The Artichoke Vol. 7. No. 6

Catching feelings, not STIs...or neither

FEBRUARY 2018 | VOL. 7 NO. 6

LOVE AND OTHER THUGS

ARTICHOKE

CONTRIBUTORS

Editor-In-Chief

Safa Gangat

Assistant Editor

Lamia Abozaid

Writers

Carl Cachero Genevieve Canavan Alexandra Caprara Katherine Collier Kelly Estomo Maddysin Fisher Kabeer Garba Michael Petruzzelli Sierra Riley Lilian Rubilar Francesca Smita Soni Zlatko Tyulev Maya Vukov Jessie Whyte

Design Editor

Sarah Wong

Designers

Bri Coggans Kristina Pura-Cruz Holden Kao Samneet Mann Sarah Manyoki Mars Quave Elisabeth Yoon Michelle Young

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For past issues: issuu.com/artichokemag

WINTERS

IN THIS ISSUE

Feature

Creative

04

Untitled Catherine Rose Brown

12

Love Poem #138 Kelly Estomo

06

“Powder.”

Lilli Furfaro

14

Be Mine Alexandra Caprar

08

A letter on bad times for love Michael McNeil

16

A Special Rose Katherine Collier

18

Wonder Woman Kabeer Breeze Garba

20

SPACE JAM LOVE Maddisyn Fisher

Entertainment 10

Vaginas? Vaginas.

Lamia Abuzaid

Lifestyle 22

Love Sonnet Maya Vukov

24

The Best Test You’ll Ever Take Genevieve Canvan

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To Crush or Be Crushed Rebecca Mangra

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ARTICHOKE

Untitled

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SPOKEN WORD (WORD NIGHT)

BY CATHERINE ROSE BROWN

i had a conversation with a good friend about the death penalty last month.

He told me that he doesn’t believe in it; that every human had the capacity for good and deserves always deserves a second chance.

I told him I agreed; except for rapists and child predators.

Apparently this wasn’t the right response, even though we were sharing our opinions, apparently I’m only allowed to do that when I’m agreeing with him.

He looked at me with broken eyes and said “You think that’s it for them? They can’t change? You think doing one bad thing means they deserve death?”

And I told him “What they did to their victims is a fate worse than death. At least is he had killed her she wouldn’t have to live with the trauma. If she had killed him he wouldn’t have people telling him he should be proud.

If he had killed her she wouldn’t have to fear the way her mother reacts when she hears the news of what her husband did, if he had killed her she wouldn’t have to face the

conflict of speaking up at all. If he had killed her she wouldn’t have the world telling her she was faking it for attention, that it didn’t happen the way she said it did, that it was her fault, she wouldn’t be scolded for ruining his life with these wild accusations, if he had killed her she wouldn’t have to wait three.

Fucking. Years. For a court date, if they were dead the world would mourn them, not blame them, the wouldn’t have to fight through the constant: “What were you wearing?”

“What were you doing?”

“You should have fought harder” “You were asking for it” “You should have said NO, louder, harder, firmer” “You shouldn’t have let them rape you.”

We wouldn’t say this to them if they had just been killed, so yes, good friend, put them all to death, for all I care.

If only they had been so kind.

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ARTICHOKE

“POWDER.”

BY LILLI FURFARO

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SPOKEN WORD (WORD NIGHT)

i always shatter my compacts and maybe that’s a metaphor.

I always shatter my compacts by being too careless and I live in the second after the compact has left my hand and before it hits the cold tile floor.

In that second I have disappointed my mother, Meryl Streep, and the Queen of England.

I have allowed my foot to leave my mouth and forgotten to put my muzzle on that morning.

I have failed all beautiful-kind.

I won’t have anything to make my face clean and blurry because who wants to look at my HD liveand-in-colour face?

Not me, that’s for damn sure.

When I shatter my compact the mirror never breaks and I’m quite sure that’s a metaphor.

Because my beauty is in pieces all over the white bath mat

and the image of my failure stares back at me without a scratch.

The last time I shattered my compact I cried in a Starbucks bathroom and it wasn’t about broken powder or indestructible mirrors.

But I looked at myself I looked and looked and my tears were a killer highlight and they turned the green of my eyes to hedge mazes and they clung to my lashes like mascara.

And when I left the Starbucks bathroom I left my shattered compact on the floor and I was glowing.

The last time I shattered my compact I didn’t buy another one and that is most certainly a metaphor.

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ARTICHOKE

A letter on bad

times for love

BY MICHAEL MCNEIL

8 you know what’s fucked up about us meeting my friend?

My girlfriend drunk driving and yours ending yours, but starting ours.

Kind of nice though?

Musical linguistic sincerity out in the back roads of Okotoks.

I wonder if she would’ve been better to me, whether we ever would’ve met or talked?

Or if you’d have called a different me? Not the me who’s me, but, a me that’s not me, in essence, the same form of me and then you’d be friends with them.

So, I’d have never known the nectar of your friendship.

That sweet glittery gold sugar gumdrop that it is.

I remember when we were 6. No. 13. No 18. No. 19. What age were we? It doesn’t matter.

I remember Star Trek with no words because we thought it sounded better that way, so instead we got a silent movie filled with a fourth wall breaking fisticuffs fight of splurging friendship.

I bet you didn’t know I haven’t yet used my ticket to the free movies.

SPOKEN WORD (WORD NIGHT)

I keep looking at it in my apartment knowing it can be only used once at that one theatre because it doesn’t exist anywhere else and I can’t use it because then the possibility could be that I would forget you, that night, what happened to us on our second time hanging out and then id forget the rest of our friendship like I do with so many others, and I still haven’t picked out your tattoo because it might just be the words, “BREAKUPS CAUSE FRIENDSUPS.” And piercing my pink in your permanent ink has to be a real winner unlike our ex’s.

I think about how simple it was. Is. Can be. Will be. Shall be. Still be.

To be your friend.

When we stumbled upon the crossed light beams parallel parked to that of which our rhythmic heartbeats crossed that seemed to split and stem off the same broken rainbow roaded path, we both fell into last place but held hands on a turtle shelled slow ride to the finish line of best friendship cup in the 150cc mark all the while, rehearsing our Shakespeare prose, tripping on toad, and counting the stars.

I fear you’ll forget me.

That I’ll be replaced once my face is no longer in your immediate gallery, yet is a comic hanging far above the toilet of a grey cat sitting in a bath cap with the tub fully filled, ready to rinse. BATH TIME. I love that you know what I want to hear.

I bet you don’t love it just as much as I do when the other. You. Me. Repeats the same dumb thing. Repeats the same dumb thing. You have in your, no my, no, our own heads.

Get an original idea maybe for once? Me. You. Myself.

Them. Him. I. Pal. Bud. Compadre.

SO, listen, I saw this girl on the train, and she gave me a look, like … I mattered… Time stopped and like maybe she’d fix me…and I’d be happy all the time and we’d sit and drink hot coco laughing like upper class elitists sneering down on those below unlike our regular self’s defeatists…

But I was only confident enough to take my ear buds out and hoped that if the universe was kind.

She’d be braver than me and say, “Hey, maybe you’re cute or something and we should grab beers LIKE, right now.”

I know you know the girl I’m talking about because she’s our dream girl.

More confident, more sexy, more graceful, more us, more a best friend, more a lover, more a badass motherfucker who don’t take no shit, goofy as hell, funny as fuck, and obviously more mature than myself, so I can be the dumb manic pixie dream girl and she can be the straight man with the heart of gold putting up with our antics because, BUDDY BOY, we’re a heartbreaking, up in the in club bumpin up, tear jerking, knee squirming liver lurpin, duo of sensitive ladykillers, who don’t have the ability to talk to them, and we got that sexy lovin fever bad.

But the good thing about missing out on love, dropping them, finding them, grinding them in pixie dust powders pouring them into each other’s eyes and looking up into the heavens screaming their names them. Or restarting them.

I was there for your first, and I’ll still be there for my last.

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ARTICHOKE

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ENTERTAINMENT

Yep, you heard me, Vaginas.

BY LAMIA ABUZAID

what do you like to celebrate? anecdotes they themselves had been Take a moment and think about it. told by other friends; this began Do not worry, nobody is going to a continuing chain of referrals. In judge you. People like to celebrate an interview with Women.com, different events, Christmas, Ensler said that her fascination with Halloween, Eid, Hanukkah, New vaginas began because of “growing Year’s Eve, birthdays, Valentine’s up in a violent society”. “Women’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, empowerment is deeply connected national siblings day, passing a class, to their sexuality.” She also stated, getting hired, and oh boy the list “I am obsessed with women being goes on and on. Some people like to violated and raped, and with celebrate the vagina, here is some incest. All of these things are deeply information about it. connected to our vaginas.” The Eve Ensler’s: The Vagina piece was written to “celebrate the Monologues rummages into vagina”. She also stated that in 1998, consensual and non-consensual the purpose of the piece changed sexual experiences, body from a celebration of vaginas and image, genital mutilation, direct femininity to a movement to stop and indirect encounters with violence against women. This was reproduction, sex work, and the start of the V-Day movement several other topics through which has continued strong every the eyes of women with various year since, has turned into a ages, races, sexualities, and other worldwide phenomenon, and a very differences. Ensler wrote the first successful non-profit organization. draft of the monologues in 1995 and The monologues are made up of there have been several revisions diverse and personal monologues since following interviews she read by various group of women. conducted with two-hundred Formerly, Ensler would perform women about their views on sex, every monologue herself, with relationships, and violence against subsequent performances featuring women. The interviews began as three actresses, and more recent casual conversations among her versions featuring a different friends, who then brought up actress for every role. Each of

the monologues deals with an aspect of the feminine experience, touching on matters such as sex, sex work, body image, love, rape, menstruation, female genital mutilation, masturbation, birth, orgasm, the various common names for the vagina or simply as a physical aspect of the body. A recurring theme throughout the piece is the vagina as a tool of female empowerment, and the ultimate embodiment of individuality. Each year, a new monologue is added to focus on a current issue affecting women around the world. An “Under the Burqa” monologue was added in 2003 by Ensler to alert about the plight of women under the Taliban rule in Afghanistan.

V-day is a non-profit organization that distributes funds to national and international grassroots organizations and programs. On every V-day, thousands of local benefit production are staged to raise funds for local groups, shelters, and crisis centers working to end violence against women.

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ARTICHOKE

LOVE POEM

BY KELLY ESTOMO

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A mimic-poem* of “Love Poem #137”

by Sarah Kay *This poem parallels Sarah Kay’s “Love Poem #137” in things like rhyme scheme, form, metaphors, original poet’s style, etc.

I definitely recommend looking

up her poem, and then reading my adaptation of it, knowing that I’ve adopted the structure of Sarah Kay’s poem but used my words and experiences.

CREATIVE

i will keep you up late even though I know you’d rather sleep than whisper till 3am.

I make the best mac and cheese you’ve ever tasted.

You’ll be in charge of cleaning up.

I will leave subway transfers in your coats, strands of dead hair in between the folds of your blanket, cookie crumbs on your floor.

I will Hansel and Gretel you home.

I have trouble shutting up.

But I’ll ask about your day after this poem.

I read horror movie plots on Wikipedia.

Even the ones I will never watch.

I count the number of steps every time I get us lost, and I wake up repeating the words I adore you.

I will love you with too many semicolons; but never any periods There will be more crying than you are used to.

More silences.

More hand squeezes than are necessary.

My blue hair dye stains, my snoring memorized, drool circles on your pillows.

I will keep you up late with my hugs too tight.

You will say, Can’t we just sleep, and I will say, No, trust me. You’ll want these 5 more minutes.

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ARTICHOKE

BE MINE

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CREATIVE

BY ALEXANDRA CAPRARA

“cuffing season” Only recognized by bruises on wrists and Wine stains on neck lines The color of my lipstick matches the Merlot we’re drinking And the love bites you left on my collarbone One of them kind of looks like a heart, I think.

Did you do that one purpose?

To claim me as your own Chain me to you as a lover’s destiny Where Venus aligns with the sun so everything Is suddenly warm again?

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It’s a fleeting feeling, like Heat on lips And thighs And earlobes I read your palms with my hand clutching yours and my eyes closed Head thrown back and lips in the delicate quivering shape of your name.

Your heart line is curved up towards your ring finger and slightly tapered I’ll remember what that means when I want to recount the way Your body feels the poetry I’ll write about you In the annual ceremony of rose bushes being Suffocated in snow

ARTICHOKE

A SPECIAL ROSE 16

BY KATHERINE COLLIER

everyone wishes for some special person to give them a valentine and confess their love at this time of year, but after having spent the last few years in the worst relationship of my life, I could definitely say I was looking forward to ordering some wings and watching some hot figure skaters before turning in early. Looking back at my past, the relationship had just been a series of mistakes one after another that had somehow worked out enough that my deluded mind was able to rationalize everything that happened, right up to the end. So today would be a me day, you know after having classes and work. Or I mean, that is what I thought until I opened my apartment door. Hanging on

the doorknob was a single red rose with a note attached. Written on the plain white paper in swirling legato script was a short note that read like a declaration of love: Meet me downstairs at 8:13. The timing was so precise that there was no way to meet the wrong person. And with that rose, there went my me night.

And so, my day came and went and finally the time to meet my secret admirer came. It had snuck up on me quickly, though my thoughts had not left the note and the rose since I had received them. I had texted every one of my friends, asking them who they thought this possibly could have been. Whoever it was, it had to be someone I knew. That being said, I was not taking any chances, and

CREATIVE

17 had my best friend come with me to meet this secret admirer. This was not the 1930s, where if someone left you a note or knocked on your door unexpectedly you would answer without hesitation.

And yet, despite my worry about who this person was and if they were a stalker, I found myself feeling excited as I got ready. I had not had a good valentines date in… well ever. Who was stopping me from having a little fun for once?

But the answer to that question was simple, it was myself. My thoughts whirled, just like the script in the note, curling around in my mind creating fantasies of a man with dark, devilish good looks wearing a tuxedo and waiting to accompany me to a limo that was waiting

outside with his private driver. I giggled to myself, causing my best friend to give me a concerned look but I just waved him off.

He had done his best to convince me that this was a bad idea and that I should not even consider doing something this crazy. He had even gone as far as to offer to take me out himself so I did not have to worry about crazy people who, according to him were “always looking for fresh meat for their sex harems.” But here he was, walking me downstairs to meet whoever had left that note.

I was dressed in a simple number, a form fitting black dress that was much more comfortable than it sounded, with a pair of red pumps and a red wool coat, seeing

as it was still February. But of course, nothing that I could wear could have been appropriate for what I found waiting for me in my lobby.

All my friends, every single one I had texted earlier that day as well as a few others who had brought their better halves with them.

Everyone was there, waiting for me at precisely 8:13, each with a red rose in their hand. In that moment, I knew exactly what they had decided to do, and it brought tears to my eyes just thinking about how much my friends loved me and as long as you had good friends you did not need anything or anyone else.

ARTICHOKE

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WONDER WOMAN

BY KABEER BREEZE GARBA

i am going to tell you the tale of a wonderful woman, now at times this tale might start to sound a little cheesy, as this wonderful woman, well she is basically the whole inspiration for wonder woman herself. Do you see what I mean when I say cheesy now? It is all for a reason, and that reason is cheesy love (no not the love of cheese).

CREATIVE

Wonderful woman, she was not given that name by me she was given it by, well quite frankly each person that has had the pleasure to meet her and it is all because she makes you feel... wonderful. Like the stars could start falling down any second and everything would be okay because it would just add to the glistening of her eyes, and the brightness of her soul. I swear our whole solar system could feed off of the positive energy that she so gracefully fuses together out of the shit that gets thrown at her. She will be okay, she always has been and always will able to handle life’s hardships. That does not mean I will not be there though, I would trek the tallest terrain and dive off into the deepest of trenches to find the kryptonite of her problems. I would travel through all the lands of the lost to find the angelled blacksmith that could forge the crimson key to her heart. I would die, revive and die again to see her flourish. She has a way of life, a lack of care and an abundance of it too. I wish I could see the world through her eyes, and

look just a cute with glasses on. I hope the time I have with her is as long and gracious as her locks and I desire her burning love there is a fire in her, not her soul like most might think and not her heart, she is not Adele. In fact she so much better, because her voice isn’t just beautiful for the sound it makes it’s beautiful for the words she says.

The points she gives the ideas she has and the jokes she makes. When she is speaking all I want to do is pay attention, listen closely just in case she says something that might allow me to make her day better.

Or maybe she will tell a story from her past that will give me insight on how she came to be so Sarah. I pondered on putting out a different word, there how she came to be so miraculous, or maybe spectacular, or fantastic or superb but I chose Sarah because despite the truth that exists in each other choice none of them encompass the full essence of Sarah. You are so very Sarah and Sarah is quite the wonderful woman.

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ARTICHOKE

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SPACE JAM

BY MADDISYN FISHER

when i was 17, i gave up something that I never knew I would miss. I thought I was not good enough and I thought the journey was over once I got to York. I threw away the thing I loved most; this was the game of basketball.

I started to play basketball when I was 6 years old. I was known to be tiny, but mighty on the court.

Basketball was the only thing I cared about when I was growing up. When I did not make a team at school, I would find a way to get on the team and help out the coach.

Throughout high school, I played every day and would practice until I was the best point guard on the team.

I lived and breathed the nostalgia of Space Jam. However, I left my hometown to journey off to university. I hung up my basketball shoes and let go of the game for good, or so I thought.

The first two years of university were extremely rough for me.

My mental health was not well, I missed home constantly, and I forgot how to love myself. Then, at the end of second year I decided to run for council. I was going to run for Director of Social and Cultural Affairs, but before I picked up my nomination package, I watched “Space Jam�. I fell back in love with basketball and realized I was missing something. That is when I decided to run for Director of Athletic Affairs for WCC.

CREATIVE

This was the best decision I had ever made. I was promoted to Vice President of Athletic Affairs and that opportunity connected me back to my first love. I no longer have that missing piece in my life, instead I play with Winters and I have never been happier. My mental health is well and I love myself unconditionally.

I would like to thank my “Space Jam Love� for re-connecting me to my long lost passion.

I write this in hope that all of you find the missing piece that you gave up for university. Go find it, live it, and love yourself for it. Do not let your academics stand in the way of your happiness.

Love, MadFish P.S. love comes in all shapes and forms. Your body will miss the love spent on something that is not tangible so go find the love that is not with a person or object. Find love within a hobby, job, or act. That shit is long lasting.

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ARTICHOKE

Love Sonnet

BY MAYA VUKOV

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LIFESTYLE

it’s february 14th of grade 11. i got up today and put on my salmon-pink sweater with the black scalloped-edging and shiny buttons. It’s a very delicate sweater, very thin and form-fitting. Very romantic. Underneath the sweater I have on my pink floral shirt. It’s made of two pieces of see-through fabric but layered on top of one another they become opaque. The shirt has this vibe of youthful sensuality, still innocent but oh so curious.

We are delivering flower grams to homerooms today. Pink, white and purple carnations. Large bouquets of them. I feel like a flower girl at a wedding. I am delivering flowers with the boy with the brown eyes and brown hair. I don’t know him very well yet so he is still new and exciting. He is very nice.

There is a sort of light awkwardness between us as we deliver flowers. We are both excited to talk to each other but nervous as well. He also tried out for the school play. We will both find out if we made it today.

I see Brittney walking in front of me in the hallway later. Her hair is so perfect, large brown curls flowing behind her. She

tried out for the play as well. With him. They tried out together. The brown hair and the brown eyes. She is so pretty, how could they not choose her. I feel that if I get the part I may disappoint both of them. But I do not care too much. I want it. I had a dream that I auditioned for it against Ariana Grande. I really want it.

The cast is posted on the drama room door at lunch. My heart knocks around my chest with anticipation. I walk over to see it.

My friend yells to me before I get there. You got it! She yells. My heart is pumping hard. I go to the door. There it is, his name is first on the list. The boy with the brown eyes. And underneath it. My name. I am on the list. It is February 14th, and I am Juliet Capulet.

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ARTICHOKE

The Best Test You’ll Ever Take

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BY GENEVIEVE CANAVAN

it had been a year and a half since the last time I took it. I was nervous, not because I felt illprepared but rather because of the possible outcome. I was there ten minutes early, I brought along a full water bottle, granola bar, and all other proper supplies. My friend was even there with me for support!

I sat down, ready for the test.

No, this was not at York. It did not go towards my degree and the grades were either negative or positive. I was getting tested for STI’s, and thankfully everything was negative.

As someone who is sexually active and has been for years, I knew that due to my lack of sexual education I received in school that I would have to do my own research when it came to my sexual health.

So I made a promise to myself to

routinely get tested whether or not there were symptoms. (Note: many STI’s have no symptoms.)

The process was pretty simple.

The people who work at Planned Parenthood are professional, inclusive, kind, and beyond helpful.

Once with your with the doctor, you will be asked a little about your sexual history; things like how many partners you have had, if you have been noticing any unusual symptoms, what kind (if any) contraceptive methods you use, and what kind of sex you have.

Afterwards, you pee in a cup.

This will be tested and if you do not get a call back, you are negative!

They will only call you should anything come up positive.

Next, the doctor does a visual exam to check for any genital warts or herpes. After, they will take a

LIFESTYLE

25 swab from inside your mouth. And finally, you will get tested (should you choose) for HIV. This test, I was blown away by. I was thinking they were going to need vials and vials of blood which they did not so I was thrilled by to say the least! The results are given to you minutes later and are something like 99.7% accurate. Science is pretty amazing folks. You even get to see your results, compared to the placebo dot in the center of this little plastic thing. I am sure there is a much more medical way of describing that but I am in theatre, what do you want.

And that is all there is to it! I know for me having a friend was super helpful. Bringing a partner is a great alternative too! While scary, it is beyond worth it to know your status and proceed with treatment

should you need it. Hopefully after seeing what the test is like, it will give you more incentive to go and have it done. Your health is important and most STI’s are very treatable. Also, STI testing is covered by OHIP, YFS Insurance, and they see and accommodate those without any insurance.

Take care yourselves, be safe, and here is some info on the Toronto Planned Parenthood.

ADDRESS: 36 Prince Arthur Avenue, Toronto, ON PHONE: 416-961-0113 WEBSITE: http://www.ppt.on.ca

ARTICHOKE

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BY REBECCA MANGRA

LIFESTYLE

for three months, I had a crush on a man I’d only spoken to once.

The details are not juicy: I saw him twice during Orientation Week last September and a third time at his college’s coffee house event a month later. I attended with a mutual friend who kindly volunteered to introduce me. But once we started chatting, he seemed disinterested and cut the conversation short.

After a curt goodbye, weeks of infatuation crumbled into dust.

Instead of feeling bad about the experience, I’ve been thinking about the crushing process as a whole. What fascinates me is that an affair with your crush is one completely controlled by you and resides solely in your imagination. Social media only feeds to the frenzy: whether it’s when you see the girl of your dreams on a beach in Cancun, or your main man kicking it back at the Ab in those Adidas track pants he knows he looks good in. Your thumb rests on that picture and for a moment, you fantasize yourself toying with the pinky ring on her finger.

You think of running your hands through his gelled curls as he downs a Heineken. A little drizzle is running down the side of his lips. But what if your dream girl contracted travellers’ diarrhea in Cancun? What if your man actually hates beer and would much rather settle in with Austen’s Pride and Prejudice? While social media deludes us into falling in love with aspects of people that aren’t always accurate, the pleasure it gives us is undeniable. We’re given access and tools

to imagine ourselves in a life that we long to be a part of.

But is crushing beneficial beyond the surface pleasure of attraction? We usually rush past it to move toward something tangible, like a date, a kiss, or a sexual encounter. But sometimes it doesn’t work out that way and I’m tired of feeling like time has been wasted. Whether or not crushes lead to a relationship or end up being unrequited, the experience reminds us that love is ephemeral.

In that brief time of fixation, we grow as individuals by dressing up, cultivating hope, going to places we’ve never been, and putting ourselves out on a limb. We become more aware of whom we are distributing our energy to and are forced to reconsider if those people are worthy of it.

Crushing gives us that small push out of our comfort zone and I for one am thankful for it. The pain and ecstasy we get out of a crush is valid, no matter where it ends up. I say to hell with stages and processes: go talk to the girl of your dreams, take a chance and follow that cute guy on Instagram, and slide into as many DMs as you want. Go to the brink of your wailing heart and pursue what keeps you up at night. So what if your crush doesn’t know you exist or doesn’t like you back. Rejection is painful but the importance is that you exist and you are still a valuable person. Love, as I’ve experienced it, isn’t just about the butterflies—it’s learning to bounce back from loss and trusting that your soul will find its twin sometime soon.

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For past issues: ISSUU.COM/ARTICHOKEMAG