The other side of the table

This First Person article is the experience of Marnelle Tokio, an artist, writer and community fridge user in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I am writing this from the Parkdale Food Centre. They have given me a quiet back office space and laptop and reminded me there is hot coffee, even though I am not staff, I'm a client. 

As I type I can hear the sounds of volunteers cooking and laughing from their guts while they make big meals to fill hungry bellies just like I used to in a life before this. It is not comfortable listening to who I used to be … even less so writing about who I am now. 

Marnelle then and now

It's December 2022 and I am a frequent checker of Parkdale's community fridge where I can get fresh food for free. 

• Ottawa's first outdoor community fridge aims to help 'neighbours in need'

I always want to look over my shoulder to see if anyone can spot me and I think: "how did you get here, Tokio?" 

I was a homeowner in Toronto, author of an award-winning novel, wife that helped build someone else's career, mother who made pancakes from scratch, and made sure her child was educated so that she wouldn't end up like "now" me … a client of a food bank.

"Now" me is drained by injuries — invisible ones like a broken heart and herniated discs, and some that show up on X-rays like a twice-broken hand borne out of frustration that no one could understand — not even me, until a diagnosis of autism and ADHD last year helped solve that mystery. 

As the world donned masks to protect themselves, my ability to mask fell away. That was the good news. The bad news was I was already fractured by anxiety that led to the loss of everything I ever loved: my family, my friends, my home. My marriage. My ability to write.

I found myself living alone and starting again in Ottawa, where I often feel like I'm in free fall. It doesn't hurt until I hit some solid memories and rock-hard truths. 

Food is love

I have a million home movies in my head of feeding others. My daughter mostly. I left university to become a young mom and took my job of building a tiny body and limitless imagination very seriously. I fed her and my husband the freshest and best quality food our money could buy. 

Arts, books and music, too, were always on the menu. I created atmospheres, appetizers and after-parties. Food is love and people flocked to our home. My ex-father-in-law used to call my kitchen "dinner and a show."

Neighbours became fast friends and they knew there was always time for a cup of coffee and kindness as they shared their delicacies and stories.

I cooked in other people's kitchens, too, for family and friends living with cancer, dying of AIDS, losing their voice, and dance moves to the progression of multiple sclerosis (MS). I've rolled sushi for a charity symphony concert and cooked for fancy wine estate owners, and a rehab with wonky ovens where I cried tears from onions and sympathy. 

A new place to cook

I have different kinds of kitchens now. A tiny one I use to make meals for just me and open cans for the "Wonder Dog" who is helping me ride out this COVID apocalypse. 

The big one at Parkdale Food Centre where I make sandwiches for others who struggle to buy food like me, where the chefs ask my opinion, and ask me to teach a cooking class. 

And where my appetite to laugh again and feed people and feel useful is fed. 

Where the credit I get is fuelling motivation and self-confidence. So someday I can get from "here" to a new "there."

For now, I'm doing my best, despite the adversity I've faced ... to rebuild Tokio.

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