The covered garbage bins where I throw my trash

Posted on March 31, 2015 by ML

We dispose of our garbage in open rectangular bins, about the length of the spread of my arms, and the height of my chest. There are four or five of these bins outside, around the block from the apartment. They are covered by a debilitated wooden roof, supported by four weakened wooden pillars, connected by a concrete wall just over a meter high which wraps around the four sides. There’s a gap in the wall which serves both as entrance and exit from this feeble construction.

When you step under the roof to chuck your bags of waste into the bin, there is a putrid reek of fermenting fruit peels, old meat, body odour, rotten eggs, with a hint of raw fish. You may be startled by cold water drops falling loudly on your head or nose, from rain or melted snow leaking through the cracks in the roof. On blustery days, the howling wind rattles through the decrepit structure, somehow doing little to alleviate the stench.

I feel a poignant discomfort when I take out the garbage, but not because it is a smelly old garbage hut. There are homeless men living in this garbage hut, and I don’t know what to do about it.

As I deposit bags of all the gross stuff I don’t want, there is often someone standing in the next bin, already digging through food rests, used tampons, dirty diapers, expired chicken, mucus-covered tissues, mouldy yogurt, and other human wastes. Sometimes we make eye contact and greet each other. I nod curtly and walk away quickly, unsure of what else to say or do. Even if we spoke the same language, I don’t know what I would say to a person who is about to hunt for food scraps in my garbage.

No one deserves to live like that. As I return to the apartment, I question my life and everything I’ve been given. What have I done to deserve a nice apartment with a big fridge and a warm bed? Why do I have a washing machine and a shower, when less than a hundred meters away people are living off garbage?

It leaves me with feeling of unease that is hard to pinpoint. The feeling is partly guilt, as if I should be ashamed for having the privileges of a comfortable life. It’s partly pity, but pity doesn’t help anyone. I also feel partly responsible, that I should help these homeless people living so close to home. Yet, there is also a lurking feeling of separation, distancing myself; I can’t be responsible for taking care of these human beings. It is beyond my capacity as a poor student, a foreigner, a single individual.

Nonetheless, I found it hard to shake the feeling lately. I acted on this feeling in a small way, but the only way I could think of. After buying fresh bread at the bakery, I discreetly left a small bread bun on the ledge of the concrete wall. It was a miniscule offering, especially considering that the cashier gave it to me for free since it was near closing time. Another time, I paid one or two złoty for some sort of Polish cabbage-mushroom pastry and left it on the same ledge. Maybe the wind blew it away, maybe the stray cats found it… or maybe someone hungry found something fresh to eat. All I know is that the next time I passed by, the ledge was empty.

I’m not sure if I did this out of altruism or selfishness. Am I donating cheap baked goods just so I can feel good about myself, and shake the guilt that shadows me? Perhaps. Or perhaps I am acting out of a genuine selfless concern for others. Is it condescending, then, to imagine that such a small piece of cheap bread should be appreciated by someone? Maybe. But hopefully not. I can only hope that in this case the proverb may be true, that actions speak louder than words.

Quote for bravery

Posted on March 29, 2015 by ML

Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked.

– Cheryl Strayed, “Wild: from lost to found on the Pacific Crest Trail”

Once a ballerina, always a ballerina at heart

Posted on March 15, 2015 by ML

I’ve been dancing for as long as I can remember, and I have memories from the age of 3– by now, that’s verging on two decades of dancing. The only long break I ever took from dancing was during my first year of medical school in Gdansk, for lack of time and for inability to find a dance studio in Poland. Now I’m back to dancing, and my life feels as it should. Dance has been a constant in my life. No matter the city or the language, dance is always dance.

This morning I found myself bursting with nostalgia. Why? I took a pilates class yesterday, which engaged a lot of tiny ballet muscles which I haven’t used in a while. That reminded me of ballet, which reminded me of all the things I used to be able to do but can’t do anymore. That’s what happens when you haven’t danced ballet for five years. It’s all still built into my muscle memory, crystal clear. But the main problem is that those tiny specific muscles aren’t there anymore. The rigorous technique of ballet can be re-trained, of course, and it would surely all come back to me. Unfortunately that would involve committing time which I can’t afford at this point in my studies, plus I have problems with my right ankle after spraining it in 2010.

It may sound a tad bittersweet, but in reality I still feel fulfilled and I enjoy reliving the fond memories of my ballerina days. I was never professional, nor could I have been– the reality is that a ballerina not only requires outstanding technique and athleticism, extraordinary flexibility, and an otherworldly grace, she also requires a certain body type which allows male ballet dancers to lift her up over their heads. I love my body– when I look in the mirror, I only have positive things to say to myself, as I believe we all deserve to. However, I simply don’t have the typical body build of a ballerina. So I’m going to be a doctor instead!

I do miss ballet, though. I miss back-to-back hours of dance classes where my friends and I stampeded down the stairs and frantically changed into ballet tights and bodysuits. We had 0 minutes of break between classes, and our ballet teachers expected us to be punctual. This was a struggle, since we were already sweaty from our jazz class upstairs, and ballet tights stick to sweaty skin. We could hear the plié music starting in the studio as we twisted our hair into a bun with a hairnet, desperately hoping it wouldn’t fall out during our pirouettes.

I also miss being on pointe. Balancing your entire body’s weight on the tip of your big toe certainly is not natural, nor is it easy, but it sure is beautiful– and fun! There were times during my pose pirouettes across the floor that I thought to myself, ‘Hm, something feels kind of scratchy in my shoe,’ and promptly ignored it. Only after class would I discover that the blister on my toe had broken and bled, leaving blood stains inside my satin pink pointe shoes. I still feel a morbid sense of pride in those blood stains.

Although there was some stress and a great deal of pressure involved, I also miss taking ballet exams with the Royal Academy of Dance. Our class chose the vocational route of exams, and I passed my Advanced Foundation exam with Merit. I still remember skipping school and driving all the way to a big studio in Coquitlam, arriving early so I can hairspray my head for the seventh time, to secure miniscule flyaways. I even hairsprayed the ribbons on my shoes so they wouldn’t unravel during the exam. I had a small water bottle and a petite white sweat towel, which was a feeble attempt at making my profuse sweating and thirst look a little more dainty in the exam. We pinned our numbers onto the front of our black bodysuits. We warmed up and rehearsed our study (choreography) one last time.

Then, from the moment we entered the examination studio, our every move was judged and graded by the examiner behind the desk at the front of the room. We performed the exercises and our study, which we had been practicing for a year. The hardest part was always the exercise they taught you on the spot, where the examiner told you the movements and where you should be facing in words, and you only had two or three chances to go over it before performing it to music you’ve never heard before. Ballet exams also involve standing and waiting while the examiner writes notes about you. This in itself is exhausting, because if you do it with proper technique and posture, simply standing is a massive workout that should make you break a sweat. Ballet exams were at times intimidating, but there is something immensely rewarding about rising to the challenge and seeing how you’ve progressed.

I miss the meticulous corrections from my ballet teachers, who inspired me to feel beautiful when I danced. The amazing thing about ballet technique is that if you can make a correction, then suddenly, like magic, your leg can kick higher than it ever has! You are so stable on your supporting leg that you effortlessly sail through a triple pirouette! You feel so solid on pointe that it feels like nothing could knock you down! Ballet showed me very clearly that hard work pays off.

What I miss most of all is being onstage. Performing in front of an audience gives me an indescribable rush. I feel a natural high from the intoxicating smell of hairspray, wearing too much makeup, the blinding stage lights, and the adrenaline that jolts through my body into explosive energy. Even in a controlled, slow, elegant dance piece, my heart is thumping in my chest with transcendent happiness.

Studying medicine and living in Poland is a phase of my life which I love. It is fulfilling and exciting, and exactly where I want to be. Considering the passion for dance that consumed the previous phase of my life, though, I suppose it is only natural to feel a wave of nostalgia from time to time. Once a ballerina, always a ballerina at heart.