E D I TO R ’ S L E TT E R For us, HYPHEN began with a discussion on culture. This issue is coming to you from a Brazilian-Canadian and a Filipina-Canadian, and these are the hyphens that we have always worn proudly. However, throughout this process, we have discovered ourselves hyphenated in ways that go beyond cultural background. This personal discovery, this introspection, is the heart of HYPHEN. This issue is all about looking at yourself in the metaphorical mirror and coming to terms with the complex, diverse, and ever-shifting selves that look back.
We cannot distill ourselves into bite-sized, easily consumable beings. The temptation to curate away all of our incongruencies is particularly strong in the performative world of the Internet. ‘Finstas’ emerged from the drawing of lines between what is presentable and what is deemed unworthy of your public personal narrative; your ‘main’ is cohesive but bland, and your ‘finsta’ is a raw, hilarious mess. But those accounts belong to the same person, and neither of them, by themselves, is representative of the whole you. Our lives are full of aesthetically pleasing coffee shops, late night mental breakdowns, great #ootds, and weird bathroom selfies in old sweatpants. Maybe hyphenating our Instagram accounts gets us closer to authenticity?
Finstas aside, HYPHEN is about a desire to make sense—to other people, or even just to yourself. It is no easy feat. Hyphenation can turn quickly into a seesaw, where one identity must always prevail over the other at any given time. The challenge is the balancing act: lining up the long chain of words that make up your being and sitting comfortably across from your many selves on the seesaw, no more lurching. The fully-integrated self recognizes that it is made up of many parts, but has reached that semi-mythical place where the parts function smoothly together as a unique, whole individual. We don’t exist in a vacuum. Our many selves connect with the world regardless of whether or not they are integrated. Emily Ritson’s “An Open Letter to Truth” tackles the painful process of balancing internal and external parts of life, pitting wants and emotions against the inescapable physicality of living in a human body. Dalla Zhao and Tian Tang’s photographs show that, despite this tension, there is beauty in personal multiplicity; it means that you can find love and partnership both in yourself and others. Their photographs visualize the self’s dual ability for connection through imagery of linked hands and red strings, depicting the paradox of harmony in fragmentation, cohesion in separation. Madeline Pearce’s artworks depict a connection with the broader world by amalgamating a variety of different settings and linking them through colour, style, and theme. Her pieces reflect the ability to connect on a global level that is crucial to the future of humanity. Fears and anxieties about being your complete, authentic self, about being able to integrate all your parts evenly, can cause the tendency to over-simplify who you are. You don’t have to make sense if you don’t want to. The only person you owe a whole, integrated image of the self to is yourself. Maybe that’s the end goal. Or maybe it’s a myth. You tell us. Love, Nara & Jerika
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art by ERIC GHOBRIL
God is watching, and He doesn’t like what He sees. I meet Him outside Timmies—order the usual: medium peppermint, no sugar. As He embraces me, the liquid pours evenly atop the winter snow. Leaning against ruddy brick beside us, Jesus can’t help but grin, thin brown fingers crossing gently. ‘For luck, my child.’
HERESY
text by DANIELLE BRYL-DAM SOLO
There is a hymn written somewhere I cannot recall. Behind stitched lips, perhaps, or clasped in bound hands. Mother is leading the dinner mass over identical heads, bowed in unison— condemnation becomes ritual—silence my hourly prayer. But what would I have said to raise this tongue from the dead? Last night I stole an hour with Lazarus —adieu, adieu, old friend—who, unsmiling, said ‘The Lord says, honour thy father and mother. Maybe you misunderstand what He meant.’ I awoke in my father’s bed, feeling nothing but the pattering of this wet heart, caught between sandstone ribs.
Mother tells me, God works in mysterious ways. Remember the bush caught aflame. The truth burning, and burning, worsening within me. “How long, the Lord? Will you hide yourself forever? Will your wrath burn like fire?” Christmas Sunday, Jesus wraps my neck in green-gold rosaries, thin beads dripping between my breasts. The homily a din, my steps become quick His skin turning to mush between my teeth—and we march, side by side up the aisle to the bye-altar—white candles flickering, long fingers extended to mine. I take them, and cry, “I will also chastise you seven times for your sins.” I am burning down the temple, and naming myself a god. “I burn’d and ached for wings.” Then the Lord came down in a swirl of fire And anointed my head with water. I raise my head and pray: I will survive my grief, amen I will survive my grief, amen I will survive my grief, amen.
Quotations from Psalms 89:46, Leviticus 26:28, and John Keats’ Ode on Indolence
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[INSERT PICTURE HERE] text by ELIZABETH SAK New to Tinder and just wanted to try it out! I’m 6’7”. Let’s just get that out of the way I got banned from Club Penguin for swearing. Swipe right if you like the drive in cause I like that shit. I’m pretty much the driver of the struggle bus open minded and 420 friendly. I can drink water really fast. the brains, the brawn, and the squat booty lets raise a dog together up to you to make the first move (lets be honest—we both know the girl calls the shots) just looking for a second date People who think I’m funny: -Me -My mom -My dog (I think) I just got out of prison after spending 9 years. That was a joke Basically the closest you’ll get to your Aladdin/ Jack Sparrow fantasy. P.S. I go down more than your grades will in college. Message me for more
Excerpts taken from Tinder profiles.
photos by ERIC GHOBRIL
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photos by DIYANA NOORY
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Hyphragment text by AISHA KHAN I see a break Wreck Us.
I see it
I see the line —_—_—_—_—jagged, straight________ defined as it starts to define us whatdo-you think-i speakof? Breaking something into smaller parts Is supposed to make it easier But as we shatter and crack repeatedly We lose pieces we never even knew we had at some point The whole is greater than the sum of its parts You look at the glass broken from above But have you ever looked at the word the sentence, the meaning, split in front of you from the bottom? Arrogant we are we look down but never up. And it’s always there in the shadows while you and i debate |vertically| The horizontal fracture- --Fragmenting us.
Hyphragment
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art by AMANDA HU
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BORDERLINES BORDERLINES BORDERLINES BORDERLINES
photo and text by DIYANA NOORY
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Prior to my late high school years, I had accustomed myself to accepting the invisibility of Kurdish people; I simply told others that I was Arabic or Middle Eastern instead of specifically Kurdish. Since learning more about my ethnic background, I’ve grappled with questions of nationalism and belonging as a member of the Kurdish-Iraqi diaspora. On one hand, I feel resentment towards the establishment of the Sykes-Picot agreement and its implications on Middle Eastern groups’ relations. It scattered the Kurdish with no land to call our own, and it created tensions among diverse groups who had mostly been living peacefully. On the other, I feel uncomfortable when I consider the imperialist implications of borders and their status as a prerequisite to respecting a population. Our ethnocentric education system does not do justice to Iraq, a country with great potential. I did not learn of the Sykes-Picot agreement until I researched it myself because Canadian schools teach a skewed version of history and current events. I remember questioning my ancient civilizations teacher as to why we did not learn more about the Middle East, which he told us was the “cradle of civilization” during Mesopotamian times. His reply was that Ancient Greece and Rome are “more relevant” to us as Canadians. It’s no surprise that many people aren’t aware of the socio-political environment in different Middle Eastern regions, let alone the existence of Kurdish people. This summer, I visited Kurdistan for the first time. I was struck by the lack of Iraqi flags—border politics aside, the Kurdish region is proudly autonomous. I empathize with the Kurdish refusal to acknowledge the Iraqi flag, which Saddam Hussein modified to include the takbīr (the phrase “Allahu akbar”, which means "God is great" in Arabic) in what is allegedly his own handwriting. Hussein committed many atrocities, including a genocide of Kurdish people, under the name of God. Furthermore, I’m against a theist orientation of the country’s symbolism to begin with. Hussein’s legacy is an extremely complicated one, though; even my Kurdish family acknowledges life in Iraq was better during his reign. For all his evils, he was lauded for trying to improve conditions in Iraq and he was wise with its national oil wealth. However, the USA used his human rights violations as an excuse for their imperialist invasions. In turn, the country’s infrastructure was destroyed and it became the perfect breeding ground for ISIS to thrive. It was fascinating to travel to a place so rich with history that is relevant to my family. Visiting Erbil (Hawler in Kurdish), the capital of Iraqi Kurdistan, was particularly eye-opening – it emblemizes Kurdistan’s status as a rapidly growing haven in the midst of a warzone. While some investors stuck around despite the threat of ISIS taking Mosul nearby and oil prices falling, others abandoned half-finished buildings which stand in stark juxtaposition to well-established neighbourhoods. Although I knew Kurdistan had been better off than the rest of Iraq during the post-Hussein era, I still had preconceptions of the region based on my experiences
in other Middle Eastern countries. Despite the annual snowfall, even their mountain roads are infinitely better maintained than ours in Canada. Kurdish people’s pride in their region is reflected by their cleanliness and maintenance of green spaces in a dry landscape. In the ancient Citadel of Erbil, I felt lost in time in a historical place where I could imagine past lives quite vividly. The textile museum located there provided a snapshot of traditional Kurdish ways of life that are not too far in the past for my parents, who recognized tools on display that were present in their own households. Amna Suraka in Sulaymaniyah was the former headquarters of the Mukhabarat, Hussein’s intelligence agency, until it was liberated by Kurdish Peshmerga fighters in the early 1990s. Under Hussein's command, Baathist authorities tortured, sexually abused, and executed scores of Kurdish prisoners. Visiting this museum was a chilling and devastating experience as I read disembodied final words and stood on prison cell floors still stained by blood. In the dark upper levels, the sound of silence was a cacophonous one, and I felt ashamed for gasping when I shined my flashlight on a prisoner statue sitting by my feet on the stairs. The outside of the museum is bordered by military tanks and trucks that were used to transport the prisoners, many of whom died during the journey. Close by is a café converted from the mess hall that Baathists used to enjoy, freshly renovated inside but still hauntingly guarded by its original metal doors. The Al-Anfal memorial includes a hall lined with 180 000 mirror shards that represent the estimated number of Kurds killed by Hussein, and there are 4500 ceiling lights that represent the number of destroyed Kurdish villages. My father, normally talkative, was silent as he looked closely at pictures of the 1991 Kurdish Exodus to locate photos of himself and his family; their own photos were lost due to relocating multiple times. He didn’t end up spotting any, but he recognized one of his old friends. I held back tears while reading messages the prisoners had left behind on the walls, but I broke down when I entered the hall of Peshmerga martyrs in the fight against ISIS. Being confronted by so many faces and names was both overwhelming and infuriating. Amna Suraka commemorates past and present injustice against Kurdish people, but it also highlights their resilience even in the most hopeless situations. My family has been scattered all over the globe because of the political situation in Iraq. Although I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to travel worldwide to visit them, it is always heartbreaking to part ways and hear someone like my aunt crying over not being able to spend more time with us because of the war. Imperialism sinks its teeth into our narratives in infinitely painful ways, destroying the homeland and then turning away those who seek refuge. To this day, marginalized peoples like the Kurdish strive for any rays of light they can find, whether at the end of a tunnel or outside of a cave like King Mahmud’s hideout. Even when the truth is concealed, enlightenment is within reach for anyone with an internet connection and an open mind. I remain humbled by my privilege growing up white passing in a relatively safe country and inspired by my family and ancestors’ resilience.
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SHE DANCES ON text by JESSE JURANKA
Still water shifts in her gaze. Every step less defined then the last. New strides trade conventional pacing for rhythm. She dances on. Footings lost but not integrity. A chrysalis in the winter and Phoenix in the fall. An immortal cycle of fragility. She dances on.
CARTESIAN REDUCTIONISM text by SHEHRAZADE PIRACHA
My arms stretch on forever I trace a marker across the four corners of myself My brain steps out of my body Whose fingers are writing? Which mouth needs food? What eyes are staring? I step in I do my hair Splash water on my face Carefully put on mascara Step out Connection Loading Loading Loading
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art by MADELINE PEARCE
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art by MADELINE PEARCE
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The Philippines Notebook (I) text by JERIKA CADUHADA A professor once told me that nostalgia always begins with a scent. Mine came in the form of patacones, kept warm in the hands of three female cooks with crow’s feet eyes and tender smiles, ancestors perched on shoulders recipes etched onto soft palms; I was fed memories in teaspoons Nostalgia sang its song under the Costa Rican sun while the schoolchildren spun pink and blue at the waist: pink, like flushed cheeks and chipping heirloom rooftops blue, like the Caribbean that frothed at my feet and folded itself onto my flag, nation-beast at rest Timeworn walkways now wind down a hill burned golden to the country of a sister sun where the only song sung is through a karaoke mic, and floors are drums for feet stomping an ode to the earth but different countries breed different nostalgias, and my tongue twists twenty ways yet it lingers and all tastes the same
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art by MADELINE PEARCE
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FORGOTTEN FREQUENCIES text by JENNIFER HILLHOUSE
How Inherited Technologies Have Changed My Understanding of Space and Family Before I was conscious of it, my life became a safe harbour for dead technologies. I’m writing this from the position of the dutiful crypt keeper, surrounded by inherited things—the link between the here and the gone, my family now and my family then. Having things is nice. I feel fortunate to be a position where I have the space and my family has the means to accumulate things. But these things have transcended their earthly bodies and have taken up permanent residence in my psyche. I keep tabs on them. If I misplace or misuse or mistake a thing, I feel like the damage is done elsewhere. On some ancestral plane I’ve thumbed my nose, and the thing’s previous owner, my past relative, hates me for it. I noticed this the other day, watching the nixie tube numbers on my 70’s record player sputter erratically—its clock can’t keep time. I was listening to a Baez record I bought for $1 and feeling oh so disgustingly hip, when I realized my Gen Z feelings of nostalgia didn’t actually belong to me. When I was born the most modern artifact was a VHS, and the most ancient was a floppy. Records and their mediums never flickered into my adolescent life long enough to give me reason for this yesteryear-yearning. The person who cared about vinyl, the previous owner and caretaker of this wonky record player that can’t figure out what the time it is, who probably used to pamper it with $5 records, was my uncle. He took his own life before I was born, and in his wake he left everything—things that my mother and grandmother meticulously catalogued and cradled in their attics, those dusty wombs holding onto the limbs of material culture he once surrounded himself with. His things became him, and to shelter them was to return to the family the person adrift. It’s mostly crappy Punch magazines, though there’s a Monty Python’s Life of Brian photo journey book up there that redeems the collection a bit.
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I have a keyboard of his as well. I mostly use it to make creepy organ noises that sound like the riffs on indie horror films which I record on my phone and show my one artsy friend when we’re drunk in hopes of convincing her to make a movie with me. She’s never going to agree, and I don’t actually know how to play anything—but he did. These things sit there, remnants of him and happy times past that I’ve just accumulated and misused. Joining these pieces in my room are my late great aunt’s television, my late grandfather’s camera, and so many thrifted items and street garbage from the living and dead that I’ve monstrously integrated into my space. It would be a crime to call myself a collector—my room is a tomb holding shrines made out of accoutrements of lives once lived, and I’m just the frequent pilgrim. A bad one at that—I burn buffalo sage I bought from the mall. These dead technologies will never have their heyday again. Instead, they will fall progressively more into disuse and detritus, and when those nixie tube numbers finally dim, I’ll have to make decisions that will no doubt scar my consciousness’ understanding of object permanence. I can’t do it now though. As long as family memory is prevalent and provoking, like my family before me, I will safeguard these flickers on their journey to becoming that dust in Philip K. Dick’s dystopian world. As family grows and shrinks, its mutability wounding and bolstering me throughout my static life, I know my collection will change. I’ll live forever in that witching hour that my record player refuses to acknowledge, with one foot in time and the other in memory, holding onto the past out of nothing but familial obligation and aesthetic preference. After all, it’s things we leave behind.
art by DANIELLE COLLIER
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art by SARAH BRADSHAW
As a psychology undergrad and photographer, I find myself stuck between two schools of thought as an artist-scientist. Often stuck in the crossfire between those two sides. The rigor of science suggests a diametrical opposition to the freedom engendered in visual art. Indeed, many of my peers see it that way; they don’t “get” what one discipline can offer the other... —how art needs science (photography, after all, is predicated upon silver-halide chemistry) or how science needs art (we often use art as a therapeutic tool in psychotherapy). I think this speaks well to the larger idea of holism and hubris, in that no single entity holds all the answers on its own. photo + text by DEREK BOSWELL
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SOUL
M AT E
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photos by TIAN TANG
B O X E S
I have always been told I am fragmented, always told to be something else, something other. Before I was born I was already put into the myth of a gender dichotomy Boy – Girl
(Hopefully boy)
Oops, sorry, better luck next time. Girl. Then girl whose parents were divorced. My mum: a black sheep in our community. Her family: holding the paint brushes with wide eyes. And me: “What will become of her? A girl with an absent father?” From daughter to step-daughter. Only, don’t use that word sweetie, someone will get jealous. My entire life not being allowed to be your step-sister interfered with me being able to identify as his step-daughter, but then you were gone, and I could finally add another fragment to myself, I could finally have A step-father who tells me I’m not his daughter A step-father who changes his mind, tells me I am his daughter, but only because I am me because of he, A step-father My father. Growing up, I never held my religion and culture too close. But I am Indo-Canadian, and it shows: mocha skin, big bug eyes, and dark hair covering my body head to toe. I once got asked: “Why don’t you wax?” (from a blonde girl) I always get asked: “Where are you from?” (from every uber driver ever) Follow up question, when they’re not satisfied: “No, where are you really from?” “CANADA” I scream, hiding my skin. I often get told: “I love exotic women” (from boys at the bar) I once got asked: “Coming back from seeing your secret boyfriend?” (from another uber driver) Then I got told: “A lot of Indian girls do that” But I am not your typical Indian girl. I barely speak my mother tongue, even though it was my first language. All of my friends have pale skin and light eyes. Brown on the outside and white within, like a coconut, or an oreo, or my potential children. It’s terrifying that as I get older, I become more conscious of my skin. Times are supposed to change, but I’ll always be Indo-Canadian. Progress has reversed and I don’t know how or why. Maybe it’s the identity politics that are built upon lies, but then the question becomes: why are they allowed to thrive? Maybe because our institutions are built by the majority, the group of people who want to oppress the minority. In my second year of university, I became the girl with the boyfriend:
Him-Me, Me-Him.
A friend made a meme implying that he was an integral part of who I was. I thought she knew me better than that. Maybe she’s not wrong though. We live together now, and he is the light of my life, my best friend for the rest of time. I need him now more than ever— especially since this Him-Me fragment that was put on me has lost me a lot of friends. I’m unsure of who I am now, or why we feel the need to hyphen ourselves. My identity is lost in who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. It is lost in what other people think I am and want me to be. My many selves are dealing with the repercussions of my childhood, dealing with all of the things I pushed away, dealing with all of the new things invading my space Maybe this is a part of growing up Maybe this is me being grown-up
text by AMAN KULAR
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photos by DALLA ZHAO
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text by EMILY RITSON
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art by RAYNE CAUCHI
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