(Mandem Dayv’s still cooking this one up.)

My brother touched road in ’67, me in ’77. Ten years older, he was the new-marriage baby. I was the let’s-save-the-marriage ting. Jokes… but lowkey, I believe it, ‘cause Madeleine buss Laurier out when I was three. She had enough of his all-or-nothing hustle.

Pops cut from the city to farm bees, and Moms shifted us from the leafy Kingsway ends east into the concrete—Manulife Centre, downtown core.

Things I remember from the Kingsway…

• I’m pretty sure I bucked my moms and pops mid-action, still. Mandem Dayv was rocking them blue-and-red Spider-Mans pajams.
• Basement had a crawl space for firewood — that was my little spot to jam.
• One time I think I straight dismantled a lawn sprinkler, fam.
• Me and my bro posted on the sofa bawling while moms and pops going at it, arguing heavy.
• Got vex at my bro for changing the channel — might’ve boxed him with a mug… maybe even a hammer ting.
• And apparently, I dropped the car in neutral, fam — thing rolled back into the road. Nobody got touched, thank God.

You know, I got zero recollection how Moms patterned that separation explanation back then, or if my bro even dropped a word on it. They must have, still.

Thing is, memories fade heavy — sometimes they only spin back as little rememberies, pop in quick then cut right back out. Can’t even say I rated the Manulife like that, but the rememberies hitting me now are clouding up the whole scene, fam.

Things I remember from the Manulife…

• Kitchen had this access hatch, and some random cat — not even ours — would roll through like it lived there, fam.
• We were up on the 38th floor, and when the wind licked the building, the whole ting would sway.
• I used to wake up before Saturday morning cartoons just to catch some agri-industry show on Canadian farming. Original mad cow ting.
• At my 5th birthday party, mandem cracked the skull open — had to get rushed to the hospital, no long talk.
• Heavy into G.I. Joe and the A-Team back then — those were my shows, trust.

During them Manulife days, Moms started linking with this dude named Bill. Seemed like a decent bredrin, still. He was an educator… and an alcoholic, truth be told.

Can’t recall how long we held it down at the Manulife, but eventually we shifted into a townhouse off Birch Ave, just by Yonge — right near that LCBO in the old train station.

Don’t think we were posted with Bill yet, and I doubt we stayed more than a year. Man’s got hardly any solid rememberies from that spot.

Things I remember from Birch Ave…

• Wrapping up dishes and packing ting, fam — bare chores.
• Bumping positive affirmation cassettes at bedtime, like a real self-care ting.
• Grounded ‘cause I buss someone with a baseball bat. Mad stress, still.
• Posting ‘round the railroad tracks, no plan, just vibes.
• Copped a giant ball bearing in the park nearby — proper treasure ting, ya dun know.
• Slapped some patented nail polish on my thumb so man could stop thumb-sucking. Strategic move, lowkey. Wasteman move.
• Wrote the F word on the sidewalk in neat 10cm letters — peak mischief, still.
• Don’t even remember having any neighbourhood mandem — bare lone wolf energy.

We def lived with Bill when man shifted from the townhouse on Birch Ave to a crib up a hill off Summerhill Gardens — bare flats, innit. It was vibes. I got bare fond rememberies of it. We were posted up on the second or third floor, windows looking out to David Balfour Park ravine. Driveway mad steep, cars parked in an old stable outbuilding — peak play zone for a bredrin my age. Stayed there ‘til end of Grade 4, fam.

Don’t got solid rememberies of Bill, Moms, or my bro then — bare scattered bits. I remember makin’ proper forts outta sofa cushions, catchin’ Inspector Gadget on Super Channel, and rollin’ deep with my G.I. Joe’s, trussssss.

Sometimes Pops would scoop me for a weekend, and I’d vex heavy at my bro for not linkin’.

My bro always ten years older — we weren’t mortal enemies, still, but we barely posted up together. Didn’t get it then… now man gets it, fam.

Bill, though — I remember him lookin’ after mandem when I had chicken pox. Proper sitter, fam. Sittin’ in his chair with his drink, mad calm. That’s just how they moved. Moms was a big reader, Bill was a big reader with a drink — flat was wall-to-wall bookshelves, ya dun know.

Things I remember from Summerhill Gardens…

• Forts in the ravine. Snow forts in the winter — proper ting, fam. Mandem Dayv was peak engineer in them days.
• Trading beers from the fridge for juice with some construction dudes. That was the real underground economy. No cap.
• One time, some kid pulled up at the ravine fort and had everyone pull out their wangs to see who ranked. Mad weird! Mandem Dayv didn’t rank high — trust, that’s when man learned peer pressure was a no-go ting.
• Watching Porky’s 2 through a crack in the door while my bro had his bredrin over. Mandem Dayv didn’t catch half their laughs, still. Whole thing was a mystery ting.
• A squirrel blessed mandem Dayv with a pee from a high branch — pure disrespect ting, fam.

Putting the past into perspective, moving out from Summerhill Gardens was a proper change-up. Moms parted ways with Bill. My bro graduated high school. The school mandem Dayv was enrolled didn’t go past Grade 4. Big tingz were a gwan, fam.

Can’t even lie, mandem Dayv don’t remember how man felt leavin’ the Summerhill spot. Whole ting’s a blur, still. Might’ve even happened while I was off at camp, fam — could be that was the last year of dat too, y’know?

And poof! Mandem Dayv was posted in the basement of my grandparents’ crib in Rexdale, Etobicoke. Signed up to start Grade 5 at St. Marchelly. My bro was out there spreading academic wings in Kingston, and Pops was back from bee farming, now deep in real estate in Mississauga.

Grade 5 – Ms. Hutch

Grade 6 – Ms. Beilak

Grade 7 – Ms. Oseka

Grade 8 – Mr. Swanek

Mandem Dayv’s time at St. Marchelly was standard issue. Had some pals. Played road hockey, collected sports cards and comics, and still never cleared Super Mario Bros. on the NES. No cap.

Granddad passed the same year the Berlin Wall fell. Think I was in Grade 8. Hit mandem Dayv heavy, fam — we were tight.

Memories and rememberies from those years are mad foggy, and the chronology’s all fkd up. Lowkey, it gives mandem Dayv some vex.

High school’s the stage where social constructs and peer expectations really start moving mad. Mandem Dayv hit up Catholic school ‘cause that’s what the fam did, and he patterned the uniform still. Man never cared for fashion — couldn’t give a rass. Peers still judged on shoes, backpack, even lunch quality, but the uniform kept the heat low, at least from afar.

Things I remember from De La Salle…

Things I remember from MPSJ…

Mandem Dayv never went to a single dance. Didn’t even roll through to graduation. High school felt peak complicated at the time — sexless, awkward, and often wretched — but looking back, fam, it was just standard issue teenage ting. Normal in hindsight.

Plenty stories to tell, trust, but them early scribbles? Pure waste man writing. Full cringe. Man bun it still, but lowkey that’s calm — most yutes feel shame ‘bout their teenage angst bars. No regrets though — pen was moving from early, and that’s what counts.

Once high school got pattern, man cut. Packed up, dipped Ottz side. Uni on the horizon.

Mandem Dayv just tryna dash that ting off the to-do list, seen?

University’s when the resistance ting kicks in — social constructs, expectations, all dat pressure from society — mandem Dayv was like nah fam, miss me with that.

Half a decade in Ottz, man blazed, skimmed Marx, patterned some beats, shot street, held nuff hate for humanity, and even caught ghosts lining for the bathroom in the techno room. Mad ting. Studied a little on the side, still, and patterned the degree: Poli Sci, History minor, Comparative Politics concentration. Graduation ceremony? Man cut.

Whole uni stretch felt peak lonely at the time — sexless days, quiet nights — but looking back? That freedom, that ease… solid still.

Plenty of stories to tell, trust, but the pages from back then? Pure waste ink. Straight garbage. Idealistic hogwash on top of self-absorbed nonsense. Man bun it now, but lowkey consoled ‘cause most yutes scribbling in that age bracket drop the same foolishness.

No regrets though — mandem Dayv was penning from early, and even the cringe ting is part of the foundation.

Degree in hand, mandem Dayv packed up from Ottawa, locked off the apartment, and touched back Rexdale side.

Whole heap could be said ‘bout the coke phase running through a set of Toronto man at that time — but truth? Cocaine’s a wasteman substance, fam. Peak boring. Same story every time: talk fast, jaw swing, eyes wide, vibes dead. Real snooze powder. Bun dat. Let’s cut scene and forward still.

Couple weeks back in the city, mandem Dayv linking with some coke-curious pals moving like they found the secret of life in a baggie. Then, boom — phone rings. Brethren calling long-distance from Seoul, Korea like, “Yo, truss me, come through. English academy gig. Simple ting.” No HR packet, no Zoom interview, no long talk. Just, “You down or nah?”

Mandem Dayv didn’t even ask for thinking time. Just figured, what the hell. Seven sleeps later, mandem’s on a plane to Seoul — life of expatitude activated. Year? 2002. Proper pivot ting.

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