This Intern’s Life: By Jennifer Shenouda

Rather than look around at the desks of my fellow colleagues (empty as they were) for some false sense of security, I stared directly at my fittingly dark computer screen, momentarily suspended and stunned by the lack of dignity in the world, until I came back to my senses, kind of…

Although the layout for The West Island Chronicle this upcoming week is filled with informative and mostly up-beat stories (besides my feature on the danger of air riffles) that kind of format did not typically apply to the daily newspapers in Montreal as they followed the slaying of teenager Mélissa Beaudin in Sorel by her boyfriend’s father, the suicide of American anthrax expert Bruce E.Ivans, and of course the tragic bus murder of Tim MacLean. So the “asteroid in my gut” sensation came to me as no surprise, seeing that The Chronicle’s newsroom is littered with national and local papers.

As someone who has suffered bouts of moderate anxiety my entire life, I am no stranger to the frantic, cryptic messages that my brain sometimes relays to my body in times of real or imagined distress, as it did last Thursday morning when it seemed that humanity had gone haywire. Actually, my anxiety about the state of the world has steadily increased since about the time I was able to read a newspaper from front to back, rather then skip right to the Arts and Life section. Subsequently, the irony of trying to build my future career in journalism seems, at times, trying.

Though trying did not even begin to describe the number the “MacLean Murder” did on my nerves Thursday when the story broke and all weekend for that matter, or the “exaggerated” empathy I felt for everyone involved in the scene. Morbid as it was, it was all I could talk to my family members and friends about, as if I had somehow been teleported onto the scene that fateful night, rather then have been where I actually was when it transpired; safely home on the couch with my mom and dad watching the semi-finals of So You Think You Can Dance?

That’s the dilemma with feelings (compassion in general) though, isn’t it? If you feel too little you’re considered detached and heartless. Yet, feel too much and you’re considered someone at risk for depression, or at least a heavily guarded cynic trying to save oneself from pain.

Most people aspire to strike a balance between the two; they tell themselves they feel bad for the guy who lost his head, but then they head straight to the bar and sip on a “Space Cadet” martini. ‘Tis what the living do in order to survive, it’s our defence mechanism and I am in no way a critic of it. I’m just stating that it takes me a bit longer to well, cope.

But then, when I am at the brink of giving up on the idea that the world is filled with essentially good people, who are kind and loving and invested, I remember the time I thought I was being followed off the bus by a stranger, right on Pierrefonds Boulevard, a mere five minutes from my home, in the unassuming light of a mid-summer afternoon.

The young man himself, with a medium-small frame, did not seem too threatening at first, perhaps just a year or two my senior as I descended from the 69 bus at the corner of Pierrefonds, and Rive-Boisée, but instantaneously I felt something was off as my shirt brushed against his bag, leaving me with a bloodcurdling chill.

I felt as if for some reason this man was going to hurt me, and this premonition invaded my body beyond rational thought. I kept on switching sides of the street to try to deter him and gave him nervous glances, considered calling my father, the police, whatever. That is until this man called to me in a tender, concerned voice that pleaded I reconsider whatever paranoia I was having about his presence. Despite my fear, I started to calm down as he walked over to introduce himself to me, giving his name a bit of his history, and his involvement in community groups that work at combating all types of prejudice. (Go figure!)

We both laughed off my little nervous episode in a serious way; he left asking me kindly to continue to be prudent when my own safety is concerned but to also remember the context of situations, and try to recall that most people are just going about their day minding their business and have no intention of hurting others. He even gave me a big old hug (which is something I rarely do with strangers) and gave me his number in case I ever wanted to check out his involvement with the community.

Being the anxious person that I am, I never actually called him. But in times like this, when I repeatedly question how the world can be so callous and corrupt, I am reminded of him, one of the many incredible strangers out there I am deeply connected to, and the lessons in human decency they’ve taught me.