ACTION FIGURES
My mom and I moved to the Hydrostone neighborhood in 1994 when I was just about to turn eight. It was developed after the blast that flattened the North End. The fire that had engulfed the rubble prompted the idea of hydrostones for the reconstruction, the only neighborhood like it in all of North America. Large, nonflammable slabs of concrete with crushed granite were used to build the row houses that make up the ten-blocks-long, one-block-wide neighborhood. A neighborhood shaped by devastation.
I loved growing up there, all the streets except for one had large boulevards, where kids would play and adults would lay out picnics. Back alleys snaked between the blocks, laundry waved its colors, chimes hung on the small back patios as cats lurked. I liked to roam the alleys by myself—a boy and his adventures.
When my mother bought her house, a two-bedroom with one bathroom, the neighborhood was still accessible for someone with her income—divorced, a single mom and teacher. She would pick me up from the after-school program in the early evening, asking me about my day, what I’d learned, what homework I had. I liked hearing about her stories, too, what happened in her classroom. One time she told me about a boy who stood on his desk and peed in defiance. Arriving home, I’d protest starting my homework as my mom ran a bath for me or started preparing dinner. She never did get a proper rest.
At bath time, I’d line up all of my various companions along the side of the tub and plead for my mother to be a judge for their diving competition. My arm in the air, holding Batman by the feet, I’d release him, and Bruce Wayne would enter the water, hopefully producing only a subtle splash to impress the judge.
“A seven!” my mom would say after my action figure had plunged into the depths.
“An eight!” After Peter Pan successfully slipped into the water.
“Yay!” I’d cheer, always secretly hoping Peter would win.
“Okay, hon, I’ve got to put supper on.”
“One more! Please, Mom, please!”
“Okay, one more.”
And I’d drop another.
When a winner was decided, I’d stand the figure proudly on the side of the tub as my mom hummed the Olympics theme, sometimes she would even light a match and hold it up like a torch.
The bath was also where I played out my rescue fantasies. I loved Honey, I Shrunk the Kids and was positively enamored with the daughter, Amy Szalinski. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, her beauty, a sweetness in her voice, I loved how she cared for her younger brother.
In the bathtub, I was Russ Jr., the smoldering boy next door, rescuing Amy from drowning in the backyard-turned-oversize-jungle. Me as Russ Jr., panicked, but managing to maintain composure. Head under the water, I’d search, back up, flip around, under again, not giving up until I had rescued the one I love. Eventually getting her to safety, I would perform mouth-to-mouth on my hand, desperate for her to wake up. And only when she did could I let go. I did it, I’d think as I’d imagine myself flashing Russ Jr.’s signature half smile, that look I saw in his eyes.
My mom loved being a public school teacher, and she was an incredible one. She taught French for twenty-five years and English for eight, and I can’t tell you the number of people who have said to me, “Madame Philpotts was the best teacher I ever had.” Early on, I would help my mom set up her classroom at the end of the summer. Sticky tack-on posters. The months laid out, cutouts of the sun, clouds, snow. Janvier, février, mars, avril. I loved trips to the laminator, the smell of it, the way it wrapped something up, keeping it safe. The empty halls of the school were eerie, uncanny. Wandering through them had an unearthly quality, as if floating.
What was it like to spend your whole day in rooms stuffed with thirty elementary school students and then have to come home, make dinner, and judge your kid’s fake diving competition? She’d been on her feet all day and now was crouched on the cold tile floor, I’m sure desperate for a comfy seat, warm food, and a cold beer, none of which were going to magically appear before her. These are important moments to remember. They aren’t small.
On Saturdays, my mom would gather snacks and beverages and we’d settle together in the large beige chair that worked as a love seat. Turning on the television to CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation), we’d prepare ourselves for Hockey Night in Canada. A Pepsi in my hand and an Alexander Keith’s for my mom, we cheered and hollered with a large bag of ketchup chips wedged in between. The Toronto Maple Leafs was our team.
My mother let me exist as me in many ways when I was young, when it was just us. It was on picture days, the rare church visit, weddings, recitals, Christmas parties, other special occasions when it wasn’t just the two of us, that I had to wear a dress. A barrette in my hair with a baby-blue butterfly. I wanted to tear it out, taking my hair with it. I’d throw a fit, a feeling of betrayal spreading through me, as my mom tried to dress me. The sensation of tights squeezing my legs exacerbated all the discomforts that I couldn’t yet put words to.
I didn’t grow out of this “phase” when I was supposed to, and my mom’s distaste for what I wore and whom I befriended grew. Masculine clothes and boys as friends should have been over, that whole tomboy thing—a label that never felt quite right to me, but it was what everyone called me so eventually it was what I called myself—a hazy memory. I should be turning into a young lady, my mother’s idea of one at least.
“I just want what’s best for you … I want to protect you … I don’t want you to have a hard life.” These sentiments would slide over me. What was best meant fitting neatly into our society’s expectations. Staying inside the lines. The perfect heroine’s journey preemptively and unknowingly written for me.
How would her family, friends, soccer parents, fellow teachers, and neighbors feel? Had she done something wrong? What if it was a sin? And whether it was conscious or not—If I had to conform, why shouldn’t you have to?
I wonder about the magnitude of what my mom was unable to do and explore. How these confines affected her. Amid all of the untangling that’s led me to me, no matter the difficulties or moments of distance, I’ve never doubted my mother’s love for me. How lucky I am for that.
When I was little, my mom would take me out to Peggy’s Cove, about a forty-five-minute drive from Halifax. Climbing on the rocks, I’d pretend I was off in a distant land searching for treasure and mystical beings. I would examine the tide pools, looking for the life inside. My mom and I would talk on fake walkie-talkies, our fists held to our face. Click. Over. Click. Over.
Making sure to avoid the dark, wet boulders, we’d explore for ages, spotting little creatures scurrying under the rocks. When the waves were large it was positively thrilling. They’d smash against the shore with magnificent force, rising high and reaching toward the famous lighthouse, moments turned to postcards.
We’d end up at the parking lot outside of the restaurant that sits overlooking the cove. Seagulls circled above, waiting to pounce on scraps next to tourist buses. My mom loved the gingerbread there, so sometimes I got to have a treat.
Peggy’s Cove afternoons with my mom are some of my best childhood memories. The ruggedness, that intense, unforgiving beauty. How present my mother and I were in each other’s company. Our limbs stretching and reaching, feet searching for a spot to land, the salty, brisk chill of the Atlantic.
I love you. Over. Click.
I love you, too. Over. Click.
It is so sad that all the static had to get in the way as I aged. A dark rock on which to slip, suddenly appearing and taking us both down. That pure connection that went beyond appearance and expectations, both of us free in the moment—these are the memories I revisit.
In the winter, I looked forward to snow days. The suspense, sitting on the edge of my mom’s bed next to the radio, wishing desperately, dreaming of snow forts and snowmen. I would close my eyes, listening to the CBC radio host recite a list of school cancellations, to the soothing voice.
Snow day mornings were absolute heaven. My mom and I had a ritual. I would sit in a purple plastic sled and she would pull me through the snow. The destination? Tim Hortons. Marching along, crunch, crunch, her boots sinking, everything covered in white, icicles like spears.
“I’ll have a medium with double cream and just a pinch of sugar, not very much, thanks,” I would mouth my mom’s order at Tims in the mornings on the way to school while she leaned her head out the car window, neck reaching for the drive-thru speaker. For me, I liked the hot chocolate.
The sound of the little sled brushing the snow underneath, the steady glide through the barren landscape, offered tranquility, a sense of togetherness. Shut your eyes and you’re flying through the universe.
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