Past tense

Sometimes, out of the blue, one’s past comes to light, and in the most public of places. Sometimes, it has no impact; a quick brushoff, a smile, a reminiscence. One’s close friends and family know and understand. Other times, the impact is minimal; a reddening face, a stutter, an explanation. And then there are those times, when one just wishes to go hide of embarrassment, or to lash out in anger (at oneself, and/or at the one bringing up the past).

My past is one of the primary reasons I have never presented myself as a candidate in a municipal election. I knew that if I became a public figure, questions would be asked, stories would come out of the woodwork, my past in all of its glorious sordidness would eventually come out, and risk damaging the reputation of the party. I knew that people would be quick to judge me, I would be put through the wringer, and that my family would suffer the consequences, as would my relationships with them and others.

Just recently, I was hit with a collision of emotions as my ancient history resurfaced, in a jokingly mocking way, not long after that same person bringing it up had stated that I had all that it takes to go into politics. And since then, something was/is just not sitting right within me. Maybe it is time to tell my story, or parts of it, so that it is me controlling the narrative. Not because I have any intention to present myself in any election (that ship has long since passed, it’s so far gone that I don’t even see it beyond the horizon). Not because I feel the need to justify myself.

But. Because. I am fed up. Of feeling embarrassed. Of hiding. Of snippets of the past being brought up by others. Of me justifying myself.

I am the product of a screwed up past. My childhood traumas reared an even more traumatic young adult life. I made horrible decisions, took many wrong turns, all in the name of not being able to cope with reality and with my PTSD. But through all of that, I have, over time, grown, flourished, forgiven (others, myself), and learned to appreciate my kaleidoscopic history. It has made me who I am today, and for that I am eternally grateful.

One day, I will have a complete list of my wrong turns. Here is a partial summary:

Wrong turn # 17:

I started smoking weed and hash at the age of 17, it became an addiction. By the time I was 22, I was smoking almost one ounce a day. Yep, you read that right. One. Ounce. Per day.

Wrong turn # 101:

I got married at the age of 19…. it was a spur of the moment decision. I had moved to Jamaica at the age of 18, moved in with my ex-husband the day I met him, started building a house together one week later, and 3 months after I asked him if he wanted to get married. He said why not, and off we went to find a justice of the peace. I was wearing a black dress.

Wrong turn # 222:

I started dealing weed and hash. It was a way to support my and my ex-husband’s habit. At the time, one pound of weed in Jamaica was $400 Jamaican dollars, with an exchange rate of 4 to 1, so $100 Canadian dollars.

Wrong turn # 223:

I wasn’t only dealing weed and hash… I was transporting it across international borders. Many times. And I dragged in a few friends to participate as well. This wrong turn is the one which I am the most disturbed by. The one which has affected me the most, and the one which had cost me a friendship.
Some of my friends came to visit me in Jamaica. They became runners; we (me, my ex husband) would get them to smuggle drugs in their suitcases, shoes, wood carvings. My best friend at the time, the one who stood by me when I learned that my ex husband had cheated on me with one of our neighbours and got her pregnant. The one who came to me in Jamaica to pack up my stuff to go back home, the one who stood by me without judgement when I got convinced/manipulated to not leave my ex…she became a runner, and got caught. She got jail time.

But that didn’t stop me from trafficking. I kept on. I made many trips to New York and to Montreal. One time, I was carrying weed in the inner lining of a coat. A border guard in Jamaica stopped me, and took me in a back room. He laid out my options. Go to jail now, or lead him to my husband. We struck up a deal, and I was let go, with the promise that I would split the earnings the with border guard once I came back to Jamaica.

Another time, I was flying to New York, and sitting next to a man who smelled the camouflaged weed I had on me. He told me to flush it down the toilet, as there were sniffer dogs hidden as people disembark the plane. He worked for the airport, he knew what he was talking about. I started crying, and told him I couldn’t dump the drugs, I was too much in debt. I took my chances. As we disembarked, I saw him going to a security guard and pointed me out. He came to get me. I was petrified and started stammering. The guard took me to another door and out the exit. I had a free pass. I never found out what had transpired, what was told to the guard. I just knew that I was free.

Yet I continued to smuggle drugs. I seemed impervious to the near misses, there were so many of them. But my luck had to change eventually.
I got caught, in New York. I was carrying about 10 pounds of weed and hash, in false bottomed suitcases and in wood carvings. I was 4 months pregnant. I was put in a holding cell, and then transported to a jail cell somewhere in Queens. I was there for 3 days, waiting my trial, with about 20 other women, mostly drug addicts. I developed the worst migraine I had ever had. I was scared. I was petrified. A legal aid lawyer was given to me, and he gave me my options. Fight it and lose, or plead no contest, and receive a fine. I took the latter. I was brought before a judge, and the evidence was presented by the arresting officer, I was charged with under one pound of marijuana (as opposed to 5 pounds of weed and 5 pounds of hash, which is what I had been carrying. I can only speculate as to what happened to the 9 pounds not declared). I plead no contest. I was let out, on my own recognizance, and transported back to the airport where I was put on the next plane back to Montreal. My clothing were put in a garbage bag, which I reclaimed at the baggage turnstile back home. Through all of that, I received no jail time and no fine. But I have been left with a record which cannot be erased. And memories which still haunt me.

I now have to have a US waiver every time I cross the US border. It costs an arm and a leg between the lawyer’s fees and the waiver fees, and needs to be renewed every 5 years. My record cannot be erased or expunged. And every time I cross the border, I need to explain myself, with the potential of not being allowed through. It makes travelling with others very difficult.

Wrong turn # 547:

I stopped dealing drugs, but I was still smoking weed. My inner circle was iffy at best, and my ex-husband was still dealing. He crossed many people, and one of them put out a contract to do a home invasion. Two thugs were hired to ransack our house, to steal my exe’s weed and to take anything of value. My son was 3 years old, we were in the living room watching the Simpsons when the thugs barged into our home with sawed off shotguns, tied up my ex and locked my son and I in the bathroom. Through the closed door, one of them apologized, he said they weren’t told that there would be a woman and child in the home. I asked him not to take a gold ring, it had belonged to my mother. It was the only piece of jewelry that was left.

Wrong turn # 633:

This is the wrong turn which has spurred this blog post. I worked in a strip club.
It was at the time when I was heavily in debt, and needed fast cash. I had finally been able to extricate myself from my very toxic relationship, after having called the police and pressing charges for domestic abuse. It had been 2 or so years since I had stopped living my life in a haze of smoke, but it took even longer for me to pull out of a psychologically and physically abusive relationship. But in doing so, I was saddled with huge credit card debts from my ex, while he was still continuing to rack up the charges. He was angry with me, and he did everything he possibly could to make my life a living hell. My phone line had been cut and Hydro Québec was threatening to cut off my electricity.

So apart from my day job at my son’s primary school, I took on a waitering job at Alfie’s, a strip club on Decarie which eventually burned down “accidentally”. To be clear, my job was waitering only, serving men drinks while they would stare at naked women.

I learned a lot about human behavior from working there. I never understood how an owner of a strip club could get away with not paying /having no staff (servers, doormen, bouncers and dancers were considered “contractual” and not provided a salary. The money earned was strictly from tips). Very often, I would make more tips than the dancers, as on some nights there were more dancers than customers. The biggest tips always came from the married men, they would order a $5.50 beer, pay with a $20 and I kept the change as a tip. Some men offered me unreal amounts of money to try to get me to take off my clothes, which I rejected firmly. I was not going down that rabbit hole.
Some women had huge drug or alcohol issues. Others did not. But one thing was certain, not many of them were very happy in their lives. Many of the dancers who didn’t have issues when they were hired, ended up drinking heavily. Being seen as an object and having men jerk off on seeing you takes its toll, no matter how hard it is to stay above its fray. It was fascinating though, seeing how they could walk around in the club naked or with a G-string, and not be bothered by their nakedness.

It didn’t take me too long to get enough money to get my phone line connected back, pay off my bills and pay off my credit cards in one full swoop. I got my exe’s name off of my credit cards. But I worked at Alfie’s for a couple of extra months; leaving 6 months after I had started. I left 2 days after one of the regulars who happened to be the most generous tipper confessed to me that one of the dancers was setting him up with her 14 year old brother; what he actually liked were young boys. Just the thought of going to work in this place and seeing this man, as well as the dancer (and the others who were supplying him with boys) was making me sick to my stomach. I don’t know why it never occurred to me to call the police.

So here I am, opening up about my past, my mistakes, my screwups. But they are mine, and mine to talk about. And when I discuss my past, such as when I waitered at a strip club, I will not use “quotation marks” when discussing my past “waitering” job, nor will I accept it when someone is trying to (jokingly) cajole/mock me. They have not walked in my shoes.

Through it all, my past, my wrong turns, have made me a whole person, one who has surmounted obstacles and surpassed herself. And for that, I am grateful and proud.