It is rare that I have to defend my father or the traits I picked up from him. Sure there’s hockey fans who don’t understand my dedication to my father’s team (Go Habs!). There’s even those who hate anyone from Quebec but I don’t run into them as often as I used to.

But this was different. This was personal.

It was a date. A new relationship, only a few weeks old. I was excited to see him, happily babbling away in my animated way, which of course means … I was talking with my hands.

It started with exaggerated hand gestures. When I asked him what he was doing, his response was to tell me that he was mimicking what I do, always. His tone suggested he didn’t find the habit endearing.

I dismissed it as teasing, nothing more. But at the restaurant, he reached across the table and grabbed my wrists. He dared me to continue talking, betting I couldn’t without my hands.

My cold stare was the only response he got. We were in public after all, and my mother raised me to have manners.

It would be our last conversation. Attempting to change one to suit another doesn’t sit well with me, whether it’s my Anishinaabe or French heritage that is threatened.

Wrong is wrong! Control is just that and control does not build bridges, personally or professionally.

The journey continues.

And if by some chance we meet in person, don’t stand too close. After all, I proudly talk with my hands.
 

I love you!
HUGSSSSSSS
Sandi