Renaissance, and the Black Plague was a big feature of that particular era.   My classmates would appreciate this.

RENAISSANCE MAN

 Recently, my sister was packing up to move from their family home and asked if I wanted Ivaan's black leather jacket back.  I'd actually forgotten it even existed but she reminded me that her younger son, Ivor, had brought it home from one of his visits to Toronto.  Ivor was the longtime Vice President of Atelier Ivaan, and he used to come to Toronto frequently to assess our operations and implement new business improvement strategies.  He was also front-of-house in the store quite often, with his own clientele who would come in asking for him, long after he'd gone back home.  He was extremely popular, and I was always confident leaving the store in his hands.  He was tall, calm, authoritative, and very capable.

Ivor went on to study Engineering at university, fell in love with a beautiful fellow student,  and when they graduated, the two of them bought a house together in Ottawa and started renovating it themselves.  They seem to have boundless energy, the pair of them.  They've sought out new employment opportunities, travelled extensively, made good friends, moved up the career ladder and established themselves in a settled neighbourhood, all while still in their twenties.   By this time, the leather jacket was a bit too short for Ivor, so it remained in the closet of the family home for years.

Frankly, when my sister mentioned it, I imagined it would be in rough shape, but actually it's perfect.  The lining is completely intact, the leather is nicely broken in but in excellent shape.  Ivor's brother, Angus, brought it home to Toronto for me, and I offered it to my other nephew, Philippe, even offering to take the chenille crest off the back of the jacket.  Philippe gladly accepted the jacket, but firmly declined to have the crest removed.  He's going to wear it "as is", he says.  

I'm just waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and ask him to enlarge their Ivaan ring or make them a new Ivaan bracelet or belt buckle or something....because the jacket features Ivaan's unique signature in red chenille across the shoulders.

THE YEAR OF BLUE HAIR AND NO CITIZENSHIP

It's been a year. 

So much has happened, it'll be hard to sum it up.  I didn't even know where to begin, so I referred back to previous posts to see what has changed.

I decided to change the colour of my hair while I was at school.  I remember thinking it was just an experiment that I'd undertake for a year, because I am opposed to using hair colour on principle, but having hair that is naturally the colour of slush makes me look so washed out.  I could presumably have fallen into a Toronto snowbank and no one would find me until spring.

So I have blue hair.  It helps to make a student stand out at school when classmates can say, "Eya?  She's the one with the blue hair".  Then they don't have to think up synonyms for "decrepit".

Thesis Defense Day

June 24, 2026

So, rewinding to April 28, 2025, that's the day I submitted an application for proof of Canadian Citizenship.  I'd lost my wallet-size citizenship card while I was living in the wilds of southern Ontario and the government no longer issues wallet-size citizenship cards, so I applied for proof of Canadian Citizenship.  

On May 13, 2025, Citizenship and Immigration Canada wrote to me saying they'd received my application.  I checked back periodically and learned that it was somewhere in the queue.  I contacted my MP's office around Christmas time and they told me I'd have to wait some more.  In early May 2026 I contacted them again.  Same answer.

I'm still waiting.  

Yesterday, my sister pointed out that I had gotten my Master's degree in way less time than I had spent waiting for my proof of Canadian citizenship.  She is correct.  And I probably had a lot more fun in the process.  I am now the holder of a Master of Arts in Italian Studies (with High Distinction) from the University of Toronto.  I'd told myself I wouldn't bother going to Convocation in October unless I were to graduate with High Distinction, and as it happens, I will be going to Convocation.

I defended my thesis last Wednesday, and it was accepted  "as it stands", which means that the Thesis Committee has not sent it back for any revisions.  This is entirely due to my having a sensational thesis supervisor.  This man is such a genius that every great thought I've ever had in my life, he's had that thought by the time he was six years old and long forgotten it.  He is not only a true scholar, but he's the wisest and most patient and the kindest man on the planet.  Professor Andrea Lanza walks on water, as far as I am concerned.  

When I learned who was going to be on my Thesis Committee, I could hardly believe my good fortune.  Second Reader was Professor Luca Somigli, who is the Emilio Goggio Chair in Italian Studies, and the Chair of the Thesis Committee was Professor Laura Ingallinella, who taught me Renaissance Italian Theatre in the first semester.  She is a stellar prof and  above reproach in every way. I was so lucky.  I didn't even have to wait long - maybe a minute - for them to make their decision.

During my first semester, I suffered a stroke which hasn't affected my physical ability or appearance, but has resulted in some deficits in my brain.  I initially thought I was losing my hearing and went to an audiologist who determined that it was a neurological deficit caused by a stroke.  I am fighting back, because I know early intervention is key to stroke recovery.  One of the ways I am fighting back is by learning Mathematics.  Luckily, my nephew Philippe is a teacher, and he's agreed to tutor me. He's quite intuitive about figuring out how to work around my mental block about Mathematics.  I can do Arithmetic very readily, but when it comes to Algebra, Geometry and Calculus, I was lost even before I'd had the stroke.  If anyone can get me solving math problems, it's Philippe.  Besides, this way I get a visit from him each week.

Things aren't all rainbows and fluffy white clouds and warm sunshine in my life, that's for sure.  It's been a brutal year for losing friends.  It's been a full year since the death of Alice Kazmierowski.  I often think of her and her first grandson, Clem, and wonder what extraordinary things he's getting up to without her.  In April, 2026, my young friend Emma Turnbull died, and that has been utterly wrenching.  The world seems greatly diminished without her in it.  A whole swath of Southern Ontario seems to be imbued with the spirit of Emma and all the people she influenced.  Emma is a legend.

My youngest nephew, Ivor, and his beloved Laurie are getting married this October in Ottawa.  Neither Ivor nor Laurie likes being the centre of attention, but they feel this is an occasion that needs to be marked in a traditional way, with both families present.  Honestly, I would like to know the names and addresses of the mutual friends who introduced Ivor and Laurie.  I should send them a Christmas card every year, because they have such great discernment and excellent taste.   Ivor and Laurie are perfect together.  She has such a generosity of spirit where Ivor is concerned, I just fell in love with her the second I met her.  And  Ivor has always been the most stalwart and independent young man - quietly taking charge and getting things done in an incredibly competent way.  Their wedding is going to be just like that, a blend of both their best qualities.

And you never know, I might get my proof of Canadian Citizenship  before the wedding.