Grace had returned to Toronto with one mission, and one mission only: to clean out her childhood bedroom. Of late, its enduring existence had been an extreme source of contention between her and her mother, Charlotte. The latter was moving into one of the many “senior living” options that had descended upon the city, and was, thus, in an “everything must go” mood as a result. This mood had taken hold about six months earlier, when Grace’s father, Theodore, had died of a stroke. He was just sixty-eight years old, but all the signs had been there. High blood pressure, high cholesterol and, of course, he was an avid smoker. Du Maurier being his brand of choice. In fact, Grace couldn’t see a box of those somewhere and not automatically think of her dad. Charlotte, in contrast, seemed to be doing everything in her power to block out, as best as she could, anything that might remind her of Theodore. This was the obvious motivation behind her cleaning jag, which then turned into a revelation that she needed to move into a retirement home. That it was the next logical step in her progression toward death, toward joining Theodore.

As usual, Grace was irritated by this histrionic display, and having to accommodate it in a way that inevitably ended up costing her money. And it was no cheap amount to fly from San Francisco to Toronto, particularly on such short notice. Nonetheless, Grace shelled out the five hundred dollars required to get her from Point A (her apartment in Russian Hill) to Point B (her erstwhile bedroom in West Queen West). In going through the motions of getting there, Grace had deliberately not factored in the emotional toll this was going to cost her (in addition to the literal toll). For she hadn’t thought about the contents of her room in years. Nor did she take into consideration that at least part of the reason her mother saved everything from her youth was to 1) hold it against her later and 2) make her feel salt in a wound she thought had closed once she did go through the ultimately unwanted materials. Materials that reminded her of the person she had been, and never wanted to be again. Not even to come close to her through these relics. It had taken her years of therapy and a refusal to return to Toronto in order to stamp that girl out, and now Charlotte was doing everything in her power to drag the old Grace up from the lake within. It was going to take a certain amount of dissociation to get through it.

Then again, dissociation had been the name of Grace’s survival game since she was a teenager. Luckily, it was around that time that Alanis Morissette decided to transition from pop to alt-rock. Even though Grace had been an unabashed owner of Alanis and Now Is the Time. In fact, these were CDs she hoped to dig up from the grave of her past by agreeing to enter her old room. A part of her wanted to take them back and keep them, while the other part wanted to take them back and sell them (she had seen that even unsealed copies of Alanis were priced in the hundreds on eBay). Who knew which side might win out? All she did know was that those were the “key pieces” she was looking for. Everything else could go in the incinerator as far as she was concerned. But then, if she really felt that way, why had she bothered to come at all?

Inside what she always called their “shabby brick house” on Claremont Street, Charlotte greeted her with all the warmth of a Canadian winter. Which was to be expected. Grace gave up long ago on hoping to find anything like “maternal love” from her own mother. A conclusion she arrived at right as Jagged Little Pill came out in the summer of ‘95. And, unlike many Canadians, Grace didn’t take issue with Alanis’ “reverse sellout” one-eighty. She welcomed it, almost like a naïve American. Indeed, this was the first sign that, in general, Grace jived more with the American reaction to things (i.e., pop culture) than the Canadian one, foreshadowing her eventual move there.

While stuck in Toronto in the mid-90s, however, she had to make do. And for that purpose, Alanis was it. Her salvation and security blanket. The album she would blast in defiance after yet another knock-down, drag-out fight with Charlotte, who was prone to a lot of face-slapping in those years. Particularly whenever Grace was caught doing something “against the rules”: smoking, drinking, having sex… In short, all the things that most teenagers do. But Charlotte was of the old school, extremely conservative. She didn’t get the memo (a phrase that probably hasn’t been in common parlance since the 90s) that Gen X was of a new world order. They didn’t want or even really believe in “nice things.” They were the first to fully realize that there had been a misleading veneer over everything, and that it needed to be cracked through, one way or another. That was at least part of how Jean Chrétien landed in office for most of the 90s (with the “Margaret Thatcher of Canada,” Kim Campbell, barely lasting a couple of seasons in office in 1993).

His election had been a source of great irritation to Charlotte, though Theodore didn’t seem to care. He was too busy working as much as possible at Agnico Eagle Mines. In truth, Grace was the only one in the house who seemed to notice he was working a suspicious amount of time. A “clearly having an affair” amount of time. But she wasn’t about to present that theory to Charlotte, who was already easily riled up enough without stating the obvious to her. Part of her did want to say something to Theodore though. To mention that maybe he could slip her the “hot beef injection” once in a while, if for no other reason than to get her off Grace’s back. Who had no choice but to hear her mother prattle on and on and on about her so-called problems. As far as Grace could tell, however, her main problem was not having one. That, like so many women who were still housewives, she was unfulfilled, had no creative outlet. That would never be Grace. This in large thanks to Jagged Little Pill, which made her fully fathom that her love for music was so much more than just appreciating it as a listener. She wanted to help create it, to facilitate its reach to other listeners that might not otherwise hear it. That’s how she ended up in California, working at a record label in L.A. before deciding she wanted to start her own indie one in San Francisco.

Throughout this process, her mother had never been supportive. Constantly worrying that Grace would slip and fall, so to speak, and, therefore come crawling back asking for money. Theodore never expressed any such “fears.” He always encouraged her to pursue her dreams, even if those dreams took her far away from Canada. Much like Alanis’ did. Indeed, it wasn’t lost on Grace that, fairly recently, Alanis had admitted to being a Bay Area resident. What was lost on her, however, was why she had agreed to coming back.

Having gone through the awkward process of being greeted by Charlotte, she was then escorted up to her room (sort of the way a prisoner is escorted to their cell) and instructed to, “Get to it.” The realtor was coming again tomorrow afternoon, and Charlotte wanted to be able to give her something photographable for the listing. Grace looked around the room and thought how typical it was of Charlotte to throw her into an emotionally traumatizing situation without warning. And seeing this room was nothing if not emotionally traumatizing. Swallow it down (what a jagged little pill)/It feels so good (swimmin’ in your stomach).

The first thing that caught her eye was the poster for the Jagged Little Pill Tour. She had seen the show at the Warehouse, where The Rentals had opened for her. Grace hadn’t thought about The Rentals in what seemed like forever. Even Alanis hadn’t much been on her radar of late. Not until this whole business with her room had come up, and she remembered those out-of-print albums she still owned. The albums that Alanis hadn’t tried to hide, per se, but rather, the label she signed to after her contract with MCA was up did: Maverick. Better known as: Madonna’s label. And it seems unlikely that Madonna wouldn’t have had some hand in approving the idea that MCA should agree to taking Morissette’s first two records out of circulation. Almost as if to erase her “Canadianness” altogether. The way Madonna erased her Midwesternness for a while, preferring to be associated with New York rather than unglamorous suburban Detroit.

Or was it more about erasing Alanis’ early era “Madonna-ness”? After all, Now Is The Time had been described by one reviewer as “faux Madonna.” Maybe she didn’t want to invite that kind of comparison once her label truly made Alanis an international star. Besides, “wiping the slate clean” was what the U.S. was all about, no? During a certain era anyway… Perhaps that’s all Morissette and her then new “team” were really trying to do: present Jagged Little Pill as her coming out of the gate in this incarnation. This “post-grunge” something or other that sounded like nothing else at the time. Certainly not like any other female solo artist. And yes, Grace still said that term in her head, even though it wasn’t kosher to say “female” anymore. Another word that had been stigmatized since the 90s.

As she began setting things in piles—the Throw Away pile and the To Be Taken pile (a forgotten dress from Le Château, for example, was definitely to be taken)—she flashed to a scene in the “You Learn” video. That moment where Alanis is doing a fuck ton of cartwheels. It had always stood out to Grace for some reason. For, even despite Morissette being in her early twenties at the time, she couldn’t believe someone so normal-looking could be so agile. This further emphasized by the Adidas track jacket.

Later that night, when she had spent enough time packing to sate Charlotte’s “needs,” she found herself walking the streets of West Queen West only to end up at a Tim Hortons. The neighborhood had really changed. To the point where Charlotte was going to get two million dollars for what Grace had only ever seen as a depressing brick house. Times had changed. And gentrification had changed everything with time. You live, you learn/You love, you learn/You cry, you learn/You lose, you learn/You bleed, you learn/You scream, you learn.

Sitting inside Tim Hortons in a state of quasi-paralysis with her phone in hand, Grace decided to look up if Alanis had really done all those cartwheels in the “You Learn” video. It was a question she should have asked a long time ago. And some part of her really believed “it” would tell her that, yes, of course Alanis had been the one doing the cartwheels. But reality won out in the end, informing her that, “The cartwheels were performed by a fifteen-year-old gymnast wearing a wig, according to songfacts.com. The video features her running around the city and doing various athletic movements, including the cartwheels, but they were not her own.” You use the internet, you learn that everything is a sham.