This is Gerald, or Gerry as he prefers, an alumnus of my high-school, Upper Canada College.

Gerry was born in Germany, but being a German-Jew, he soon moved to Holland in the years leading up to the Second World War. “My father was rather prescient”, he put it. Eventually, he came to Canada. For four years, he attended UCC, graduating in 1940. I was in the class of ‘99. After a year at university, he volunteered for military service at 19.

“19?”, I asked in disbelief. With a smile on his face, he told me, “You grow up fast”.

He began as a commissioned officer for an artillery unit. Responsibility of the lives of many men under his command was something he didn’t want, but his knowledge of German, Dutch, and English moved him to a more preferable position as an interrogation officer. His superiors would send him co-ordinates of intelligence to gather, sometimes behind German lines, sometimes in a downed tank, and a private would drive him in a jeep to obtain the information.

He survived.

From left to right, his medals are:

• The 1939-1945 Star
• The France and Germany Star
• The Defence Medal
• Canadian Volunteer Service Medal
• The War Medal 1939-1945
• The Service Medal of the Order of St. John

His proudest accomplishment is the Maltese cross he wears on his chest — The Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem, presented by the Governor General herself. Even though he’s a commander of the order, second only to knights or dames, he’s extremely modest about it. The framed award presented to him lies in a pile of assorted things in his bedroom.

I first met Gerry a few days ago, after finding out about him from the bi-annual newsletter published by UCC. The newsletter, called Old Times, is a way for alumni, called Old Boys, to keep track of the goings’ on at the College. There was an article about the school’s prized Victoria Cross medal collection being presented to the new Canadian War Museum here in Ottawa. These were the same medals I walked by in the front hall display case every day at school, too young to appreciate their historical significance. Gerry was one of the veterans invited to attend the presentation ceremony.

However, my interest in Gerry stemmed from a different section in the same issue of the newsletter, announcing a photo contest open to all past and present students. The contest seemed like a great project, not only as a way to practice my photographic skills, but to test myself as well. I would have to find a subject related to the school in some way. Gerry, being an Ottawa-area Old Boy, was my closest connection. Taking pictures of someone, let alone someone I had never met before, was a daunting idea, and I would have to step out of my comfort zone to do it.

After looking up his name in the phonebook and gathering up the courage, I called Gerry. He was happy to meet.

I’ll be submitting the second photo.

The woman likes to clean.

I mean, I clean my house when I have guests, but every time she would visit, she could go over what I did and get things cleaner. Everything. Like hand-scrubbing the bathtub. Or washing the glass light-fixtures. Or maybe even to going through my freezer to throw out old frost-burned food and odd-looking, pungent-smelling dried herbs with red hairs in them, kept in an air-tight aluminum jar.

Herbs you could roll in cigarette fashion and smoke to alter your mood and change your perspective. About $70–$80 worth, kept in three different Ziploc bags, each with a different strain that I could choose when I felt that my tolerance to one was building up.

There was hydro from BC I bought off Matt. Some that John got for me, with a funny story behind how he acquired it. Some I don’t even remember who gave me.

I wonder what the expression was on her face if she smelled it, or how she would react if she ever found out that I did such things. I doubt she even knew what it was.

It was probably for the best. Even though I quit, I never threw it out.

I don’t think I could bring myself to do it.

More than a crazy week, I managed to survive a crazy fortnight. Something went wrong almost every day, from getting my hair highlighted, to almost getting killed in a near-miss car accident, to finding out that my company was bought out. On top of this, I kept losing sleep, which only exponentiated the stress. Now is the process of picking myself up and dusting myself off.

I still feel over-stimulated, so I’ve been hermitizing. Staying away from people for a while. I’m limiting myself to one social interaction or extra-curricular activity per week. It would actually be nothing if I had the option, but I keep getting pulled into things because of their annual exclusivity, such as Thanksgiving dinner at Louise’s.

I’ve cut off the woman who gave birth to me. There’s a tremendous feeling of relief, after having done it. I’m grateful for all the support that people are showing me, as well as the fact that none of them have given me advice as if they know more about the situation or have more wisdom than I do.

I hold Pat’s opinion in highest regard because he’s the only one who understands from both a cultural and first-hand point-of-view. He was also the only one who told me, “Good for you”. This, from one of the most forgiving, caring people that I know, confirmed to me that I made the right decision.

John offered a unique perspective too, since losing his mother at a tender age. “You only get one”, he said, although he never chided or judged me about it, perhaps because of the number of times I’ve called him up in tears because of her.

Of the last five times I’ve tried to play table tennis, things didn’t work out once. It certainly made the last two weeks a lot more difficult to handle.

Table tennis is the only thing that helps me sleep well, not to mention the fact exercise releases endorphines that fight the exact depression I was going through. I’m taking it as a sign that I’m not meant to play at the moment, so I’m giving it up until next year.

In the meantime, I’ve taken up Tai Chi. Through the last while, I went back to the Tao Te Ching looking for answers, and it renewed my interest in Tai Chi, which I see as a physical manifestation of the theory. I was also able to clarify a few of the concepts with my uncles while they were here, so I’m reading things over with a fresh perspective.

You didn’t know it, but for years I’ve come close to burning the bridge with you. It was a heavy step to take, because in doing so, I knew that I would never be able to go back on such a drastic decision.

I appreciate all the financial support you’ve provided. It’s been more than I can ask for. Unfortunately, what I wanted and needed the most was emotional support.

I’ve always played the role of the submissive son. Your boy who’s always done what you wanted and agreed with what you said. When we exchanged tears on the phone in August, I let you know how poorly I was treated growing up. I’ve always put up with it, but the way you acted last week was the straw that broke the camels back. I keep giving you a chance, over and over. Seeing you over those few days was the last one. Even if you say now that you can change, the risk isn’t worth it. The potential misery, frustration, and anguish you may cause me aren’t worth it.

Normally, I would be sensitive about the timing — the fresh divorce, the transition — but I don’t care anymore. I’ve put my feelings aside my whole life. You pushed me too far, and now I have to consider myself.

Don’t contact me again. Not even if someone dies. Any calls, messages, e-mails will be ignored. This is not an easy or a brash decision for me, a decision I’ve made after cooling off and calming down, but from my point of view it’s for the best.

From now on, I don’t have a mother.

And you don’t have a son.

Gua sha, or sand scratching, he calls it.

I’m already sobbing. The culmination of another week of stress and lack of sleep. One disappointment after another.

With the bowl of a porcelain Chinese soup spoon, he scrapes the muscles along the back of my neck.

This causes rupture of the small sub-dermal capillaries (petechia) and may result in sub-cutaneous bruising (ecchymosis).

According to Chinese medical practitioners, the internal toxins in the blood are released and circulation is improved.

Before continuing down my shoulders, he rubs on some Vic’s VapoRub. It lubricates the process, cools the skin to ease the burning discomfort, a mix of eastern and western techniques. The patch he rubs turns a muddy mix of red and garnet, and from this he tells me that I’m working too hard. I have to look after myself better. Relax every day. Take an hour to exercise or walk. The first step to a healthy mind is a healthy body. The colour indicates that I have a lot of toxins built up in my body.

I take a sip from the mug that he hands me, full of pale yellow liquid. It burns going down. Flavourless, but maybe that’s just the congestion.

“It’s spicy”, I mumble, no longer speaking Chinese. It’s too much on my mind. I need to express myself without limitations.

“It’s just ginger-water. If you can’t take it, you can add some sugar.”

I don’t reply. The unassuming consommé raises the internal temperature, killing the sick air. To quell the spasms in my chest, I take slower, deeper breaths. It doesn’t work.

“I admire you, uncle. One day I hope to be a father like you.”

He breathes a short but heavy sigh. I can tell that these words pain him more than anything else I’ve said. He tells me, in Chinese, “Uncle doesn’t make a lot of money. I make sure I spend a lot of time at home”.

“I like you, uncle. I hope that no matter what happens, we can still be friends.”

“No matter what happens, you’ll always have a place to stay with us in Hong Kong.”