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epitome of incomprehensibility
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(mostly real, but creative-non-fiction-ized, courtesy of the last session of Janet's class today)
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The Greek parade landed on a late March day in Parc Ex: thin flakes of wet snow blew around me and several Greek flags waved from storefronts and apartments. Families clustered in the wind, holding smaller banners of striped blue and white.
I want a flag, I thought, and I'm not even Greek - not one iota. Then I noted "iota" was Greek. Through words, we're all a little bit everything.
After a flock of orange-vested cops biked down Jean-Talon, a gap opened in the flanks of the parade and my family crossed the street, going north up de l'Épée. On this sidewalk, our group of four spread out - my pompom-hatted brother forging ahead, me in the middle, my parents lagging.
At the next intersection, a short and stout police officer, clad in black, halted a car and told the driver to turn around. I stopped too, just in case, and heard two young voices near me say, "Take a picture with him!" "No, I couldn't!"
Briefly, I wondered why traffic cops were now wishful selfie material. Just then, the orange-vested regiment who'd just been in the parade biked across this street too. Maybe someone wanted a picture taken with an orange-clothed cop? Brighter than the other. But that other one wasn't blocking pedestrians from crossing, so I was about to do so when my mom called out, "Come back, come back!"
Dad was saying, no, never mind, since I was in a hurry (I was going to be late to my last online creative writing class of the season). But Mom would walk more slowly than me anyway. I dashed back, a light jog, curious.
Her eyes were bright, framed by strands of waving red hair. "Did you see the prime minister?"
"What?"
"The prime minister. People say he crossed right in front of us." And she craned her neck to see him, but he was gone.
My brother was striding forward. I caught up with him. "Did you see the prime minister?"
"Yes."
Where had he been? In the crowd, I hadn't noticed anyone special. I imagined him biking, surrounded by the orange-vested police. No, he wouldn't bike. Not to get around. Too image-conscious. "Was he in a car?"
"No, just walking."
I chided myself for being too absorbed in my hurry, for not noticing the right details. In the car I said, "I don't even like Justin Trudeau." A kettle calling the grapes sour, as the proverb goes.
"Neither do I," my brother assured me. A pause. "I don't think the Greeks do either."
At that I got goofy. "No, every Greek Canadian loves Justin Trudeau. They all have his picture on, on their wall. Surrounded by a shrine dedicated to him."
He lifted his head, not having it. "I think there are Greek Canadians of all political stripes, although probably the majority of them voted Liberal." He sounded like Dad now: sensible. And observant. Seeing the prime minister without me!
The car trundled off and I stared out the window, looking for snowflakes that were no longer there.
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