THE CARDINAL Bishop Allen's Literary & Arts Magazine
MAY/JUNE 2021
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Grace Bogdani — editor-in-chief Veronika Lomets — editor, arts coordinator Emily Zalewski — editor, social media coordinator
EDITOR'S NOTE: We are happy to share with you Bishop Allen’s Literary & Arts Magazine’s last issue of the year. This third instalment includes BA students’ artwork, poetry, essays, short stories and a new special segment! This edition focuses on various issues and topics relating to the month of June, most surrounding the theme of Pride month. The TCDSB’s decision to raise pride flags in support of 2SLGBTQ+ students, staff and allies is a very momentous occasion, the first of the many steps to accept, acknowledge and support those part of 2SLGBTQ+ community. This third and final edition of The Cardinal could not have been possible without the support given by the Bishop Allen community. The editorial team is extremely grateful for the audience of our magazine and, of course, the members of our club. This has been an amazing experience for all involved and we hope it will continue after our leave. We are very proud of every club member who has contributed to this magazine, sharing their talents in writing and art with our school community. Most of all, we congratulate all the graduates leaving Bishop Allen and wish them the best of luck in their future endeavours. This has undoubtedly been a difficult year, but we've managed to pull through despite the obstacles. We hope you enjoy your well-deserved summer break, maybe spending a day flipping through the pages of a certain virtual magazine...
- Veronika Lomets Editor
TABLE OF CONTENTS SHORT STORIES
People by Megan Arruda [pg 14] Murder in the Snow, Part 3 by Maja Bavcevic [pg 38] Glass Elevator by Grace Bogdani [pg 53] POETRY
Enough by Ava Vendittelli [pg 12] The Warm Future by Xavier D'Silva [pg 37] Anxious by Anonymous [pg 50] ESSAYS & SHORT WRITTEN PIECES
About the Cover by Brianna Furtado [pg 4] Making an Economic Impact through Creative Destruction and Entrepreneurship by Stephanie Staibano [pg 5] Marxist Literary Theory Analysis of Sally Rooney's Normal People by Emily Zalewski [pg 63] SPECIAL FEATURES
Our special segments are back for this issue, this time featuring the BA students' best movie/TV show/short film recommendations. Majority of these recommendations include LGBTQ+ representation and are perfect for summer binge-watching! Pages designed by Jenna Kim [pgs 19-35] ARTWORK
Caked by Brianna Furtado [cover] Totem by Brianna Furtado [pg 10] Fields of Flowers by Brianna Furtado [pg 11] For Guiliana by Brianna Furtado [pg 11] Still Life by Mariana Gillies [pg 36] Koi Fish by Veronika Lomets [pg 49] Steve by Veronika Lomets [pg 52] Marble Steve by Veronika Lomets [pg 52] Garden by Veronika Lomets [pg 62] The Divine Feminine by Brianna Furtado [pg 70] Let's Talk Economics: Incentives (infographic) by Stephanie Staibano [pg 71] Rivendell by Veronika Lomets [pg 72]
ABOUT THE COVER "This painting was inspired by the societal beauty constructs of women. I consider makeup to be a means of artistic expression. These unnatural assets, long lashes, neon pink eyeshadow, blinding highlights, that we put on ourselves are able to represent emotions, our current mental state, or even just a creative outlet. Makeup is beautiful, but our beauty does not end when it is removed. Society has recently given the impression that we need makeup to be attractive even from a distance, we need makeup to be considered even "normal". As much as I am an advocate for embracing makeup and using it for your personal needs, makeup can be damaging if not promoted properly. Social media is a huge culprit in false advertising. As much as the artistry behind makeup is to be appreciated, the message, that you are beautiful, even if you do not have all of these qualities created through makeup, must also be communicated. As it relates to the process, I leveraged on core painting techniques, coupled with the opportunity to use vibrant colours and a gel medium to build textures and dimensions. While working on this piece, this painting took on various looks and emotions, resulting in the final piece. " - Brianna Furtado Artist - 4 -
MAKING AN ECONOMIC IMPACT THROUGH CREATIVE DESTRUCTION AND ENTREPRENEURSHIP by Stephanie Staibano Economic Progress How does one measure the success of any given economy? By the GDP growth rate, the number of successful entrepreneurs, the highs and lows of the stock market? Or should other metrics be used to evaluate economic progress? I would argue that one important metric of economic progress is Joseph Schumpeter’s concept of creative destruction, which refers to “the entrepreneurial process where, as innovations arise, the old way of doing things often dies off as a result, and economic structure is revolutionized” (Schumpeter 1984). Without continuous change, economies become stagnant and fall behind current trends in any given market, negatively impacting economic progress. In contrast, the concept of creative destruction provides opportunities for entrepreneurs, gives way to better lifestyles for consumers, and allows economies to create innovative solutions to some of the most significant problems facing modern society today. Hence, it can be argued that creative destruction is a necessity to the modern economy and must be fostered to drive economic progress.
Importance of Entrepreneurship One of the most vital aspects to the success of any economy is entrepreneurship. Entrepreneurship leads to curiosity, creativity, and innovation; all of which give way to solutions for our most pressing problems. For example, without entrepreneur Elon Musk, electrical-
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powered cars, the most popular solution to reducing air pollutants emitted by gas-powered vehicles, may not exist. Without entrepreneur Steve Jobs, we would not have any Apple products, most of which we have become incredibly dependent on to function in our daily lives. Entrepreneurs like these individuals seek out gaps in the economy and innovate to create solutions that fit these gaps. This is where creative destruction comes into play because this concept occurs as a result of entrepreneurship. Using the Apple example, the innovations that have come from this company have drastically changed our way of life, or “creatively destroyed” how we used to do things. Before the invention of the Macbook, computers were quite cumbersome and immobile. No one ever considered that computers could be transported to and from work because the devices used during this time were incredibly large. However, Steve Jobs’ innovative Macbook redefined how employees and companies worked digitally. Companies no longer needed to purchase and supply their employees with computers because individuals could easily transport all their work on their portable laptops. As well, individuals gained the luxury of being able to work anywhere in the world because it is not difficult to carry a laptop. Today, the laptop has become an essential part of modern society as almost every event for the past year has been online. As seen in the new online education model, it is assumed that most students have laptops, because the lessons and assignments given to students are all online. As well, teachers often provide students with time during class to work on their assignments, assuming that all students can bring their own portable devices, such as laptops or tablets. Imagine carrying a computer from twenty years ago to class...that would be quite difficult! Entrepreneurship is essential to the progress of any economy because it ultimately helps solve problems. However, in doing so, entrepreneurship
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changes the way in which tasks were previously completed, often for the better. This is most prominent in the technology industry, particularly as seen in the past year.
Investigation: Technology in the Modern World The first television was invented by Philo Farnsworth in 1927, and the first cell phone was introduced just under fifty-five years later in 1983 by Martin Cooper. Immediately following these inventions, people became more informed about current events and connected with friends and family around the world. These technological innovations became even more valuable many years later during the coronavirus pandemic for these exact reasons. Without technology, it would have been extremely difficult for us to adapt to the “new normal” during the pandemic. Technology has allowed students to complete their classes from home, businesses to continue operating remotely, friends and family members to stay in touch, and individuals all over the world to stay informed continuously about the virus. Without technology, we would have been lost. Even more isolated, perhaps. Zoom, Google Meets, Skype, and many other online meeting platforms have become part of our daily vocabulary so much that it is strange to come across someone unaware of them. However, before March 2020, few people had ever heard of Zoom. Over the past year, Zoom has become a mainstream way of conducting a wide variety of online gatherings, such as school classes, work meetings, and virtual family get-togethers. The increased prominence of the Zoom platform has “creatively destroyed” how we think about gathering. Many workplaces have realized that they do not need to pay thousands of dollars in monthly rent for office space when their employees can achieve the same productivity, if not more, from the comfort of their own homes. As well, various academic institutions have established permanent online programs that allow both domestic and
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international students to participate in activities. Previously, these events were only open to students in the vicinity of the institution. For example, online summer mentorship and enrichment programs allow students and mentors all across the world to connect; serving as a fantastic opportunity to learn about and appreciate the diversity of other cultures. Opportunities like this enhance the educational experience for students and help individuals become more aware and accepting of the differences of others; an invaluable quality for success in the modern workplace. Although it may appear that the dominance of Zoom and other online meeting platforms has ruined in-person interaction as we knew it, this is false. Through this creative destruction, individuals have developed more ways to interact with each other, while adapting to various online meeting platforms. For example, many companies have adopted the concept of “Making Dinner Together” as a way to interact with each other outside a formal work setting. Employees will receive packages of ingredients delivered to their doors, and then everyone will meet on a call to cook dinner together under the instruction of a chef. Events such as these are a few of the many examples highlighting how modern society has adapted to the increased prominence of technology in the past few decades.
Creative Destruction as an Opportunity to Help Others Creative destruction is unarguably a vital measure of the success of any given economy. Continuous innovation and challenging past methods help economies grow and thrive in modern society. Although it may be difficult to adapt to new changes, such as the rapidly increased use of technology during the pandemic, creative destruction often improves upon old methods to make things easier and more efficient. Wayne Gretzky once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” How will we know if an invention will improve the lives of millions of people if we do not try?
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Should we allow our fear of ruining traditions or previous methods through creative destruction prevent us from sharing ideas that will help others? I do not believe that these are valid reasons to withhold possible groundbreaking ideas. Change and innovation are constant in modern society, so we must learn to adapt to this fast-changing environment. Becoming comfortable with creative destruction and entrepreneurship, as well as all the possible failures and mistakes that come along with these concepts is an invaluable asset in today’s economy. Ultimately, creative destruction is essential to the success of the modern economy, so we should learn about it, accept it, and use it to positively impact the lives of others if we want to create prosperous economies for all people.
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"Totem" by Brianna Furtado - 10 -
"Fields of Flowers" & "For Guiliana" by Brianna Furtado
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ENOUGH
by Ava Vendittelli
If I could speak to the world There are so many things I would want to say That I wouldn’t know where to begin But I would start with a simple message One that is heard less than it should I would say you are enough And hope everyone understood That to be enough is all we need That who you are is perfect That you do not need to be fixed As if you have been wrecked I would say that there is power in the tears That I know you’ve cried at night And that there is still hope For the future to turn out all right That the stress you feel on your shoulders Is just the comforting weight of your wings That the mistakes from your past Are no longer attached to you by strings I would tell you to lift up your head To find beauty in your body and mind To accept the joyful peace That you have been trying hard to find I would say that you did your best
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Through all of it, you tried That your cheeks have gone dry From all those tears you’ve cried Remember you are still standing here Still breathing, still alive And I am proud of all you are And I know that you will thrive If I could speak to the world No hesitation would show up Before I would say to all of you I promise you are enough
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PEOPLE by Megan Arruda A little girl comes racing down the street on her sparkly blue bike, the tassels on her handlebars blowing around as she giggles furiously. Her smile is so wide and bright that everything else almost dims in comparison. It’s a nice change from the last Interaction, a boring elderly couple out for a walk.
The Tour de France A man—I’m guessing her grandfather—runs as fast as he can to catch up with her.
- Grandpa is getting his daily exercise, that’s for sure Her shrill laughter makes me turn my head and I’m so glad because somehow, she finds her way into my neighbour’s fence. An unbidden laugh bubbles up out of my throat making me clap a hand over my mouth. I shouldn’t be laughing, but it’s a tiny bit funny, you’d have to admit. I add an arrow in between "The" and "Tour" and write "Tragic" above it. Big fat tears begin to pour out of her eyes as she wails. The grandpa rushes over and helps her up, making sure to straighten her helmet before swiping the tear-stuck hair out of her face. I’ve stopped laughing now, and instead
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smile at the care he treats her with. He then takes his shirt sleeves and wipes her tears. How sweet. I make notes of all of this in my notebook, of course. They converse for a second, and while furiously jotting down their Interaction, I speak aloud the dialogue that I know they’re saying. “Are you okay? Anything hurt?” I say in a deep, scratchy voice, mimicking what I think he sounds like. Even though I may not be able to hear their exchange, I've seen enough kids take a tumble to know what the adult always asks. As I expected, she points to her scraped up knee which he then bends down to look at. The cut doesn’t seem too bad. A little Polysporin to fight infection, and a bandaid will do the trick. Though of course Grandpa over here is making it seem like she has life threatening injuries with the way he’s fussing over her.
- probably come from a close knit family I grab the glass of water on the floor beside me and take a sip as Grandpa picks her up, grabs the bike, and starts to walk out of my view. Once again, I’ve already guessed this would happen so there’s nothing else to write about at the moment. While I wait, I sketch a bike beside my title. It’s a while before the next passerby come.
The Three Amigos
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I write this down as three teenage boys pass by my house. A tall blond one shoves a smaller brown-haired boy who is obviously upset and it makes my blood boil.
- Blondie. Extremely rude Sure, maybe I’m making assumptions, but when you do this as long as I have, you pick up on cues pretty quickly. This time, it’s the one at the back that catches my eye. His black hair is in braids and I can’t help but smile when he grabs Blondie's arm and shakes his head.
- Braids stands up for Brown Hair The blond lifts his hands up in surrender so perfectly I am able to come to the conclusion that this is a reoccurring thing. Blondie is mean to Brown Hair, Braids interferes, and Blondie plays the victim. Classic. This also gets added to the notebook. Once I finish the majority of their blurb I reach for my cup again to take another sip of water. When I turn back around to face the window, the boy with the braids is looking right into my eyes. He’s squinting against the midday sun but I know he can see me sitting here, watching the people who pass by. With a gasp, I lunge for the dusty wood floor and lie flat, almost stabbing myself with my pen, as if I am undercover and cannot have my face seen. If anyone even remotely related to my school were to find out about my odd
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hobby, I’d be dead meat. After about five minutes I decide it’s safe to get up and peek out the window. The boys are long gone. “Thank goodness," I mutter, before brushing off my clothes. The page I was working on is creased beyond repair, but I write down all that I can remember about the boys. My physical observations in the notebook include anything from the brand of the clothes they were wearing, down to the colour of their eyes, if I even managed to get a good look at them. I notice the black ink bleed onto the page, and find it therapeutic in a way I can’t even begin to describe. A voice then yells my name. “What?!” I yell back, listening to the stairs creak loudly while sketching an eye beside "The Three Amigos". Every Interaction in my notebook has a tiny drawing beside it because not only does it spruce up the visual appeal, it also gives me time to reflect on what I witnessed. Why is Blondie mean to Brown Hair? Is the boy with the braids observant, or was it just a fluke that he saw me? Does the little girl riding her bike know how lucky she is to have her grandfather around? Silly things like that. “What do you think about stir fry for dinner? Yes, no, maybe?” My mother leans against the door frame of the attic. “Sure,” I reply, twisting around to face her before looking back out the window. My butt hurts from sitting so long, so I readjust the pillow behind me and wait for my next Interaction.
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“Okay. You’ve been up here for a few hours so just . . . come down whenever.” Without another word she disappears back down the stairs. My mother has just given me her signature way of saying “come down now” without saying “come down now”. With a sigh I cap my pen, close my notebook, and tuck it behind one of the pillows.
PEOPLE, the blue cover says in my tasteful handwriting. It’s one of many journals I have with the same title, each one full of the different interactions I witness as I sit here in my attic’s bay window. People interest me. They always have. The fact that everyone has their own life full of different details and events will never fail to amaze me. So now I sit here, day in and day out and make summaries of the Interactions I witness. It helps to remind me that I’m alive, that every little thing counts. It’s very enjoyable—you should try it sometime. I swing my legs over the edge of the seat and slowly make my way to the exit. With one more glance at the window, I close the door for the day. I’ll be back tomorrow.
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"Still Life" by Marianna Gillies - 36 -
THE WARM FUTURE by Xavier D’Silva
June comes, and with it the school year ends Those in the higher grades stress about the “depends” The weather warms, and summer clothes we adorn Summer break comes too, and we start to forget about life’s thorns As we bathe in the fresh air and warm sun, remember more of life is yet to come There’s so much that we still have yet to learn and become So, abandon your negative thoughts, insecurities, throw them away Because hope is here to stay
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MURDER IN THE SNOW by Maja Bavcevic
-- PART PART 33 --
check out march/april edition to read part 2!
“Lovely weather isn’t it?” I said as I opened the door, before walking further into the house. Silence. “Lovely weather isn’t it?” I repeated, much louder. Practically shouting this time. “What a shame a bird flew into the window.” The man’s voice called back weakly from upstairs. Something was wrong. I walked upstairs and opened the door to the room. There he was, held at gunpoint. A group of four or five police officers was standing in a group around him, one holding the man in a headlock with a gun to his head, the others were spread around the room, guarding the window, collecting newspaper clippings from around the room and one or two had their guns drawn, aimed at me. ‘Run,’ the man mouthed to me. I think he was trying to say it out loud, but
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since he was gasping for air while in the headlock, no sound came out... which was probably for the better. I slowly took a step back, and once I was within arms reach of the doorway, I bolted behind the wall towards the stairs and ran. Moments after I turned, I heard a bullet hit the wall behind where I just was. I barely even touched the stairs as I tried to escape. The house wasn’t well kept and the railing was missing. As soon as there was room for me to jump off the stairs without hitting my head on the ceiling of the floor below, I took the opportunity. My feet hit the floor and my knees buckled beneath me. It was straight out of one of those action movies, only I wasn’t the Tom Cruise, Liam Neeson, Matt Damon main character hooked up to a harness with an entire film crew and stunt double helping me out. I was just an average person who wasn’t even in great shape. Four more bullets had been fired from the guns since I went down the stairs. Five in total. I scrambled to my feet again and made a line for the door. It was only a few feet away from me, and I tripped over my own feet. Judging by the size and shape of the gun, there would only be five bullets in it, maybe six. So that gun can be considered done. If not, there would be only one bullet left and the chances of them hitting me with it while they’re still upstairs and— then I heard footsteps charging down the stairs. My first thought was ‘what took them so long to come after me?’ but it has barely been five seconds since I was upstairs and the first bullet was fired. It was like time had slowed.
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I fumbled with the door knob. It was circular and was just spinning around in my hand as I lunged towards it. I finally got the door open, just in time as the one officer chasing me was close enough to have a clear shot of me. I ran down the first step of the front porch, and realized the entire front of the house was surrounded by a squad of heavily armed police officers with shields, a variety of guns and a criminal transport van opening its doors. They had all somehow assembled within the time I went upstairs and ran back out. Majority of the squad was based around the house and was approaching the side door. I, a murderer, had willingly walked into a squad of police. There was a large shrub beside me, so I dove into it. Through the base of the bushes, I saw a few of the police officers' feet turn towards the bush. Of course jumping into a bush had to make noise. Luckily for me, I had scared a squirrel as I jumped in and the squirrel ran out. “Just a squirrel,” one of the officers said and turned back towards the others. “Focus back on the side entrance. That’s where we’ve been instructed to focus. Don’t get distracted.” All I could see were the officers’ feet, but even from that I was able to distinguish who was facing where. They all turned back to the side of the house and walked towards it. It was like time froze. I was stuck inside a bush. I couldn’t leave because it would make noise and there was an entire police squad outside that would notice, with more
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officers seemingly coming every second. My heart was racing. Soon, the man chasing me would be outside. He’d know I had come outside and they’d find me in the bush. KA-thump KAthump. I could feel my heart in my throat. I needed something to distract them. As if I had summoned it, a desk lamp flew out the upstairs window. Every single police officer turned to look up at the window. I heard at least a dozen guns cocking in defence. This was my chance. I ran out of the bush and into the police car that was parked just beside the bush with the door open. A hand reached out the house’s window right after. I recognized the bracelet on the wrist. Somehow he had escaped the headlock while being held at gunpoint and threw a lamp out the window to cause a distraction. His hand went limp on the shards of broken glass in the window. Gas or smoke of some kind was leaving through the opening. Something must have filled the room and everyone in there most likely all suffocated. I slammed the gear stick into reverse, spun my head around, bracing myself with my right arm on the passenger seat as I looked out the back glass. I had the palm of my hand pressed against the steering wheel and I spun it around as I slammed my foot on the acceleration, speeding backwards
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across the lawn and onto the street. The tires spun on the lawn, tearing up the grass. I kept the car in reverse and went speeding down the street until I was far away. I pushed the gear stick all the way forward back into drive. I tore my right hand off the stick, smashed it onto the steering wheel, turned it all the way left and hit the gas, taking the car towards the main road. I went over curbs and onto the front lawns of the houses on the corners of the streets. I came to the main street and turned the wheel all the way right and disappeared into traffic. I think more about the scene from which I fled: his hand being cut on the shards of broken glass in the window frame as it went limp, the house surrounded by police officers. The officer chasing me never made it outside. He’s a trained police officer, so it's unlikely he decided to let me go. There must have been something keeping him inside. It’s also unlikely that he was hurt or stopped following me for a reason of that nature. If there was chaos upstairs and he knew there was an entire police force out front, he would have probably gone to deal with the problems inside. Somehow my partner in crime—I never thought I’d say that literally— managed to break loose from the headlock and cause some chaos to save me, then used his last little bit of strength to throw the lamp outside the window.
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I nearly got hit by a driver, which snapped me back into reality. All the cops saw the car I took, and are probably tracking it. It's a police car, which not only has distinguishable markings, a dashboard camera— which I quickly covered, broke, and threw onto the road to be run over—but also probably had a tracking device in it. I pulled off the mainroad quickly and pulled into the junkyard just around the corner. There's been a fully functioning car there for quite some time. I was friends with the old guy who ran the place and he taught me how to drive in that old car. I slam on the breaks as I enter the junkyard and dust from under my tires goes flying. My old friend isn’t there; probably not a bad thing. I hopped out of the police car, took the sweater with me, and walked over to a stack of bricks. I grabbed one and ran back to the car. I put the car in drive, faced it towards the pile of garbage in the back and hopped back out. I placed the brick on the acceleration pedal and quickly pulled my arm out of the car. It went speeding towards the pile of garbage.The car must have hit the garbage a certain way, because the fuel started leaking and caught fire. I walked over to the black pick-up truck, with the police car going up in flames behind me. The license plate and all forms of identifying it had been removed from the truck when it was brought to the yard years ago. I grab the keys from the nail I put in the junkyard fence to hold them. I hopped into the truck and drove out of the junkyard as if it were any other
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day. I'm one of few people who know about the junkyard truck—the others know nothing of me taking it and would never turn me in even if they did. I drove out onto the highway and left the city. As I was cruising down the road like nothing was wrong, I noticed something odd about the sweater that was sitting on the dashboard. The sleeve was cinched in an unusual way in one specific spot. I reached over to it with my left hand still on the steering wheel and pulled it closer to me. I could feel something on the inside of the sleeve. Driving dangerously and risking getting pulled over is the last thing I need, so I put it down and turn it off at the next exit. I’ve only been out to this area a few times, but I do know there’s a parking lot I can stop at nearby. I park the car. Looking at the sweater again, I focus on the sleeve and run my fingers along it. Normal stitch at the seam; machine made, but kinda sloppy. It would have been run through the machine quickly by hand. The small flaw in the sweater was just in one spot, so it wasn’t a voluntary action. It looks almost like a pulled thread. I turned the sleeve inside out to see if it’s just that: a simple pulled tread. It wasn't.
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Down the inside of the inner layer of sleeve fabric, there was a series of letters. DC.EIEHHI-GI.EC
∅CDH
I ran my fingers across them. They were hand embroidered, and yet done nearly flawlessly. “D C . E I E H H I - G I . E C
∅ C D H” I said, reading the letters out loud.
I turned them upside down to see if they looked more readable that way. They didn’t. After staring at them for a while, trying to rearrange them as though they were an anagram, I realized, there is no letter past I. The 9th letter of the alphabet. It's not likely the letters were set to be an anagram since there’s only 9 letters and a 0. A zero. If I was to assign each letter of the alphabet a number, A being 1 and Z being 26, there would be no spot for 0. If whoever stitched this was trying to leave me a numbered message converted into letters and there was a 0 involved, there would be no letter to assign it to, and would have to be left as a 0. With this newfound knowledge, I wrote them as though they were numbers on the corner of a napkin in the cupholder.
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D4 C3 . E5 I9 E5 H8 H8 I9 - G7 I9 . 5E C3
∅0 C3 D4 H8
4 3. 5 9 5 8 8 9 -7 9 . 5 3 0 3 4 8 It was too many numbers for a phone number, but not enough for it to be two. And what’s with the dots? I thought maybe those were separating the street number from the house number of an address, but I was pretty sure there wasn’t a 595889th house on 43rd street out in Hamilton, or a 530348th house on 79th street out by Niagara Falls. I pulled out a map from the glovebox—how outdated—and then it hit me. GPS coordinates. I was super lucky that the handheld GPS coordinate finder was still in the glove box and working. I ran the numbers through the small machine that my life pretty much depended on, impatiently tapping my fingers on the dashboard as I waited. The location came in. I turned the key to start the car again and went to the location I had just been lucky enough to find. After almost an hour of driving, I arrived at the destination in the pouring rain at dusk. Standing there, each with a black umbrella, were eighteen people; wearing the same sweater I was holding in my arms. My first thought was ‘there are supposed to be twenty’, but quickly realized, I was the 19th and the 20th died earlier today.
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The woman who was standing in the middle of the group walked out to me and passed me an umbrella. I took it and thanked her. After covering myself with the umbrella, I looked back at them, and each person looked more pained than the last. I figured the only decent thing to do would be to tell them what had happened to their 20th member. “I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but the 20th member—” “We know,” the lady who passed me the umbrella said. I expected them to ask for the sweater back, and either kick me out of the group or kill me to make sure their secret didn't get out. But they did neither. She came towards me and smiled. “He was able to get one last message out to us before he died. We had created an ordinary object that once broken would send out a message letting us know our meeting place was no longer safe.” “The lamp,” I said, piecing things together. The lady nodded. I was initially a bit disheartened that he hadn’t been trying to save me by throwing out the lamp, but then realized he was saving eighteen other people, and accidentally saved me as well. An equally heroic—no, a more heroic act. “The responsibility of finding a new member now falls on you. Choose wisely,” the lady said.
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I immediately knew who to choose. Sure, you were in jail and wouldn’t be able to be freed without any suspicion for at least a couple years, but we had people working on the inside to help us.
I set my cup of coffee down on the table in front of me. “So, yes, I murdered a man, framed you for it, and now I’m asking you to join this secret agency of sorts. “What do you say? Are you in?” I say, extending the sweater that was once given to me, to the person I framed and sent to jail for a murder I committed one cold winter morning in the snow. “Absolutely.”
the end
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"Koi Fish" by Veronika Lomets
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ANXIOUS By Anonymous Heart pounding and shallow breathing, Twisting stomach and blank mind. Restless but immobile, Feeling stuck and confined. Uncertainty and panic, What if I get it wrong and fail? I feel uneasy, I can’t move, I feel myself go pale. Stomach roiling with hunger, But the nausea wins the fight, Empty but for the dread, As I feel my lungs go tight. Time ticks on but I’m frozen with fear, Trapped in a loop of worry, Maybe I should be preparing more? But it all feels very blurry.
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“Take a deep breath,” they say. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” But they don’t know what it’s like. The pain’s not theirs, it’s mine. What if I disappoint them? What if they think I’m dumb? I just wanna get through this, Right now I’m feeling kind of numb. As soon as it starts, I feel the anxiety fade, I feel strong, I am ready, I’m no longer afraid. But it all happens again, The panic, the doubt, It’s something I hate, Something I’ve never lived without. But it’s hard to get help, To seek a chance to be free, What if I just can’t change? What if this is part of me?
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"Steve" by Veronika Lomets
"Marble Steve" by Veronika Lomets
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GLASS ELEVATOR by Grace Bogdani
5:25 pm, Lower Manhattan, New York City It was a typical evening for Tobin Creevy before the incident occured. He had finished all of his paperwork for the day and had not once complained about the misery brought upon the world by corporate America. He was usually optimistic about his job, because at least it paid the bills. But there were times in which he woke up in the morning wishing he had the power to throw a tantrum without the risk of being fired. These were the days when the Shannons and Bills of the office would whisper warnings to each other in the file room. Nobody would dare cross paths with “Terrible Temper Tobin”. But that day, all was well. All was well until he got to the elevator. Staring at the bright orange glow of the down button, he thought about how long it usually takes for the elevator to notice there are people waiting on it. However, that thought was boring and insufficient, so he decided to think of something else. He thought of his wife, Angie. She would have impulsively trudged down twenty-two flights of stairs as opposed to waiting a second longer for the steel beast to open its mouth. The old Angie would have done that, there was no doubt in his mind. The girl he met when he was fifteen, the one working the night shift at the diner in ‘71. The Angie waiting for him at home was the woman who slept until noon and smoked until her lungs cried. She was the woman who painted landscape after landscape, complaining that they were too hideous to be sold, begging for the life of a starving artist. At least his job paid the bills.
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Tobin’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shiny brown leather oxfords on the marble floor. They progressively got louder and louder until it was clear that someone was walking towards him, walking towards the elevator. Tobin lifted his head and glanced to his right. And then he saw him. His boss. Richard was a rather bulky man, with his hair as grey as his eyes were blue. He was a sensibly dressed man as well, wearing suits that one would only ever find on a Wall Street banker. His clothes reeked of tobacco, and it made Tobin think of Angie. That was not a pleasant thought. After all, his boss was not like his wife, nor was his wife like his boss. But they seemed to have the same effect on him—they both make him aware of the feeling that gnaws on his insides until he loses his mind. Guilt. Does he know? Will he ever find out? “Good evening, Mr. Creevy,” Richard said. The corner of his mouth rose under his moustache to produce a lopsided smile. Tobin’s voice came out as a squeak. “Good evening, Mr. Jones.” They both stood in unbearable silence. A single bead of sweat traveled down the side of Tobin’s face, and as he stood with his eyes fixated on the marble floor, he thought to himself, He doesn’t look angry. You’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s not screaming at you or throwing things right now… that’s a good thing. But he couldn’t help being nervous. The guilt was eating away at him,
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closing around his stomach, his lungs, his heart. The floor was starting to melt away, revealing his darkest faults underneath a blanket of insecurities. The more he looked down, the more it seemed as though the floor would suck him into an otherworldly abyss. He leaned forward and placed his hand on the wall to steady himself, his fingers just inches away from the down button. Does he know? Will he ever find out? He could feel Richard’s eyes on him, envisioning his caterpillar-shaped eyebrows to be furrowed in concern. Or realization. Or anger. To distract himself, Tobin stared at his watch. The brown leather creased to accommodate the shape of his wrist perfectly, as it should. Time was running out for him… he had to act quickly. He had to get away. He had to get out. Before he could choose to make a run for the stairs instead of facing his problem head-on, the silver doors of the elevator yawned opened, inviting the two men to enter the bitter cold dungeon. This is it. Being trapped on the same elevator ride with Richard would not be a bad thing if Richard was the chatty type. But he wasn’t. Richard was quite quiet, reserved, kept to himself. He would sometimes come out of his office to give orders, then would slink away, closing his office doors behind him without another peep. That is, until he came back out again to give more orders. Case be made, Richard wasn’t one for small talk. And when Tobin stepped into the elevator with Richard and tapped the ground floor button, the silence hovering in the air between them was suffocating.
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Does he know? Will he ever find out? Guilt. It was pulling tighter on his stomach, his lungs, his heart. Tobin looked frantically around the elevator, doing everything he could to avoid Richard's gaze. Feeling the sweat around his neck and down his back, Tobin loosened his tie. Bracing himself, he looked over at Richard, who in turn glanced his way. He tried so hard to act normal, act natural. But it was like the guilt had now made its way up to his throat, tightening around his vocal cords. He was unable to say anything. Unable to confess. Unbearable silence. Then, by some miracle, quiet Richard spoke up. "Is it just me, or is it a bit musty in here?" Tobin just stared. He stared at Richard, two Richards, three. His shoulders went rigid, his chest was consumed with a tightness that made it seemingly impossible to breathe. His head was spinning, his feet numb. He felt as though he were in a free-falling glass elevator, watching the transparent floor as he plummeted to his death. He could hear the gears of the elevator screeching, screaming into his ear, taunting him: “He knows. He found out.” He knows. He found out. With the glass elevator collapsing on top of him and the world spinning out of control, Tobin Creevy met the ground, and time stood still. 6:19 pm, New York-Presbyterian Lower Manhattan Hospital When he came to, the first thing Tobin noticed were the sickening
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yellow walls. They were the kind that attempted to display a cheerful tone, but ironically appeared menacing at the same time. "I command you to be happy," they said to him. "I command you to smile. I command you to have hope." The next thing Tobin noticed was Richard, sitting with his left ankle propped up on his right knee, newspaper spread out in front of his bulky face. Tobin slowly sat up, his clammy hands attempting to grip on the railing of the hospital bed. He groaned at the sharp pain in his arm. His elbow was bruised. He wondered what else was bruised, and tried not to move enough to find out. All this caught Richard's attention, who set down his newspaper and looked at Tobin. "You had a heart attack. In the elevator," he said. Tobin sighed and leaned his head back on his pillow. His eyes met those of the kitten plastered on the cheesy cat-themed calendar on the wall directly facing his bed. APRIL 2000 appeared below the kitten's photo on big purple block letters. April... He glanced over at the copy of The New York Times that Richard had set down. There it was, right under the iconic font of the newspaper's title: New York, Saturday, April 1st, 2000. April Fools. "April Fools!" he could say to Richard, and maybe he would go easy on
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him. It could just have been a prank that got out of hand... one that he thought would be funny, but regretted once it was followed through. That might just let him off the hook... But... no. He couldn't do it. He couldn't lie. Only telling the truth would put him at ease. Only telling the truth would allow him to be at peace with what he did. He had to tell the truth. He was certain his heart could not take any more strain. Richard was looking at Tobin intently, waiting patiently for a response after he broke the news about his heart attack. "Mr. Creevy... are you all right?" This is it. This is where I tell him, Tobin thought. He let himself be transported back to the events of that morning. Entering the common-area kitchen at work. Seeing a discarded Starbucks coffee cup on the counter. Picking it up to throw it out, only to discover it's piping hot and untouched. Glancing at the cardboard sleeve, noticing the words Vanilla Latte hastily scribbled in black marker. Glancing around the room to make sure no one was watching. Thinking about what a shame it would be if a perfectly good cup of coffee like this went to waste, getting cold sitting on the counter with nobody to claim it. Taking a sip. Then a second sip. Then some more. Throwing the cup in the trash bin and walking back to his cubicle. Overhearing a conversation between Richard and his intern. Noticing that Richard had stepped out of his office, which was a mere couple of feet away from Tobin's cubicle, for the first time that day. Laughing to himself at the recklessness of the intern, who was nervously
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wringing his hands together and hardly looking his boss in the eye. No more than twenty-two, the young man looked as though he were a little squirming fish, writhing in the grasp of Richard's giant fist. "Mr. Carlson, where is my coffee?" Richard said this very calmly, but there was something so unusual about this calmness that it looked as though the intern had been slapped in the face. "Sir... I think I misplaced it," he said shakily. "Mr. Carlson... I asked you for that coffee fifteen minutes ago." Tobin chuckled at this. Carlson looked as though he were about to pee himself. "I-I-I don't know... I left it on the counter in the kitchen... went to go print out some papers... when I came back, it was gone. Somebody must've taken it I—I'm so sorry." Upon hearing this, Tobin froze. Vanilla latte... Richard didn't seem too impressed. He turned around and, without another word, walked into his office and shut the door behind him. All day, Tobin avoided his boss. He busied himself with paperwork, burying his nose in files, skipping lunch to catch up on everything. His only hope was that he would not have to encounter Richard for the remainder of the day and explain to his boss why he stole his cup of coffee and drank it with no remorse. He was sure Richard would find out. Richard always
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found out. And when he did, Tobin would be the slimy fish squirming to be free of Richard's grasp. Finally facing him in the hospital, after the stress of the guilt had consumed his heart, Tobin came clean. "Mr. Jones..." Tobin said with a croak. Richard rose from his chair, listening to Tobin with both patience and anticipation. "Your cup of coffee this morning... it was me. I drank it. It was me." Tobin's heart felt like it was going to climb up his throat. Richard approached him. He was going to get fired. He was going to get fired. He was going to get fired. Then who would pay the bills? A laugh. Laughter. Laughing. His boss was laughing. "Ah, yes... the vanilla latte. I'm quite amazed, really, that I'm not the only one in that horrid office who doesn't like their coffee black... those interns, especially, it's like they've got a stick up their behind..."
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Tobin sat there, not knowing what to say. Not knowing how to react. He smiled meekly. Richard patted him on the shoulder. "Well, I won't be a bother. I'll let you get your much needed rest. You've got the day off tomorrow." Tomorrow's Sunday... Tobin was about to say. But Richard was already walking out the door of the hospital room, turning his back on the ugly yellow walls. “Coffee…” he heard him mutter, chuckling to himself. “How absurd…” Tobin let out a breath. And all was well again.
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"Garden" by Veronika Lomets - 62 -
MARXIST LITERARY THEORY ANALYSIS OF SALLY ROONEY'S NORMAL PEOPLE by Emily Zalewski To hold its integrity, media must always be consumed through a critical lens; to grasp its full knowledge is to look at the content through a through different views ranging from political to romantic to economic. One of these perspectives is Marxism, created by philosopher Karl Marx. The use of Marxist theory contemplates the economic and social classes, oftentimes studied from a global perspective and seldom an interpersonal and intimate one. Marxism is the idea of abolishing class systems, claiming they are the root of all conflict between the proletariat, the working people, and the generally much wealthier bourgeoisie, who control the means of production. Sally Rooney’s Normal People—set during a troublesome financial time in Ireland —follows a couple, lower-class Connell and higher-class Marianne, and explores how deeply ingrained their economic statuses affect their daily lives. Under capitalism, the culture and education of these students are exploited, giving both an unattainable false title of superiority. Quietly, financial struggles haunt Connell while Marianne is completely blind and sheltered, unable to understand his feelings. Each character’s economic upbringing creates unique frames of mind that influence their decisions
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and in turn, lives as a whole. Rooney uses Marxist values to criticize the impact of class differences on an intimate scale, by examining the accessibility of culture and education, the mental health struggles of the lower class, and the way class shapes perspectives. Under a capitalist society, everything is commodified, including culture and education. By giving art and literature a price, they become attainable solely by the bourgeoisie. This idea is seen frequently from Connell’s perspective. For example, he attends a reading led by a visiting author and critiques it, claiming that “It was culture as class performance [...] for its ability to take educated people on false emotional journeys, so that they might afterward feel superior to the uneducated people whose emotional journeys they liked to read about” (Rooney 228). During the reading, Connell not only feels out of place, but also judges the audience and author for their true motives for being there: just to say that they attended a prestigious event. Despite Connell’s lower class, he demonstrates much more critical thought over the reading, instead of taking it at face value like his wealthier classmates. Literature is no longer a source of knowledge or education; it is a title of intelligence packaged and sold to the highest bidders. Capitalism, prioritizing and commodifying appearance, sells the idea: to be the smartest is to act the smartest, encouraging consumers to purchase books as a signal of culture rather than actually analyzing and learning from them. Following the reading, while recognizing that writing has become commodified, Connell still dives back into his writing. This is representative of the lower class’ acknowledgement of the system oppressing them, yet being unable to stop it single handedly, and instead choosing to try and benefit from it as much as possible. On a slightly larger scale, the commercialization of educational opportunities is also discussed
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through the two protagonists’ feelings towards receiving scholarships enabling them to travel: “This is why he’s been able to spend half the summer traveling around Europe, disseminating currency with the carefree attitude of a rich person” (165). For Connell, extra money is liberation from burdening payments and a ticket to experience culture first hand. He has to work and study harder to barely achieve what is automatically handed to Marianne. She is much more well travelled and sees the scholarship as “a happy confirmation of what she has always believed about herself anyway: that she’s special” (165). The scholarship provides a bittersweet glimpse into the lifestyle of a self-assured bourgeois like Marianne. It is one of the many temporary solutions thrown at the lower class, to motivate them to work harder for an unattainable status. Since travel is commodified, it becomes yet another token to sell the culture of the oppressed to the voluntarily ignorant bourgeoisie. Throughout the novel, Rooney studies not only interpersonal relationships that are affected by class differences, but also intrapersonal struggles such as mental health. The plot centers around a very turbulent time in the young characters’ lives; transitioning out of high school and into their twenties; looking for job opportunities and pursuing university studies. At this time more than ever, their success and self-worth is defined by their economic status and growth. This mentality particularly affects two characters: Rob and Connell. After leaving Carricklea to attend Trinity University, Connell hears that his old high school peer has committed suicide. Rob’s storyline describes a harsh reality for many young adults of the lower class. He is a victim of unfortunate circumstances that he cannot control that eventually lead to his downfall. Due to his low income, he is unable to escape his
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hometown, leaving him deserted by his friends and he is unable to access proper mental health resources. Rob had never been a likeable person; as Connell says, “He would have betrayed [...] any kindness, for the promise of societal acceptance” (219). The lower class are constantly looked down upon for their uncontrollable fate, creating people like Rob who bitterly strive for approval socially, when they cannot find it automatically through economic status. He falls through an unfortunately common pipeline, where low income and an unfixable capitalist system leads to limited opportunities and a lack of motivation, leading to lasting mental health issues. However, Connell has a different story; he is able to leave Carricklea and attend university in a more expensive city, yet he still struggles mentally because of financial burdens and self-esteem issues. He becomes severely depressed and develops deep insecurities; the resources available to him are underwhelming, like a free therapist that prescribes him worksheets and sends him off without substantial help. Lacking energy to cook for himself, Connell eats in the dining hall: “Connell feels profoundly and almost endurably alienated from his own body” (211). Anyone can struggle with mental health, like Marianne and her eating disorder. However, the additional burdens and sacrifices the proletariat are often forced to make can be further debilitating and harmful. Oftentimes, the lower class cannot afford a quality treatment or any professional help at all. In this romanticised stage of life, capitalism paints an idealistic picture of a future with opportunities and prosperity. In reality, Connell must face the truth of his place in society, that despite his efforts, who he befriends, he cannot change the financial status into which he is born. This status extends past economic power; it is the mentality of isolation and inferiority that he has grown up with and shaped him, therefore he can never escape it, manifesting itself into future troubles
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in his adult life, like low self worth and anxiety. Marxist theory states that “the relationship between workers and capitalists [...] is an exploitative social relationship. Not only is it exploitative, it is contradictory, with the interests of the two partners in the relationship being directly opposed to each other” (Marx on Social Class). This idea is expressed through the setting of the novel. Rooney chooses to focus the storyline on the children of the bourgeoisie and proletariat, who have not yet fully entered into society and the workplace, against the backdrop of an economically tumultuous time in Ireland. In doing so, the effects of class oppression are seen indirectly. Rooney examines its impact on the perspectives of both the proletariat and the bourgeoisie. Connell must quietly coexist with his own oppressors such as: “Jamie’s dad was one of the people who had caused the financial crisis— not figuratively” (Rooney 129). Class extends past economic exploitation, because relationships must be created between the bourgeoisie and proletariat to exploit in the first place. Therefore, this leaves space for social exploitation and belittlement as well, with each class holding their own mentalities, with which they have grown up. Connell and Marianne often misunderstand each other, because they cannot understand each other’s situations, despite exposure to as much leftist theory that Marianne claims to have read. Due to her status, she will never understand poverty, and in doing so, will not understand Connell’s inability to ask for help or his frugality. An example of this miscommunication is when the couple breaks up because Connell cannot afford to stay in Dublin, and he hopes Marianne will pay for his stay. However, he cannot ask and she assumes he is breaking up with her: “It just felt too much like asking her for money. [...] They had never talked, for example, about the fact that her mother paid his mother
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money to scrub their floors” (127). Their class differences play a clear role in their lives yet remain unspoken of. Wealth and status are made to be an uncomfortable topic; Connell does not want to feel pitied, despite his need for money to be able to uphold his relationship with Marianne. Again, the lower class must continue to sacrifice loved possessions or people simply to survive. The concept of ‘asking’ is completely foreign to Marianne because of her materialistic upbringing, therefore it is impossible for her to gauge what Connell is feeling. This miscommunication is a representation of the difficulty of speaking up in a capitalist society, as well as arguing about something with an obvious solution. In this case, there should not be people with an excess abundance of wealth, while others live in intense poverty; it should be clear to follow the lessons of Marxism, and remove the class system altogether. Both Connell and Marianne are presented with the opportunities to attend university and maintain a job, however, due to their individual financial upbringings, they view the roles of student and worker very differently. Marianne is surrounded by people of similar class and wealth who do not criticize her thoughts; she thrives and only gets a job out of boredom. She says, “money is just a social construct” (112). In fact, she criticizes people for working ‘menial’ jobs to survive, claiming they are not truly contributing to society. As a part of the bourgeoisie, she is incredibly tone deaf, and unable to put herself in others’ shoes, even to imagine the influence poverty has on the mind. For example, Connell is awarded the same experiences as her, however, he cannot enjoy them like Marianne does. His peers only seem to tolerate him when he is an extension of his higher class friends, making him feel excluded and underestimated. For example, the two attend a pool party, in which Marianne’s experience leaves her feeling appreciated: “She knew that if she wanted to speak, everyone would
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probably turn around and listen out of sincere interest” (119). Her inclusion is juxtaposed with her friends’ constant belittlement of Connell for his clothes and attitude, the parts of him unconsciously shaped by his low class. Connell must work his way through school, not only financially but also academically, in order to build a future for himself. Meanwhile Marianne’s experience is free of burden and simply an easy access to experience culture while cultivating friendships. Culture is woven into education, therefore when only truly accessible to the bourgeoisie, the substance is ruined and replaced by a fraudulent title of having critical thought. Impossibly high expectations for the lower class in a society built for the upper class create an internal turmoil of disappointment and self-hatred within the proletariat. Class dictates inferiority and superiority in more than just economic status; it shapes the outlook on every choice and experience. The novel, Normal People explores the lasting imprint of the class system through a Marxist lens in examining how relationships are impacted by the capitalization of vital experiences, the burdens of financial and social pressures, and the influences of status on attitudes. Rooney provokes questions as to how deep the class system dictates lives and relationships; she examines the possibility of healthy romantic relationships between different classes under a capitalist society, as well as the effects of classism towards not only the general public, but the way everyday people live and breathe amongst each other. Works Cited Rooney, Sally. Normal People. Vintage Canada, 2020. Marx on Social Class, uregina.ca/~gingrich/s28f99.htm.
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"The Divine Feminine" by Brianna Furtado - 70 -
"Rivendell" "Rivendell" by by Veronika Veronika Lomets Lomets - 72 -
Congratulations Graduating Members! Megan Arruda Grace Bogdani Sophie Costantino Brianna Furtado Marianna Gillies Veronika Lomets Stephanie Staibano Matylda Schwartz Justine Terka Ava Vendittelli Emily Zalewski
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BA LIT