The Making of a Resetter - Finding my People

My friend and colleague Rocky invited me to his friend Roots’ Hi-5 Run. It was totally my bag! Running a 5k while high-fiving people as we ran past them? Yes please! This was an important step in becoming a Resetter, if I wasn’t already. Rocky seemed to think I’d be into it, and he nailed it. This brought me into the company of so many people who embraced the joie de vivre I sought to enjoy, and collectively putting a chink in the armour of the vapid daily living so many people subscribe to, willingly or unwillingly. It was at one of these Hi-5 runs where I met Moosh. When I asked her about how she found out about the Hi-5 run, she said she met Roots at “Camp Reset”. I asked her what that was, and she simply said, “It’s an adult camp where they take your phones away for the entire weekend.” I immediately loved it. I held off having a cell phone, opting for a pager with an incredibly long 1 minute revised version of WKRP in Cincinnati hoping my singing and the sheer length would promote people to key in their number rather than leave a voice message. It was around this time I cancelled my invisible answering machine. Perhaps some people have trouble with a detox of their digital lives, but I was instantly fully on board. Moosh sent me a link to the website and I promptly subscribed with my email address. 

Hi-5 Run start!

I had been seeing adult camp pitches on Shark Tank, and did some online searching, but I never took the plunge. They seemed a bit too much like Animal House, promoting all-inclusive drinking and such, and meanwhile, there was something more grounded about Camp Reset. So when I got an email putting a call out for help organizing, I responded. Then in late December 2016, I got a thank you email from the organizers. They got in touch as promised in mid-January, but then I didn’t hear back for some time. I was distracted and busy with the end of my first semester and the beginning of the second, so I didn’t get in touch to see what was going on until March. The response was perfect, and made me feel even more connected. It was vulnerable, and taking responsibility for the gap in the process which resulted in my falling through said gap, preceded by the words “To be honest, receiving your message made our hearts sink.” But it all had a happy ending. I not only was honoured with being able to do a workshop, I volunteered to be a camp counsellor my first year. To say I dove in head first is an understatement, but as I continued to learn more about the community, and meet the people in the community, my desire to be part of it just grew and grew. So diving in head first was without worry or reservation.

I don’t celebrate my birthday, but one of the organizing events was on my birthday. I thought to myself, what a great present! I felt so connected to the people I met, and the secret of it being my birthday, and enjoying the day so throughly, was incredible. Many people already knew each other, but I felt embraced and welcomed, and so my Reset continued with a level of immersion I knew might not be typical of a noob, and it seemed I was perceived as a veteran Resetter. This may have compounded by the link and desire to connect to the organization and remain as involved as possible.

I was paired with Treble as co-counsellors for our cabin. Everything we planned and figured out was organic, and we riffed off each others ideas, “yes and”-ing each other at every turn. I felt so lucky to be paired with her.

Unsure the transferable skill of this, but it was fun!

When I arrived at the luggage area, far earlier than I was needed, having misread the call-out, I found myself in a position to help organize the luggage packing into the U-Haul with Venus. It’s not something anyone ought to boast about, but I have to admit I was pretty damn good at organizing them bags and instruments! Venus would throw the bags up to me, or place them on the U-Haul edge, and I’d find it’s special spot with it’s brethren in the most glorious baggage cuddle puddle! We were a well oiled machine! I finally had to run to catch the bus up. I was sweaty but filled with adrenaline.

I found my way to the back of the bus, as a late arrival, and I didn't know anyone at the back of the bus. There was a double bank chair for me. By myself. I felt some of the awkwardness of youth creep in, afraid I wouldn’t make any friends and be seen as the awkward recluse who didn’t want to talk to anyone. But the kid in me fought back. I knew it would turn out. I started to talk to the two in front of me, but they seemed focused on the action in front of the bus. As I sat down from my kneeling position, and looked out the window, reflecting on my current inability to engage with people despite not being shy. That was when Crockett came back to his seat beside me, and introduced himself. We exchanged some preliminary information, and then FM came over to say hello to him and Black Panther. FM and I ended up talking all the way to camp. We shared good chunks of our life story, and I embraced the deep connection we managed on that ride. When we got closer to arriving, he headed back to his seat, and Genesis’ In The Air Tonight was playing moments before turning into the camp drive way, and as I looked forward, the drum solo hit and most of the bus air drummed the solo! It was magical, and a snapshot I’ll never forget. 

Moments before air drum madness!

After all the housekeeping stuff and phone ceremony, I entered my cabin with my new shoulder bag, and in it contained the Five-Minute Journal, a white canvas journal I bought at Indigo over a month prior. Osiris was alone when I entered and asked me a question about the programming. I opened my bag, and reached in to grab my program, and he said, “is that what I think it is?” I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, and he said, “The Book.”  I affirmed that the easy-to-identify white canvas book inside was The Five Minute Journal and asked him if he had one too, assuming he also used it to reflect daily and nightly. “Yeah man, I wrote it.” My mind was blown. If I hadn’t already felt it, I would have felt, more than ever before, that I was with my people. I mean, I bought a book about celebrating gratitude, and here I was face to face with one of the authors who brought it to life. That was pretty much the tone of the weekend.

I had been hearing about the silent disco on the second night, and contemplated what it might be with a few others. Someone speculated that everyone had their own headset, but I dismissed this. There was no way they had a couple of hundred headsets. Except that they in fact had a couple of hundred headsets. I’m glad it wasn’t really a spoiler for me, because as I walked out my cabin and made my way over, from a distance, I saw it. No music could be heard, but I saw a large group of people dancing emphatically in the field in the twilight. It stopped me in my tracks as I took it in, and I made a mental picture and mimicked taking a photo like a mime. When I finally got there, FM was handing out headsets, and he said a few quick instructions that were over my head. I put on the headset, and started dancing. At one point, a lady I didn’t know made eye contact, pointed at me, and then made her way over to dance. I didn’t know what I did to deserve recognition. I didn’t think my dance moves at that moment were worthy of such attention, but eventually I figured out it was because there were channels you could choose, and that the colours from the headsets were not random, but indicated what channel you were on. That explained why there were so many DJs. We were both on the Red channel, which would remain a channel of specialness through out my silent disco career.

Right after imitating Obama while reading a movie script and before the workshop I was leading, Goons asked if we could postpone my workshop so they could complete the communal puzzle in the cafeteria, which was almost finished. I naturally agreed, and I was glad I did. Seeing everyone cheer and feel the satisfaction of that competed puzzle was beautiful. With my workshop, I was inspired by my group, and ended up connecting with L’il Robbie who added me to #WriteShop, a group that meets every morning to write. It was just another example of how appropriate it was for me to be in this community, and made me wonder how I had managed accomplishing anything without it. But of course, it’s full of people who love to accomplish things, so of course I would end up here. L’il Robbie and Bangarang hosted a writing event that spanned an entire day of communal writing, followed by a hot tub complete with beers! That writing would eventually become the first 4000 words of my novel, Substation.

Greeted at communal writing event with this on the driveway.

At some point, I found myself at the water, and connecting with a whole slew of people, but it was a snapshot moment that I’ll never forget. I found myself part of a circle of people in the water, and somehow, we all started splashing water into the middle of the circle. It was at least 20 people in a very large circle, spread out, about 10-15 meters in diameter. It was beautiful. Not long afterwards, I gave Love a ride around in the water on my back, and she did the same for me, and I high -ived people on the dock as she walked me by them. It was not lost on my that I ended up here by high fiving people. I then orchestrated having her stand on my shoulders, before diving into the water. Watching her enter the water in front of me was magic.

When the Olympics got rained out, it was a welcome relief, even though I was bummed not to experience Luna’s Reset Olympics activation. I ended up connecting with her and Chocolate Masala, the two people I knew from before discovering Reset. It was a special time, sharing our experiences. While I would have loved to be involved in the Olympics, Luna more than made up for not being able to execute her Olympic plans with the opening ceremonies the following year.

The untalent show was genius. I came up with a plan for a magic show with the few things I had in my possession to make a truly awful and shitty magic show where how I did things were painfully obvious, and not magic at all. It backfired for certain people, because a trick that everyone saw, somehow, depending on the angle, actually worked as effective magic. When Boomer volunteered, another trick worked well, and was so not magic. When I summoned Bliss however, she threw me for a loop, naming some crazy Tarot card instead of a card from a regular deck. Luckily my background in improv saved the day, and I fell a little more in love with Bliss for being so quintessentially herself. Everyone that performed was awesome. I adored it. It became my new favourite thing.

When I spoke to a few veteran Resetters about what an amazing weekend I had, I was dismayed to hear they didn’t have an equally magical experience. Apparently they found the experience less intimate that the prior camps, which perhaps was somewhat true for me as well considering the intimacy and connectedness I felt this year, but I think I was just too focused on getting as much programming as possible, a strategy that I abandoned the following year and which made my experience much more fulfilling. The first year I went was still incredibly amazing and magical. Stardust, Goons and I had a magical experience out on the field; The first night Mars and Venus led many of us in song and dance in the plounge by the water; Firefly had her first S’more that I made her after the Drum circle; Pizza (the food) arrived magically and without warning when it was most desired on the final night. Ultimately I didn’t care if it was less intimate. I was satisfied and content. I had found a group of people with whom I was keen to find intimacy, and who were ambitious, loving, caring, and adventurous. They wanted more out of life, like me. I couldn’t find fault in the experience.

Fast forward through many amazing Reset events and hangouts through the year, from Canada Day to Scott's cottage to Pizza (the food) after Thunderman's workshop, which connected me to many more Resetters, many of whom I didn’t get a chance to connect with as much at Reset, and all the way to the Residency. I wanted and needed to be part of Reset at White Pines. Suffice to say, it was everything I had hoped, minus the time I wish I could dedicate to it. I had planned a 3 week vacation to Egypt, and a family cruise that ended up having 70 members of my family on board. While I had to limit my activations given my restricted time, and felt I couldn’t contribute to my track as much as my partner and evil genius Pacman, I was satisfied by the experience for the bonds I made with my fellow residents, and feeling a part of the MAGICx4 that followed. Some members who were bummed about missing burning man mentioned that they coundn’t afford to miss Reset in favour of Burning Man. After the first half day of programming, which involved the opening ceremonies, cabin introductions, Pac Man and Rhythm and Plounge, I thought to myself, “I’ve gotten my money’s worth.” Had camp ended after that first evening, I would have been content, except that I experienced what followed, and if the rest of the camp was gravy, it was the richest, sweetest, and most delicious gravy anyone could ever taste!

While I would love to keep writing about how amazing the rest of that weekend was for me, complete with details, I will write it privately and enjoy it in the future for myself to relive it. It's less about becoming a Resetter, because by this point, I felt I was experiencing everything as a full fledge member of the community. Suffice to say, I had more Reset coursing through my veins than ever, and so many deep connections. Although there were still tons of people at White Pines, the intimacy level that apparently had been missing the year before was reinstated. And the food was unreal.

After camp, the Residency members graduated and we reflected on the experience. Not long after, there was a call out to moderate the Facebook Community, and I threw my name in the hat. I got the gig. I was stoked. The weekend when I started moderating was the same weekend I co-created a Nuit Blanche romp with Mr. Willis. The MAGICx4 continued, and felt every bit a Resetter. Through and through. Forever.

The Making of an Educator - Part II - Educating an Educator

It's funny how I hated doing presentations in school, yet I wanted to be a high school teacher. Even in university, I remember my voice quivering and shaking uncontrollably even though I was sitting in my seat when I read my presentation to my peers in my first year. As I became older and wiser, my self-worth also developed, and I cared less about how others saw me, reading and realizing that most people were not as invested in their thoughts about me as I may have imagined.

When my father passed away, I was unsure if I would speak about my father. All my cousins were so supportive, and I told my cousin Amir to look at me, and if I was ready to speak, I would nod.  I nodded, but I wasn't ready to speak. I had nothing prepared. I felt my my entire torso was an empty cavity, hollow and vacuous. In a situation like the one I found myself, you had permission to be nervous, and for your voice to quiver. But I surprised myself. After a deep breath, I calmly explained how I didn't have black shoes, so I borrowed my dad's. Some slip-on Merrells with a black suede finish. I mentioned how they fit a little big on me, and when I instantly recognized how what I said was not only literal, but figurative, the old adage of having big shoes to fill, I smiled and a few people chuckled. And from there, I went on to just talk about him, remembering a story about an incident with a priest. My father had met a man on a trip, and took his address to send him something and to keep in touch. In the end, my father misplaced the piece of paper and was unable to contact him. But the man, so affected by my father and his wisdom, took it upon himself to find my father. He knew he was from Toronto, and of a Coptic Orthodox background. Time passed, but one day my father was in Mississauga and met a priest, and when the Father learned of my father's name, he reached under his testament, pulled out a notebook and said that a man was looking for him, and he had his address and telephone number.

After the funeral service, my closest friends and I went to dinner, and a few of them remarked that they could hardly believe I was the same person they watched speak in front of a packed house. They knew I did not enjoy giving presentations of speaking publicly, but that was the beginning of the end of my fear of public speaking.

Continuing the opening celebration after Baranga's, heading over to Hess to the Gown and Gavel.

Although my father did not wish for me to be a high school teacher, I know he would have been proud of my achievement entering Teacher's College. I was still working for the CBC, and took a few weeks off in Spring right around when the acceptances were being sent out at the beginning of April. I was due back on April 15th, but I figured it would take them a few days to send them out, and I would have at least 3 weeks to respond. Imagine my surprise when I arrived on the Sunday, and had acceptances from all four schools I applied to, including a scholarship from Queens. The only thing was they needed to hear back no later than the Tuesday, so I would have to reply with next-day courier. I spoke to a close family friend who was a professor at UofT, and one of my closest father figures. For him, it was a no-brainer to choose OISE. For me, it was between OISE and Brock. Interestingly, Brock was my last choice, and cost me a little extra money to add a fourth option. Since there were only 4 universities that offered a B.Ed. in Technological Education, I figured I'd apply to all of them. Queens and Western were not attractive since I owned my own Condo and didn't want extra expenses living in another city. So I went to bed Sunday night thinking I would go to OISE, having filled out the OISE acceptance.

I woke up in a cold sweat at around 3 in the morning. About a month after I applied to Teacher's College in late December, I met an old grade school friend Rocco. It just so happened that he was going to Teacher's College at Brock, and when I said it was one of the schools I applied to, he told me I should go to Brock, and how much he loved it there. This was foremost in my mind when I woke up in the middle of the night, and I went to the computer and started looking at the OISE website. I found the name of the Dean of Technological Education, and when I considered her academic achievements, and when she received them, it seemed to me she hadn't spent much time as a working teacher, if at all. But I delved deeper and found one of the profs, who was a young man and seemed to have his own online presence, which filled me with hope. But when I played one of his only videos of him talking about teaching, I had no clue what he was talking about. It was like those papers that were written with concepts you had to first understand before you could go further in your understanding. I went back to bed, and woke up again a few hours later, and called my mom. I told her I was thinking of going to Brock instead, and her immediate blessing put me at ease. I waited for a sane hour, but still pretty early, to contact a friend I know who when to OISE. She said her experience was okay. Not great, and not bad. I also checked the message board I found at 3 in the morning where I asked if Principals care where you went to school for Teacher's College when hiring, and the few replies said it didn't matter, as long as you had a B.Ed. they'd consider you equally. And that was it. I filled out the Brock acceptance. It's one of the best decisions I could have made.

One of my profs, Tony Cafazzo, who explained that if we needed anything, day or night, to call him at home since email was too slow, and he would prefer to help us right away. And he meant it. Great man!!!

One appealing aspect to going to Brock was that they had a summer program before starting in September. That meant 2 months less work at the Mother Corp, but I had been saving money all year anticipating this move, so I would be fine financially. That month working with my new peers was incredible. Each week we learned an area of Technological Education that we either knew, or didn't know. We did Technological Design one week, Construction Technology another week, Manufacturing Technology the following week and Communication Technology the last week. Teachers in each area taught us, as well as the peers in each area who were leaders for those of us who were less experienced in an unfamiliar area. It was like the coolest summer camp I could have imagined. And although we were split into two cohorts of about 23 teacher candidates, we all became very close. Every Friday we would hit a pub on Hess, just up the road from MacDonald where we were learning, and got to know each other even more.

At the end of the month, we were also put into about 6 groups of 6 or 7 and given a project to complete. It was to make a Rube Goldberg Machine that rang a bell and needed to have each of three types of levers, a screw motion, and a few other things I can't remember. We chose a Las Vegas theme and I think when some dignitaries came through the school, our Rube Goldberg machine was removed because it was a bit risqué. But we were so proud of it! I became very close with my group, and everyone stepped up in building it. But really, all 45 of us were close. Even 10 years after graduating, if I had to call up one of my Brock friends and ask them for help because I had to teach a construction class, I know they would have resources for me. I went to Stratford and a hamlet beyond Hamilton to help my friends learn a few things about teaching grade 9 Comm. Tech. So, we were close. When I polled people who went to other Teacher's Colleges, they remarked that they made 2 or 3 friends when they were in Teacher's college. Sometimes more, but nowhere close to 45.

When I finally graduated, seeing the St. Catherines campus for the second time (the first time was when I bought my books, but otherwise the Teacher's College was in Hamilton) I wrote Nowse Erving Adam Kamal Shalaby. It was an inside joke since a good size group of us met every Tuesday night to play volleyball in the gymnasium of our makeshift university campus, which was an old grade school that Brock bought. Every time I would serve, Gary (or Gazzer as I called him) would announce, "Now Servinggggg... Addaaaamm, Shallllabeeeee! So I wrote "Nowse Erving Adam Kamal Shalaby." A little different, but still funny. At least to me. But boy were those Tuesday nights great! Even when I was all the way in Mississauga, and burned out, I would trek to Hamilton for the Volleyball game. I think it kept us sane, and helped us release some tension. I would later learn that exercise helps the learning process, so good on us.

After graduation, it was time to apply. Actually, Brock was really great helping us with the application processes, and had some knowledgable teachers give us the nitty gritty on how to apply with the central application system most boards used, but I was only applying to TDSB, my eggs all in one basket. It's where I live, and the only board I was interested in.

When I got the call for an interview, I was stoked. It was an interview for the TDSB, and if it went well, then I would be provided access to upload my resume and "to whom it may concern" cover letter which Principals could access and grant me an interview. I was not going to leave anything to chance. Although it was at 5050 Yonge, up in North York, I was not willing to take the subway. I would never forgive myself if I botched my interview even if the subway breaking down was out of my control. So I decided to drive. But I left 4 hours before my interview, figuring that would give me time to call a tow truck and take a cab to the interview. I spent time on a bench looking over my notes, and eventually made my way in about an hour before my interview. The secretary remarked that I was early and I said I would wait, and just read. About 15 minutes later, one of the retired principals that was interviewing me approached and asked if I wouldn't mind being interviewed early.  She explained that one of the people being interviewed that afternoon was running late and if I would mind moving up a slot. I agreed, and it gave me a certain sense of comfort. During the interview, one of them remarked that I was very Zen, believing my description of how I would handle a volatile situation in class.

My first interview was at Lester B Pearson in deep Scarborough. The interview went very well, but I was not looking forward to the commute. I thought, "Life can't be perfect, though."

Then I got a call from L'Amoreaux, also in Scarborough but much closer. The Principal wanted to know if I could come in on Friday. I basically told her I couldn't. I was the leader of a camp group and many people were depending on me for food, permits, etc. I told her if there was no other arrangement, I would figure something out. Fortunately, she accommodated me and asked if I could come the day before, on the Thursday, and immediately said I could. It would mean some juggling of when I would get ready for the trip, but basically it would be fine.

The interview was just with her, perhaps because it was off-schedule. I would imagine most interviews would be with someone else, but it was just me and her. She not only conducted the interview, which went well, but she also toured the school with me and showed me the lab I would teach in and the rest of the Tech area. She called the odd student who was milling about, even though summer school had ended for the day by then, and I had a really good feeling about her as a Principal. She seemed very hands on and visible.

The camping trip, up in the Algonquin Hills for a hike. Good times!

It was on the way home from Alqonguin Park that I got the call from Lester B Pearson. I was nervous about answering it. I didn't know what I would do if they offered me the job, because I had a good feeling Mamacita Principale (as I eventually called her) would offer me a job. Luckily, they told me some great things and that I would be a great teacher, but that they didn't think the rough and tumble school was a good fit for me. They wished me well. Not long after, Mamacita Principale offered me the job and gave me my new department head's number. I wanted to know what courses I'd be teaching, and hoped he could tell me, but it was summer and I don't think he was able to tell me, or so laid back he didn't think it was important, so I left it and tried not to worry about it.

The next step was to start my teaching practice. There were a number of good stories that came out of L'Amoreaux, and some challenges as well, but in the beginning, I thought it would be the school I retired from. But things had a funny way of working themselves out, but I'll save that for another time.

The Making of an Educator - The Journey to El Loco Parentis

It's a wonder, considering all the barriers to becoming a teacher I encountered, that I ended up becoming one anyway. The route that led me to teaching was certainly indirect because of all the barriers. And I certainly never expected I'd eventually teach other teachers how to teach.

My desire to become a high school teacher was quite strong when I was 16 years old. Not long after, I acknowledged my desire to be a father. The former was because I really enjoyed my high school experience, but I didn't feel I was able to navigate the halls, procedures, nor skills that it took to succeed at least conventionally. But before high school, I did have such a teacher who was not only fair, but made an incredible impression on me. It was my math teacher, and I'll never forget in grade 8, during our trip to Quebec City, he patted me on the shoulder, impressed that I was spending some of the bus ride reading a book on math puzzles. I shouldn't say that my high school teachers were not good. They were likely the very best one could find in any high school. But I had a number of bad experiences which I felt were unreasonable.

Photo by Michael Barker

I had an accounting teacher who made my life hell when I openly accepted a zero for skipping a test. She left the room shortly after I graciously accepted a zero, because her attempt to humiliate me failed. She asked me if I had a note for missing the test. I said I didn't. She asked if I skipped the test, and I said that I did. My father taught me never to lie, and at this point, I just wanted to stop skipping to end the spiral of missing class. It just ends up raising the price I paid for not adequately studying for the test and skipping it. I reasoned that it was a mistake, and there was no getting around writing the test if I was to also maintain my integrity, and skipping to avoid answering the questions about missing the test only made things worse. So I cut my losses. My teacher exclaimed that I would get a zero on the test. I'm not sure if she expected me to plead with her, or get upset, but I just nodded and said, "No Problem." A few minutes later she excused herself and was replaced by another teacher. Although I doubt I had anything to do with the inability to continue teaching us, the teacher who came to replace her asked who Adam was, and I raised my hand. And that was it. We were told to work quietly. The following year, when that substitute became a temporary VP, she had it in for me.

I was called down to the office for skipping class and she gave me a detention. The first of my high school career. After last period, I went to my locker, told my friends I was not walking home with them, sorted my things and went up to the office. I took a seat, and worked on my math homework for 30 minutes. The secretary excused us. The following day, I was called down again and asked why I hadn't attended the detention. I told her that I did attend. She said my name wasn't on the clipboard. I explained that I didn't know there was a clipboard. She said that if my name wasn't on the clipboard, I hadn't attended, and I wasn't there when she left the office. I told her I was sorry. I then told her she could ask the secretary, but she wouldn't have it. She didn't need to ask the secretary because I wasn't there when she left. She forced me to admit that I skipped detention or risk being suspended. I sat in silence, unsure how to handle it. Luckily, she broke the silence telling me I would have to serve another detention. She advised me not to go to my locker and to come straight to the office to serve the detention. This told me she knew I was late because I didn't go right away, so I followed this advise. But I also went to speak to the principal. I didn't like the threat of being suspended and being forced to say something that wasn't true. He sympathized, but for all practical purposes told me to appease her and serve the detention.

I'll spare the details of the physical education teacher who forced me to drop his course because I wasn't interested in the weight training module, the English teacher who denied me my vote in the school election for not attending her class (I was going to take it at night school), and the History teacher who gave my Head Photography position to someone else despite my efforts as a young Head Photographer. But these incidents all built upon my interest in becoming a compassionate teacher for students and ensuring there was less injustice in schools. Note that looking back on it, I'm happy for those experiences. They made me stronger and shaped who I am. I don't blame them for anything, and take full responsibility for what happened to me. I made some poor choices, even if they were noble.

I had some great experiences in high school that made those experiences less traumatic. Such as my music teacher, who was refreshingly not prejudiced, allowing students to volunteer Saturday mornings, building sets for the musical. I gained some confidence with power tools for no other reason than they let me use power tools. Even though I flunked English time and time again, but then became the best student in summer school, I never found any real confidence with English. But there was a good experience I had with an English teacher who gave me freedom in a way that I would show up from time to time just to learn something. One day we read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. He asked us for our interpretation. Nobody was interested. He asked why he seemed to be out of place, why the footman in the poem would snicker at Prufrock's coat. It struck me. I gave my interpretation, comparing it to Pygmalion (My Fair Lady) and when I was done, he just started at me, smiling slightly. After class, he asked why I wouldn't come more often. I told him I would but never did. I preferred fewer forced books to read and essays to write in summer school.

My father was the one who discouraged me, or rather, painted an unflattering picture of the life and times of a high school teacher. Teaching the same thing over and over again, and how boring it would be after a few years. Ferris Bueller's Day Off and The Breakfast Club reinforced this negative image of the teaching profession. So I set my sights elsewhere. He would have supported me in doing anything, and ultimately, I followed another dream which was to work at the CBC. And then I did work at the CBC. But the thing I loved most working there was training others to use the computers to encode media and our online news delivery system. I eventually became staff, but without getting into too much detail, I pissed off my manager while trying to be helpful, and I suffered for it. I was no longer asked to participate in consulting and it was one of the aspects I enjoyed most, along with the occasional training. So I considered opening up a post-production school. That was when a friend of mine suggested I consider becoming a high school teacher. I told him I wanted to teach post-production and maybe photography, not French, which I saw as my only teachable. He said I could teach those things in high school. I investigated, and was immediately drawn to the idea, when it turned out he was right.

My classroom window at TheStudentSchool

I got accepted to every one of my university choices, which was a great relief. I was afraid I wouldn't get accepted anywhere. I even got a scholarship to Queens, which would have been cool. Maybe Elon Musk would have been my friend. Once I was accepted, I put in my resignation and many of my colleagues and friends said I was crazy. It wasn't easy to take that leap, but I believed strongly that you are rewarded by taking risks. I had no security or promise that I would have a job after Teacher's College. And I loved the people I worked with, and would miss them, but I told myself I just wouldn't see them every day, but I would see them. And I do, from time to time. They are still very close friends, who I love and adore. This past summer I brought Gandhi's Rotis for lunch and it was amazing to see them all at once. Jessica brought Caribbean soda, and Andrew said it made his year, or something like that. Best day of his summer? Next week I'm going to hang with my CBC Archives peeps. Had I stayed at Archives, it might have been even harder to make the move!

When it came to my teaching career, and getting a job, I was very serious and dedicated to getting exactly what I wanted. I only applied to the TDSB. All my eggs in one basket. Luckily it paid off. I remember I drove to 5050 Yonge 3 hours in advance just in case my car broke down. I didn't want to take the subway for fear that the subway might break down. In the end, the two retired principals who interviewed me asked if I wouldn't mind having my interview early since I arrived over an hour before my appointment, and a teacher candidate called to say he was going to be late, so I agreed to take his place. I already had a leg up! After that, I did a few interviews, and luckily my cover letter, which spoke more about my dad than about me, resonated with Mamacita Principale, as I called her. She hired me.

And the rest as they say, is history. Now I teach teachers how to teach at Niagara University on top of my day job in the TDSB. I wonder what the next step will be. Author? *grin*

PS - My grade 9 Physics Summer School teacher (who I became friends with) eventually came across my name in the TDSB email list and asked if my father's name was Kamal. Ended up visiting her so many years after she taught me. That was a trip!

The Making of an Athlete - Trials and Tribulations of Athleticism

Sometimes I wonder if I could have been an Olympian. There are many components at play but the main one seems to be athleticism. The main reason I was judged as unathletic in school was simple. I was raised by immigrants, neither of whom watched or was interested in professional sports, and while I believe my dad was averse to athletic competition, and did not like to exert himself physically (which he more than made up for through mental exertion) he must have seen that I was not deemed as athletic and wanted me to have every advantage in that regard. So he took what he read and learned, and tried to see if that would make a difference. A scholars approach, which was not misplaced, but lacked a crucial element. But more on that in a moment.

My hockey skates. I loved those Super Tacks!

Growing up I was always interested in playing. I was very good at testing things, and observing things. I would test the limits of balance, and agility on occasion, and would gauge the possibility of success based on what I saw others doing. This would not have been a problem if I had distinguished between those my size, and those much larger than me. Someone larger could easily jump over the puddle, and it took some time to understand why the same approach landed me in the puddle instead.

It was around grade 7 that my grades in physical education excelled. I was starting to grasp the rules of sport, which is where I wish there was more focus. There were a lot of assumptions made before then about how the game was played, and so I didn't achieve because I couldn't develop strategy or even know what I needed to do at what time. Scoring on your own net is confusing when the teacher flips the sides of teams. In grade 7 I found myself saying to myself, "Why didn't you explain that? I can do that." As soon as I found out that you could catch the football as an interception, I started intercepting like crazy. I watched everyone else push or hit the ball, so I did the same thing. But I had a knack for analyzing how things would play out. If I guarded a player well, they would never get thrown the ball, but if I made it seem as though they were open, and wait till the quarterback wound up and then pounced, I got in front of the ball easily to pick it out. But of course it was confusing when sometimes I was praised, and other times I was cursed. If it was their last down (opportunity to throw the ball) you didn't want to intercept. I recall a game of dodgeball where I was the last one on my side again the last one on the other side. I remember many of my peers couldn't believe it, but I had a keen eye, and figured out that it was a patience game. Wait till the other side makes a mistake. I'll never forget that game. I had few moment of glory back then.

It was this ability to read the field in all sports that allowed me to improve exponentially. I wasn't strong nor did I have incredible dexterity, but I had a mental advantage, and a persistence. As the years went on, and my muscle memory improved, and my understanding of the games grew, I became quite an athlete. When I started playing soccer, I found my position on defence didn't require the footwork skills I lacked, and felt I found my place when a friend referred to me as a pillar on the field, frustrating players who were often denied a goal scoring opportunity because of my relentlessness. I still lacked fundamental strategy.

My dad's heart was in the right place when he enrolled me in figure skating when I was in grade 4. He had read that hockey players had an advantage if they had first learned to figure skate. And he wasn't wrong. Skating was the one activity before grade 7 where I was, at the very least, on a level playing field with my peers, but often enough it provided a huge advantage. I enjoyed figure skating, but as soon as I got to the stage of jumping and spinning, and falling on my ass repeatedly, I stopped enjoying it. But by then I had the fundamental skills necessary to float around the rink and make it to the last stages of British Bulldog, a game where you tried to make it across the rink without being tagged by those in the centre. Eventually my cousin was sent to take me to buy hockey equipment. I would take the bus to the rink after Saturday Morning Classes, and my dad might have come to one of my games, but he didn't understand it so he was likely bored watching. And it's cold. I only signed up for one year of hockey in the end. I managed one assist the whole season by simply passing the puck up from my defensive position, and our star player managed to get a break-away and score. My coach repeatedly told me to watch the off side. He taught me the strategy of what to do at the blue line, and where to go, as the puck moved around in the opposing team's end, but he never explained the magic of the blue line which dictated off side. I heard it a lot. "Watch the off-side!" and "That wasn't off-side!" I didn't know I should never let the puck past the blue line. Many years later when I was part of a hockey playoff pool, I watched a bit of hockey and managed to figure out the whole off-side thing. It's pretty easy to understand, really. If you ever want to understand it, let me know. I'm your guy.

Right before my dad passed away, I had just started working at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, The Mother Corp, and I started working out. It wasn't really my thing, so I just continued with sport, but explored something I could do more regularly. So I bought a rowing machine. A nifty beautiful Concept II rower Model B, which I have since upgraded to a Model C. I remember one time I was on the rowing machine, and my dad came looking for me in my new place, and he just lay on my bed watching me row. I can imagine what he thought. He probably thought I was slightly insane. He didn't understand or comprehend why anyone would do anything that resulted in breathing hard, sweating, and seemingly toy with thresholds of pain. I doubt he ever experienced the endorphins and high that comes with physical exertion. A few years after he passed away. Although one of the youngest of his siblings, his more athletic brothers and sisters outlived him considerably. The importance of regular exercise was not lost on me. I eventually took a introduction to rowing course at the Argonaut Rowing Club. I loved it, but the early morning hours and one of the girls on my team who constantly blamed me for our lack of progress (but was finally put in her place by our coxswain/coach) resulted in my abandoning it. Our coxswain Ralph wanted to train me in skulling which meant individual rowing, but I was tearing the skin off my hands, so I bowed out. I do miss it though. There was something amazing about being so close to the water, and I felt so at peace. More recently, I found that same feeling doing some kayaking. My first time was with my friend Diana I believe, and she loves it. The time I did it on my own was in New Jersey, and my growth mindset allowed me to venture far from my cousin's cottage, with the belief that I had the muscle and steam to get back.

After rowing, I got into running, and started training for a full marathon. An injury kept me from keeping up my full marathon training, but I was growing tired of the super long distances. Although I haven't run a full marathon, I ran several half marathons, leaving my 5 and 10ks behind. But I haven't run in a long time. I think when I finally came to terms with my dad passing away, I no longer needed the running, which was a time I could have conversations with my dad. I never ran with music. Ever. I loved it, and miss it, sometimes.

I eventually got into cross-country biking, and everything changed. I think I wanted to do something epic after I drove across America along Route 66. I read about a mayor in a town who biked from Santa Monica to his city on Route 66 to raise money and boost tourism. I never liked the speed demons on the bike paths, but I did enjoy biking, and when I got a nice upright dutch bike, I discovered biking could be comfortable. A tadpole recumbent bike was even more comfortable! And if you're biking from Northern Washington to Southern California, you want to be comfortable. In the end, I sold Rawk Lobster, my tadpole trike, to my friend, and built a custom touring bicycle. Equally comfortable, to a certain degree, and a lot zippier. I have yet to do a really long tour, but I managed almost 260km on a newly injured knee in Nova Scotia. My first day riding, the twinge was there. I would ice it at night and managed 3 days of riding, getting off and pushing up hills which provides ed too painful. A few weeks after I did my Pacific Coast tour, I completed my first century. 100 miles in a single day. That was an entirely different experience than doing 50-65 miles a day along the coast, even though it was relatively flat. My love of biking will never die. I currently have 4 bikes, if you include my old mountain bike which resides at my villa in Egypt. I love them all, and they all have names. But I will try to have fewer.

Rawk Lobster II

Lately, I've been doing ballet, which is hard work. I'm also going to take up basketball, although I'll learn on my own before doing pick-up games. But I think I'm eventually going to focus my exercise more on gymnastics. If I'm going to raise a bunch of kids, I'm going to need to be able to keep up with them. How's that for motivation to stay in shape?

So there you have it. The making of an athlete, sort of. I don't think anyone would look at me and think I was an athlete, but looks can be deceiving. I'm full of energy, and I have a growth mindset when it comes to what I can accomplish physically. I don't think I see any limitations, and I think as my body ages, I'll embrace it even more.

The Making of a Romantic - From Shy Guy to Fly Guy

I suppose starting at the beginning is worthwhile. I was a womanizer in kindergarten.  Girl-izer?  Not really, but I used to kiss girls in the playground, according to my mom. I still remember being 5 years old on a cruise and the ship's social co-ordinater used to smother me in kisses, and I loved it. She would carry me in her arms and dance with me, and she would advocate for me when I wanted the kiddie pool on deck filled to wade in. But I went from not being shy at all, to being very shy at the age of 6.  I had 3 long-term crushes between kindergarten and University. One from kindergarten to grade six, from grade 7 to grade 8, and from grade 8 to first year university. I had a girlfriend in the US when I was 13, and no, it's not the cliché nobody-will-ever-find-out so-I-can-lie-about-it relationships. Like in The Breakfast Club when Brian says, "You wouldn't know her, she's from Canada."

I grew up with my second mother, who took care of me when my mom started back at work, and her two kids. They were of German decent and I was the odd kid out, with two blonde-blue eyed kids. I'm sure people observed Birgit and her three kids with curiosity. Luckily, my "sister" was friends with my grade-school crush. She also lived in the same condominium as me so we saw each other a lot, and I was the only boy at one of her birthday parties. It was one day when we were all together with my crush's younger sister that one of my siblings revealed my interest in her. It was probably my younger "brother" who didn't have the same scruples as I when it came to secrets. I denied it up and down, horrified that my secret was revealed. I believe it shaped my approach with women, which was to guard my interest in them like the gold in Fort Knox. It did allow me a lot of freedom and security to get to know them, holding my interest so close to my chest. They would never catch me looking, and I'd only take advantage of a conversation if it presented itself. I was generally outgoing, and interestingly, I think many of my later crushes may have been mutual. Unfortunately, I rarely took advantage of any indications of their interest in me. I was too used to hiding any mutual interest we may have had.

In my early years of sharing my interest, which came about halfway through high school, I would write letters. Anonymous in high school, and then named later on. Eventually, I started meeting women who were strong and courageous enough to share their interest. The first was a young Italian woman. The way she kissed my cheek the second time we met through my friend, and my friend's disinterest in her (which I thought was nuts, as she could have been a model if it weren't for her short stature and she had an incredible sense of humour) led me to asking him for her number. When I finally summoned the courage to call her, another mutual friend had beaten me to the punch. I responded by telling her he was a great guy and she replied, "Yes, but I think it's obvious I like you." And so we ended up going on a date after he took her for lunch. When I took her to Ontario Place to check out an IMAX film, she was in control. After I parked the car, she didn't get out, and leaned her head over the arm rest to receive our first kiss. After the IMAX film I got up to leave but she remained seated so I sat back down and I made out in a theatre for the first time. When I dropped her off at her host's home, she instructed me to park around the corner to make out some more. It was sad when she left, but I later met her when she was living in London and I had a layover after my trip to South Africa. I met her husband and her newborn, and they were impressed that I could eat pasta without a spoon (what a silly stereotype).

It was in London that I bought two things for a future girlfriend. A girlfriend I didn't have. I have a small collection of things that are so beautiful and lovely, it felt good to buy them even if it wasn't for anyone specific. They were the types of things reserved for someone special. Earrings from a street market in London. A raw silk scarf, also from London. A pendant... And a few other things. I'm not sure why I did this, but part of me thinks it's because of a need to be romantic, despite not having a girlfriend.

As time went on, and I achieved a variety of life accomplishments, my self worth improved. As my self worth improved, I easily transitioned to showing my interest instead of holding back, and finding success. Approaching women was never as big an issue as showing interest, and so I simply started tacking that on. I was surprised by the success, and in some ways, kicked myself for not doing it sooner. But that early trauma of having my interest in my crush revealed in front of me at such an early age really had affected me. At least I thin it did. I suppose my general default remains keeping my interest a secret, but the romantic in my often kicks my butt eventually, and so I'm more apt to act on my interest. What is most interesting is showing an interest, but it's not interpreted as being interested. So I try to be more clear when I ask womxn out. Nobody said asking anyone out was easy, but I'm glad it's become easier.

Comment in the section below... What are your ideas about romance? What do you consider to be romantic? Please share your ideas for the benefit of others, anonymously if you prefer.

The Making of a Writer - From dyslexic to wordsmith

I didn't know I was dyslexic when I was young. I think I found out when I was in University, after my dad discovered some drawings with words on it. My lettering was often reversed, which is common for many kids, I suppose, but it was still an interesting discovery. Later in school, when any memory or knowledge of dyslexia was present, we progressed to actual writing, and it was then when I switched from being left-handed, to right-handed. My hand would be less in the way so I could see what I wrote. For a short time, and even into my teens, I had trouble deciding which hand to hold my utensils to adequately cut pieces of steak. Neither way felt good, so I'd keep flipping.

When I got to grade 3, I was still holding my pencil in a way that made sense to me. I often managed my way through childhood by observing, even if my observation was fault. So my pencil ran between my index and middle finger. My grade 3 teacher would have none of it. I was provided a plastic triangular device to force me to hold the pencil properly. It didn't matter that my writing looked fine. And it quickly went to shit since I had to retrain my brain to write holding the pencil awkwardly.

It was also in grade 3 that I was put in the remedial reading group. I wasn't bad at reading, but my knowledge of words wasn't as good as my peers, and the speed with which I read was relatively slow. I still read relatively slow. Just a little faster than talking speed.

It was around this time that Beatrice Thurman Hunter visited our school and her auto-biographical books, the Booky series, was available to us. I bought them through Scholastic, and my favourite memories were ordering and waiting the 4-6 weeks for the books to arrive, and the thrill that overcame me when the forgotten order finally arrived. It was like Christmas.  My parents were generous, and my father let it be known that I could buy as many books as I wanted.

Growing up in the condo with my parents, I was surrounded by books. I remember being too little to carry some books. I'd pull them off the shelf and try to lower them gently to the floor without too much of a smash, and then read it on the stairway landing where my dad build a custom bookshelf. I'd pour through Michelangelo arts books, the Colliers Encyclopaedia, and even Euclid's books on math. I mostly observed, but I was mesmerized by them.

I already wrote about becoming a voracious reader in another blog post, so I won't repeat that here. But it was a very important part of being a writer. I think the daily nightly reading before bed, and any time I was bored and nothing was on television, reading gave me the ability to write, even though I struggled with writing due to a lack of practice.  In time, however, I found my writing voice.

I failed English every year of my high school career, but still managed to do very well when it came time to upgrade my mark. It was mostly from a fear of writing, because I wasn't good at it. I was sick of getting poor marks mostly for spelling errors. My grammar wasn't perfect, but it wasn't terrible either. And yet all that red ink discouraged me. Ultimately, I need to do more writing, and learn the skill of writing through practice.

It was in university that my second year T.A. in Introduction to Communications gave the advice to the class to read their work out loud. It was that year that my writing improved exponentially. I was able to see and hear errors, and find more fluid ways to express myself in writing. All by reading out loud. In my most recent writing, I would do a second draft with a pen correcting and adding, and then a reading third draft to further refine and catch mistakes. My biggest blunder in early years of writing was handing in first drafts. That was the main reason I never achieved in English class, and struggled with essays in the early years of university.

Fast forward to more recent years, specially writing stories about my father, and blogging about my travels. I had a few people privately tell me I should write. So I joined a screenwriting class that I found out about through an acquaintance that involved sharing what we had written.  I used an original News Radio episode I wrote, and also wrote the first half of a play. Hearing people change their voices to reflect the characters I assigned was amazing, and I laughed at their performance of my words.

After that, I came up with an idea for a series of novels. It has percolated for a number of years as I read books about writing. When I went to Ryerson to see Douglas Coupland speak, I remember him saying that a lot of people asked him for advice on how to get published. In most cases, the people asking had not yet written their book, and so his advice was to write the book.

And so that's what I have done. I'm not done yet, but I will have a completed a novel soon, and I have plans to have the second novel completed soon after. I discovered I can bang out 1000 words an hour without too much difficulty. I can get lost for an entire day and complete 4000 without breaking a sweat. And when I read what I have written, I always marvel that I managed to write something so compelling.  It's somewhat self-congratulatory to say that, but it was the same way I felt when my screenplay was read. The feedback from the performers and facilitator was positive. Here's hoping people will enjoy reading my words. Hopefully I will find my place as a wordsmith, despite the turbulent journey I had with writing.

NOTE: I generally publish my first draft when I blog write. Then correct after it;s been published, every time I re-read it.

PS - If you're interested in my Special Limited Edition Booklet Launch Teaser and/or my Fan Page, click the links!

The Making of a Photographer - How I Ended Up Behind the Lens

It started with a mistake.  All good stories do, but this one in particular was a blessing.  When I was in high school my parents took a trip to Hong Kong where electronics were notoriously inexpensive, and so I asked my dad to buy me a video camera so I could shoot and edit films.  I suppose he wasn't aware of the "video" part of camera and so he bought me a *beautiful* SLR camera by Minolta.  I was a little disappointed, but it was no wonder he bought it for me because I enjoyed every camera I was ever bought.  From little plastic camera I bought for $10, to the Polaroid-like camera my cousin Kamal bought me (Kodak Trimprint Instant Camera) I loved taking photos.  The purchase of the Minolta also meant I could join the Yearbook Club and take real photos.

My High School Yearbook Photo - No Head Photographer Credit

My first assignment with the yearbook was to shoot the golf team, which was the head photographers first assignment.  I really impressed him, and in the end, I was head photographer in grade 12 at a time when head photographer was a position reserved for grade 13s.  I went to yearbook camp at Trent university and had an amazing time.  Despite taking about 60% of the photos for the yearbook, the editor and I suppose the rest of the grade 13s in the club made my name the first in the list, but I did not have the Head Photographer designation.  I also headed up the end of year slideshow but then gave the position to another member when I decided to focus on my studies, and overwhelmed with all the yearbook work, and despite contributing photos and attending all meetings, my name did not appear in the credits.  I didn't let it bother me, but looking back, I know it hurt.  Even writing this now, I still wish I understood what I had done to be so under appreciated to not get the credit I felt I earned and deserved.  The nail in the coffin was being told that the position of Head Photographer was being given away.  The reason was that I wasn't as organized as the person that was replacing me.  I tendered my resignation, much to the dismay of my replacement, but it was an inadequate reason to me.  My best friend was the Editor of the yearbook, so it was a shame.  I still contributed but didn't get credit but mostly because it was felt I didn't want to have any part of the yearbook, which is understandable.

In the weeks after I resigned, I took an adult course in Commercial Photography at the Ontario College of Arts.  I received the highest mark with an A+, and I was the youngest person in the class.  In fact they had to make a special consideration because I was technically too young by the registration deadline, but my dad argued that I would be 18 by the time the course started.  Looking back, I am still amazed by the incredible pictures I took back then.  It's hard to believe I never chose it as a career.

Vesuvio Bakery - 2007

When I went to York University, I was part of Calumet College.  So I took a Calumet course in photography and really honed my darkroom skills.  I was very experimental and throughout my years in high school and university, I bought weird films.  I was a sponge at courses I'd sign up for, remembering and trying everything I learned.  I spent lots of money on film, film paper, and development.  I also bought some film in bulk and made my own canisters of film with a special machine.  Despite visiting many times, my professor never gave my photos back.  Year after year I asked for them, but I think he wanted to keep them as exemplars?  I have the negatives somewhere, but I'm over it.  

When I got in to Radio and Television Arts, I left my photography practice and focused on video production.  It was many years before I even considered photography again, but I remember very well the moment is turned around.  My friend Alex came to my T-Shirt party and took pictures with a new canon digital SLR he bought.  The crummy digital camera my boss bought me at the CBC wasn't very good, had terrible battery life, so much so that I used disposable cameras because the batteries died when I did a piece on living donation. But the pictures he took wowed me in a big way. So much so that I researched and bought a Canon digital SLR the very next week.

Silhouette and Gwen Stefani added on second trip

After resigning from the CBC and going to teacher's college, the Labour Day weekend I went to New York City with a few girlfriends but went early and met them there.  In that time, I got my lay of the land.  The last time I had been to New York City as an adult was at a high school trip.  I took photos with my digital SLR and prized fisheye lens.  It wasn't till I got home and fooled around with the images that I realized I had a few really amazing shots.  One was the Vesuvio's café and the other was an overexposed digital image of Time Square which after I had corrected it, looked amazing.  I just needed some silhouettes for the really bright overexposed shots, the main billboard and Gwen Stefani.  


I decided to go back during the Thanksgiving weekend to take more images, see if Gwen was still up there, and get more shots.  My buddy Jay joined me, even though we had very different agendas.  I was on a mission to take photos, and he was going to tour and shop.  I do recall, however, and I don't even know how we managed this, but we met in Times Square around 3 or 4 in the morning, and as I worked, he just soaked it all in.  When I got home, I added another 6 or 7 images to my collection that I was proud of, but when I submitted my images to a group who was going to give each photographer they chose a room at the Gladstone, I decided to go over March Break to take even more photos.

Second trip, 4:30am in Times Square with the supportive Jay Garcia

That March Break was exhausting. From 7am till about midnight every night, I was out taking photos. I remember on the last day I went to the Statue of Liberty and had endured so many crazy and sometimes stressful situations (ask me about the Fire Taxi image I created) I was beat.  I remember sitting on the ferry and after it left, felt like just sitting there until I we arrived.  But as much as my feet hurt from the days of walking, I reminded myself that I was there to work.  So I got up and climbed the stairs as we left the port.  Sure enough, it wasn't very crowded on the top of the ferry and I got an amazing picture of the flag on the bow and Manhattan and Brooklyn in the distance.

My Chicago exhibition was interesting.  I took a night bus to Chicago to spend the day, and hope to get a single photo for the Contact submission.  The bus's heat broke down and I was stuck in Windsor until they could get us another bus, and only had about 6 hours to shoot once I got there, but it was blisteringly cold, so it ended up being enough.  The Uno's pizza (it's not really pizza) was delicious and kept me out of the cold.  

I returned in the new year during March Break and flew by Porter.  I arrived, unbeknown to me, on St Patrick's Day.  It was amazing!  And quite warm.  I had a similar experience, where I set my alarm for 5:30am to catch the sunrise at the Cloud Gate (the Bean) and when the alarm rang, I had to remind myself I was not there on vacation, but to work.  It paid off.  The Cloud Gate Bean is my most popular image, even though my favourite was American Gothic.

My third exhibition was supposed to be Los Angeles but I had a lot of pressure to do Toronto.  In the end I limited my Toronto images to Music related venues.  After 3 exhibitions in 3 years, I took a long hiatus and still haven't decided to go back into it.  Right now, I'm considering adding my images to websites that do phone covers and do the printing.  Printing ended up being the thorn in my side, and I rarely printed orders for my images.

So far, I haven't given my dad the credit he deserves for embracing my photography passion.  He did tons, as I mentioned, getting me into the Ontario College of Arts course and also let me use his old Minolta when I was a kid.  I still have lots of strange experimental photos with weird compositions from when I was 5-9 years old.  When the Minolta camera my parents bought me from Hong Kong was stolen by some kids while my friends and I played video games, my dad bought me a top of the line Nikon Camera.  The Minolta was one of the presents he got me that I used constantly, and I think he felt something might be lost if he punished me for my carelessness.  That gesture made me realize I had to take better care of my things, but also, that you shouldn't get too upset when bad things happen.  Hopefully they don't happen often.  

My mom's side of the family is mostly artists.  My cousins Ashraf and Shahd are both artists, no doubt inspired by our uncles Ihab and Nagy, critically acclaimed artists with long and prosperous careers.  The rest of the family is also artistically inclined even if they didn't pursue it.  But my art education came mostly from my dad, directly through visits to art galleries growing up, and indirectly by having tons of art books to flip through.  So that's how I became Adam Shax.  The letters S, H, and A were common in both my mom's maiden name and my dad's last name.  To credit both side of the family of influencing my artistic career, I came up with Shax, where the x represents the variable of either last name.  

And now I am teaching digital photography to a new generation.  It worked out quite well, in the end.