My Name Is Jasper

Le Semeur

Although I only briefly touch upon the subject in this Chapter (at times I was a rotten kid), I want to dedicate this chapter to @KatherineArlene 's initiative of #NoMoreBullying! Great initiative, let's support it.

Frère, chante ton verre,

Et chante ta gaîté,

La femme qui t'est chère

Et la fraternité

À d'autres la sagesse

Nous t'aimons Vérité

Mais la seule maîtresse

Ah, c'est toi, Liberté

Le Semeur – Georges Garnir (38)

Toronto is a vibrant cocktail of different neighbourhoods. None more colourful than Kensington Market. "Oh yeah man, that's like Hippie town, it's a super alternative place." Some of my colleagues tell me about street markets where perpetually high residents sell handmade goods. Kensington Market, as alternative as it may be, is no Christiania though. Far from it. But if you want enjoy a locally brewed craft beer on a patio, buy any kind of spice or nut, try on some exotic outfit and browse through second hand record collections, the Market is the place to be.

"The truth is sad, but it took me so long to give up this fight" From out of the open walls of Caffè Aspetta, Lindsey Foote is playing her easy listening songs to the people on the patio. People who have been enjoying the pedestrian Sunday stop to listen. "She has the voice of an angel." someone says, a little too excited. Angel or not, the fact is that we were planning on walking through the neighbourhood, but for the next hour we did not make it past the patio of Caffè Aspetta. The very first bar, on the first corner of Kensington Market.

I love watching live music.

Walking back to my car, I notice a young woman walking past us with a funny t-shirt. Some weird design involving scissors, it's not important. But it grabbed my attention. Then I realize, this lady was probably thinking "And yet another guy looking at my breasts... Pig!"

Yesterday a similar thing happened as I went for a haircut. "How is your day?" without the slightest hint of sincerity, the girl's autopilot sits me down and grabs her weapons of choice. "Not too bad actually, how is yours?" I don't give in that easily. As the cut goes on, I learn her long shift has just started. She loosens up. The anecdote of my previous haircut, which from any point of view – quite literally – could only be described as a disaster, makes her laugh out loud. Success. One less miserable person in the streets of Toronto.

As she cuts my hair, and criticizes my previous cut "However did this to you, I bet he was old", I notice Ashley's reflection in the mirror wears a sparkling necklace. "Stop!" I command myself as I notice where the pendant rests. "Eyes in front! Look at yourself, your hair or at her face, but only when you are spoken too!" "Yes Sir!" The next 10 or so minutes I awkwardly keep my eyes fixed at my own reflection, and I wonder what that pendant looks like. What can I say? I am a curious boy.

Someone – Ashley or her partner, maybe her mother? – selected this specific jewel for her. This one. An active and emotional decision was made that this one was the best. The prettiest. And here I am trying to do my best not to look at it. Barbara Kruger is right. Whether we know it or not, our culture is saturated with irony.

One of my all-time favourite comedians Theo Maassen ridiculed this in one of his shows: "More and more girls walk around in real tight shirts, which, using glitters, say 'Super Babe'. And you know, I am a guy that likes to read..."