By Wendy Litner

I have developed a healthy coating of paranoia in my professional life, but this dubiousness has yet to permeate my personal one.  I don’t know if it’s just my nature to be trusting or if it’s because of the boring, suburban neighbourhood in which I grew up, but I have a tendency to believe that absolutely everyone is telling the truth.  As a child, I obviously would never have taken candy from a stranger;  but I likely would have taken chocolate.  In fact, had anyone in an unmarked van offered me Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I may not be here today.  Despite a feverish naivety, faith in people, belief in the good – whatever you may call it – I made it through my childhood and adolescence, un-kidnapped and un-phased.  Not for lack of trying. 

When I got lost on the streets of France as a sixteen year old exchange student, I didn’t hesitate jumping into the back seat of a Maserati with two young Frenchmen who pulled up to the curb where I sat reading the wrong page of a map.  Through broken French I explained to them my predicament, that the university’s emergency number wasn’t working (sacre bleu!) and not a single person in the country, including myself, knew of my whereabouts.  It was dark, way passed my curfew, and while their jeans were a little tighter than I was used to, I really had no reason to believe that Marc and Jean-Luc wouldn’t deliver me straight back to campus.  They did promise to after all.  Even though I politely declined their invitation for a ménage à trois in my dorm room, they still waited to ensure I made it safely through the campus gates, going so far as to even watch me type in the university’s confidential 4-digit punch code.  I was touched by their concern, I mean, I only just met them!

One would think that adulthood would make me savvier, more conscious of the ways of the world, but it seems that experience has taught me nothing.  I still maintain that people really do have the best of intentions.  Even in the face of strong evidence to the contrary, I go a long way to give almost everyone the benefit of the doubt.  If “despite everything,” Anne Frank could believe that “people are really good at heart,” then certainly I can too.

Which is why, having made a wrong turn while walking home from work, I didn’t think twice about strolling through Moss Park at night to solicit directions.  I had no trouble providing my exact address to the oversized man with the tear drop tattoo so he could give me turn-by-turn directions to my front door.  After all, what’s to say he is the murderer from the chronic news reports and even if he is, he has clearly already paid his debt to society.   

Volunteering in a retirement home, I gladly held the door open for a resident who claimed the handle was too difficult for her to operate.   Was I shocked to hear the security alarm sound as she ran out the front door?  Sure, but at the time, her desperation to get outside seemed reasonable, even if it was a little too cold for my comfort.  Who was I to question her?  The nurses were able to catch up with her halfway down the block, but it still seemed appropriate for me to turn in my volunteer badge. 

My unyielding trust isn’t bestowed upon just people.  I routinely leave bowls of food and milk on our porch for Dim-Sum, the neighbourhood cat, trusting the insatiable racoons to respect boundaries, as the meal is clearly not for them.  Despite my best intentions and my perpetually haemorrhaging heart, I felt awful watching my husband clean up the shredded garbage strewn across our front lawn yet again.  Though silent, his condemnatory glances made me feel small.  I resolved to be less idealistically imprudent.  I would try and be more impervious, more unaffected by the world around me. 

Just the other evening though, I was deeply struck by a homeless girl, about my age, sitting on Queen Street, hugging her knees in the cold behind a cardboard sign.  “Everyday I pray,” it scrawled, “that tomorrow will be better.”  What choice did I have but to empty out the full contents of my wallet into her tired coffee cup?  While I don’t believe in the power of prayer, I believe that she does.  I believe her that she prays every day and she shouldn’t have to go hungry while she does it.  Touched by her faith, kneeling down, I offered her a hug. 

I know I should be a little more wary of people, a little more leery of circumstances and a little more on guard.  I know people might take advantage of me.  I know people might capitalize on my naivety, but I just can’t seem to change my ways.  I guess no matter how many times the universe has let me down or those I care about disappoint me, I remain hopeful that people will be better, that tomorrow will be better.

By Wendy Litner

The novelty of adulthood still hasn’t worn off on me.  Married life feels like a permanent sleepover party, on weekdays no less, and I still feel rebellious every time I buy sugar cereal.  Sometimes, I will even skip breakfast altogether and I won’t put my hat on when it’s cold outside.  There really is nothing better than being a grown up and making your own bad decisions.

Recently, after spending hours crafting a budget and putting ourselves on a strict financial diet, my husband and I proceeded to book a trip to an all-inclusive resort in the Mayan Riviera.  We planned to go with three other couples and while we knew we shouldn’t spend the money, as we all enter our child bearing years, who knew when we would be able to travel together again?  Most persuasively, besides Visa, there was no one to tell us we couldn’t go.

Growing up, ours was the family that always stayed home during winter break.  Every December, while I watched all my classmates travel to such exotic locations as their grandparents’ condos in Fort Lauderdale, I really couldn’t think of anything more glamorous.  Traveling, to me, represented exceptional opulence available only to royalty and my wealthy private school friends.  My generous parents, on the other hand, sacrificed fancy cars and relaxing vacations to send my brothers and I to private school.  As a twenty-nine year old, I am extremely grateful for their hard-work.  At the time though, I really wanted to go to Disneyland.  And so, as my friends invariably returned to school sun-kissed, I returned green with envy. 

With such hectic, grown-up schedules, I long for time away to take a collective breath with my husband but I just can’t get used to the notion that I am permitted to take a trip if I want to.  I never feel like I have earned it and our Mexican jaunt was no different.  As I packed my suitcase, I started to feel immensely guilty about our frivolous decision.  Having already spent the money on what was supposed to be a relaxing holiday, I started to feel guilty about feeling guilty.  With bikinis I prayed still fit sprawled out around me, I sat on my luggage panicking.  I have just never been any good at treating myself.  I am consumed with worry and can’t seem to shed my parents’ preaching of hard work and holiday conservatism. 

After their painful divorce, however, my parents each developed an urgent need to see the world.  Whether it was the fact that their children were grown and educated, the influence of their new partners or a sense of competitive one-upmanship that comes with separation, I don’t really know.  But somehow, my anxious, just ‘stay-put’ mother, who had previously ventured only as far as my grandmother’s rented apartment at Bathurst and Steeles, made her way to Kanchanaburi, Thailand with her handsome boyfriend.  Giddy with romance and jet lag, my mother told me I really ought to see the Bridge over the River Kwai when I get a chance.  My mother said this as if she just happened to stumble upon it.  As if she were telling me to go and get the Clinique bonus at the Bay.  After a long pause, she interrupted my astonishment.  “You know,” she said, her voice cutting in and out of the Thai static, “it’s really important to travel with your partner.” 

I think about my mother’s revelation, the closest she ever came to expressing any sort of regret.  I think about it as I run in the ocean at my poor husband forcing him to attempt a recreation of the Dirty Dancing lift.  Just as I jump out of the surface my bikini bottoms slip off me with the water, exposing my white tush to the entire beach and what feels like to me, all of Mexico.  Through salty coughs, I hear my friends’ peels of laughter.  I take my husband’s steady hand as I gingerly slide back into my bottoms.  Standing with him, smiling, in the middle of the ocean, I realize that my mother was right.  Traveling with your partner is priceless.