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Hollay Ghadery 4/7/25 Hollay Ghadery 4/7/25

Excerpt from In Crisis, On Crisis: Essays in Troubled Times by James Cairns

The move itself was frigid. Men in boots tracking snow and salt through two houses. Half of our plants died in cold moving trucks. My big orange tabby shat in his cat carrier riding next to me in the car from Hamilton to Paris. An omen? Those first weeks in Paris, I saw omens everywhere. Worst was what I found in the attic. Kneeling and feeling for drafts by a small window, I saw bones lying on the floor next to me. They comprised a full skeleton. It was as though the skeleton had been picked clean and preserved for a science class. Not a bone missing or chipped. No rotting flesh or feathers attached. A bird? Squirrel? Baby raccoon? An offering to dark gods left by previous owners? I couldn’t tell.

Excerpt from “Crisis Moves”

[…]

The move itself was frigid. Men in boots tracking snow and salt through two houses. Half of our plants died in cold moving trucks. My big orange tabby shat in his cat carrier riding next to me in the car from Hamilton to Paris. An omen? Those first weeks in Paris [Ontario], I saw omens everywhere. Worst was what I found in the attic. Kneeling and feeling for drafts by a small window, I saw bones lying on the floor next to me. They comprised a full skeleton. It was as though the skeleton had been picked clean and preserved for a science class. Not a bone missing or chipped. No rotting flesh or feathers attached. A bird? Squirrel? Baby raccoon? An offering to dark gods left by previous owners? I couldn’t tell.

In Paul Auster’s Winter Journal he talks about finding a dead crow in the house he and Lydia Davis lived in in upstate New York during their short, doomed marriage. Auster doesn’t believe in ghosts, but feels that their house is haunted. In the crow, he saw “the classic omen of bad tidings”; and their marriage collapsed within a year of finding it. I didn’t have a bag or anything to put the bones in, and I didn’t want Jess or the kids to see them, so I left them lying where I’d found them for a few days. The skeleton lay on the floor of the attic, ten feet above our bed. Before falling asleep, I lay there thinking of it lying above me.

Our first months in Paris were isolating. It was the coldest, snowiest winter in memory. We couldn’t really go outside even if we’d wanted to because it was the peak of the omicron variant of COVID. Nearly everything about the move we’d been excited about – hikes, building community, exploring the town – felt unattainable. While the thing we dreaded most – feeling physically and socially isolated – was now our daily reality.

To make matters worse, there were all kinds of trouble with the house itself. Our first night in the home, the pipes connected to the bathtub leaked through the ceiling onto the basement stairs (talk about omens). The upstairs toilet moaned for fifteen seconds after every flush. We called it the “Paris-saurolophous” – because Gus loves dinosaurs, and the Parasaurolophus is the dino with the crest on its head that honks. You flush the toilet and wait. Then yell, “A Paris-saurolophus is running down the street!” while smiling at Gus and wondering what will break next.

The washing machine ran only hot water. Gus’ room was very cold, despite our covering the window in plastic. The door to the basement wouldn’t close. Neither would the bedroom door. Gus’ door didn’t have a handle. The gas fireplace stank. The whole main floor stank (of gas?). The bathroom sink faucet sprayed water on your clothes when running at normal pressure. Hammering a nail into the upstairs hall, I heard something large drop inside. Was this a normal level of move-in trouble, or had we bought a lemon? I imagined being interviewed for a TV show about people who unwittingly move into wrecks. Then the basement flooded.

Standing in the kitchen in morning darkness, bleary-eyed, waiting for coffee to brew, I heard unidentifiable splashing. With Gus in my arms, I ran down the basement stairs to see water gushing through the stone foundation. It had rained overnight for the first time since we moved. Snow melting in the yard poured into our utility room. In one spot, water was coming through the wall so rapidly, with such force, that it spurted into the room as if from a backyard garden feature. Weeping walls, a crumbling foundation – the contrived symbolism, the on-the-nose pathetic fallacy of an unimaginative poet. Was our house about to collapse? We were falling apart.

[…]

*In Crisis, On Crisis: Essays in Troubled Times* by James Cairns

More about In Crisis, On Crisis: Essays in Troubled Times :

Drawing on social research, pop culture and literature, as well as on his experience as an activist, father and teacher, James Cairns explores the ecological crisis, Trump's return to power amid the so-called crisis of democracy, his own struggle with addiction and other moments of truth facing us today. In a series of insightful essays that move deftly between personal, theoretical and historical approaches he considers not only what makes something a crisis, but also how to navigate the effect of these destabilizing times on ourselves, on our families and on the world.

About James Cairns:

James Cairns lives with his family in Paris, Ontario, on territory that the Haldimand Treaty of 1784 recognizes as belonging to the Six Nations of the Grand River in perpetuity. He is a professor in the Department of Indigenous Studies, Law and Social Justice at Wilfrid Laurier University, where his courses and research focus on political theory and social movements. James is a staff writer at the Hamilton Review of Books, and the community relations director for the Paris-based Riverside Reading Series. James has published three books with the University of Toronto Press, most recently, The Myth of the Age of Entitlement: Millennials, Austerity, and Hope (2017), as well as numerous essays in periodicals such as Canadian Notes & Queries, the Montreal Review of Books, Briarpatch, TOPIA, Rethinking Marxism and the Journal of Canadian Studies. James’ essay “My Struggle and My Struggle,” originally published in CNQ, appeared in Biblioasis’s Best Canadian Essays, 2025 anthology.

Hollay Ghadery 10/18/24 Hollay Ghadery 10/18/24

Excerpt from Your Roots Cast a Shadow by Caroline Topperman

I am standing in the middle of the street, crying. “I hate this coffee. Why does everything taste so weird? Why is surówka served with everything?” To this day I don’t get what’s to love about a type of coleslaw. Why did we come here? What was I thinking? My poor husband stands helpless, watching my meltdown. He later tells me he was concerned by my extreme reaction, and worried that I was going to unravel. He felt bad, he said. He had no idea how to help me. We haven’t found our support system. For now it is just the two of us trying to navigate our daily existence.

ASSIMILATION (OR NOT) BY WAY OF FOOD

The honeymoon period in a new place lasts about a month. That’s when everything feels new and shiny—before your new reality takes you by surprise. I have to wonder: is this how my parents felt when they first lived in Baghdad or Paris, in Sweden or Toronto? No wonder they didn’t hang on to the foods they knew. Or to the traditions. How could they? They learned it was easier to adapt than to blindly cling to old conventions. My father grew up in postwar Poland when food was heavily rationed. For years my parents had to be financially creative to put healthy meals on our table. Food was the bridge to our life in Canada and all the places my parents called home.

Adjusting to our new life in Poland is demanding. Having breakfast at Vincent’s, a Parisian café in the heart of the city, helps, and in a couple of days we fall into a routine that leads us daily to this tiny piece of Paris, complete with flags, those iconic wicker chairs, and the best baguettes outside of France. Each morning we leave our flat for a small park with sweeping views of Powiśle, an indie neighborhood bordering the Vistula River and the escarpment where we live. There are always lots of people, all walking dogs off leash, so we pick our way through dog poop and garbage left by partygoers, local drunks, and students. Pristine the park is not, but we have a prime view of the church grounds—one of the many, many churches in Warsaw—and a view of the river and the rooftops. Walking down a steep hill where kids toboggan in the winter, we come to the Chopin University of Music, where we’re serenaded by students practicing the piano or violin or occasionally a flute, creating that alluring cacophony heard at the start of a classical concert, then make our way up to Nowy Świat, a part of the Royal Route.

This daily walk to Vincent’s makes us happy. The general societal mood is electric, despite a certain heaviness that lingers. Warsaw is a city that displays its memories, especially those that contrast starkly with the modern world. Memorials and statues stand out on prominent streets. Buildings show off shell holes from World War II assaults. Every few steps there is a plaque commemorating a death or a war event, like the beautiful old library around the corner from our home that saw its books burned during the Nazi regime. Even with history at every turn, the pink, blue, and yellow buildings perk up the gray wintry feel of Warsaw.

Pixie, with her laid-back West Coast disposition, putters along at our side as we pass restaurants and cafés that will soon be bustling. Pixie loves Vincent’s as much as we do. Why wouldn’t she? The owner hand-feeds her fresh croissants, sometimes with jam. Those croissants are the best part of our mornings. Breaking apart the buttery flakes, each bite a melting morsel, and washing them down with rich cappuccinos is the only sane way to start the day. Actually, there are three Parisian cafés to choose from on this street, each with its own flavor. Petit Appetit has vintage French music, and each baguette is named after a different city. A few meters away is Croque Madame, with whitewashed walls and bunches of lavender strategically displayed. Vincent’s is my favorite because it reminds me the most of Paris, but each café is filled with the aroma of fresh bread. From flaky pastries to cream-filled macarons to warm, melt-in-your-mouth pain au chocolat to delicate madeleines, every day brings some new indulgence. In the weeks to come, when we finally rejoin society, we will drop by Vincent’s on Saturday mornings to pick up a freshly baked baguette that is still warm to the touch, to pair with runny cheeses, fragrant meats, juicy red tomatoes, and crisp pickles. This is the meal that grounds us, that makes us feel we are home.

For now, walking to faux Paris every morning is our escape from the obvious. At some point, we will have to find work. At some point, we will have to eat healthier food. That means I will have to cope with grocery shopping.

When I finally try, some items really stump me. The tomato sauce tastes sweet, and the only milk I find is boxed up, on a shelf. Eggs aren’t in the fridge either, which makes for a confusing run around the market. It takes days of dipping into different stores before finally working up the nerve to ask a clerk about this strange new-to-me milk. Actually, I have no idea what to ask, which is why the conversation goes as follows. “Przepraszam? Prosze pana, jakie to mleko, czy można je pić normalnie?” This roughly translates as, “Excuse me, sir? What kind of milk is this? Can I just drink it normally?” Or at least that’s what I want to say. Whether it comes out like that, I can’t be sure. “O co pani chodzi?” he scoffs. This term I will come to know intimately over the next four years. It translates roughly as, “What are you talking about?” said harshly. Dismissively. To be fair, I probably sounded odd asking about milk I can drink “normally.” I went to Poland thinking I spoke Polish. Which I do. I speak Polish fluently, but I was used to speaking Polish with my family over dinner and throwing in the occasional English word or modifying a Polish word when I didn’t know how to conjugate. Conversation went like this, “Jak dzisiaj było w szkole?” (How was your day at school?) “Okay. Miałam, science test i myślę że, that I passed.” Do I even need to translate? But in Poland, it will take a year before I figure out that I should smile my biggest smile and say, “I’m sorry I haven’t learned that word yet,” so people will laugh and possibly go out of their way to help me.

***Your Roots Cast a Shadow: One Family’s Search Across Histoy for Belonging*** by Caroline Topperman. Published by HCI.

About Your Roots Cast a Shadow: One Family’s Search Across Histoy for Belonging :

A narrative of cultural translation, identity, and belonging.

The thrill of a new place fades quickly for Caroline Topperman when she moves from Vancouver to Poland in 2013. As she delves into her family’s history, tracing their migration through pre-WWII Poland, Afghanistan, Soviet Russia and beyond, she discovers the layers of their complex experiences mirror some of what she felt as she adapted to life in a new country. How does one balance honoring both one’s origins and new surroundings?

Your Roots Cast a Shadow explores where personal history intersects with global events to shape a family’s identity. From the bustling markets of Baghdad to the quiet streets of Stockholm, Topperman navigates the murky waters of history as she toggles between present and past, investigating the relationship between migration, politics, identity, and home. Her family stories bring history into the present as her paternal grandmother becomes the first woman allowed to buy groceries at her local Afghan market while her husband is tasked with building the road from Kabul to Jalalabad. Topperman’s Jewish grandfather, a rising star in the Communist Party, flees Poland at the start of WWII one step ahead of the Nazis, returning later only to be rejected by the Party for his Jewish faith. Topperman herself struggles with new cultural expectations and reconciling with estranged relatives.

A study in social acceptance, Topperman contends with what one can learn about an adopted culture while trying to retain the familiar, the challenges of learning new languages and traditions even as she examines the responsibilities of migrants to their new culture, as well as that society’s responsibility to them.

More about Caroline Topperman:

Born in Sweden and raised in Canada, in 2013 Caroline Topperman returned to her ancestral roots in Poland to live, and to explore her love of traveling and experiencing different cultures. From sampling authentic Neapolitan Pizzas in Naples, to photographing a piano, frozen in a river in Užupis, an independent artist’s republic in Lithuania, to pitching Poutine as a great comfort food to a local French baker in Poland. She speaks fluent English, Polish, and French. Caroline holds a BFA in screenwriting from York University (Toronto). Her book credits include Tell Me What You See: visual writing prompts for the wandering writer (One Idea Press) and a complementary guide to her blog, FitWise: straight talk about being fit & healthy. Caroline has written a column for Huffington Post Canada and was the Beauty Editor for British MODE.