I didn’t dislike her. I suppose we never really connected, but I certainly didn’t despise her. Her appearance, smile, voice, and manner of expressing herself didn’t strike me as entirely fake; yet, there was something—though I couldn't pinpoint what—that betrayed a degree of artificiality that irritated me.
“My name is Kathy, spelled with a ‘K,”’ she said to me on the day we first met at the office.
I found it to be rather pretentious, as if she were suggesting that the Kathys with a “K” belonged to the nobility, while the Cathys with a “C” to the commons.
“Is that so? My name is Wilfrid, spelled with a ‘W,’” I replied, pretending to be impressed. She started to laugh, as if I were being humorous instead of sarcastic.
Even so, I didn’t find her contemptible. Not even when she would say things that would leave me puzzled, and in a mix of shock and surprise, I would respond, “I’m not sure what you mean.” She then would laugh and admit, “I'm just kidding; I’m teasing you.” This behaviour would only add to my confusion, as I couldn’t tell whether she was mocking me or trying to get close to me through humour.
She was originally from Syracuse. After her parents divorced, her mother eventually remarried, this time to a Canadian. That’s how they ended up in Toronto, where Kathy (with a K) completed secondary school and attended university. Her mother’s second marriage also ended in divorce, which led her to return to Syracuse. Kathy, however, chose to remain in Toronto, even though she longed for her parents and her hometown.
Once, when my company sent me to Halifax for a week-long training course, she took the time to call me and check if everything went smoothly—whether the airline was punctual, if the airport experience was hassle-free, whether the hotel had my reservation, and if I easily located the training centre. At that time she was in the middle of moving out of her apartment, so upon my return, I offered to lend a hand with her move as a way to repay her kindness. She appreciated the offer but mentioned that her father was travelling from Syracuse to help her out.
“What did you do in Halifax when you weren’t studying?” she inquired. I replied that I would spend my evenings at a jazz bar or the cinema. I mentioned that I watched the film “Indecent Proposal” and really enjoyed it.
“Oh! That one,” she exclaimed, clearly surprised. “The minister of my church advised us not to see that film. He claims it's profane.” I was taken aback. She never failed to amaze me. How could it be, I thought, that a young, modern woman needs her minister’s approval to watch a movie?
I was never able to dismiss her completely, not even after that day in the office when she caught me humming an ABBA tune.
“Wilfrid, do you actually like that kind of music?” she asked, a bit surprised.
“Absolutely,” I answered. “I enjoy all of ABBA’s songs.”
“But that’s music for White people,” she stated casually as if it were common knowledge.
If up until that moment she had made comments that I found bewildering, leaving me as disoriented as a chicken wandering aimlessly at the intersection of Yonge and Bloor, what she just said surpassed everything.
“What exactly is ‘music for white people’?” I inquired, totally perplexed.
“What I’m saying is that Black people generally listen to blues, rap, reggae, and similar genres,” she explained. “On the other hand, white people tend to prefer rock, pop, heavy metal, and the type of music performed by ABBA.”
That line of thinking challenged my analytical abilities. At that instant, I considered the possibility that we were from different planets and functioned under different systems of logic.
“Kathy,” I said. “I am completely baffled by your point. Music is a universal language; it expresses emotions, moods, and concepts that resonate with people of all races. There is no such thing as ‘white people’s music’ or ‘black people’s music.’ For example, European classical music originated with white Europeans, yet many people, all across the ethnic spectrum like it. Likewise, jazz was created by African Americans, and many, regardless of their race, like it. As a matter of fact, rock, pop, and heavy metal actually evolved from rhythm and blues, a genre of music developed by Black Americans in the 1950s. So, what you're saying is beyond my comprehension.”
She seemed a bit flustered, and her face quickly turned red. “The truth is I come from a prejudiced family. I was raised in a segregated community,” she revealed, as some kind of apology, I believe.
Prejudiced! I thought to myself. An odd term, almost made-up, a nice way of describing those who think that someone's skin colour and looks determine their superiority or inferiority.
“My father was really upset with me,” she went on, “because I was sharing my apartment with a Black girl and starting to enjoy rap music.”
"So, does that mean you would never fall in love, much less marry a Black man?" I asked casually, adding a new angle to our discussion.
“I might consider dating him, but marriage is out of the question,” she stated. “One thing is for certain though: I could never introduce him to my friends and family in Syracuse. Do you know what they say? ‘We have nothing against Black people; they are all great; everybody should own one.’”
“Kathy, I’m not quite sure how to react to something like that,” I protested, feeling a bit disturbed as I searched for the right words in my head. “I find it absurd, not that your grandparents or parents have racial biases, but that you do. Millions of years have gone by since humankind first appeared on this planet. Haven’t we made any progress? Do you believe we should live by outdated values that are centuries old and have no relevance in our modern society? Should the world keep turning in the same direction it did in your ancestors’ time? It’s troubling to see a young person thinking like that. We, the younger generations, are meant to lead the way. It is our responsibility to bring about change.”
Still, in some way, I unconsciously chose not to condemn her. At worst, I viewed her as a simple, predictable, and contradictory person. She went to church every Sunday, but that alone didn’t mean much. When you are a Sunday Christian, it’s what you are the other days of the week that matters. She was, however, an active member of the Ontario Big Sisters Association. That made me look at her with different eyes. One day a week she dedicated time to a younger orphaned girl. For that one day, Kathy took on the role of an older sister, sharing her life and showing care and affection for the girl. I couldn’t help admiring her for such a selfless act.
She had a pleasing look. She was slender in build, with full lips and a wistful expression, complemented by a broad, honest forehead that seemed to reveal her life story to the whole world. What I liked most were her eyes—they were sad and distant.
One day, when everyone else had stepped out of the office, she opened up to me. I have to admit it moved me, as I never expected to be the person she’d share her worries with. She expressed her disappointment about the company not delivering on its promises. She warned that if they didn’t give her the salary increase she deserved, she was going to have a fit. While we talked, she was filing documents and accidentally dropped a stack of papers. Before I could react, she bent down to pick them up. Seeing her on her knees while I stood above her made me lower my defenses. It felt as if she was revealing her vulnerability, as if she were telling me that beneath her professional persona, she was just a fragile human being reaching out, hoping to connect with someone.
Outside, snow was softly falling on Saint Clair Avenue. The streetcar, large and slow, rumbled along the tracks with its century-old patience, causing the building to tremble. The calmness of the office, the gentle snowfall, the vibrations within the office, and the awareness of being alone with a woman who was confiding in me (someone that I consciously rejected but to whom, deep inside, I was attracted) filled me with a sense of happiness.
Some time later, I traveled to Port-au-Prince for four weeks to visit my parents. Upon my return, I presented her with a gift I had picked out for her—a piece of pottery that could serve as a flower vase. She really liked it, although she appeared to be both skeptical and pleased.
One afternoon, after I left the office to retrieve my car from the garage where it was being repaired, the mechanic informed me it wasn’t ready yet, that he would still need another couple of hours. I called the office to let Kathy know that I might not be able to return to the office that day. Victoria answered the phone.
“Vickie, would you please connect me with Kathy?” I requested.
“Wilfrid, Kathy is no longer with the company,” she replied, as if nothing unusual were happening.
“What do you mean?” I asked, shocked. “I spoke with her just a couple of hours ago.
“Exactly what you heard,” she continued. “Kathy no longer works for us. She’s been fired.”
“What happened? Why was she let go?” I pressed anxiously.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I want to know,” I insisted. “Please tell me what happened.”
“I will tell you later,” she said before hanging up.
But she didn’t mention anything afterwards. No one said a word. I never believed Kathy had done anything that warranted her dismissal. I always assumed it was simply office politics and rivalry between her and Vickie. While Victoria and I got along well, she had a penchant for gossip. Additionally, she held an influential position in the company as the accountant. Perhaps she was jealous of Kathy for some reason; who can say for sure? Professionally, I felt anger over her unjust termination (at least that’s how I perceived it), and on a personal level I was frustrated because she was no longer with us—or more accurately, with me.
The following day, when I arrived in the office, I found a note on my desk. “Dear Wilfrid, with this little note I am saying good-bye. You are a sweet boy. It was a pleasure working for you—I mean, with you. Kathy”
I remained pensive for a long moment. On one hand, I found it completely out of character for her to call me “dear” and “sweet boy.” On the other, I struggled to understand the turmoil brewing inside me just because a girl I didn’t particularly care for was gone.
I called her in the evening from home, but her answering machine picked up the call. It wasn’t her voice, likely that of her roommate. I left a message: “Hey Kathy, it’s Wilfrid. I heard you’re no longer with us. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye; I’d like to speak with you. Please call me back. Thanks.”
The next evening she returned my call. She didn’t clearly explain why she had left the company, and I didn’t press her for details. It wasn’t important anymore. It felt good to talk to her again. She said she would move back to Syracuse because she missed her parents and her hometown. She realized that her parents wouldn’t be around forever, and she wanted to spend time with them while she still could. She gave me her parents’ phone number and made me promise that the next time I visited my brother in New York City, I’d stop by Syracuse to see her.
That was our final conversation, a long time ago now. I've not heard from her since. I could never disdain her. Deep down, I think I felt some affection for her, perhaps more than I dare to admit. I confess that in the end, my feelings for her were ambiguous. I can’t tell if it was sympathy, due to the sorrow I saw in her eyes, or merely desire. What I do know is that I never rejected her. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, even if I had wanted to.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
©Translated from the Spanish by William Almonte Jiménez, 2013
© Spanish title: “Katherine con “K”
© William Almonte Jiménez, 1997
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“My name is Kathy, spelled with a ‘K,”’ she said to me on the day we first met at the office.
I found it to be rather pretentious, as if she were suggesting that the Kathys with a “K” belonged to the nobility, while the Cathys with a “C” to the commons.
“Is that so? My name is Wilfrid, spelled with a ‘W,’” I replied, pretending to be impressed. She started to laugh, as if I were being humorous instead of sarcastic.
Even so, I didn’t find her contemptible. Not even when she would say things that would leave me puzzled, and in a mix of shock and surprise, I would respond, “I’m not sure what you mean.” She then would laugh and admit, “I'm just kidding; I’m teasing you.” This behaviour would only add to my confusion, as I couldn’t tell whether she was mocking me or trying to get close to me through humour.
She was originally from Syracuse. After her parents divorced, her mother eventually remarried, this time to a Canadian. That’s how they ended up in Toronto, where Kathy (with a K) completed secondary school and attended university. Her mother’s second marriage also ended in divorce, which led her to return to Syracuse. Kathy, however, chose to remain in Toronto, even though she longed for her parents and her hometown.
Once, when my company sent me to Halifax for a week-long training course, she took the time to call me and check if everything went smoothly—whether the airline was punctual, if the airport experience was hassle-free, whether the hotel had my reservation, and if I easily located the training centre. At that time she was in the middle of moving out of her apartment, so upon my return, I offered to lend a hand with her move as a way to repay her kindness. She appreciated the offer but mentioned that her father was travelling from Syracuse to help her out.
“What did you do in Halifax when you weren’t studying?” she inquired. I replied that I would spend my evenings at a jazz bar or the cinema. I mentioned that I watched the film “Indecent Proposal” and really enjoyed it.
“Oh! That one,” she exclaimed, clearly surprised. “The minister of my church advised us not to see that film. He claims it's profane.” I was taken aback. She never failed to amaze me. How could it be, I thought, that a young, modern woman needs her minister’s approval to watch a movie?
I was never able to dismiss her completely, not even after that day in the office when she caught me humming an ABBA tune.
“Wilfrid, do you actually like that kind of music?” she asked, a bit surprised.
“Absolutely,” I answered. “I enjoy all of ABBA’s songs.”
“But that’s music for White people,” she stated casually as if it were common knowledge.
If up until that moment she had made comments that I found bewildering, leaving me as disoriented as a chicken wandering aimlessly at the intersection of Yonge and Bloor, what she just said surpassed everything.
“What exactly is ‘music for white people’?” I inquired, totally perplexed.
“What I’m saying is that Black people generally listen to blues, rap, reggae, and similar genres,” she explained. “On the other hand, white people tend to prefer rock, pop, heavy metal, and the type of music performed by ABBA.”
That line of thinking challenged my analytical abilities. At that instant, I considered the possibility that we were from different planets and functioned under different systems of logic.
“Kathy,” I said. “I am completely baffled by your point. Music is a universal language; it expresses emotions, moods, and concepts that resonate with people of all races. There is no such thing as ‘white people’s music’ or ‘black people’s music.’ For example, European classical music originated with white Europeans, yet many people, all across the ethnic spectrum like it. Likewise, jazz was created by African Americans, and many, regardless of their race, like it. As a matter of fact, rock, pop, and heavy metal actually evolved from rhythm and blues, a genre of music developed by Black Americans in the 1950s. So, what you're saying is beyond my comprehension.”
She seemed a bit flustered, and her face quickly turned red. “The truth is I come from a prejudiced family. I was raised in a segregated community,” she revealed, as some kind of apology, I believe.
Prejudiced! I thought to myself. An odd term, almost made-up, a nice way of describing those who think that someone's skin colour and looks determine their superiority or inferiority.
“My father was really upset with me,” she went on, “because I was sharing my apartment with a Black girl and starting to enjoy rap music.”
"So, does that mean you would never fall in love, much less marry a Black man?" I asked casually, adding a new angle to our discussion.
“I might consider dating him, but marriage is out of the question,” she stated. “One thing is for certain though: I could never introduce him to my friends and family in Syracuse. Do you know what they say? ‘We have nothing against Black people; they are all great; everybody should own one.’”
“Kathy, I’m not quite sure how to react to something like that,” I protested, feeling a bit disturbed as I searched for the right words in my head. “I find it absurd, not that your grandparents or parents have racial biases, but that you do. Millions of years have gone by since humankind first appeared on this planet. Haven’t we made any progress? Do you believe we should live by outdated values that are centuries old and have no relevance in our modern society? Should the world keep turning in the same direction it did in your ancestors’ time? It’s troubling to see a young person thinking like that. We, the younger generations, are meant to lead the way. It is our responsibility to bring about change.”
Still, in some way, I unconsciously chose not to condemn her. At worst, I viewed her as a simple, predictable, and contradictory person. She went to church every Sunday, but that alone didn’t mean much. When you are a Sunday Christian, it’s what you are the other days of the week that matters. She was, however, an active member of the Ontario Big Sisters Association. That made me look at her with different eyes. One day a week she dedicated time to a younger orphaned girl. For that one day, Kathy took on the role of an older sister, sharing her life and showing care and affection for the girl. I couldn’t help admiring her for such a selfless act.
She had a pleasing look. She was slender in build, with full lips and a wistful expression, complemented by a broad, honest forehead that seemed to reveal her life story to the whole world. What I liked most were her eyes—they were sad and distant.
One day, when everyone else had stepped out of the office, she opened up to me. I have to admit it moved me, as I never expected to be the person she’d share her worries with. She expressed her disappointment about the company not delivering on its promises. She warned that if they didn’t give her the salary increase she deserved, she was going to have a fit. While we talked, she was filing documents and accidentally dropped a stack of papers. Before I could react, she bent down to pick them up. Seeing her on her knees while I stood above her made me lower my defenses. It felt as if she was revealing her vulnerability, as if she were telling me that beneath her professional persona, she was just a fragile human being reaching out, hoping to connect with someone.
Outside, snow was softly falling on Saint Clair Avenue. The streetcar, large and slow, rumbled along the tracks with its century-old patience, causing the building to tremble. The calmness of the office, the gentle snowfall, the vibrations within the office, and the awareness of being alone with a woman who was confiding in me (someone that I consciously rejected but to whom, deep inside, I was attracted) filled me with a sense of happiness.
Some time later, I traveled to Port-au-Prince for four weeks to visit my parents. Upon my return, I presented her with a gift I had picked out for her—a piece of pottery that could serve as a flower vase. She really liked it, although she appeared to be both skeptical and pleased.
One afternoon, after I left the office to retrieve my car from the garage where it was being repaired, the mechanic informed me it wasn’t ready yet, that he would still need another couple of hours. I called the office to let Kathy know that I might not be able to return to the office that day. Victoria answered the phone.
“Vickie, would you please connect me with Kathy?” I requested.
“Wilfrid, Kathy is no longer with the company,” she replied, as if nothing unusual were happening.
“What do you mean?” I asked, shocked. “I spoke with her just a couple of hours ago.
“Exactly what you heard,” she continued. “Kathy no longer works for us. She’s been fired.”
“What happened? Why was she let go?” I pressed anxiously.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I want to know,” I insisted. “Please tell me what happened.”
“I will tell you later,” she said before hanging up.
But she didn’t mention anything afterwards. No one said a word. I never believed Kathy had done anything that warranted her dismissal. I always assumed it was simply office politics and rivalry between her and Vickie. While Victoria and I got along well, she had a penchant for gossip. Additionally, she held an influential position in the company as the accountant. Perhaps she was jealous of Kathy for some reason; who can say for sure? Professionally, I felt anger over her unjust termination (at least that’s how I perceived it), and on a personal level I was frustrated because she was no longer with us—or more accurately, with me.
The following day, when I arrived in the office, I found a note on my desk. “Dear Wilfrid, with this little note I am saying good-bye. You are a sweet boy. It was a pleasure working for you—I mean, with you. Kathy”
I remained pensive for a long moment. On one hand, I found it completely out of character for her to call me “dear” and “sweet boy.” On the other, I struggled to understand the turmoil brewing inside me just because a girl I didn’t particularly care for was gone.
I called her in the evening from home, but her answering machine picked up the call. It wasn’t her voice, likely that of her roommate. I left a message: “Hey Kathy, it’s Wilfrid. I heard you’re no longer with us. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye; I’d like to speak with you. Please call me back. Thanks.”
The next evening she returned my call. She didn’t clearly explain why she had left the company, and I didn’t press her for details. It wasn’t important anymore. It felt good to talk to her again. She said she would move back to Syracuse because she missed her parents and her hometown. She realized that her parents wouldn’t be around forever, and she wanted to spend time with them while she still could. She gave me her parents’ phone number and made me promise that the next time I visited my brother in New York City, I’d stop by Syracuse to see her.
That was our final conversation, a long time ago now. I've not heard from her since. I could never disdain her. Deep down, I think I felt some affection for her, perhaps more than I dare to admit. I confess that in the end, my feelings for her were ambiguous. I can’t tell if it was sympathy, due to the sorrow I saw in her eyes, or merely desire. What I do know is that I never rejected her. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it, even if I had wanted to.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
©Translated from the Spanish by William Almonte Jiménez, 2013
© Spanish title: “Katherine con “K”
© William Almonte Jiménez, 1997
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
