Volume 2 - nostalgia by Feminal Magazine

FEMINAL

nostalgia

FEMINAL

nostalgia

4 the creatives behind FEMINAL

the writers of nostalgia

7 publisher's note poetry . . . "I Want Space" L. Ausman

Ghosted

L. Ausman

Away

Farrah Fray

More than My Skin Ria Chakraborty

Captured

Annie Wilson

Momma was A Rolling Stone Annie Wilson

"Letters to my hometown" Raychel Reimer

10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Hopeful Eyes Danielle Pike

Phoebe van Essche

Four-piece Dinner Set N. Collins

Saturdays at Baskin-Robbins Wanda Deglane

Cigarettes

Wanda Deglane

life writing . . . 22 Vanilla

Annie Wilson

Nostalgic Pains Fatma Shaban

Mining for Hope

17 18 19 20 21

24 26

Fatma Shaban

Her Eyes Hangama Ahmadzai

short stories . . . 30 Untitled

Cayla Ramey

Ivy in the Kitchen Danielle Pike

From the Pages of Time Anannya Nath

32 33 35

reviews . . . 38

Women & Power: A Manifesto By Mary Beard: a review Shannan Ffrench

The Heart Goes Last By Margaret Atwood: a mini review editor's pick

female friday features . . .

40 41

the creatives behind

FEMINAL Nastasia Delmedico editor-in-chief & publisher Cayla Ramey creative director & editor Stefy illustrator ig: @5tefyy

Special thanks to: Joe Delmedico Silvana Delmedico Jessica Laurenza Stephanie Criminisi Alexandra Muia Alyssa Vinci Mohamed Mahrous

EDITORIAL NOTE

NO PORTION OF THIS MAGAZINE MAY BE REPRINTED, DUPLICATED OR TRANSMITTED WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER. SUBMISSIONS ARE MADE AT THE RISK OF THE SENDER; FEMINAL MAGAZINE WILL ASSUME NO LIABILITY FOR LOSS OR DAMAGE. OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN FEMINAL MAGAZINE ARE THOSE OF THE AUTHORS AND DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OF THE PUBLISHER. FEMINAL MAGAZINE DOES NOT ASSUME LIABILITY FOR CONTENT.

the

writers of

nostalgia

Anannya Nath ig: @_the_verbivore_poetry_ blog: writingwithmysoul.wordpress.com Annie Wilson ig: @2legit2qu_ Cayla Ramey ig: @cayrayray Danielle Pike ig: @thedarlingmoon Farrah Fray ig: @farrah_fray twitter: @farrahfrayy Fatma Shaban Hangama Ahmadzai ig: @joypainlovewrite tumblr: @joypainlovewrite mirakee: @joypainlovewrite

L. Ausman twitter: @lucilleausman N. Collins Phoebe van Essche Raychel Reimer ig: @rrxwords Ria Chakraborty ig: @ria17sep Shannan Ffrench ig: @shannanicolee Wanda Deglane ig: @wd.poetry twitter: @wanadalizabeth

#feminalmagazine

the publisher's note nostalgia

The photograph on the left was taken by my brother last summer. We just finished eating at Via Mercanti, an authentic, brick-oven pizza shop on Augusta Avenue in Toronto. My mother, father, brother, and grandparents sat around a table laughing. My nonno fake-fought with my nonna to make the waitress laugh. I remember my father not only looking happy but feeling happy. My brother and I were laughing at each other’s ridiculous jokes, the aftermath being half my glass of water on my shirt. This is usually how our family gatherings go, but looking back at the pure joy we all felt in those moments is something that I'll never forget. It’s gatherings like these you rarely realize how much your family will mean to you in the future, the ones you wish you were more present for. This volume celebrates memories, good and bad. I hope you enjoy reading each writer’s courageous delve into the past, as much as I enjoyed putting this volume together. As always, here’s to women and reading their stories.

Nastasia Delmedico Editor-in-Chief / Publisher

#feminalmagazine

p o e t r y

i caught a glimpse of a memoryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the kind you never forget, that ineluctably appears like the lines on the palms of your hands. but when the past returns with so much life, is it still a memory?

"I Want Space"

#feminalmagazine

By L. Ausman

While I was growing up, There were glow-in-the-dark plastic stickers on my ceiling in the shape of stars and moons and rockets— I kept them there for too long. You aren't supposed to have glow-in-the-dark stickers on your ceiling when you are 16, But when was I supposed to know to throw them out? They lit up my room in the night. They made me dizzy as my head rocked against the headboard. They were almost like the real thing— The real sky, the real stars. If I squinted enough, they twinkled. The rockets were red and long and fleeting. "Phallic," my cousin told me, before I knew what that meant. The whole collection of light was (just as the package had told me) "out of this world." You were more real than them, You were there—skin and bones and meat. You grounded me. Sometimes, since we said goodbye, I press my knuckles into my eyes and see the stars again. Sometimes I drink or smoke too much and they come back again. Boys have rocketed in and out of my life since you— Leaving as fast as they came You still orbit around my head. Your body is still real, But my head is filled with plastic stars You are like a time capsule: the kind of pill that is hard to swallow. I wish you were a space capsule—and that you would blast out of here. Except, still, maybe I would follow.

poetry / nostalgia

Ghosted

By L. Ausman The stream of blue messages on the right side of my phone flow from me like water, just trying to cool my burning face, But the blank space to the left stares back Empty Lifeless Whiteâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Ghosting is what they call it. When the words flow one direction and the messenger is left only with static. No notifications come. Check furiously, but time doesn't matter hereâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; this is Purgatory. Not wrong but not right either; It's just nothing. Just quiet haunting silence while waiting for venial sins to be forgiven. Here you find ghosts of coffee dates and one night stands and the past of long-term lovers transcending time and space everywhere and nowhere. Sometimes if you watch for long enough, the grey cloud appears lurking in the corner of the screen. It looks like something might be there, it might be living, moving, it might have even noticed you, missed you, come for you, but noâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;it will disappear again just like a ghost.

#feminalmagazine Away

By Farrah Fray I hate new houses,

essays without your punctuation marks inserted, loose bras with no inserts that you’d still like, I hate our heads against the grass against daisies soft like cotton fluff, I hate ice built up in the fridge, my friend’s kitchen, and the taste of rosé, I hate the things I’ll never hear you say. I hate the city and the big white planes that stay for a while before flying away.

poetry / nostalgia

More than My Skin By Ria Chakraborty

Beyond the airport faรงades, an entire universe of unfamiliarity awaits. With the taste of my motherland on my tongue, I carry an ocean of aspirations on my brown skin. A foreign accent playfully twists my mouth; homemade suppers are traded for delicacies. I find myself yearning to fly halfway across the world with a jet-lagged soul. Homesickness settles in my chest as nameless strangers stroll past me. Daydreams laced with the scent of the nation nurture and envelope my being as I attempt to find a place for myself in a country where I have to learn to be more than just the hue of my skin.

#feminalmagazine Captured

By Annie Wilson I awoke with a craving for bagels and lox and the coffee you would make in the little French press while I showered on Sunday mornings. This conjured the memory of your scowl as we would sit facing one another in old, high-backed chairs with the chess board between us. I thank you for teaching me to play chess— but the challenge was never the game set out before us. I won each and every mental match, as I fought the urge to disrupt those carefully placed pieces and come to you across that board. To accept the gift you offered— a home in your arms, a generosity I could not fathom. I thank you for showing me that it's okay to walk along narrow city streets and throw my dog's waste into random garbage dumpsters without fear of reproach. I remember your Turkish coffee— it was always too sweet for my taste, but you were always sweet. You are the late winter afternoon, driving in a downpour for ice cream, always holding my hand. You were always vowing to be good the next day. You were always saccharine. I no longer play chess on cold weekend mornings in an old, draughty home, just stumbling distance from Bardstown Road. But there are moments that the challenge continues, and I must keep winning this game, because I know, in the end, capturing this queen is not what we need.

poetry / nostalgia

Momma was A Rolling Stone By Annie Wilson

My mother was hot rollers, scratchy sweaters, and desperation for lousy men. She was a tarnished antique necklace with multicoloured gems and her collection of Native American artifacts. Always perpetually stoned.

#feminalmagazine "Letters to my hometown" By Raychel Reimer

You were there on my first day of school and I may not remember it, but you do doing cartwheels in the field with my best friend who later moved across town You were there with the boy who couldn’t seem to eat chocolate pudding without smearing it all over his chin and the day he proposed to the prettiest girl in school with a tied up piece of grass You were giggling, too when she said yes, yes, yes When I fell in love for the first time, beneath a willow tree and when I stripped naked in the slanted attic of his home with the TV loud and our voices low I still write letters to you about how things used to be but you can’t hear me over the cheers of high school boys at a Friday night football game So I live amongst the whispers of other ghosts who got away with all of the “I miss you” letters that were sent to our old homes But when I drive by the “welcome” sign and see the population increasing… Well, maybe none of it mattered anyway

poetry / nostalgia

Hopeful Eyes

By Danielle Pike

I remember my forehead pressed up against glass, two tiny hands beneath my chin, two tiny legs reaching toward the open space between the back and front seats. I remember open space on each side of us, too, filled with animals and wildflowers and Earth's lush greens. I'm not sure how long we had been driving, only that every time my eyes drifted, my dad would gesture for me to look. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Look out the window,â&#x20AC;? he would tell me, and I would. My eyes would narrow then widen as I took in the magnificent sights of the world he allowed me to witness. Such an act of love, this allowing I was granted. Now, my legs reach a little further, and my two hands hold the wheel on their own, but still, my heart swells each time I see a mountain in the distance, purples in the sky, birds dancing with the trees. And so, I guess you can say the greatest lesson my dad ever taught me was to look at the view, to find beauty in the open spaces, and the dark ones all the same. And how lucky I have been to be given these hopeful eyes that once belonged to him.

#feminalmagazine V

By Phoebe van Essche My nails are the soft blue tinge of a sequin dress I wore because it showed off my legs. A new version of the same girl on the dance floor of the bat mitzvah. I swayed softly to the bad Miami club music thinking about how this time nothing much was different.

poetry / nostalgia

Four-piece Dinner Set By N. Collins i donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t like to set the table. four forks four knives four spoons four glasses four plates four napkins placed atop a circular glass table until one of us isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t home and i fall to habit, preparing the table with four napkins four plates four glasses four spoons four knives four forks.

#feminalmagazine Saturdays at Baskin-Robbins By Wanda Deglane

i recently found a photograph of my mother and father at baskin-robbins in early ‘99. my mother giggled into her hands while my father tried to gobble up the cone in front of him. i was only a month old but i knew she had chocolate in her bowl and his cone had strawberry. i knew though i often forget that i once came out of them. the previous march when my mother discovered that inside of her grew a daughter she never asked for she punched my dad right in the face and when she first told me this, i thought it was funny and now i’m not laughing. she sleeps in my bed, and i know this because i came home and found my bedspread tussled and tissues hidden in my blankets when normally everything here is so tidy, it had been slept in recently; the person who slept here was likely rather upset; my mom hasn’t been sleeping with my father in weeks and she cries here every night instead of in her bed, she wakes in an unfamiliar room every morning and she is unhappy. you’re being overdramatic says the brother who was taught to ignore every problem boiling in our household since he could crawl. he laughs and says, she’s clearly just trying to get away from dad’s snoring. and the tissues? i ask. she’s been crying. allergies, he says, she’s always had allergies. but that’s too simple. she doesn’t come with us to baskin-robbins on saturdays anymore, and she looks at my father only with contempt and she pretends, but she doesn’t like chocolate ice cream anymore or much of anything. what i mean to say is, that photograph from ‘99 tore something out of me. i hope that at one point my mother and father truly were happy.

poetry / nostalgia

Cigarettes

By Wanda Deglane

I know you’re coming in the night, late, when you hear my stifled cries against my pillow. I see the crack of light pouring in from the hallway, hear the shuffling of your feet as they move towards me, Your soft, gruff voice searching for me in the dark. Wandita? What’s wrong? What has happened? Your hands feel around for my legs, finding them under blankets, and you pat them carefully. My tears won’t stop coming, and you stop asking why. Deep down, I knew nothing had to be spoken, not by me or anyone. You already knew. He was your 50-year addiction, wasn’t he? You met him in your neighbourhood at 14, and he sold you your first pack of cigarettes. I would have said something had I known. Had I realized every puff of smoke, Every drag, must have tasted of a half-century of bitterness, of regret, of something broken you could never quite get back. I would have spoken so much more carefully if I knew how he left, years later, but his cigarettes remained; Left in the packs you smoked daily, and in the smell that clung to your clothes, and how he simply vanished into thin air, leaving you scrounging for jobs here and there, anything to muster enough food for the two small children he left behind. I would have hugged you closer after every cough and wheeze, knowing it is him still in your lungs, wrecking you from the inside out. I would have understood why the tears formed in your eyes when you threw out your last pack of Marlboros and didn’t once turn back. I would have cried with you. Now your eyes fill with tears once more as they gaze upon your descendant, at the pain also clinging to my clothes and choking out my lungs. If anyone could understand my tears, it’s you.

#feminalmagazine

women fell over him like rain, but he chose me.

life writing

#feminalmagazine Vanilla

By Annie Wilson

I am always a little surprised when people say that, as children, they never knew they were poor, often only ever realizing their realities as they grew older. I imagine the realization as a parting gift of sorts, leaving behind the innocence of sheltered childhood. The comments are always the same, something along the lines of “we didn’t know we were poor, because there was so much love.” I was always aware of my state of poverty—it was a fact of life from which I fought to escape. I felt it. I saw it in the eyes of my friends’ parents. I could not wash it away. It left a bitter taste on my tongue from which I waged a constant war to remove. My junior high mascot was a demon. We were the Centertown Demons. The school was an albatross of a building. Old. Brick. Every footstep that landed upon the wooden floorboards echoed. Radiators were used to heat the classrooms. Remnants of melted crayon ran down the sides of the hot metal. It was a humid, oppressive heat. The playground was across the street from the school. In the Spring, the rusting 55 gallon drum trash cans swarmed with yellow jackets. Drawn to empty soda cans. I recall someone being stung on nearly a daily basis. I detested the food from the school cafeteria. I was thin and preferred to not eat unless it was on one of the rare days that I liked the meal. I was used to waiting. We rarely had dependable meals at home and I would pretend to not be hungry when visiting my friends—my stubborn and independent nature already apparent at an early age. But there was an old, soft serve ice cream machine in the cafeteria where you could buy the sweetest vanilla ice cream year-round for 30 cents a serving, dispensed in a frail, white paper cup with a tiny plastic spoon. And this is what I wanted. I went on to become the valedictorian of my 8th grade class. Perhaps, this made me the most devilish of the demons. Twenty-three years later, I found myself alone in Cuba. I was not a stranger to poverty, but other foreigners I met seemed unprepared for what they encountered—although there was a difference between what I observed and the poverty that I had known. The most lovely example was that of a Cuban woman vigorously sweeping away the small puddles of rain gathered on the worn cobblestones in front of her house; her careful pride and care on display. I could not help but compare this to the waste of neglected, unneeded, unnecessary plastic objects that I had seen on my most recent visit to the place where I was raised. These items so hastily purchased and discarded. Items once lusted after shamelessly, now abandoned. In these discarded things, there was a pain I had known. The food and drink in Havana was sweet. Dunida, a bright, young woman that I had met in Havana, a local, told me that food and drink is sweet in Cuba because life is not sweet for the people; that sugar is used to compensate for the sweetness that is lacking in the day. Walking along those simmering streets of Havana, eating my syrupy sweet ice cream out of its delicate cup—I felt divine. I did not think about the blisters on my feet from wearing my leather shoes in the rain. My thoughts turned to that vanilla ice cream from years ago. How it sweetened the day when I could buy a little cup. I thought about how far removed I was from that time and that place and about how hard I had worked in so many ways. I thought about the things we can change and those we cannot. The things that help make us into who we become and all of the things that make life sweeter. The rain became unforgiving and Dunida and I decided to share a pedicab. She was around my age and began to tell me some details about her life in Cuba. She told me that you never have to question the intentions of Cuban men, adding, “if they think it, they say it, and if they say it they mean it.” Then she smiled and said, "and they all mean it, Annie." Young men in uniforms walked past, blowing kisses. She taught me taunts in Spanish to yell back at the boys. She was beautiful. I arrived back at the Ambos Mundos. I decided to have a drink at the bar and listen to the sounds of the piano player, today accompanied by a flautist, while I waited for the storm to pass.

life writing / the open edition As the rain began to subside, I headed back out unto the streets of Old Havana, walking carelessly through the dark puddles. The cool water soothing the burning sensation in my feet of which I was now vaguely aware. I continued my walk, heading toward the water, now smoking a cigar. A Romeo and Juliet. The brand recommended for ladies by the man at the shop. He had made this suggestion as he sat at his small wooden desk topped with a display of cigars and a picture of Vladimir Putin. The cigar was rich but smooth. I breathed it in as I walked across the darkening plaza. I could smell the water. The breeze carried the scent to me from across the harbour. It cooled my skin and I exhaled my smoky breath. I thought about sharing the rich taste of the cigar on my lips with someone. I picked a small piece of tobacco from my lower lip and smiled. I crossed the busy street filled with bright automobiles, scooters, and horse drawn buggies. I reached my destination. The Malecon. It was dotted with lovers, fishermen, and members of the military. Some seemed free to do as they pleased while others were stopped and questioned and then scurried along by the those in uniform. I continued my walk. A constant observer until stopped by a young man. An anesthesiologist, also traveling alone. He had lost his lighter. Having just arrived today, I was the elder statesman in both age and tenure. We walked together. He asked if I'd like to get a drink. I had a place in mind. He needed cigarettes and waterâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and he still needed that lighter. We made a stop for these things along the way and then on to the rooftop bar that I had suggested. He appreciated the view. He understood the ambiance of this place. I put the cold beer against my lips. I pressed the chilled glass against my neck and asked myself, what more could I possibly want. We made plans for the following night. The night of my birthday. And I wanted something sweet.

#feminalmagazine Nostalgic Pains By Fatma Shaban

Everyone on Earth should have a reason to love you. Your partner loves you for your love and care; Your kids love you for your everlastingly support and compassion; Your friends love you for your charisma and generosity; Your neighbours love you for your kind and courteous gestures; Your colleagues love you for your understanding and encouraging attitude— Even the porter in your office loves you for the tips you always give. The only people on Earth who love you without reason are your parents. You might be busy, not showing them you care, yet they still love you. You might forget their birthdays or feel irritated by their continuing concern for you, yet they still love you. I miss my parents and I wish they could come back to life, just for a day. I am nostalgic for each day they cared, loved, and pampered me. I am nostalgic for my mom’s baking and cooking, I am nostalgic for my dad’s wisdom, I am even nostalgic for their angry moments. I don’t need a day, only an hour. Yes, nostalgia could be painful. Yes, nostalgia could be painful. If your parents are alive, tell them I do love you and I do want to support you, this might one day help you, though nostalgia will just pain you.

life writing / nostalgia

Mining for Hope By Fatma Shaban

When I was with my dad in Dhaka in the 60s, he received a telegraph from a friend in Egypt informing him that my eldest brother accidentally died. It was the worst news to hear at the tender age of 10, and a tremendous shock for my dad as well. At this news, two things came to mind: the first being the possibility of my father collapsing from the distress, and the second being that the telegraph was an April Fool’s joke as it arrived to us on the first of April—a vogue celebration in our culture at that time. The latter idea soothed me, so much so that I influenced my father to believe that the news was a genuine April Fool’s hoax because that friend of his used to have a unique sense of humour. To my astonishment, my father believed me and was temporarily relieved. He then suggested to leave me with a family friend in Dhaka until he returned from Egypt to uncover the whole story. Unfortunately, what he discovered was true—my eldest brother did pass away. However the period between knowing the truth and believing it was much more tolerable and easier for both of us until the shocked melted and was absorbed. Twenty years later, when I was 30, my dad told me that the April Fool’s joke that I convinced him of during the passing of my brother saved him from behaving unwisely or losing his mind in my presence. Today, as I recall this story, tears fill up my eyes. Yet, I am happy that I learned something that has helped me a lot in my life whenever I face painful situations, and that is to give a chance for the least wishful thought to master the scene or at least give the faintest shadows of optimism to highlight it. Mining for gold from the deepest point on Earth can sometimes be easier than mining for hope from the deepest point in our minds, but we must always try and retry when the first attempt fails. Sometimes we have to cling to false hopes to save ourselves from temporarily losing our minds.

#feminalmagazine Her Eyes

By Hangama Ahmadzai

Her eyes do not speak any more. Her face is mostly blank. Her voice does not dance with the highs and lows of life’s little experiences. Her words do not make much sense, her hands tremble and her movements lack the confidence they once held. She has become what she once feared the most—dependent. I don’t know why or how but the light of being is slowly dimming from my mom. Maybe she is still in there, maybe she is just trapped. I don’t know. All I know is Alzheimer’s is taking my hero away from me and there is nothing I can do about it but watch in despair. From time to time, though, there are glimpses of the fire beneath those glazed stares. Her mouth forms a smile that sometimes reminds me of her witty sense of humour, of her joy for her children, of her determination to be happy despite the hardships of her past life. My mom was a walking, talking celebration of love. She’s touched the lives of everyone I know and so many people that I do not know. She saw the good in everyone and never failed to express that to them. At a time when Afghan immigrants were arriving in Canada daily, she was the only one looking out for the women. She would push them to take English classes, to learn to drive, and to be active in their children’s lives as well as their communities. Her anecdotes of encouragement, which she spread with a generosity that would always surprise me, are still talked about and reminisced over, even today. She worked the hardest on her four rowdy children. I cannot remember any major decision that I made without talking it up with my mom. She understood us, our behaviours, our strengths, our weaknesses, and what we needed to achieve our best. She was intuitive, and at times I felt that she had a layer of knowledge that I could not touch nor aspire towards because it was hers and hers alone. She never let go of her children's hands no matter how badly we may have treated her, especially during our crucial teenage years. She hovered over us, cajoled us, guided us, loved us, scolded us, nurtured us, inspired us, and wanted nothing but the best for us and from us. Everything about her was alive and exuded energy and spirit. It is hard watching her now. I just want to shatter through this façade of lifeless, stone-faced ambivalence and inactivity. I want to pull her through the layers of degeneration and bring her back to the life force that she was and still is in our lives. Does she know how much we love her? Is she aware of the difference she has made in so many lives? Does she sense her situation? Does she feel as helpless as I do when I ask her for her advice and all I get in return is a blank stare? I hate Alzheimer’s. I detest it. I loathe it. I want to strangle it with my bare hands until the last remnant of life and importance leaves it and does not enter it again. It robs, it thieves, it destroys, and it shatters. My mom has four beautiful grandchildren. They are all amazing little girls from ages 1–9. My own daughter has a lot of her grandmother in her. She has her spirituality, her logical problem-solving skills, her love for nature, her old soul and old knowledgeable way of being. I feel sorry that her grandchildren have not had a fair chance to get to know their strong, beautiful, and loving grandmother. My mom adored children and they in turn flocked to her. Every child on our street knew her and her generosity as she would often give them treats and toys, or inquire about them—my mom did nothing but spread joy. These children still ask about her and tell me stories about the side of my mom that I missed out on with my busy working life at the time. Sometimes I wonder if she had slowly taken the light out of her eyes by spreading it through the crowds of people surrounding her and admiring her. In doing so, she’s now left without light. I feel that she gave herself so much to others that she forgot her own existence at times. She submitted her selfless being to everyone, so much so that it left her with little time for herself. Her eyes may not speak anymore but the eyes of so many speak of their love for her as they see her now. Her face may be blank but she animated the faces of all of us with smiles and laughter and continues to do so even today. Her speech may not make sense anymore but it was her words that pushed so many to achieve their best, to excel, to love, to be healthy and happy. She may move without confidence now but she instilled a steel confidence in me that very few have shaken. She may be dependant now but she gave her children so much strength to become so independent that they can take care of her, their families, work, and their interests without hesitation or difficulty.

poetry / nostalgia

She is in all of usâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;we carry her with us piece by piece, little by little, kind gesture by kind gesture, loving word by loving word. She dedicated her life to others and in doing so left us with glimpses of her in the many peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lives that she changed, touched, and had an influence upon. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s how she comes out and expresses herself. She lives on, thankfully, along with her legacy not only through her children and her grandchildren but also through her friends and complete strangers. Her selfless deeds will continue and pass themselves on for generations to come. So, even if she is trapped behind those eyes that no longer speak, the voices of many have spoken for her and about her with much love, respect, and admiration. She is my hero and the only person I aspire to be when I grow up.

s h o r t s to r i e s

are you happy? can you hear me? you’re looking down. are you happy? no, your phone died. let’s talk. say something. you’ve gone cold. overheated phone battery. phoneship.

#feminalmagazine Untitled

By Cayla Ramey My mama was a storyteller, born on the sands of Egypt. She would sit on the beach and spin tales to anyone who would listen. They tell me that she was a gypsy; they said many things about her that could never be true. I know because she was my blood and I always knew when she was telling me a story. Her tales were always soft and intimate, like her black hair when she left it unbraided. The blue-black of her curls was her softest feature, because her green eyes glowed sharply against her almond skin and made her look as though she were ready to attack at any moment. “My child,” she would say, “who shined you as if you were a china doll sitting on a shelf? Wait until a boy comes along and turns you pink! What a colour.” Truly though, it was her who had such odd colouring and everyone would turn to stare at her when she passed. Once, she took me to the beach on a rainy day and made me watch the water with her. “There are things that the fish do not tell us.” She had walked knee deep into the water and stooped to grasp something. She turned slowly towards me, back on the wet sand, and smiled. Her mouth was wide, like mine, but her teeth were small. She held something gold up between her fingers. "Gold!” She exclaimed, and laughed as she ran towards me. She must have carried it there in the pocket of her skirt, but she was so enthusiastic as she handed it to me that I took it and smiled back. “It is the scale of a fish! Have you ever seen a picture of a goldfish? They call them ‘koi’. They bring you hazz sa'eed, good luck.” “Impossible,” I told her. “Ach,” she said, a noise that she gurgled in the back of her throat when she was displeased. “Foolish girl, is it impossible that you bring me such luck? So be it, leading a life as to not believe in things. There must be fish here, but they would not want you to know it. They would probably turn you into one of them if they knew you had found out. My daughter with golden scales, ha! You would look even more fragile.” Mama walked on her tiptoes, sinking in the sand with each pointed step. “I will be at home.” As if she knew already that I had planned on staying, she left without waiting for me. The rain had settled already, which meant she no longer wanted to be wet. I set myself on the sand, digging my toes into the grains. How could I imagine a fish that was meant to bring good luck? It was just the same as any Israeli myth, except mama was never interested in those. ‘Rubbish,’ I could hear her say, as if she were an English woman. Though a fish that could bring me gold and good luck, what a thought. Quickly, I stood and ran into the water and sat where I thought my mama had been standing. I dug my fingers into the sand around me, not really knowing what I was searching for. I pulled up rocks, mostly. No gold; not even a twinkle in the light. I gave up and looked at the sky to watch as the sun beat aside the clouds. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw something flash. I looked to the side and saw nothing, it must have been my imagination. How silly to believe that such a fairytale would magically come to life. I hummed out loud before I stood up. I wondered what mama would say if I told her I saw the koi. Even now, I could imagine her smiling and laughing at me. “My child,” she would say, “Now who believes in stories? You should have caught him, then. You must be quicker next time.” She would spread her arms wide open and clap them together faster than I could blink, and it would startle me. She always did that. “Koi,” I had said that day, out loud. Laughing at the word and the thought of my mama’s funny mind.

short stories / nostalgia

Ivy in the Kitchen By Danielle Pike

There's ivy hanging in the kitchen with its leaves reaching, sprouting, growing. The natural light unmasks its various shades, and the once bare window now looks like green bliss. I feel happy to have placed such beauty among beauty, such life among life. I'm sitting in the living room, surrounded by white walls and dad's chair to my right. The volume on the television is turned up a bit too high, and something political is filling the air. Another newscaster with another story has my dad tuned in. I suppose we all need a thing to believe in, something to be passionate about. I let myself smile as my dad's whole mind and body absorbs the information emanating from the screen. He's inspiring, really, the way he feels the pain of the world so easily, so attentively, with such a need to make a change. My toes can feel winter approaching, I glance on the floor for my slippers, but I don't see them. They're probably hiding under the couch along with the rest of my forgotten things. I think to myself how I should start caring for the clutter, and myself, and maybe politics. The thoughts carry on and on. All the while, my dad thinks I'm watching the news with him, as he's unaware of my inner world. I catch a glimpse of the ivy in the kitchen. There's suddenly a heaviness in my chest begging for attention, begging for release. The ivy reminds me of an old air plant my mom used to have when I was a young girl. We lived in many places, over several years, but the plant always came with us. Appearing as if it spread from the ceiling to the floor, it grew and grew over our worn-in, oak kitchen table. I use to admire the way it demanded its own space, allowing itself to extend into existence without hesitation, or resistance. Its greenyellow centres and white edges looked like something tangible, like something memories are made of. How I loved that plant, and you could tell my mom loved it, too. I don't remember a single day in which the plant looked thirsty or begging for love. I don't remember a single day in which it went without water. I suppose we all need a thing to believe in, my mind whispers. I stay seated in the leather chair, and let my thoughts wander back to these places with ease. I don't resist, I just follow them to where they need to go in this moment. My heart loosens a bit as my mind focuses on my mom, and my eyes focus on the ivy. I wish she loved herself in the way she loved her plant, and her children, and her husband, too. I wish she didn't let herself run dry for all those years, leaving her with almost nothing left to water. An image of her smile spreads across my memory, leaving me in a state of ease, but shortly after this it turns cold, and tears begin to run down her cheeks. Perhaps I have failed to see my mother's pain up until now. Perhaps my own pain has made it difficult to do so. My mom likely cried in the dark hours, wishing she could be more than life permitted for her, for us. Today, her slumped shoulders tell this story, and my body can suddenly feel the weight she once carried. I wish I could have helped her with the heaviness. I wish I could have realized the extent of her suffering before this moment. My mind carries me through a maze of bad memories and good ones. I take comfort in her smile once more, and her unwavering ability to keep any hardships a secret from her children, if only for a short while. Through any sadness she endured, her arms never failed to extend softly in the night, hugging us gently when we needed it. And I suppose she needed those gentle hugs, too. We were always fed, and bathed, and tickled until laughter borrowed our breath. But most notably, the plant was always lush. The plant was always vibrant. My mind returns to the present, and I notice my toes feel cooler than a few minutes before. The heaviness in my chest has moved to the corner of my eyelids and my lips, though heavy doesn't seem like the right word any longer. I pull the ivy from the window, begin trimming its leaves. With each piece I tend to, my heart opens and releases a bit more. A glass of water pours from my hand to the plant, each drop being soaked up like life depends on it. The soil thanks me, and the leaves do, too.

#feminalmagazine My feet lead me back to the leather seat where I wrap a purple blanket around myself. My mother's face appears before me once more, as if she had just tucked me in herself. I smile, relishing in all of the warmth she provided us with when she could. I wish I could go back and hold her hand, tell her everything would turn out just fine. I would whisper to her softly in the night and tell her that her babies would be okay, and so would she. But instead I pick up the phone and dial her number. She answers, and there's a gentleness to her voice tonight. She sounds happy. We exchange conversation about work, and poetry, and even politics, too. And just before we hangup, I tell her there's ivy hanging in the kitchen reminding me of her; reminding me of all she has allowed me to become, because of all she has ever been.

short stories / nostalgia

From the Pages of Time By Anannya Nath

Furkating, Golaghat, Assam, India, 1950. Every Sunday, at exactly five in the morning, the maal gaadi would halt at the Furkating Railway junction. Wagons stuffed with coal would be leashed to the main coach. The errand required about an hour, giving Birbhadra and his squad enough time to dislodge almost a complete sack of coal. Stealing was as fun as it was risky and the plans were executed in the manner that they were organized. Birbhadra, the oldest of the boys, was the one who stole. Waiting for him hunched behind the wheel was Renudhar, the schoolmaster’s 11-year-old son. About a metre away, Chaytanya, the only girl who was also the eldest, was posted atop a 12' tall coconut tree. Subendhar was in charge of keeping an eye on the empty village road as he was the youngest, although it was a bit too far from the scene of crime. Their siren for trouble was to bark hysterically. After successfully pilfering half a bag of coal, when the three of them were heading for the richest wholesaler of the town, a pious rotund Brahmin infamous for black marketing, Subendhar, blocked their way, panting for breath. “Pitai… Pitai is coming,” he addressed Chaytanya and Renudhar. “What? This early? But Khura goes nowhere on Sundays!” protested Birbhadra, the only outsider. “Bir, let’s hide. He will kill us. Please,” Renudhar almost begged. Without wasting further time, the four of them veered towards their left, running clumsily on the road that led to a swamp filled with wild ferns and coconut trees. A little further left was a pond coated with duckweed and water lilies, behind which was a small mound of bare earth. This was their hideout and, despite the morning mist, the four sat huddled on the shimmering grass. Birbhadra spoke first. “Shit. We cannot sell this till next Sunday,” he said as he fist bumped the ground. “I already warned you yesterday. But you wouldn’t listen to me. Now suffer,” Chaytanya added to his rage. “It’s not my fault. I was quick. But your idiotic brother took ages to pack the bag,” sulked Birbhadra, directing his eyes to Renudhar. “Oh really! Listen Bir, if any of us is caught, we won’t spare you,” Chaytanya threatened. She always did. Birbhadra smirked. After what seemed like half an hour, Renudhar and Subendhar were sent to see if the road was clear. Once they left, Birbhadra asked, “What do we do with it now?” “Like always, dig it in here and wait till the next week,” Chaytanya replied. They both dug the mound with naked hands and meticulously placed the polythene bag inside. After refilling it with soil, they tapped the ground evenly to leave no sign of cruelty. “Where do you think Khura was going?” asked Birbhadra. “Pitai said yesterday that he had some work in Titabor. He has to come before sunset. Maybe that’s why he decided to travel early,” Chaytanya replied, levelling the dirt beneath her. “What work?” “I don’t know. But he caressed my head while saying that. He becomes sentimental sometimes,” she smiled. An airplane flew above their heads. Chaytanya covered her ears but beamed. It was a rare sight to see.

“Someday Chaya, I will travel the entire world in that winged ship, ” said Birbhadra. Thinking it to be an adolescent’s fantasy, Chaytanya pat him on the shoulder. She bore a look which affirmed how hollow his words sounded. But Birbhadra could sense her sympathy. “I’m serious! What do you think I do with the money we get from selling this coal? I save it! Last year, I slid open the bamboo post near our…” he paused, “Why am I telling this? Anyways, will you be there to see me fly?” he asked ardently. Chaytanya’s smile fell. “I will come to see you fly, if I do not stay here by then.” “Where will you go? I will not let you go, you know. I will marry you.” He turned grave. “You can’t!” she flushed. “Why not?” “Because I am older than you.” “I’m 14 and you are 15. Just by one year!” “No. I can’t marry you because Pitai—” She reconsidered. “Go on. Because your father is a reputed schoolmaster while mine is an indebted farmer,” he admitted with an apparent look of dismay. “No, I didn’t mean to. I am sorry. I—” They were cut off by a low whistle which indicated that they were safe to come out. They scooted out of the swamp without making a sound. Later that night, Chaytanya was summoned by her father. “What is it Pitai?” she asked, studying her father’s solemn look. “Chaya, come. Sit,” he said, as he gestured her to sit on his bed. He pulled a chair and seated himself in front of her. “My dear, do you know why I went to Titabor today?” “No Pitai…” she stared at him. He took her hand in his. “So, I went to visit a friend of mine. He used to work as a clerk in the Missionary school. He has a son, a graduate.” His eyes dropped. She extracted her palm. “They are good people Chaya, like us. You’ll be happy there. They will allow you to continue with your education. Not every family does that these days,” he said while lightly kissing her forehead. And that was it—she was hitched to a man seven years her senior. Until the day of conjugal feast, her movements were restricted to the seven acres of land where her house stood. No boys were allowed to see her, except for her brothers. Chaytanya’s mother busied herself with infusing feminine virtues in her while her father could hardly talk to her. She could see he was regretful. Chaytanya could feel his guilt swelling up all around him, shoving him into its ignominious pit. Only on one Sunday morning, two days post her engagement rituals, did she sneak out of her house. Earlier, Subendhar had given her a small sheet of paper where Bir had requested her to come and meet him for one last time. Taking the shenanigans’ steps, she went off to their realm of adventure—the swamp. When she faced him, Bir fixed his stare upon her. He stared at her dull, yellow coloured mekhla chadar clad body, her slender hands, the parting of her hair carrying a streak of vermillion for another man. He contorted and feigned a laugh, trying to ease his own gloom.

“You look so funny, Saikiani," he mocked. Chaytanya let out a small smile. He came forward and took her hand. She shivered for a while. Bir unfastened his dirty kerchief and took out a ball point pen. It was, of course, an ordinary pen. One of the least expensive gifts of all time. But it was all he could afford. This made the token expensive. “For you,” he said, pressing it into her palm. She accepted it ruefully. “I traded it for my hoarded money. You were right. I really had unrealistic dreams,” he paused and winked, “like wishing to marry you, for instance.” Chaytanya mouthed a thank you. “I have to go Chaya. I am working with Pitai these days. Help to pay the debts faster—Oh! And don’t just use it casually. Write with it when you become something—write about whatever you love,” he blinked and waved at her. Chaytanya saw a buoyant face biding her farewell. She never noticed the tears that had instantly replaced the shine of his eyes once he turned away. Dehradun, Uttar Pradesh, India, 2000 In the undulating city of Dehradun, Chaytanya sits contended that she has lived 65 years of her life worth bragging. She occupies a small room of her youngest daughter’s new apartment. Chaytanya with her wonderful graduate husband has raised five children, each one settled into the different parameters of life. After ending a journey of 30 years as a school teacher and now widowed for nearly five years, Chaytanya picks up a pen which dates back to three years following independence to write that phase of her life which demands fortitude. Chaytanya knows now what Bir always meant. He has been her perennial source of hope. Write with it when you become something, he had said. And she has become something. Chaytanya has enacted many roles, from being an obedient daughter to a supportive wife, from a selfless mother to a sagacious teacher. Undoubtedly, each one of these was carried out with veracity. Today, however, she writes about two young thieves. They steal dreams—hopeless yet satiating. And as always, Birbhadra is her protagonist.

Glossary 1. Maal Gaadi — a goods train. 2. Pitai — In Assamese—a regional language of India, spoken particularly in and around the state of Assam—this terms means "father." The usage of the term was popular in the past. 3. Khura — In Assamese, it is used to address one’s father’s younger brother(s). Also synonymous with "uncle." 4. Mekhla-Chadar — the traditional attire of Assamese women. 5. Saikiani — Mrs. Saikia (Saikia is an Assamese surname).

r e v i e w s

they insist that you must move on as if this ensures that you will move forward. but we oscillate in thought like a binge diet, consuming all that tingles our taste budsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the sweet the bitter the cold and monthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s worth of frozen leftovers. and somehow we still feel ten pounds lighter.

#feminalmagazine Women & Power: A Manifesto By Mary Beard: a review By Shannan Ffrench

hey say to never judge a book by its cover. Yet, that’s exactly what I found myself doing when I

saw Women & Power: A Manifesto by Mary Beard sitting on the shelf of my local bookstore. The petite, black hardcover with the words “Women & Power” emblazoned in metallic gold, instantly drew me in—it was an impulse purchase, to say the least. But, upon reading the first few pages of Mary Beard’s striking insights, I knew I made a good choice. Concise and easy to read, I was fixated by her words and finished the book in an hour. Sorted into two essays, Mary Beard’s book is not vain cries for help. Women & Power is a matterof-factual analysis of how gender-based inequality came to be. Beard digs deep for the first recorded instances of women being silenced and shunned from positions of power and connects them to the ways women are treated in present day. The parallels are striking and bring a newfound understanding of how culturally ingrained sexism truly is. She argues that power and influence being characteristically male is a taught concept, not biological. So, re-evaluating those concepts and restructuring our institutions of power is the only long-term solution. I have to admit, reading these essays became uncomfortable at times. As a young woman navigating the world, I like to think I have control of my life. Yet, I saw reflections of myself in Beard’s words. What struck me the most was her idea that for a woman to become powerful she must pretend to be manly; lowering the pitch of her voice because the natural, cutesy tone doesn’t command enough respect or attention; covering her body in situations where she wants to be taken seriously because flaunting her curves is perceived as having lower self-worth; being told “you look cute when you’re angry;" not being taken seriously when she says that she wants to be a CEO or politician one day As I read this book, I became painfully aware of the limitations that have been forced upon me. As a woman I have to choose between the ambitious but “masculine” CEO type and the nurturing feminine type who wants a family. I’ve read articles online giving business advice to women that said things like, “don’t show your nurturing and emotional side at work because people won’t take you seriously.” I felt uneasy reading those words, but I didn’t understand why. Now, having read Women & Power, I understand all too well. That sense of uneasiness was the feeling of inadequacy, having been told that the female qualities I was naturally born with were bad, wrong, and would prevent me from being successful. I was born to be unsuccessful. Yet, I don’t feel down or hopeless with these newfound realizations. I feel motivated. I will recommend this book to all of the women I love so that next time they feel inadequate they’ll know it’s not their fault—it’s not even true! I’ll also start a dialogue with the men in my life. The more we are all aware of the made-up stereotypes around power, the sooner we can break them down and rebuild new ones where women are welcomed. Women will no longer have to break through the glass ceiling, we will eventually just have to walk through the front door like men always have.

reviews / nostalgia