W.

It is Friday, the last full day of my vacation back with the family in a sleepy little town - okay, Hamilton - with all of my packing almost done. The day was spent on clothes-choosing, book-sorting, food-prepping activities, along with a short run in the old neighbourhood, a little light reading, and observations of the World Juniors (Canada needs to step up its game). I have another Top Story for a longer piece that needs two more chapters (I promise you all they are coming). And I am now happy to report that I have received some extra classes and will be able to relax a little bit around tax time.

But I am not totally content.

Last night, on Messenger, an old roommate from the shared place we lived in while teaching in Japan contacted me with the following:

"Did you hear what happened to W.?"

Now, that did not sound like good news, so I should have expected the following:

"She went to the hospital, and her heart stopped."

Now, maybe it was receiving a message from a roommate after almost twenty years, coupled with the news about the death of another roommate, that put me into a particular mood; a very unpleasant mood; a very confessional mood...

And I am going to share some of that "mood" with you tonight.

W. was the bane of my existence in the shared house we lived in while teaching and working in Tokyo. From the moment I appeared, she made it clear that I was a target both of scorn...and unwanted interest. My nicknames became "The Brown Hornet", "Brown-Eyed Boy", and a few others that I will be merciful enough not to include.

Now, I was new to the house, so I expected a little hazing and teasing to be part of the deal. I made friends with most of the men and women in there, and it was pleasant overall. But...there was W.

Did I say she was interested in me? It was more like a private siege with one army constantly in retreat. Her constant and very public groping was something I had to contend with whenever I sat down at the table and attempted to eat a meal, talk to anyone else, or even just rest and wonder why I had not looked for another place (oh, that I can answer now: no money and my lack of interest in the Japanese real estate market).

People sometimes found this funny. Several of them thought I could have had her arrested. It was a tempting thought, and I am sure that I could have formed a strong case in my defense if I could have found a breach of personal space law. But I put up with it, all the way to the point where she finally moved out of the house and we celebrated with a party that indicated I was not alone in my torments.

It had also been a long time since I had spoken to her when I heard the news. On Facebook, she once interrupted a conversation I was having with someone about an issue with my sleepy hometown (I blocked her). I was then told that she was having problems with her marriage (surprise, surprise) and did not like her work (she never did). It was only the friend who reached out to me who shared what I had missed and did not want to hear.

I really didn't want to lose her twice. I have written about other people in my life and felt as though 2023 was cursed (W. died on December 3oth). This is not like writing about my godmother with a poem or a close high school friend with a small biography of our time together. This is closer to detailed analysis of old feelings and thoughts no longer existed.

I blame her, along with others, for my lack of trust with people (W. once announced my late virginity quite loudly in the kitchen of our shared space - even the ones who barely knew me told her off). I blame her for being someone I had to look out for when I taught at her school (some of the notes she left in her files were completely inappropriate on many levels). And I blame her for those small moments when I could talk to her, try to explain how I felt, think I had made progress, and then fell (or was it "pushed") right back into the muck of our particular routine.

So, goodbye W. You were one of a long chain of life lessons that I never want to face again...

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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