Incite Magazine – October 2016

Since ‘97, Incite Magazine has been McMaster’s creative arts and writing publication— but we’re also a lot more than that.

Since ’97, Incite Magazine has been McMaster’s creative arts and writing publication – but we’re also a lot more than that. We like to think of ourselves as a family of creative students and artists, promoting self-expression and dialogue within the university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every issue that we print, every event we host, and every new writer and artist that joins our community represents that huge creative collaboration.

Our first theme to kick off the year is ‘sonder.’ Alas, sonder is not a real word, but it really should be. As described by the creator of the word, John Koenig, “sonder: n.—the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.”

It is the recognition that while we are each the protagonist of our own story, surrounded by a supporting cast of family and friends, there also exist the extras hanging in the background. They might appear only once in our lives: as a car speeding down the highway, a figure sipping tea in the corner of a coffee shop, or a lighted window in a building; but like ourselves, they are real people with their own intensely important dreams, celebrations, trials, and tribulations.

In many ways, the word ‘sonder’ illustrates Incite’s overall goal: to provide a platform to share our personal narratives, as well as the stories of those ‘extras.’ University students are experiencing the exciting opportunity to connect with a sizable population of their peers, but it can also feel overwhelming and isolating at times. We might think, is anyone actually hearing me? Does anyone really care about my story? How can I listen to and learn from the stories of others?

We’ve decided to give Incite a new look to highlight our continuing dedication to that human aspect of narrative and art. To accomplish this goal, and preserve the tenets of authenticity and diversity, we make it a point to put care into each and every submission.

We want to encourage continued dialogue and collaboration between creatives of all backgrounds, ultimately to create a fruitful creative community. It is our hope that the stories and artistic expressions shared within these pages are not simply fleeting images to be seen and forgotten, but captures of this precious moment in time. We hope Incite Magazine can become part of your bookshelves, if only to keep dear that incredible glimpse into the lives of our peers and to understand, for some time, those ‘random passersby’ with whom we otherwise would have missed connections.

A big thanks to John Koenig, creator of the ‘Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows’ and the word ‘sonder,’ for creating the source to inspire the following writing and artwork. To our staff, writers and artists, thank you for sharing your voices and sparking creative discourse. Without your passion and courage to be seen and heard, Incite would not be possible. To you – the one reading this page – please enjoy the first issue of the year.

Welcome to our amazing creative community at McMaster.

Yours truly,

Jason Lau and Sunny Yun Editors-in-Chief 2016–17

ART by RACHEL BUTTS, LAUREN GORFINKEL, LYNDA GUTIERREZ & JOSH RAVENHILL

CONTENTS 6 8 10 12 15 16 18 20 22 24 26 28 32 34 36 38 40 42 44 46 48 50 52 55 56 58 60 61 62 64 66 68 70 72 74 77 78 80 82 84 86 87 88 90 92

Editor Stories The Blue Curtains / Danielle Canagsuriam Solipsism, Zombies and A.I. / Angela Dong Highballing / Nicole Vasarevic The Mundane Buzz / Josh Ravenhill Princess Point / Aranya Iyer Supercrawl / Alicia Serrano Colour Me / Rachel Tran Who They Are / Kainat Amir All These Friendly People / Annie Yu Periphery / Zoe Handa Ink / Elina Filice and Annabel Krutiansky From Subdivision Roads to Instagram Love Stories / Annecy Pang Hope / Patricia Lora Thievery / Henry Krahn Juror #8826 / Carly Van Egdom Cycle / Sonia Leung 1 Cream 2 Sweeteners / Tanvir Singh Spilt / Nikita Kalsi Poolside / Emma Hudson Knots / Jason Lau Bacio Della Fortuna / Amanda Emmanuel Dreaming with Strangers / Emile Shen Moon Reflection / Katelyn Johnstone Classroom After Death / Leah McDonald The Book Lady / Jennifer Scora Help? / Alexia Olaizola Perpetual Self / Aryan Ghaarizadeh Stone Palace / Sophie Silverton Mouths Closed, Eyes Open / Nicola Gailits Child Labour / Chukky Ibe The Selective Sonderer / Aaron Grierson Plural Perspectives / Hayley McKee Connections / Alexandra Marcaccio 70 Years of Mint Chocolate Chip / Aminata Mageraga Superheroes / Kristin Gracie A Sonder-ful Commute / Samantha Jackson Stranger Culture / Alana Park The Hollow Man in Nine Ninety-Five / Coby Zucker A Trip to the Philippines / Jessica Escoto Untitled / Jordan Samuel Anastasiadis Internalized / Isabella Fan 2P / Nicholas Schmid The Isolation of Immigration / Ruvimbo Musiyiwa One Story / Takhliq Amir

SONDER

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ART by THERESA ORSINI

What is your best story about a person with whom you have crossed paths with only once?

COBY ZUCKER, CONTENT EDITOR

Q

uite some time ago, I must have been five or six at the time, my dad got box tickets to a Toronto Blue Jays game. He decided to take me along instead of either one of my two brothers; I don’t recall if I made a fuss about wanting to go or not. Maybe about five innings had gone by and, so far, the only thing that excited me even remotely was the free popcorn. I was bored. Like really bored. In between two innings, one of the Toronto Blue Jays backup pitchers (seriously backup, like fourthstring backup) came into the box to take pictures with the fans. I cannot recall the name of the pitcher, but my heart goes out to him for what must have been one of the most one-sided fan encounters the poor guy had ever done. Somewhere amidst a pile of family albums in cluttered cardboard boxes, photographic evidence remains of myself, barely awake and cognisant, with a deadpan glare, standing beside what must have been a very uncomfortable professional baseball player. I promptly begged my dad to take me home so we could play LEGO. I still find baseball dull. x

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TAKHLIQ AMIR, CONTENT EDITOR

O

ne day during Welcome Week last year, waiting at the Go terminal on campus to return home very late at night, I was exhausted. I had my headphones plugged in – probably blasting whatever song I was likely listening to on repeat at the moment – and I remember wanting silence (ironically) and, more importantly, solitude. I wasn’t too sure of my way so I asked a stranger for direction, and the next thing I know she struck up a conversation and sat with me on the train home. At first, I was a little disappointed because I had felt that solitude and peace in my grasp only to have it slip away. As we talked, however, the conversation seemed to flow easily. She told me about how she was an international student living in Toronto without her family, and she spoke of her dreams and aspirations. I found myself sharing the same, speaking to her very candidly about how I perceived the world and what I dreamed of achieving. At the end of the trip, we realized we actually live very close to one another – a person I met at McMaster who doesn’t even go here! – but I never saw her again. x

JEN SCORA, CONTENT EDITOR

W

hen I was in high school I walked home with my friend every day.

One day we had a fight, so I walked home without him. I spent most of the time thinking about the fight and making myself feel worse, until someone started talking to me. I’d never talked to him before, but I knew his older brother. At first I was annoyed. I knew I wouldn’t be good company, and I was busy. But he persisted, and even let me rant a little. By the time I got home, my whole day had been turned around. I never talked to him again, but I never forgot how important a simple conversation can be. x

EMMA HUDSON, CONTENT EDITOR

I

t’s pouring. A man is sitting outside of the Salvation Army, his dog on his left and his possessions wrapped in plastic shopping bags on his right. He has one raincoat; he drapes it gently over the dog. x

ALEXANDRA MARCACCIO, CONTENT EDITOR

W

hen I was seventeen, my family took a vacation to California.

On the plane ride there, I wound up sitting next to a serious looking businessman. When he sat down, he gave me a courteous nod, opened up a copy of the Wall Street Journal, and buried himself in it. Before the trip, I had downloaded a few episodes of Criminal Minds so I proceeded to play one off of my iPod… Unfortunately for me, I did not pay attention when I was picking episodes and managed to pick some of the saddest ones from the series. Within the first half an hour of the flight, I was sobbing my eyes out and continued to do so for its duration. Better still: I had forgotten to bring Kleenex. The man saw me out of the corner of his eye and was very frazzled by the whole spectacle. I caught him staring at me a few times, the same dumbfounded expression on his face each time. Finally, he tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I was okay. When I insisted that I was, he clearly didn’t believe me. He continued to glance over every now and then. When we landed, he asked me if I was going to be okay on my own. I assured him that I was okay, and then went to look for my family. Looking back, I don’t know why I never explained to him that it was all just because of a show. x

NIMRA KHAN, CONTENT EDITOR

I

’m sure there are a lot (especially involving sweet bus drivers who let me on the bus when my PRESTO is out of money), but the most recent ones that come to mind are from when I went to Disneyworld this past August and met lots of strangers who I only had brief conversations with. While meeting Princess Tiana in Magic Kingdom, she insisted that, since I’m now 21 (my birthday was in August), I should go down to the bayou because the frog princes would be coming out to look for their princesses; I said I hadn’t been thinking about a prince yet, but I’d definitely take a look. While ordering my food at a restaurant in Magic Kingdom, the waitress returned with all the staff and they all sang happy birthday for me and gave me free cake. “Happy Birthday” was said to me wherever I went, not just by staff but also by normal park visitors. Basically, Disneyworld is filled with the sweetest strangers who make you feel amazing. x

HARRY KRAHN, CONTENT EDITOR

W

hen I was younger, about 10, my family took a vacation down in Australia. One day as we were walking around downtown Adelaide, my mother decided that she needed to have a banana.

There was at the time a global banana shortage, and so supply had fallen and prices skyrocketed. Luckily for us, we found a fruit vendor, and my mother bought a single banana for something ludicrous, upwards of $3. As we were leaving the stand, a homeless man approached us and came to a stop. Momentously, and with great gravity, he pronounced: “There once was a boy.” Pause. “And he ate fif-teen bananas.” Pause. “And he died!” With a chortle, he was on his way. I like to think I learned something important that day. x

RACHEL GUITMAN, CONTENT EDITOR

S

ingapore: two little girls sitting across from me on the MRT train, arguing and making up within minutes. They are alive and bustling the entire ride and we wave bye to each other as we leave.

This is a lesson in communication than transcends words and language. x

CATHERINE HU, CONTENT EDITOR

I

once got puked on while riding the subway back from school in Grade 7. Without getting too far into details, it was a very warm, sticky, smelly and overall gross experience. However, what I remember the most isn’t the ordeal itself, but the actions of the people around me. This was during rush hour, so the car was packed full of strangers I’d never met before and will likely never meet again. I was nearly overwhelmed by a ring of these strangers fretting over me, asking if I was okay and helping to wipe off my belongings. I remember passengers who rummaged through their handbags for hand sanitizer, one woman who offered to hold my vomitcovered book with a smile and another who sat with me all the way to my station to make sure I was alright. I suppose I’m cheating the prompt a little; this story isn’t about one person, but a large group of people. Public transport is often held as a space where people want as little interaction with each other as possible, where strangers try to avoid eye contact, shut themselves off and ignore everyone around them. It turns out, though, that when you really need it, a lot of these people will show great compassion and willingness to help. x

ANGELA DONG, CONTENT EDITOR

I

never expected dinner in the Taiwanese mountainside, shrouded from by a dense blanket of stars, to end in any more than a full stomach.

Yet, upon entering the taxicab which would take my group of fellow teaching assistants home, I encountered one of the most fascinating conversation partners ever. Aged prematurely from a lifetime of relentless work, laugh lines etched within delicate wrinkles, my driver was a fountain of humor and wisdom. I initially aimed to just practice my Chinese but as our conversation grew, I learned more than language, more than cultural differences. I learned about life, about qualia… sonder. To encounter someone so different – having lived a life an ocean away, grown up in another time – but yet so similar… it truly impressed upon me the common heritage all humans share. x

AMINATA MAGERAGA, CONTENT EDITOR

I

work at a public library, and approximately two years ago I crossed paths with a very cute little girl (she was about five years old), and her mother.

The little girl very earnestly approached my co-worker and I and said, “Excuse me miss librarian, I have a question. Do you sleep here when the library is closed?”

We couldn’t help but laugh, and my coworker responded, “No Sweetie-Pie, but trust me, if I could, I would never leave!”

I nodded my agreement. The little girl looked up at us in absolute adoration, and whispered, “When I come to the library, I never want to leave either!” It was so heart-warmingly adorable, I felt like my heart grew two sizes that day, as cheesy as it sounds. I never saw her at our branch again, but I think of her from time to time, hoping she’s out there somewhere reading to her heart’s content. x SONDER

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The Blue Curtains ART by MIMI DENG WORDS by DANIELLE CANAGSURIAM

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“Be careful not to appear obsessively intellectual.

When intelligence fills up, it overflows a parody.”

–Criss Jami

There’s a bizarre theory in psychology about the irony of compensation that essentially states people will try and compensate for something they believe is typically undercompensated in order to prevent bias. The irony is that multiple people follow the same logic, and so the group ends up skewing the favour so generously that they create a new bias.

That is what I believe happened with the notion of sonder.

We are so often told to stop and smell the flowers that we end up lingering too long on their significance; so much so that we forget to start walking again.

We seem to be facing an epidemic of contemplation. We think so much about thinking that, ironically, we don’t really think about anything at all. We pan our perspective out so far that we risk losing sight of the seemingly less critical day-to-day work that is just as central to the basic functioning of our lives.

And I think one of the original sources of this contemplation epidemic is romanticism.

There is something poetic about sonder – and the idea of humanity in general. Everything is easier to process when you distance yourself from it, admiring the world a few steps away like a gallery piece. We as a society not only romanticize a contemplative mind, but make it a point of pride: possessed by a rare few who are burdened with untangling the intricate web of humanity. Woe are they.

Romanticism has always seemed to me a dangerous concept, not only because of how easily we can apply it to tragic situations, but also because of its potency. You can romanticize events, people, tragedies and it’ll keep you busy for hours. Years

even. But sometimes a building is just a building, a flower is just a flower, and a moment is just a moment. And it should remain just that – a moment in time. Appreciated fully, but only in the time it is alive. Not dissected and examined to the point of meaninglessness or parody. And as dangerous as it is to romanticize a moment, it is bordering on cruel to do the same to a person. When you romanticize people, you run the risk of not seeing them at all. You impress upon them an image of what you believe their lives to be, or the struggles they must face. You blur them, smudge their identities. And what good is realizing that everyone has their own unique, complex lives if we don’t do anything with this revelation except sit alone and ponder it?

It is not enough to observe and theorize about the world.

Participation is required for full credit. And no, mundane activities like going to school or doing dishes are not as poetic as sipping tea in a coffee shop and people-watching, but it needs to be done. Do not discount the simple virtue of the hustle.

Of course sonder is beneficial in that it implores us to strengthen our empathetic muscles; however, it seems necessary to offer a disclaimer about the dangers implicit to brooding over complex philosophies for too long.

Deriving meaning from every interaction or flower is equivalent to deciphering the age-old problem of why the novelist depicted the curtains as blue. Was it to signify depression? Loss? The sea? Maybe. Or maybe the curtains are just blue. And maybe dwelling on their blueness is only keeping you from realizing that the curtains, and the rest of the room, are on fire. x SONDER

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WORDS by ANGELA DONG ART by GILLIAN BOCHENEK

Solipsism, Zombies and A.I.

Say that Davidson goes hiking in a swamp and gets struck by lightning, killing him but spontaneously rearranging atoms so that they take the exact same form as the original Davidson.

Having a brain identical to Davidson’s, Swampman will go about life with all of Davidson’s memories and externally will be indistinguishable from the original man.

Is this Swampman still Davidson?

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As a young child, I used to imagine that I was the only conscious entity in the world and that everything else operated like clockwork, externally responsive but internally empty: automatons. As I grew, I discovered “sonder” – that everyone has a life as vivid and real as mine. Yet, if I can only observe the behaviour of others, how can I know for certain that the strangers I pass by actually have minds? With this question, I stumbled upon the philosophical theory of Solipsism: the idea that only one’s own mind is sure to exist.

Imagine that someone suspends a disembodied brain in a vat, connecting the brain with wires to a supercomputer, which sends electrical impulses simulating reality. From the brain’s point of view, it would be impossible to tell illusion from physical reality.

Apply that to ourselves and you can wonder: is our external world truly real?

Solipsism and this “Brain in a Vat” thought experiment has been thoroughly critiqued since its inception. The Matrix is not technologically possible (yet) and one’s mind is not omniscient despite supposedly creating the world. There’s no way to test the validity of this theory, thus rendering it useless from a scientific perspective. There’s no answer as to what created the original mind if the original mind created the universe. In addition, the idea of “automata” negates contemporary scientific physicalist theory as well as the biochemical roots of our subjective experiences.

Given the logical holes and the almost certain chance that the world does exist, one’s self-centred decisions influenced by solipsism could induce serious harm. Thus the awareness of sonder and the qualia of each and every individual is vital for the world’s harmony and peace.

But say philosophical zombies – the official term for qualialacking automata – do exist, for the purpose of exploring the nature of qualia via thought experimentation.

An example is philosopher Donald Davidson’s ‘Swampman’, conjured up in his 1987 essay “Knowing One’s Own Mind”. Say that Davidson goes hiking in a swamp and gets struck by lightning, killing him but spontaneously rearranging atoms so that they take the exact same form as the original Davidson. Having a brain identical to Davidson’s, Swampman will go about life with all of Davidson’s memories and will be externally indistinguishable from the original man. Is this Swampman still Davidson? Or is he simply a stunning imitation masquerading as a dead man? Does he have qualia? If there is such thing as soul, is it the same ‘ghost in the machine’ powering Swampman’s body that powered Davidson’s?

Although preposterous-sounding, these concepts could have major implications for future technology. Humanity is slowly approaching sufficient technological advancement for

previously impossible possibilities: teleportation, transhumanism, mind uploading and more. Who’s to say that the first teleported human won’t end up like Swampman, a carbon copy replacing their essence with no one the wiser? A major hole in this line of questioning is how a Swampman – silicon or otherwise – could act like the original so convincingly without actually ‘living’. Applying this to our growing technological advances, how can artificial intelligence compute without truly understanding and gaining sentience?

Take the Chinese Room Thought Experiment: We place a nonChinese speaker in a closed room and get them to respond (in written Chinese, cleverbot style) to incoming Chinese sentences using an instructions book. They then send their results to a native speaker who sees these results and is convinced that the person inside the other room is a native speaker. In reality, the nonspeaker doesn’t comprehend what they communicated at all. This experiment thus disproves the usefulness of the Turing Test – even when we think computers have achieved sentience through their actions, they may be just bound by coded reflexes.

Alternately, what if computers are already conscious, just not in a way that can be tested via existing methods? What if the Chinese Room Thought Experiment didn’t apply? Deep learning systems, quantum computing, and increased pattern recognition capabilities all enable them to learn complex tasks, and server networks with their complex system of linkage mimic the neural networking within our own brains. Machine consciousness may be more possible than it seems.

As exciting as it sounds, there are many obstacles to true artificial intelligence. Their version of consciousness may not be the consciousness familiar to us. Consciousness may be limited to carbon-based life forms only, due to carbon molecules’ stronger chemical bonds and their ability to form longer molecule chains than silicon. We may never even achieve sentience with inorganic materials.

Only further technological development can yield the answer to true artificial intelligence – if there is an answer at all. Maybe someday, we’ll see our electronics as having a complex, inner life separate from our own. Maybe we’ll even see automatons as family or friends. But for now, while on our quest to create qualia with machines, let’s not forget the more immediate connection of sonder we have with our fellow humans. x SONDER

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WORDS AND ART by NICOLE VASAREVIC

Highballing Two months of skin infections, twisted ankles, cuts, and bruises and sleeping through thunderstorms in a leaking tent.

So why did I do it?

Eat. Sleep. Plant. Eat. Sleep. Plant. Spending 2 months in the Northern Ontario forest signed on to a contract with a forestry company that promised to have its planters plant 4.5 million trees in two months. Two months of skin infections, twisted ankles, cuts, and bruises and sleeping through thunderstorms in a leaking tent. So why did I do it?

I told people the reason I was taking up this job was to make money and have a new experience. Despite arguments I had with different people, I was effectively escaping everyday life.

I didn’t do it for the purpose of money, or new experiences, or to toughen up. I did it because mundane life was boringly overwhelming. You wake up and check your phone and more nights than not, fall asleep with it in your hand. It drives your entire day. Day in and day out. You come into contact with so many people through technology by swiping through Instagram photos or grazing comments on YouTube, and never think twice.

We do not see the generator of that post or photo as a human but merely as a name on our screens. I became exhausted with knowing so many people and never knowing a thing about them.

Tree planting, on the other hand, forces you to do the exact opposite. You are confined to work in close proximity with the same 80-90 individuals for 58 days, where life consists of how many trees you can plant before 6:00pm and discussions on topics such as bug bite prevention tips. In those two months, I learned more about how differently others see the same

world we are all living in than I ever did being “connected” to thousands of people over technology. I met people from different parts of the world and all walks of life and got to spend hours with them in the mess tent on rainy days. Encountering minds other than my own through conversations and time spent together without a phone buzzer interrupting was something so foreign to me. I could have only achieved this successfully by running away into the Northern Ontario bush, a blissful two hours away from the nearest phone service.

Technology builds walls around us. It whispers the number of friends we have on Facebook in our ear. It blinds our eyes and we willingly let it happen, day after day. This is not the sad realization I came to over my experience; this is the reality I have known for a long time. However, those two months did show me just how far gone we are. In order to fully disconnect from it all, silence all the notifications and messages and have a clear head and see others for who they are rather than their profiles, I had to drive 16 hours north on the Trans-Canada Highway. I had to stick a shovel into a wasps’ nest, get attacked by a bird, get so many bug bites on my face that I couldn’t see from my swollen eyelids, and twist my ankle twice without taking a day off, to name only a few. Tree planting was hard and gruelling work and most likely the worst summer job there is out there. But it was worth it. The stillness and awareness your mind is able to reach is such a sweet taste I wouldn’t trade it for anything. x SONDER

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ART by MELANIE WASSER (LEFT) & EMILY GAUDET (RIGHT) WORDS by JOSH RAVENHILL

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THE MUNDANE BUZZ As light shines through the grimy window, peaking through the crowded bus.

People lost in their own troubles unaware of others thus.

They retain themselves quite thoroughly, making sure of no contact. sitting idle in distractions, keeping their own face intact.

Unaware though that somebody stands a few feet away. humming a song for tomorrow. Just like she was yesterday.

All these people on their travels, craving for their solitude Hoping for a helping hand but only getting attitude.

THUD the bus goes up and down, snapping them from their haze They see each other finally, embracing in their gaze. wonder where she’s headed, suitcase firm in hand?

Is he a rock star musician, or part of a jazz band?

Now the ball is set rolling off, looking all around.

Noticing these stone wall faces, staring at the ground.

Olden men with tired looks, waiting for their stop Waiting for a childhood friend, with past yarns to swap There’s a schoolgirl in the corner, with her bag and books Rushing home to get away from all those creepy looks.

Folks step off and on again, adding to the crowd One could hear a sharp pin drop, but their minds are loud.

The mundane buzz is deafening, people in a bore.

One sleepy man worked way too hard, gave a silent snore.

All their thoughts seem unconnected, but in a giant web.

Each thread on a new idea, fading like tidal ebb.

Where are they headed on their trip, are they heading home?

Are they seeking for adventure, asking when in Rome?

No one will know until they speak, the unspoken rule to break Them smashing silence with “hello” moments they could take Shortening the quiet bridge, chats tend to wander finally, the bus’s last stop, puts yourself in sonder. x SONDER

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WORDS by ARANYA IYER ART by DAVID SHIN

Princess Point

You are the human in this trail of life You got here, and so for the moments that you can be— Try to be still, finally here Alone and free First, you notice that the sun is always out On this broken, beaten down path through the forest And it peeks from behind the clouds To hum its own tunes and buzz its own sounds To have a conversation with the wind It’s only when you turn to it, eyes squinted with judgement That it roars a deep throaty laugh, “Child, be not afraid.

Though I am different, we are the same.

I’m a bit further, but never too far away.

You, on your own journey, must tread carefully, For distances I can see Your adventure awaits-but remember that it all began with me.”

You are mostly to encounter the standing giants who will be there Who have been here And learnt how to curve themselves to the winds’ caresses, To take the gentle kisses.

It’s these pillars bearing life that teach The selfless love that is hidden In allowing others to make their home in you.

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If you can, pay close attention to that one bird you hear As it defies gravity and whisks itself away.

It has this to say: “So why do you compare?

You don’t have my tools; you can’t be one with air.

I was built for this---and you, something else.”

As it spreads its wings to fly You spread yours to try And shake your head and laugh at the absurdity.

How silly that I thought that that could be me.

You instead move your feet, As no one else can really do that but you On this pathway that is to lead you to you Understand that your mind is fierce, Your awareness a grace How else could have read this poem?

To have seen meaning behind these half-filled blocks of space?

It is because you are a human in this trail of life And you tried, To be alone and to be free You have succeeded in getting this far, In finding your way back to me. x

SONDER

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Supercrawl ART by JOSÉ LUIS TORRES PHOTO by ANGELA MA WORDS by ALICIA SERRANO

This is what Supercrawl really embodies to me — crossing paths with so many diverse people, while you may or may not realize what you have in common.

Supercrawl is a celebration of Hamilton’s ever-evolving culture.

Art, fashion, performances, food, and music draw diverse crowds to James Street North annually. This year’s festival was a three-day event that ran from Friday, September 9th to Sunday, September 11th.

The Trews, Born Ruffians, and The Strumbellas were some of the huge musical acts who drew crowds of new and old fans to the stage. One of the bands that I discovered a new love for at Supercrawl is The Reason. As a home-grown Hamiltonian band, it was particularly special for them to reunite in their hometown for their very first Supercrawl gig. This was the perfect show to celebrate the band’s tenth anniversary! A very cool moment came before The Reason played one of their first songs and James Nelan (keyboardist, guitarist, and vocalist) spoke. He talked about how surreal it was to be playing on the main stage on James Street North -- the street that he walked along daily. The band was grateful for the overwhelming and unexpected amount of support, coming from people who had actually been their neighbours through the years. At one point, Adam White (lead vocalist and guitarist) pointed to his right, to the downtown Hamilton restaurant where he works. From the way that they performed with the crowd, and from their clear personal history with Hamilton, I could tell that Reason called Hamilton home.

I’ve walked along James Street quite a few times during my two years living in Hamilton. Looking back, I realize that I have probably walked past members of The Reason before, not knowing at the time that I would watch them from the front row of their Supercrawl set. This weekend united the community by a common passion for our city’s culture. This is what Supercrawl really embodies to me – crossing paths with so many diverse people, while you may or may not realize what you have in common.

As I walked up to the Meatventures food truck to pick up my takoyaki dog and parm fries, Shayne gave me a nice “Hey Alicia, how ya doin?” from inside the truck. Shayne worked alongside his brother, Salar, the owner of Meatventures. The two brothers are actually the masterminds behind Pokeh Bar, another staple food joint in downtown Hamilton. It’s both heart-warming and funny that I’ve been to Pokeh so many times that they said “hi” to me at Supercrawl.

As a first-time Supercrawler this year, I was in awe of the sense of community and overall vibe that I got from the festival.

To those who have never been, I highly recommend it; whether you’re into music, food, local art, or anything in between, Supercrawl will have something for you. As for me? Armed with an open mind and a HamOnt patch on my backpack, I will definitely be back next year! x SONDER

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WORDS by RACHEL TRAN ART by K ATRINA HASS

Colour Me Cat started to move from her favourite spot in the city. She had been sitting on the wrought iron step for a while, so long that the pale round disk in the sky was now fully hidden behind the grid-like rectangles of overlapping buildings. She tilted her head left, then slowly brought it over to the right, her eyes glazing over the movements of dark spots: the heads of city folk. There were some who engaged in staring contests with the pavement, others who looked straight ahead without a flinch. Every dark dot seemed to know where it was heading, whether vaguely or precisely. The destination was always the same: a place of familiarity and belonging.

It was time for Cat to return to her alleyway. Her ears pricked as she felt a breeze glide across her ash-gray fur. She pressed her forepaws into the cold metal of the step and stretched backward.

No one would be awaiting her return; she was fairly certain that no one knew she existed. In the jungle that was a metropolis, humans ruled, their power expansive like the branches of ancient trees; a small feline was as significant as a leaf that had fallen to the ground, where sunlight could never reach.

Cat had never minded. She began pawing her way through the streets, weaving through legs as if rehearsing a dance. In her eyes, the world was like an old tapestry; after many years of sun exposure, its colours had lost its vibrancy. Shapes occasionally blurred together at the edge of her vision, blending blues and greens into indiscernible gray blobs.

That evening, however, as she continued her walk, something other than food caused her to look left toward the window of a café across the street. Cat turned into the closest side alley and stared again at the window with mild curiosity, her tail swishing back and forth.

There was a blindingly bright red hat. It was the sharpest and most vibrant object she had seen in a long while.

On it was the largest pompom she had ever seen, too.

Her eyes moved to the young man wearing the bright beacon. The ball of fluff was so clear, yet the colour of his face and clothing, like all other humans in the city, seemed to be diluted by a thin, hazy film. Cat noted the strangeness of the situation as she watched him get up from his table and exit the café. Her eyes followed the red dot until it disappeared into the mass of dark heads moving along the street.

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The next day, Cat did not return to her spot on the iron step.

She again parked herself across the café, at the same time as the day before. She noticed that the man’s coat took on a more intense shade of rugged black; his hat was as red as ever. She left a moment later.

— Cat was dissatisfied with herself.

A month had passed since her first encounter with Pompom, and every day she had found herself creeping to the same side alley across that café at seven in the evening to pay him a visit.

She had been wasting her time doing this. Yet, as the first flakes of winter had begun to drift from the clouds, as the nights had grown stronger and humans had grown sicker, the sight of the silent stranger had still sparked Cat’s curiosity each day. What was in the black mug he ordered? Why did he always wear that red hat? Who was waiting for him when he returned home? What were his dreams and hopes?

Over the course of that month, Cat had learned some things: he always smiled at strangers, even if, from the look of his face as he entered the café, he had had a terrible day; he would rub his nose absentmindedly when he was into a good book; he laughed genuinely at least once every time Cat saw him.

Pompom had become more vibrant as the days progressed.

On the last day of that month, she finally decided to leave that side alley and venture to the café entrance.

Pompom pushed open the door to leave and saw her. “Why do you stare at me, of all people?” he asked with a slight smile.

I have seen so much of you, your many shades and tints. I see the deep indigo of mystery and secrets; it pulses steadily to the beat of your heart. It tries to expand, extend its hazy luminance over your body, but it is always stopped by a gate of pink: the pink that paints the sky when dawn arrives. It carries with it a thin, barely noticeable ray of hope. Despite your efforts to push the thoughts away, you still hang on to the belief that things will get better, that you will have the strength to turn to a new page in your life.

Your story resonates with me, and I want to be part of it.

Pompom looked away and began to walk his normal route, with Cat following closely at his side. x

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WORDS by K AINAT AMIR ART by MIMI DENG

Who They Are

Four months ago, I began volunteering in the Acute Care for Elders (ACE) Geriatrics unit at Mount Sinai Hospital in Toronto. It was for an experiential placement course I took to make summer school more enlightening. And enlightening it was. I was surrounded by residents and nurses and doctors and patients. These were people who taught me compassion, respect, responsibility and what it takes to care for another.

Almost all the patients were thrice my age. My job required for me to visit them, talk to them, offer my help, provide comfort and occasionally aid in feeding assistance.

As an outsider, if I walked around the locked floor and peered into each room, it felt like I was seeing the same image. A 60 year old male patient confined to his bed, watching a baseball game with a stony expression on his face. A 65 year old female patient sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket spread over her lap, quietly staring out the window. A 72 year old male patient curled up on his bed, his head falling to one side, mouth open, asleep. In each room I would see physical or mental decline. I would see frailty and vulnerability.

I have now found there to be so much more to them than what the eye sees. Whether I was wrapping a blanket around a patient’s shoulders or wiping soup off their chin as I fed them, I learned about each of them. Hearing each of their unique stories has allowed me to travel to different times, ages and places. I see the old man in front of me as a young boy skipping over Toronto’s railroad tracks in the 1960s, play fighting with the group of boys who call themselves the ‘Banana Boys’. I see the 22

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woman with dementia reliving a distant memory of gardening with her mother, frantically saying she must get home to help clean up or her mother will be very upset. She sees it clearly even though her mind is a blur in her present. I see a woman moved to tears, unable to eat her lunch, her eyes glossy as she hears a volunteer play Beethoven on the piano. I ask her what is wrong, why won’t you stop crying, are these happy tears, do you miss someone? She simply nods her head, her mind taking her back to a ballroom in Montreal, her waltzing with her husband, and tears continue to silently stream down her face.

Each time I leave a patient’s room, I feel so thankful that they shared with me a part of themselves that is so honest and trusting and personal. It is so humbling to have a stranger place faith in you and share their thoughts, feelings and life experiences. With each revealed memory, I can visualize more clearly the person they were before their bodies or minds deteriorated. I can then see their personalities shine through their sickness, made of mischief, wit, and depth. I can also imagine how they might

view me as a youthful person and I often wondered whether they ever felt remorse or sadness at the same health that they have lost. But I have received honest advice and wisdom from so many of them that I know that they have proudly lived their lives and have experienced so much more than I have, and I find myself wanting to be like them. Stay in school. Your education is your pride. Family is so important. Be true to yourself no matter where you go in life. People who think at all are uncomfortable in this society. I could go on and on.

Four months after my placement, I have met a world of knowledge and love and care. Walking around the floor now, peering into the glass windows and the open doors, I know that in each room there is a person who is one of a kind. A person with a dierent laugh, childhood, culture, taste, and feelings than the next. A person with a unique past and present. I see a person who has lived a life defined by only his or her thoughts and feelings and words. x

With each revealed memory, I can visualize more clearly the person they were before their bodies or minds deteriorated.

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ART by MIMI DENG WORDS by ANNIE YU

All These Friendly People Around this time last year, I was a first-year student who began noticing that more frowns than smiles surrounded me. I often saw a frown when I looked into the mirror and numerous more frowns amongst my peers each time I walked into a lecture hall.

Something was apparently bothering us, the presumably enthusiastic first years with promising futures. As university students who managed to navigate through so many “firsts” – first time leaving home, first lecture, first midterm, first house party – we still struggled to admit that we were profoundly unhappy with ourselves. Unfortunately, too many would agree with this depressing idea. To mask our internal agony and prevent more grimaces from slipping through, we force it upon ourselves to uphold a facade of glee.

For quite a few of us, agony stems from using our peers’ achievements as the standard for success. Our buried thoughts of “Am I good enough?” and “Am I doing as well as the rest of my classmates?” shove us outside the realm of happiness. I once heard the nervous sound of chattering teeth from a friend who hid behind ripped pages of notes, because the burden of any flaws in his academic career became unbearable. Another friend cried into my shoulders at 3 AM, telling me that she did not belong in such a demanding environment. As for myself, I was just another girl who slid down in a locked washroom stall for the third time in one month, questioning herself if she could last ‘till the end of the school year.

None of these depictions serve justice to the misery that was felt, and the even more painful stigmas that kept negative

emotions quiet. Sometime in the process of growing up, hidden stories behind glamorous images are no longer limited to celebrities. Instead, our personal experiences help build the delusion that success is a straight-line and a single destination.

We are now assigned the challenging task of learning that failure does not mean an end, but rather that we are human beings.

Fast forward to the present. I am now a second-year university student who still struggles with anxious thoughts. Having talked to many older students and working adults, I learned that this anxiety does not decrease as we supposedly grow “older and wiser”. Few of us can recall the last time we were genuinely happy for a full day – not just short hours of delicious food and wine, but a whole day of being carefree. A day that is devoted to reading a book, spending time with family, and releasing ourselves from any worries that plague our peace of mind.

So, “Smile, smile if you can/but if you can’t I’ll understand,” as Funeral Suits would shout. Our mothers, fathers, closest friends, lost loved ones, and all those friendly people cannot save us from the negativity that burns within our minds. We can, however, remind one another that every light shining through the curtains signifies a new beginning, and that aside from feeling anxiety, we also hold the extraordinary mental strength to persevere through adversity. Amidst the troubles of confronting the world, we should remember to applaud ourselves for bravely conquering an even greater challenge – our deepest selves. x

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WORDS & ART by ZOE HANDA

PERIPHERY maybe we’re each on our own track moving in circles around and around and around are you dizzy yet? my head is spinning but I’m standing still watching you come and go again and again what if your path changes? you see, you’ve been at the centre of my circle (ok, maybe not the centre let’s not be dramatic) but your face since day one made the spinning slow down around and around and around how can it be that when our circles overlap and our eyes meet your face is in focus and mine is blurry lost somewhere in your periphery? when it feels like you’re gone I’ll construct you out of pieces of the things you left behind so I can prove to myself that you were ever really here in the middle of my mind

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I don’t need to be the star your planets orbit but I want to be something important something you’d fight to keep around around and around and around do you even see me? here on the outskirts of your consciousness we’re out of balance you with hands that span the width of the sky and cover it on rainy days and me trying to do the same for you but my hands are so small that the storm clouds show through I’ve always been good at feeling alone in a crowded room when our circles overlap and I feel like I’m trapped in blurry lights forgotten nights and other things you left behind, that’s all in my head because you are the one who covers my sky someday maybe I should just ask you instead x

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WORDS by ELINA FILICE & ANNABEL KRUTIANSKY ART by SERA JI HYUN LEE

The sun snuck in through the curtains, illuminating the dust from the room I’d been renting for the past few months. I woke up two minutes before my alarm clock went off, thought about trying to revisit the dream I’d been having, but knew that two minutes would turn into twenty and I would miss my train. I rolled out of bed and rubbed the sleep (or what I could get of it – there always tends to be some lingering there) out of my eyes. I walked to my closet to find clothes for work, but on my way noticed something on my back. It hadn’t been there before.

Walking closer to my mirror, the details of the tattoo revealed themselves to my still-sleepy eyes. I didn’t recognize it, but it was beautiful. I sighed and turned towards the mirror to survey

my body. I thought back to when my first tattoo revealed. I was 16. My father was so proud. It was our family crest, on my shoulder. They say your first tattoo says a lot about who you are.

I would have wanted something more individual for my first one, something about me rather than the collective of which I was a part. The appearance of the crest meant I was consequently deemed the breadwinner and protector of this collective.

But that’s the thing about Tsaleket – you never get to choose what gets revealed on your skin. Whatever the tattoos are, good, bad, painful, meaningful to you or not, they appear outside of your control and stay forever. All kinds of strangers’ stories were revealed to you by their ink. I had a buddy who spent a

ink The walk this morning is colder than usual. Up before the sun once again.

It’s early. Did I even sleep? I must have because I can’t shake the feeling that woke me. I’m holding on to it but it already feels like an afterthought that I’ll be chasing for the rest of the day. I probably shouldn’t be fixing my hair in the passing store’s window reflection, but as always, this is as good as it’s going to get. No one is out yet. No one is ever out this early; I prefer it that way.

When my tattoos first started revealing I hated them. I got my first one at 20. A late bloomer. I think that for the most

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I started prepping the coffees for the caffeine addicts who are about to start their days. I prepped my smile too, but no one ever notices that.

part, I just resisted them for as long as I could. I faked my emotions, forced reactions and hid my feelings. I don’t want people to know my memories and my hardships. Sometimes I get so angry at this city and the secrets it inks on every inhabitant. They are mine;, I shouldn’t have to share. I still think about leaving.

But Tsaleket is home. And besides, I

wouldn’t even know where to go. It’s not like the ink would disappear, anyways. A string of birds on my back was the first to be revealed. It was family that I made -, they have my back, and I’ll carry them on mine. To me, family is what you make, not what you are born into. My lower abdomen bore the word “less”. When someone says something enough, it

few years in jail; he left with the word “breath” on his fingers, but never talks about it. My bet is he took someone’s last one.

Another guy who, he struggles with depression, he has a noose inked on the side of his neck. The list could go on of painful and private memories and stories that were plastered, for the world to see, on people’s skins forever. But revelations can be beautiful

too. Large, intricate portraits, detailed patterns and beautiful moments, happy memories. It was unspoken in this city that you can look and admire other people’s body art, but don’t ask unless the person wants to be asked.

I was still in front of my mirror. There were tattoos from all kinds of significant and equally non-significant moments. There

sticks. Always too much: too heavy, too loud, too opinionated.

Be less. I hate these tattoos.

I stopped at the crosswalk down the street from my work.

No cars were coming, but the sun caught my eye. I watched the morning light break through the trees into a million pieces. It’s moments like these where I am free to feel within the privacy

of my own mind. I miss having secrets; the ability to know only myself without peering into what has become a version of who I think I’m supposed to be. Or at least what my body is saying to those around me. Getting lost in the warmth, I felt a pulsating start on my right arm. I couldn’t help but release a sigh. Great, another one. There was a stirring in my wrist, kind of like when

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was one for my younger brother, half a yin yang. His revealed a few months later on his left side chest. It was over his heart, just like mine. In those months everyone wondered who the other half would show up on, but I knew it would be him. There was a quote, from my favourite book. There was a sun, some waves, a bird. Right next to it, the word “widow”. Try getting a date with

that one. I’ve got the speech down pat, “We married young, she got sick, she died shortly after. No kids.” There were a pair of dice, on my forearm. She always said that life’s a gamble.

I realized that my thoughts had taken me far away. I was late.

I threw on some clothes and headed quickly for the train. I revel in the long moments that separate hectic ones. Running for the

a storm is coming, but the sky’s stained glass was telling another story. This one felt different. They say the more you resist your revelations, the more they hurt. Needless to stay, most of mine hurt. Usually people just wake up with them, but if it’s a really bad one it creeps onto your body like a lightning strike in slow motion. No, this one was stirring.

They start light. Just blotches of nondifferentiable colours that look like a bruise and hint at the overall size. This one wasn’t too big. Later the outlines start. That’s where the pain kicks in. They fill out in parts, kind of like a joke with a punch line that keeps you guessing. The final stage is usually about the revelation, the moment where you understand this mark’s

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train, but then waiting patiently on it. I studied the strangers around me. Looked at their ink, their stories, their visible scars.

A city full of people whose inked skin revealed what was within. I was feeling severely decaffeinated. On exiting the station I didn’t consult my watch to ask if we had time for coffee because I knew it would disagree. I spotted a sign of a cafe I’d never been to before and headed towards it.

I studied the strangers around me. Looked at their ink, their stories, their visible scars.

purpose. Most of mine mean nothing to me. Or nothing that I’m willing to admit. This one is no different. Except that there’s no pain. I broke from the trance of the imprint. I was late again so I hurried across the street.

I started prepping the coffees for the caffeine addicts who are about to start their days. I prepped my smile too, but no one ever notices that. Working at the coffee shop gives me enough to wonder about. Every customer has a story, and I spend all day making up their explanations in my head. In Tsaleket, you don’t ask unless offered the truth about the ink on someone’s body. It’s nice having regulars though., I get to learn a little more each day and I have to wonder less and less. Luckily, most of them see me as a coffee conveyer belt, so there is never reason to talk about my marks. As I worked, I snuck glances at the new ink. I didn’t even notice when it finished. It was magical. I started to lose myself in it.

In that fleeting moment of being lost, I noticed the next customer from the sounds that followed him from the city

It was calm inside. Another calm moment between hectic ones. Again surrounded by strangers who considered themselves incredibly busy, but waited patiently for their caffeine. I approached the counter and gave my order. The woman behind the counter had small, precise features and soft eyes. I smiled at her; she smiled back but seemed just as deep in her own mind as I was in mine. My heart jumped into my throat as she reached out to take my change, for on her forearm was the same tattoo that had revealed on my back this morning. She could see my reaction and her expression changed to inquisitive. In shock, I turned to leave without realizing the cut of my shirt revealed the matching tattoo on my back. She called out to me, and I paused at the door. I turned back to her.

“I’m late.” I said. We looked at each other. We smiled. We wondered. “I’ll come back tomorrow?”

“Ok.” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” x

outside. I’d never seen him before. His tattoos were starting to form a sleeve on his left arm – what hasn’t this guy been through? He’s beautiful, though I wish I hadn’t noticed that. The stranger seems distant but somehow focused. “Small coffee,” was the extent of his exchange. As I reach out for the money his eyes widen at my new ink. I couldn’t tell why from his elusive expression, but it forced me to pull back. He moved his eyes and locked them to mine, holding my gaze for what felt like too long. Neither of us could find any words to say and he headed to the door in a rush. In his wake, his tank top fell back from his shoulder revealing the same mark he saw on my arm. Who is he? I called after him, wishing I had asked for his name. “I’m late,” he urged, but paused anyway. I still can’t find the words, but I manage a smile and so does he. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he affirmed over the city sounds as the door closes behind him. {

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WORDS by ANNECY PANG ART by SHIRLEY DENG

From Subdivision Roads to Instagram Love Stories

Each person had a story that was completely unlike that of mine; I wanted to talk to each individual person and learn about their background, their hobbies, their likes and dislikes, and their family. If only I could get a snippet of their individual tales.

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I was ten years old and sitting in the back seat of my mother’s car as she drove me home from dance class. I watched as the man in the car behind us passed us (mom is a slow driver) and then turned left into a subdivision. I started to wonder: where did he live and where was he headed? Was he visiting a friend, or simply going home after a long day at work? Soon after, the SUV in front of us turned right into a plaza’s parking lot.

Was the lady going to pick up groceries or some takeout dinner instead? While I arrived home to my grandfather’s warm cooking and my comfy couch, I became aware that every single car around us on that suburban road had a different destination and consequently, a different backstory as to how they came to be driving on the same road that lukewarm fall evening.

A few years later, I was talking to my grandfather about school. He described his childhood and explained that even

though he went to school, his sisters did not. He told me about growing up in Southern China during World War II, the Chinese Civil War, and how he later moved away to work and start a family with my grandmother. This was my grandfather I was talking to – someone I had known my entire life – and I did not realize just how compelling and fascinating his own story was. I have yet to hear the entirety of his journey and life but look forward to chatting with him each time I visit home.

This past summer I was in downtown Toronto (shopping) one afternoon at about half past four o’clock. I stood on the corner of Bay St. and Wellington and watched the throngs of people in professional attire sweep past me on their way to Union Station. It was a mass exodus from the financial district: the hundreds – maybe even thousands – of people hurrying south in a seemingly never-ending stream. Where were they

were all headed? Mississauga, Richmond Hill, or Scarborough perhaps? I wondered how they got to that point in their lives, if they enjoyed their jobs, what their life stories were. Each person had a story that was completely unlike that of mine; I wanted to talk to each individual person and learn about their background, their hobbies, their likes and dislikes, and their family. If only I could get a snippet of their individual tales.

Social media accounts like Humans of New York (HONY) or The Way We Met provide that brief glimpse into some people’s stories. I learn about a pivotal moment in their lives, peek into their complex love story, and view a snapshot of what their life is like. It makes me realize how interesting everyone is and how diverse everyone’s individual story is. No matter how much I may try and how vigilantly I flip through the photos on Facebook and Instagram, I cannot possibly get to know them all. x SONDER

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WORDS by PATRICIA LORA ART by COLLINE DO

HOPE Bound together at the spine by the burden of grief, Her tender heart still pumps of hope.

A remedy for her loneliness, embedded in the thin slices of pressed wood she calls her stories.

She is easy to read, easy to enjoy. Her adversity sets you free.

One read and no longer will you be caged in what-ifs and heartbreaks.

You live through her company.

Although some show respect and adorn her with praise, When she turns around, the slant of her brows howl with judgement, And the misguided glances of mental illiterates tear her stories at each voice, each glare, and each hesitant reach for her words.

They forget she is gifted with two faces.

Whiteout, overwrite, erasing the parts they have played, Her spine grows shorter by the second.

(The locks are not far from closing.) x

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ART by SHIRLEY DENG WORDS by HENRY KRAHN

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I pushed down the door’s handle and stepped across the threshold. The condo smelled like good cooking with undertones of pet, and the windows at the end of the hall let in a wash of violet light from the rainy night outside. I walked down the hall to the kitchen. I wore thick cotton socks to stay quiet in the dark, but as I entered, the head of a small dog rose to greet me.

I wasn’t in a hurry, so I looked over the photos on the fridge while petting its head.

The couple that lived here seemed happy. Half their pictures were from hikes, bike rides, rock climbing; things that young, rich people love. The other half were formal, taken at business functions. They were beautiful people. From the amount of pictures here, they certainly thought so too. At the centre of the fridge was a picture of the woman with a pregnant belly.

Their living room was minimalist. I couldn’t go any further into the condo for fear of waking them up, so I took what I could from there: earrings from a coffee table, a handful of bills, and all the keys I could find. I also took their memories from the fridge. I thought of them waking up, how they’d make panicked calls to their work, and how they’d argue with the building superintendant. How they might not even get to use the German car for which they had no doubt gone into debt. Before I left, I looked out the windows onto the freeway. Although the rain blurred any detail, I could still see twin streaks of light tracing their way out of the city.

I tried several more doors on the 10th floor, finding one right before the stairway unlocked. There was only one pair of shoes here. This condo’s layout was the same as the last, but the windows had curtains drawn across them. Here the decor was sparse too. Cheap and worn, but clean. Two large bookcases stood against the walls, filled with yellowing paperbacks. Before touching anything, I looked inside the kitchen. This fridge had six class photos from a middle school. Each had the same teacher, tall and lanky and dressed in unfashionable clothes, standing to the right end of the row with his arms folded. It was hard to see his expression in the grainy photos, but he seemed to have a kind face. There was one more in the top right corner: a dog-eared photo of him with his arm around a large-chinned woman. They didn’t glow like the wealthy couple, but they looked happy, smiling into me as I stood there alone and unwanted in the sleeping hours.

I left without taking anything, though I moved the last photo to the centre of the fridge.

I decided to go down two floors, taking the stairs to avoid the cameras in the elevators. There I found my last stop. Outside

I like to think of myself as a shuttle drawn across a loom of these parallel lives, or perhaps as the crosswise thread that makes them into cloth. the door were piled boxes, each with MARK sharpied on top. As I entered, I was greeted by a mess of tiny clothing and spilt food.

There were no photos on the fridge here, only a child’s drawing.

There was nothing remarkable in the living room either, so I went further. Easing open a door, I saw an empty bed and a desk covered in papers. I closed the door behind me and turned on the desk lamp.

This desk must have been the reason the fridge was empty. It had papers from every part of the owner’s life – one May Walsh, going by the names on the papers. There were unpaid hydro bills, a letter of welcome from the building, enrollment in a private school. Pictures were hidden in between strata of paper, mostly of May. There weren’t many of her daughter, though torn shreds of photographs suggested that there might be a reason for that. I found her credit card number on one of the documents and wrote it on my arm, taking also some jewellery from the bedside table, before slipping out the front door.

I took the stairs down to the first floor, where the rear entrance for the fitness centre was always left unlocked. Then I was out into the rain. On the street, puddles reflected neon lights. The sun was starting to rise, making nervous the early morning air. In an hour or two, the wealthy couple would wake. Then the teacher would be up to put himself together. Last would probably be May, to take her daughter to school. I fell to thinking. I like to think of myself as a shuttle drawn across a loom of these parallel lives, or perhaps as the crosswise thread that makes them into cloth. These are my comfortable conceits.

I reached my building a few minutes before four, entering through the back. Here I stopped to remove my hat and hoodie, stuffing them in my bag to avoid suspicion. The corridors were empty and fluorescent. I waited as the elevator ticked down to the ground floor, then rode it up to Floor 8. I yawned as I exited the elevator, thinking of where I could pawn my findings. When I reached my door, I was already half-asleep. I reached out to unlock the door when I noticed the door was already open and my possessions were strewn haphazardly over the floor. x

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WORDS by CARLY VAN EGDOM ART by CLARA LARATTA-GERRARD

Juror #8826

When I first saw him, he was sitting on the edge of the courtroom, notepad in lap and pencil in hand. As the judge droned on through the monotony that is jury duty, he sketched, and then erased, and sketched again. I watched as the court officer pulled him aside, and explained in hushed tones that if selected as a juror, he wouldn’t be able to draw during court. The frustration on his face was evident as he left the courtroom.

The next day, while waiting for my juror number to be called, I observed a conversation between him and a woman who was asking about his drawings. I watched as he carefully explained the situation that inspired his most recent image, which captured a young mother and her newborn child. I watched his concentration as he showed her how the infant’s fingers were rudimentary, because the mother walked away before he was able to complete his sketch.

On the third and final day of my jury summons, he sat down next to me in the courtroom. I paused my reading to look up and smile politely, and he took that as his cue to strike up a dialogue. After a few minutes of forced conversation, he asked me if he could draw me. Caught by surprise and confusion, I answered yes without thinking. As he pulled out his sketchbook, I began to panic. I realized the potentially creepy implications of this request. Nevertheless, I held true to my word and he began to draw me.

In the forty-five minutes of broken conversation that followed, I learned that he is an aspiring artist, who hopes to one day do gravestone portraits, or work in a courtroom as a sketch artist. I discovered that he went camping this summer 38

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with his dog, and that he cares for the environment more than anything in the world. I had a heated discussion with him about the state of our criminal justice system. In those forty-five minutes, I got a brief glimpse into his life, and though I’ll likely never see him again, the memory of this uncommon occurrence will certainly stick with me.

After this experience, I took a hard look at the way I interact with people on the daily. I realized the impact that these ohso-brief interactions can have. In some respect, I am defined by the minutia of my day. I am defined by whether I held the door open for a stranger, if I smiled at the passerby I made eye contact with in Mills plaza, if I thanked the bus driver after getting off at my stop. Sometimes, these social interactions can seem inconsequential. Despite their seemingly mundane nature, these exchanges show our true nature as people. These interactions can define how strangers see us; do we reserve our kindness for those we know, or do we treat everyone with kindness? I think that sometimes, we get so caught up in the humdrum uniformity of our lives that we forget the beauty of those around us, even those we don’t know. My portrait artist reminded me to pay attention to every small element of my day, or risk missing these snapshots into humanity, however brief.

In my last interaction with the man, he pulled me aside to show me the completed drawing. He put an incredible amount of time and effort into finishing it, and it turned out beautifully.

I wish I could thank him again for the drawing, but more importantly, for reminding me that everyone has a beautiful story just waiting to be told. x

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As nightfall overcomes this place The streets unrecognizable Cold encroaches, greets my face And all is less than wonderful Comb into the city’s fray Sullen spirits filled with drink Unlike the upside down in day The mellow silence lets me think The living city overwhelms Inviting tremor to my hand Recurring struggle to compel The senses know no reprimand But somehow at the dawn of night Anxiety will learn its place Relieved from all the oversight Emerge the faction still awake

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Most of us will never meet Ghosts do not know other ghosts The hidden army, sleepless fleet In homes that never feel like homes Solace will not find our beds Passing over every plea Living inside of our heads Insomniacs still have their dreams Blood of lamb marked on the door Reddened window to the soul The writer’s emblem says much more The darkest stories never told Again in day, against the light We understand without a word We read the telltale marks of plight Unpublished volumes never heard x

CYCLE WORDS by SONIA LEUNG

WORDS by TANVIR SINGH ART by RACHEL KWOK

1 Cream 2 Sweeteners I commute to my internship everyday, rain or shine. Soon enough it will be either sleet or snow. I hop on the Red Hill, get stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic for 20 minutes, arrive, and begin typing away on my ChromeBook at my desk, both of which are extremely undersized for my 6’1”, 215 pound frame.

Even despite this, a lot happens when I am sitting at my desk; I research and learn a ton. However, I also happen to learn quite a bit in those 20 minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic. In those 20 minutes, I see a world that is a lot larger than my own -- one that is a lot larger than my desk…

I see people who are sad. I see some that are mad, and their anger sometimes turns into tears. What do they fear? What is so awful in their life right now that they are breaking down on their commute to work? A part of me acknowledges it and ponders what could be plaguing them. I then continue on my commute before I am halted. I turn my head to see the next passerby.

I see some people that are happy, jubilant and elated, dancing to whatever song may be on the radio. Literally, at this moment in time, they are free from their commitments. Maybe they look forward to this 20-minute commute that I dread so dearly. How can I find this type of solace? I mean, look at that smile. Before I have time to contemplate the reason for these people’s happiness, there is movement once again.

The movement of traffic teases me for about half a minute before we are at a dead stop once again. This time, I see an elderly couple – definitely retired – and wonder where they could be going this early. I think to myself: how long have they been together? I wonder what stories they have and what kinds of memories they have created with one another. A part of me wants to stop them right then and there, tell them to roll down their windows, and ask for a dose of wisdom to go with my morning 1 cream, 2 sweeteners from Tim’s. The traffic disperses.

I arrive at work, where I have deadlines galore. I can’t help but stare out my window, at a world that is so much bigger than my own. I see people that are sad. I see some that are mad. I see some that are happy, smiling from ear to ear. I see some people, who have undoubtedly been together for a number of years. I see a world bigger than my own. I am uniquely mine and they are uniquely them.

Yes – I see a world where we can all learn from one another, not restricted by the confines of undersized stationery. x 42

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I see a world where we can all learn from one another, not restricted by the confines of undersized stationery.

SONDER

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WORDS by NIKITA K ALSI ART by ANQI WU

Spilt But then he just looked at me, and a dark puddle of steaming espresso spilled around us.

When he ran into me I was looking right into his eyes, it was as if no one lived in them.

When I ran into her I was so focused, it was as if focus was the act of not paying any attention at all.

But then he just looked at me, a dark puddle of steaming espresso spilled around us.

I was looking right at her, but I barely saw her. Next thing I knew I was crashing into her like a wave.

If people were like the rain, he was a storm; it seemed like subversion in his eyes.

If people were like the sun, she was warmth; it seemed like forgiveness in hers.

Dressed like that he probably wasn’t bringing anyone coffee, let alone getting any brought to him Dressed like that a boss was probably expecting the delivery of those coffees, those coffees spilt around our feet.

He looked like the type of man who thought putting on a suit somehow made him into one, I saw straight through guys like him.

She looked like the type of woman who worked hard to be here. I wanted to be here. I saw someone I understood. I respected her when I looked at her.

But he just walked away, left me drowning in a flood of caffeine.

She would understand, I walked away, I had to.

I could not believe he left, yet I wasn’t surprised. Why call it common courtesy if being common was the one quality that courtesy does not possess?

I couldn’t just leave like that. She was making a decent living, she was a decent person, she deserved, if just one thing from me, decency.

He came back to clean up the caffeinated destruction he had left in his wake, as if he were doing me a favour.

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She was thankful, I could just tell. I gave her the ten I had in my wallet, that would have to cover it.

He apologized, that was it.

I was sorry, but I had to leave.

At this point, I no longer cared. I didn’t bother going back to work after he left. I hadn’t learned anything of value in these last three months; I knew how to order my coffee long before they got me this internship. As I got into my car and watched the headlights light up the evening ahead of me, I was relieved. The patio lights and people buzzing beneath my parent’s downtown condo were the only things I wanted to be surrounded by. Luckily, the night was cool and the air was crisp. Glasses clinking and the laughter of my closest friends would wipe the stains of coffee

away from my day. What was important was that I would finally enjoy my day. I deserved it. I was fine, eventually I always was.

At this point, I cared so much it hurt in the pit of my stomach.

I counted all the change I had left – 2 dollars exactly, not even enough for the bus. It was too late to make the interview; the office doors were locked, and the hiring sign had lost its place in the windowsill. The coffee stain wouldn’t budge from its new home on the collar of my blazer. The boys usually lined up before the sun even began to set, and at this point I barely had a shadow by my feet. Even if I ran through the back gates I still wouldn’t make it into the shelter tonight. Luckily, the night was cool and the air was crisp, the lights and laughter of downtown echoed in the park would be the hum of my night. What was important was that I did the right thing today, she deserved it. I was fine, eventually I always was. x SONDER

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WORDS by EMMA HUDSON ART by ERIN FU

Poolside She tapped her feet lightly on the surface of the water, satisfied by the feeling that she was floating, light as ash. The edge of the water blurred messily into the darkness, but she could feel the separation in the tap tap of her feet on the surface.

You should be in bed, you know.

She’d gone too far. Her back grazed the bottom of the pool, lightly, reminding her of now. She’d forgotten she needed to breathe.

She slipped in, annoyed that he was still there. He should have left hours, hours ago. She scrunched up on the bottom of the pool, a little ball, counting, counting.

One Two Three Four Five…

Surface.

When she resurfaced, he was still there. He’d lit a cigarette, leaning against her fence, which was creaking slightly under his quiet frame. The amber tip glowed bright and beautiful against the hazy background. She turned to him.

Do you love me for me?

Of course. Who else would I love you for?

Are you cold?

He cocked his head slightly and took another drag from his cigarette. Do your parents know you’re out here?

It’s thirty degrees outside.

Just checking.

She dove back under, hoping to erase him from her sight. She tried somersaulting, as much as she could, as many.

One Two Three Four Fi She stopped mid-tumble, held captive by the inky mosaic overhead. The shapes blurred together, the lines were 46

indistinguishable. The pool was built into the ground. The world got better when you were underground.

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She sat in the shallow end for a while, only gasping a little.

She ran her finger lightly over the water, sure that there was nothing more beautiful. He was still there, though. There and oily polished and stunning as could be. She opened her mouth.

Closed it. Then looked up.

I don’t know. Yourself? I don’t know.

Do they care?

Somewhere.

She was suddenly exhausted. She wondered if it was after midnight yet. If it was tomorrow, or if tomorrow was today. This was infinitely confusing. Infinite was confusing.

I think you should leave.

He grinned, his smile the only part of his face illuminated by the tip of his cigarette. Leave? Leave the fun? I’m here for the long haul.

She looked away.

Hey, don’t be like that. This is nice. But you should be asleep right now. You shouldn’t be out here. You should be in bed dreaming nice dreams curled into a little ball, tight under your covers so no one can see you.

She punched the water’s surface. Small droplets flew into her face, spilled over the edge, returned to the water. She stood perfectly still, watching the ripples vanish off into some unknown world.

Go away. I hate you.

You don’t hate me.

I should.

She dragged herself to the ladder and pulled herself up, slowly, shaking droplets from her toes and letting the water stream into her eyes. They stung and burned and would be red. Amber cigarette tips glowing in the night. He stood and walked over to her.

You know the way out.

He dropped his finished cigarette on the ground and stepped on it, left the ground tingling with embers and smoke.

Only if you promise to go straight to bed, straight to sleep. Then I’ll go. I don’t want to miss any of those awe-inspiring thoughts you’ve got up there.

I promise. She was kicking the ground, examining her kneecaps.

They had turned a mottled purpley color, as though the nighttime had rubbed off on them.

He grinned and kissed the top of her head. Don’t bother to walk me out, he said. I know the way.

And he left so quickly she didn’t even hear him move, didn’t see him go. She just looked up to an empty sky and the barely-there remnants of a used-up cigarette.

She walked towards the house, the grass cool under her wet feet.

She stopped, just for a second, and lay down. Lay down and felt the life growing around her hair, down her legs, onto her back.

And she stayed very still and wished, wished, wished that she could be underground, that the earth would open up and the good things and the life and the love that she wanted but didn’t need would come and swallow her whole and drag her down down down down. x SONDER

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WORDS AND ART by JASON LAU

Knots

Just over three years ago, I bought a bracelet from a Peruvian shaman. He told me that it would provide me with good luck on my journeys ahead.

We had just performed a Pago ceremony, a ritual dedicated to the offering of gifts for Pachamama (Mother Earth) and the Apus (mountain spirits) before our expedition. I found myself standing by the hillside, admiring the emergence of the sun from behind the clouds at that very moment – it was magical, as if Pachamama and the Apus were actually acknowledging our offerings. I wrapped the bracelet around my left wrist, and asked a kind friend to help me tie a firm knot to secure it. For the next three years, this bracelet would become a part of me, always reminding me of all the lessons I’d learned in Peru – held in place by a simple but strong knot.

However, these sorts of knots aren’t the only ones that move around with and become a part of us as we live through our years.

We are riddled with a different kind of knots: knots created by events in life that throw you in a loop, and drag you back through it when you least expect it. Some knots are created by people – those who have knots themselves, who are simply finding a way to untie theirs by practicing on your strings.

Perhaps there is a reason why they call them “heartstrings”.

These openings to our inner psyche are so open to being tugged and torn and tied – the epitome of our vulnerability. It’s no surprise that over the years we also find ourselves running around in circles, chasing our own tails, and getting all tied up, all in search of what we’re all about.

But oftentimes we don’t ever find out.

And all we’re left with are these knots. Sometimes these knots plague us for the rest of our lives, weighing down our hearts and stopping anyone from reaching in once more, afraid that the knots will only grow tighter and tighter until we cease to feel anything at all.

I have spent the duration of this Peruvian bracelet’s life, and particularly the past couple of months, attempting to undo

some of these knots. I have spent days wondering where I am supposed to go next, evenings spilling the contents of my heart to others and nights thinking about how all of these knots managed to become so ingrained into who I’ve become.

But aren’t knots supposed to make us stronger and able to hold on more? Aren’t knots the very thing that can save our lives as we climb up the towering rocky hillside to find ourselves unable to hang on any longer? Is it not the only response we can turn to as someone pushes us off that cliffside and all you can think of is to not hit rock bottom? The figure eight knot, tied into an infinity of security, is able to withstand our greatest tensions. Even the Inca used knots to write the story of their civilization, keeping records to preserve their history and further their economy.

So this begs the question: what’s the point of knots? Do we have any reason to make it a life’s mission to untie every single knot we’ve accumulated through our years?

Just about a month ago, I discovered that my bracelet was becoming untied during a time when I was constantly leaving people and places behind in search of my next destination. It was a difficult time. Was the luck of my journey now running out? Will I now lose touch with all of those souls who’ve helped tie my bracelet? Every time I asked another friend to tie my bracelet back, I would keep discovering it to be untied on its own, despite how strongly it was tied.

It isn’t until I find myself standing at a train station in Sheffield that it all starts to unravel. I ask my friend Chris to help me tie my bracelet back up again using a strong knot he learned from climbing, since I don’t know much about knots.

He ties it, but leaves me with some of the most profound words I’d heard in a while. “One thing I know about knots is that they always come undone.” x SONDER

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WORDS by AMANDA EMMANUEL ART by SHIRLEY DENG

bacio della fortuna I wasn’t looking: There was no need to search for a smile that made my insides curl or eyes to freeze my insecurities or fuel my improprieties or release the heat of a thousand splendid suns from hot breaths on the small of my neck.

I used to write about it: Empty eyes that inspired crumpled pieces of bad poetry that desired to be understood, until a mistake and a second take and I began to write again.

Green eyes that inspired words that poured out like hot ink from warm breaths that read swiftly, simply, into the curves of letters that fit as perfectly as mine against his large frame.

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In a glance I could feel bones hollowing at the touch and gravity pressing my insides low enough to bring me back to the reality of my brown skin against a familiar silhouette.

I can taste sweet temporary moments of understanding and feeling between thin sheets against warm skin and hesitancy upon touch.

Fleeting moments of fire in residual breathing, the pounding of rhythmic beats and fists of past encounters this encounter is fortune’s gamble with an unfortunate heart.

A dance and a juxtaposition of want and purpose, strung intricately by words, and held delicately by a curious reader.

The smell of cologne on my skin and my lipstick on your cups of coffee and symphonies playing my pleasure to the tune of the sun rising more quickly than I can from the bed.

Serendipitous words and exchanges and a compass leading me to unfamiliarity, my hair curled with the humidity of the summer rain sticking to my skin like kisses of soft promises.

Just as the amber gains prosperity in its shine, you are the sun that lightens my skin and

inspires my worth.

I wasn’t looking for myself when we met. x

SONDER

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Dreaming with Strangers ART by THERESA ORSINI

WORDS by EMILE SHEN >>

I spend one-third of my life with strangers in my reveries and my anxieties. Dreams are the ultimate time of judgment because all the insecurities and regrets come to the forefront at night in the moon version of ourselves.

Given my depression, I had spent a lot of time in bed. Not sexually. Just sluggishly. The more I slept, the more I longed to sleep. I drifted in and out of reality because I was in a haze.

How did you seep into the subconscious I cannot control?

The thing about my dreams is that they feature people from the past. Usually, people whose lives have lost any relevance to mine – essentially strangers. Different places of prominence are then displayed as an arbitrary background. My elementary school is a standard setting, alongside the long brick wall where McMaster Commons is. And then, because what makes a dream other than the people in them, various people from my elementary and high school classes are scattered throughout.

I spend one-third of my life with strangers in my reveries and my anxieties. Dreams, to me, are the ultimate time of judgment because all the insecurities and regrets that boil in your head through the day come to the forefront at night in the moon version of ourselves. I do not give myself an easy time. Are the people in my dreams judging me too? (Why do I care so much about what others think?)

In May of this year, I traveled by myself, which was incredibly fun and somewhat daunting. When I was in Paris, I was a small Asian girl walking around with a bag and a camera, I was just another tourist in the crowd at The Trocadéro watching the Eiffel Tower light show. I later missed my flight. That month, I 54

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had nightmares nearly every day. I think I am scared of being forgotten and that translated into the deeply troubling images in my sleep every night: getting strangled on the beach by a stranger, my boyfriend getting murdered, my family becoming homeless. With dreams like that, it is no wonder why I don’t feel rested in the morning. Sleep is when most people rest, but I work through my deeper conflicts.

A: How did you seep into my subconscious?

B: Because you are always sleeping.

A: I wish I could sleep for the rest of my life.

B: I know.

A: I wish I could never think about you ever again. I hate my dreams and you.

I wonder if I could exist in other people’s dreams, as an active participant. If, by doing so, I would be able to understand their fears and motivations more. How much more empathetic would the world be if we just knew more about the dreams everyone had? x

ART by LAURA NEWCOMBE WORDS by K ATELYN JOHNSTONE

MOON REFLECTION Of course the sun would love a starShe is so beautiful and bright, An endless fire to match your own.

You needn’t worry since the sun’s a star as well: Giver of light and life With its own gravity; I can assure you that If I was not tethered to earth I would fall into you So completely This pale reflection of your light Would be returned to you again.

Still it is lonely to Watch from below as sun and star Both dance across some alien sky.

The two form their own constellations, and So write themselves in fate.

How could I blame you for loving a star, When I was fool enough to do the same? x SONDER

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WORDS by LEAH MCDONALD ART by MIMI DENG

Classroom After Death She died on May 23rd, 2012.

She died minutes after I had stepped on the train to go and visit her.

I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye nor was there a phone call or smoke signals, just the annoying and painful vibration of my cellphone.

My head vibrated against the seat, and I smiled to myself as I thought of my visit with her. I couldn’t wait for her pain and sickness to be gone. It had been under a year since her diagnoses and our lives had changed so drastically. Today would be the end of that. But my bliss was destroyed with one text message.

“Sorry Jasmine died,” a friend of mine sent. The pain of emptiness and loss crept over my heart, squeezing and tugging at my brain as it spread.

“You’re lying,” I sent back. Seconds later, the phone buzzed again.

“Stop it! She’s dead,” the text message said.

My hands began to shake, and my chest hollowed. Soon, more texts with condolences followed. I started to sob, wailing for all the train to hear. My father gave me a questioning look.

I couldn’t say anything. There weren’t any words in the English language to describe how I felt and what had happened. I slid my cellphone across my knee to him. He picked it up, read the texts, and then sighed. For a second, I thought he would say sorry, but he didn’t. I didn’t want to hear sorry. Sorry meant she was really dead, and my 14-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend that.

The train pulled to a stop at Union.

“Are you alright?” the women sitting across from me asked.

From that moment on, I felt like I would never feel okay again.

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“Her best friend just died,” he answered while pulling my head into his chest as if to protect me from the horrors of reality.

I sobbed louder.

My first best friend had died at the age of fifteen, twenty days after her birthday. And yet, here I was, alive and well.

The next day, I walked into class, slipped into my seat and buried my head into my arms, peaking above the edge of my elbow. The whole school had found out about her death before I had, yet I could see no trace that anyone was as shocked and as hurt as I was. I heard stories later on that people had cried and hugged their friends. But those were just stories, not lived history. I felt like my life had ended.

My chest flashed with heat. Why did everyone get to be happy when I felt miserable? Why wasn’t anyone collapsed in pain like I was? Why? Someone walked in the door and I perked up. As quickly as I had risen, I deflated. For a single second, I had believed that it was all a cruel practical joke. That second of hope was crushing.

She wasn’t going to walk through the door, and she wasn’t going to call my name or laugh at my jokes. She wasn’t going to do anything anymore.

It was there that I realized that her death would be my burden to bear. And as far as I was concerned, to bear alone. x

SONDER

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WORDS by JENNIFER SCORA ART by SHIRLEY DENG

The Book Lady As my gaze passes over the corner table, it gets caught on the gorgeous woman sitting alone there.

Monday, October 12 As I open the door to the cafe, I inhale its smell of coffee and chocolate mixed with books into my lungs. It dissipates through my body, relaxing my stressed muscles. Refreshed, I walk past the rows of tables interspersed with bookshelves for my customary Monday coffee and sandwich. There’s a line at the counter, so I look around, ensuring my table is empty. As my gaze passes over the corner table, it gets caught on the gorgeous woman sitting alone there. She’s wearing a rust-coloured dress, complemented with a patterned scarf and knee-high boots.

Her dark brown hair falls in perfect waves over the scarf. As I stare, she shifts and raises her book a little. I squint in the dim lighting to make out the cover – is that A River of Stars? That’s one of my favourites. A warm fuzzy feeling at sharing this book with such an amazing person, albeit a stranger, pulls a smile from me. The barista calls out my order, and still smiling like an idiot I grab it from the counter. I nod to him in an attempt at normalcy and head back to the front of the cafe, pulling my own book out of my bag.

Monday, December 14 Outside there’s not a flake of snow to be seen, but the cafe is a haven of winter and Christmas. A plethora of bright lights are strung around the room. I pick out an adorable gingerbread snowman to add to my meal before looking to the corner table, as is my habit now. Every Monday since October, the book lady has been ensconced at that table when I come in. Today, she’s wrapped in a warm purple sweater. Her book is lying on the table, though, so I have to wait until she moves. I check the counter for my order, and when I look back to her table the book lady’s brown eyes meet mine. She smiles, and I blush and smile back, then quickly avert my gaze. I peek over at her again after I grab my food, and find that she’s adjusted her position so I can easily see the cover. The Alchemist. I have my book for next week.

Monday, February 22 The warm air of the cafe embraces me as I rush in, fogging my glasses and soothing my burning cheeks. I start wiping off my glasses as I walk through the now-fuzzy room towards the counter at the back. I squint towards the corner table, but I can’t see anyone. Even when I put my glasses back on, there’s no one there. No book recommendation today. Damn. I try to remember how I used to find new books to read while I wait.

As I walk back to my table, I glance at what everyone else is reading. Perhaps I’ll get a book recommendation from them.

The man next to my favourite table is reading a newspaper, so I rule him out – but something about the picture on the right page catches my eye. I know that woman. Where do I – the book lady. It’s her. I slow almost to a stop, squinting at the title. Drunk driving, it says. That’s all I make out before he turns the page.

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I sink into my seat and slowly pull out my book. Today it’s Discworld, supposedly hilarious. I don’t even try to open it. My stomach is clenched, food forgotten. I have to know what happened.

A quick glance behind me gives me the name of the newspaper, and I easily find the website on my phone. I scroll slowly, squinting at the tiny pictures to see if I recognize any of them. Finally, a story about an accident shows up, no picture, and I click on it. The text loads first.

Saturday, early morning, it reads. Angelica, 29, and a family of four. There were children. I take a drink of coffee to calm down.

The pictures have loaded now, and my book lady stares back at me again. Blood alcohol over the limit, I see as I keep reading.

Parents injured, and driver in hospital, and the boy died. I stare at

those last three words. I can imagine him, slumped in the back seat, surrounded by glass and screams and blood. I’ve read too many books, the images come too easily with the words. I take another gulp of coffee, look for something to distract me.

My book sits before me. The one my book lady was – no, not mine. The book lady. Angelica. Who got drunk and killed a child…

How could someone like her do this? She was put together, smart. She read all my favourite books, had even unknowingly recommended some new favourites. How could she?

I gather up all my things and shove the cafe door open in a rush of cold air. I stride back towards work and a break room full of coworkers joking and complaining. The book sits at the table, alone. x

SONDER

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ART by GRANT HOLT WORDS by ALEXIA OLAIZOLA

HELP? If everyone’s life is as vivid as mine Why aren’t they as valuable?

Why are there refugee camps next to shopping centres, Why am I buying more shoes for myself, when next door LITERALLY next door There are people who are hungry and lonely and sad?

Why do I get to be here?

Why do I get a mom and a dad When my sister’s friend’s dad just died in his sleep?

Why do I get to complain about studying and stats When the other Alexias around the world are wishing they could go to school?

I have the privilege to complain And to complain about being able to complain But what am I supposed to do? (what can I do what’s the point just give up) Wow that’s depressing I should probably just keep sleeping I’ll figure it out one day (maybe) x

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WORDS by ARYAN GHAFFARIZADEH | ART by DJ GOMEZ ART by DJ GOMEZ

Perpetual Self PERPETUAL SELF A thunder, Is yet to come And I Wander‌

Through empty hallways And locked secrets I am blind I was born skinless I thrive in darkness The inside is hidden Lost in interpretations, Laws are forbidden Songs are unwritten Sipping seconds Leave me careless Whether death is alive Upon me, Or within the person beside me There is a thunder yet to come Will I survive?

Will I stride Into the mirrors of silence?

Where the sea, Belongs to my island Cut open the flesh of light There is an infant residing Waiting to be you There will soon be a thunder For my eyes to see you x

Stone Palace ART by LAUREN GORFINKEL WORDS by SOPHIE SILVERTON

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There it is. Complete with an oval stone, a piece of granite, and a small stone from the sea: a true Stone Palace.

Peter walks down the road. In number twelve, someone is practicing their violin again – sounds of glass dragged over glass tumble from the house and careen down the row, assaulting garden gnome ears at number twenty-six, ruffling neatly stacked papers in the den of forty-four. Hiking his burlap bag into a more comfortable position, Peter hurries up the porch steps of number twelve to deposit the mail. Violins sound lovely with practice, he tells himself, proceeding onto number fourteen.

Then past the house with a cracked third step, moss sprouting through the concrete, and beyond where a cat sits and stares, Peter reaches the end of the road. Outside the final building, he picks up a stone. Oval and smooth, its weight settles comfortably in… her palm. She stretches her small fingers to explore. It’s harder than the salty dough she plays with at the kitchen table, and does not get stuck under her tiny pink nails. Nor does it rattle, beep, reflect, or squeeze. Or crinkle, twinkle, honk, or click. A large, familiar hand reaches down to take the stone from… his bag. With a gentle, practiced movement, Peter places it atop of another – itself supported by many more stones.

Satisfied, he retires to his house for the night, until he rises once more to sort through the day’s deliveries: a whole world in paper he thinks sleepily. Walking down the road, the morning is peaceful. A violin, thankfully, still lays at rest in its velvet box, hidden from the first pale beams striking number ten’s stained glass window and coaxing number seven’s globe flowers out from their closed slumber. The blooms nod at Peter as he walks by to slip a gold-edged envelope into a mail slot. At the

perimeter of the garden bed, he nudges a piece of granite with his… sneaker. Annoyed, Sam kicks the granite harder and it skids down the pavement. He is waiting for the bus. And it is late. Cars flash by along their way, occasionally rolling to a stop at red. Top twenty hits drifting from cracked open windows. One bumper sticker reads “Grandpa’s Girls” outlined in hearts. Nauseated by the sticker and gasoline fumes, Sam wanders over to the piece of granite and… scoops it up. He likes the pink whorls threading through white and decides to place it in his bag to bring home. As night falls on the road, windows light up like eyes in the dark and Peter sets the granite beside the oval stone. The growing structure obstructs light from a neighboring street lamp and casts a shadow over Peter’s yard. With the sunrise of the third day, this shadow melts away and he spots the final stone. It rests delicately on… the ledge of a bedroom window. A keepsake from their recent trip to the beach. Memories of sand and sun caress Sue as she makes the bed. Corner to corner, lying sheets flat. Sue plumps her pillow, then Peter’s before hearing a joyous hoot and her name being called from the yard. There it is. Complete with an oval stone, a piece of granite, and a small stone from the sea: a true Stone Palace. Swirling staircases leading to cautiously stacked turrets. Pillars supporting raised platforms, and flat stones forming a moat. Each stone a story collected over time.

Somewhere in the distance they hear a bus rumbling by, a child stirring from her sleep, the unforgiving screech of a violin. x SONDER

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ART by RACHEL MORK, SHERRY NESBITT & VICTORIA WATSON

It’s language that is separating us.

Despite being in a vehicle hurtling 70 km/h with the only air conditioning for miles, it isn’t the distance or the money that mainly separates us. If I was standing next to them we wouldn’t be any closer.

From the other side of the glass, I grin and wave back. But my elation quickly turns to a yearning, which becomes sadness. I want to talk to them, listen to them, laugh with them, and exchange stories. How is their day going? Where are they going? What are their families like? What do they discuss on these afternoons at the bus stop?

This time, traveling isn’t letting me all the way in. It’s keeping me at a distance. I’m left wondering what’s actually happening around me. I can’t see inside the homes, jobs, or lives of the people around me, from behind a car window.

Traveling usually brings me closer, and lets me in on what’s happening somewhere else. I engage with a new surrounding, meet the people, walk their streets, eat their food, and see a completely different way of living.

We drive silently, listening to the driver tell us the history of his state. I look out the window. As we drive by a bus stop, five Indian women sit, gathered around it. With grins on their faces and chatter on their lips, they wave to me.

Kerala, Southern India

Mouths Closed, Eyes Open

WORDS by NICOLA GAILITS

SONDER

65

I’ve stopped waving now. They’re too far away. The bus stop is no longer in sight. x

Today, that isn’t going to happen. A local discussion of politics is out of the question. Today is just me, sitting in a car, trying to imagine the lives of women I know nothing about.

They were silent, by choice. I was silent, dying to speak. Never had I seen men gather together in this way to support the protection of women in their community. Not in Canada, not anywhere. I want to know more, and to be more. More than just a passive onlooker. As we drive by the bus stop, I wonder about the women’s opinions on the protest. What would they tell me about their community? How does this affect their lives? Did their husband participate? What does he say to them about this?

The day before, I had seen a giant protest in the centre of a small city.

Men were walking down the street, dressed head to toe in black, mouths shut tightly with scarves. They marched the streets, silently, carrying big signs painted “NO TO RAPE.” They were standing in solidarity with women, to protest recent sexual assaults in the area.

This is why we learn new languages, isn’t it? These are the moments when we forget whether we travel by car or by foot and we just connect.

We laugh. We talk. We’re no longer peering at a culture through a plated glass. We’re no longer an observer; we’re just another person.

This distance is heartbreaking. Here I am, halfway around the globe, deep inside a new world, trying to get closer, just to say, “hello.” But I am hitting a wall.

I speak some Hindi but in Kerala they mostly speak Malayalam. We probably can’t communicate beyond the hand gestures and grins we have already achieved.

WORDS by CHUKKY IBE ART by LAUREN GORFINKEL

Child Labour 54, 55, 56, 58. “If ever unsure start again from 1.” Most homes have yards with lawns greener than the other side’s; here we become pop stars, sport stars, Olympians. I spent most of my childhood in the yard. The yard of my red-bricked childhood home, in Lagos, the city that God forgot, was my mother’s factory.

Following rigorous rituals in French, mathematics, and English, her longest working tailor Oga Taju would welcome me and my brother to the factory. His superpower – the ability to turn nouns into prepositions – must never be taken for small or simple thinking. His Yoruba accent would turn Chukky to Oeeshukky, just as fast as he spun cotton strands into warm beddings my mother sold.

Oga Taju is one of the seventeen tailors working in this factory. I say factory, but it could easily have passed for a garage.

The walls of the largest room were as old as they were grey.

Six holes in the wall and an open door allowed for what could loosely be described as ventilation.

In the pinning room by the left, fibre was placed on the base cloth and stitched together into Disney inspired duvet covers.

On the pathway on the right of the pinning room we folded duvets and counted them in their bags “54, 55, 56.” This is their final stop until they were ready for the shelves in the parts of Lagos that were not broken.

From the age of 7, I learned to count bags full of bedsheets and pillows. After graduating primary school, I was promoted to making and counting the Gift Sets – her most valuable product – with her workers. She would walk into the factory with tomato paste perfume following her like shadow; “this is how I pay for your education.” Was that 56 or 57, if ever unsure, start again from 1.

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As I dive through stockpile of aqua blue, navy blue, baby blue, sky blue, marine blue, searching for the right type of blue, sweat would rinse through my pores like oceans forcing itself into river.

As a tailor’s son, I developed both a predilection and disdain for colours. I knew if I want to become the blue power ranger, all I need do is dress in pieces of abundant abandoned cloth lying around the factory. Mummy’s factory was where I built my first Megazord and Secret Laboratory. When new material arrives at the factory, the drill is simple. Turn off the television, head to the yard, and count.

I wondered if the only reason she had children was to have us count bedsheets. Certainly this child labour is reparation for her hours in child labour. We had to pay her back in some way.

With child labour; simple, redundant, repetitive tasks. Making us count bedsheets is how Mummy shows her love. She teaches us to value hard work. She oversees her children, a factory of workers, with her nose in the air hoping the tomato on the cooker doesn’t set all she has built ablaze. Labour is the love behind her sacrifice.

I wept when we moved from my childhood home 10 years ago. I am now 21 years old, a bachelor of political science, two years into my job in student affairs. Our new home still has a factory in the backyard. On my last trip to Lagos, an unexpected shipment arrived to the factory. Once we heard the roar of the truck come through the gates, nostalgia melted into muscle memory. We put off the television, put on our sleeveless shirts, and slippers. 54, 55, 56, 58, or was that 57? If ever unsure, I would have to start again from 1. x

Mummy’s factory was where I built my first Megazord and Secret Laboratory.

When new material arrives at the factory, the drill is simple. Turn o the television, head to the yard, and count.

SONDER

67

WORDS by A ARON GRIERSON ART by MATT WATTS

Ain’t nobody got time for err’body.

To wish, to want, to wander; I can’t help but feel a little lost when I ponder about sonder. I mean, it’s a word that appears to have been coined, at least in Internet terms, in October 2014. The realization that everyone else has a story. Is this because no one ever figured it out? Or because no one ever cared? I believe the latter is statistically impossible and the former a little too sour to stomach.

Seriously, can sonder actually be considered a revelation? Are we all that tuned out of the world around us? Or is it simply a neologism gone buzzword that’s captured a small part of our collective hearts by way of social media? Either way, I feel it’s axiomatic. Anything that actively experiences has a story. By which, I mean it has actual senses of some sort: a bird, a worm, a tree. A boulder or steel beam may indeed ‘feel’ the wind or that hot blade a’grinding, but they don’t actually process it in a way most living creatures do.

Perhaps this provides us some insight into why it’s not a widely talked about topic.

Social media is, in some ways, an extension of other information intakes such as 68

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literature, photography or the news. We have spent so many years inundated by the mundane that it becomes only topically relevant to us. Compared to the majesty of migrating birds or the plight of salmon, the stories of our human acquaintance are less interesting, specifically because they are more relatable.

This is the same reason, I think, many of us turn to the news, or novels, or video games; they provide us an escape from our reality, whether we’re plugging into the matrix, riding a dragon, or listening to the travesties and deaths happening a thousand miles away, it is different. For refugees in warzones, hearing of another death is more like another mark on the wall: it’s not some intangible tragedy we sympathize with on an ideological level. They feel it, often right down to their next of kin. Listening to the travels of others provides a similar experience, though generally not to the same degree. We haven’t been to Europe, so there is a certain majesty, mystique maintained by high praises.

We become voyeurs into the life of another because they decided to present us with a tidbit interesting enough to pay attention to.

And indeed, the video that accompanies the definition of sonder on the rather aptly named Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows YouTube channel holds a degree of mundane mystery to it. It is in many ways uplifting and wonderful, but aside from certain highlights, are they really that different on an everyday level?

The answer is probably not. And indeed, when we think of our heroes, fictional or otherwise, that tends to be all we see or hear about – their highlights. Hockey players, stereotype has it, golf in the off months. Your favourite novel shows a very small window into your favourite character’s life. What happens in the rest of it? Even monarchs have dull days and are subject to the same boring human functions like eating and sleeping. In films, so too are we generally just presented with the good bits. Because who wants to be bored watching someone like Jack Bauer or Sheldon Cooper shop for pants?

The answer is not most people and certainly not the average person. And I’ll say the same. I don’t want to hear everyone’s life story, unless you can give me the SparkNotes version with all the important information (good and bad, as they tend to be equally formative in one’s life), because there’s simply not enough time in the day to treat everyone’s everything with an open ear. Besides, just think: a person living in a constant state of genuine excitement would probably have a heart attack, shortly before headlining the 6:00 news. Ultimately, I cannot vouch for sonder as some new, exciting concept. It, like all narratives, has existed and will continue to exist so long as there is someone who cares to listen, even if it is for the sake of cataloguing, rather than connecting. x SONDER

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ART by K ANDICE BURYTA WORDS by HAYLEY MCKEE

Plural Perspectives “We’ll be touching down at Boston airport in 7 minutes, ma’am.” I rummaged through my purse for my glasses and glanced up at the man staring at me. He had a bright smile that almost hid the tiredness in his eyes.

“Thank you.” I whispered, trying not to wake the woman sleeping next to me. It was a 9-hour flight from Dublin, and the time change was making my eyelids heavy. I pulled my backpack out from under the seat in front of me and read the letter quietly. “Dear Karla, We are pleased to inform you that your application for the International Starlight Scholarship to Boston University has been accepted.” I took a deep breath and lifted the blind from the plane window. The lake glowed, as if lit from within, as the red sun reflected its colour across the glass buildings. I stared out at the rolling hills that grew as we lowered towards the city. The blur of the horizon came alive with dotted houses, each one only slightly different from its neighbor. Row upon row they sat, resembling a miniature toy model of the city. I pictured the tiny figures inside, moving about their day, encompassed in their own world. Can you see me all the way up here? Or am I just a small, insignificant blur on your horizon too?

“Please close your window for landing.” I turned, startled out of my thoughts by the man’s voice. I pulled the blind over the small window, forgetting about the world below. “Thank you. Welcome to Boston.”

— A low grumble sounded from outside of the window. “Mom, another plane is coming in!” I shot up onto the edge of my bed, watching the tiny metal frame grow as it came into view. “Do you think they can see our house?” The Boston Airport had at least fifty flights coming in everyday, but only a few came from the east side where I could watch them from my window. The plane materialized from the red glow of the sun, and appeared awfully insignificant in comparison. I almost felt like I could reach outside my window, pluck it from the sky and twirl it around my room like a toy. I pictured the people inside, staring out at the vast landscape below. Beside the lake I imagined our house looked almost as irrelevant as the plane did against the burning red sun. Are we really just a passing moment of acknowledgment, just a house amongst the rest? I felt the impact of that idea as the plane disappeared from the view of my window, leaving behind no trace of its existence at all. Did we simply fade in and out of focus too, just another house in a quiet city below, forgotten as quickly as it was noticed?

“Elliot, you’re going to be late for practice!” My mom yelled from downstairs. I peeled myself away from the window, letting the plane disappear behind the rooftops of the houses.

“Coming down now!” I grabbed my socks and ran down the steps two at a time. My mom stood waiting at the front door as I pulled my backpack over my shoulder.

“Catch!” She smirked, tossing me my shoes as I ran into the front hall. I slipped them on, letting the laces fall to the sides. “Have fun!” My mom’s voice echoed from the front door. “And yes, they can.” I ran down the steps, smiling at that realization, and turned the corner to see the edge of the plane disappear out of sight for good. x SONDER

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WORDS by ALEX ANDRA MARCACCIO ART by LAUREN GORFINKEL

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“You’re one of the interns, correct? Fourth year in undergrad? Have you figured out what you want to do post-graduation?”

As I sit at the back of the Board Meeting, I do my best to look attentive. It’s only the third day at my internship, and I’m already attending the biggest meeting of the organization, the annual meeting, where we welcome the new Board of Directors. According to Google, they’re all very prominent, well-known members of our community. To me, they’re strangers with intimidating titles.

While the meeting itself does not concern me, the aftermeeting social does. I’ve never been one for small talk. I rarely make it three minutes before having to resort to discussing the weather. Even when I try to brainstorm questions in advance, the best I can usually think of is “Do you like cheese?” (thanks for that one, She’s the Man). I’d rather not reveal my awkwardness to my colleagues so early on.

The Board Chair drones on, and I do a scan of the room.

Even though we’re in a large room, big enough for over 100 people, it feels like the forty of us are crammed in there, like there is no way of escaping. I feel my neck tense up.

Soon, the meeting is adjourned and the president stands up to address the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, in honour of another successful year, we have a treat for you all. I am pleased to present to you a few members of Hamilton’s Youth Poets group. They are here to perform for you all, so if you’re new to slam poetry or spoken word, I hope you enjoy the experience.”

After their performance comes the dreaded social time.

I stare out at the crowd, looking for an opening. One of the board members is walking away from a conversation, so I go introduce myself to him.

“Ellie Caretta, nice to meet you.”

The man gives me a onceover, and then offers his hand, “Steve Mills, it’s a pleasure.”

I nod at him, unsure what to say next. He continues.

“You’re one of the interns, correct? Fourth year in undergrad?

Have you figured out what you want to do post-graduation?”

The question catches me off guard, and I barely manage to stammer out a coherent thought. Clearly unimpressed, Steve gives me a polite, but tight smile, and excuses himself. Strike one. At least I’ll probably never see him again.

I approach another Board member and introduce myself. I manage to ask her a rather interesting question about her role in the organization. She replies by asking me about my life plans… And then the conversation follows the same trajectory as the first. Strike two. The weather is sounding like a pretty good conversational topic.

I notice there’s food in one corner, and decide to go get some, just to have something to do. At the end of the line stand two of the poets, a guy and a girl. I decide to give this conversation thing one last try, and approach the girl.

“Ellie Caretta, I’m one of the interns, and I just wanted to tell you how wonderful I thought your performance was. I wish I could write like that. You just have such amazing presence.”

I’m tempted to continue babbling, but figure it’s probably just as bad as staring in silence. I stop, and the girl smiles at me.

“Thanks so much! Honestly, if I can do it, anyone can. I’m Veronica by the way. Do you write at all?”

I tell her a bit about my writing, about the creative magazine I write for. She wrinkles her nose and her smile broadens.

“You wouldn’t happen to know a girl named Sonia, would you? That’s my best friend!”

I realize that I know who she’s talking about and tell her so.

I feel my neck relax a bit. She calls to the guy beside her and tells him the connection. He laughs.

“I write for them too.”

The tension in my neck reduces more. Suddenly, we are telling random stories and are getting to know each other better. We find even more connections and common friends among the three of us. I start to actually enjoy myself.

Conversation comes so easily; I almost can’t believe it. These people are still strangers to me, the only thing I really know about them is their names. And yet, it feels as though I do know them, as if they aren’t total strangers to me. The room no longer feels as congested as when I first walked in. I no longer feel like I’m lost, but instead feel as if I’m connected by a spider’s thread to something bigger. Like I’m a part of a community, like I’m not living in isolation. Like even though I’m starting this new job, surrounded by strangers, it won’t be as scary as I think. All I have to do is make a few connections. x

SONDER

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70 Years of Mint Chocolate Chip ART by SHIRLEY DENG WORDS by AMINATA MAGERAGA

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that her dad was uncomfortable and was itching to leave. While the owners of the parlor were very nice people who gave her an extra scoop of mint chocolate chip for free, she could sense that the other patrons felt that they did not belong, that they had overstayed their welcome. She sheepishly made eye contact with the girl once more as they made their way out the door, halfmelted cones in their hands.

—

July, 1953

I

t was a scorching summer day. Noor, her little brother Hakeem, and their father had decided to cool off with some ice-cream at a parlor. They had to walk for some while to get there – there weren’t many shops in Annapolis that served black folk. Noor was tired. They had been walking for a while and she wasn’t even sure she wanted ice-cream anymore. Finally, after great anticipation on Noor’s part, they had arrived. Noor couldn’t wait to get a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice-cream, her favourite.

— Sarah’s brother Mark was screeching at the top of his lungs.

Again. She was so tired of doing things to make Mark happy.

She missed the days when it was just her and her parents. Her brother Mark was an annoying pest who had to get what he wanted when he wanted it. He was only two, but he had already been showing signs of the privileged white male he’d soon become. He was too young for ice-cream, but that didn’t stop him from letting everyone at the parlor, and possibly everyone in downtown Annapolis know that he wanted some. “Okay, okay, we’ll get you some ice-cream, Mark,” her mother acquiesced.

“Mint-chocolate chip, just like Sarah.” Sarah walked away, exasperated. It was then that she met eyes with the girl that walked in. She too, had a baby brother. She walked in boldly – her poufy ponytail bouncing with life – ahead of her father and brother, looking oh-so-carefree. Sarah instantly liked her.

— Noor was only seven at the time, but she would later recall that instant as a defining moment in her life. The second they made eye contact, she felt as though she’d known the girl with the fiery red hair and wild green eyes in another life, a life where they had likely been the best of friends. She had a spark to her that Noor couldn’t quite put her finger on, but she knew she wanted to be friends with her. They exchanged a smile. Noor could tell by then

Sarah did not know what overcame her, and, years later, still could not describe the feeling that took over her body, as she’d never before been so bold. She raced out of the ice-cream parlor to catch the girl’s family before they rounded the street corner.

“Hey! Wait up!” She called. “Wait!” The girl and her family paused and looked at Sarah warily. Her father was the first to speak: “We don’t want no trouble ma’am. We’ll be on our way.”

Sarah shook her head. “No, I want to talk to her!” She pointed to the girl. “I think you’re really nice! I like your hair. What’s your name?” The girl just stared at her. “Is that your little brother? I have a baby brother too, but he is so annoying.” No response.

Sarah’s words were met with silence and a confused look from the girl’s father. “Sarah Bridgette O’Brien!” Her mother hollered, “I turn my back for one minute and you go gallivanting down the street! You get back here right this instant!” Sarah did not want to leave until she had at least learned the girl’s name, but she knew how much trouble she’d be in if she waited a second longer. With one last expectant glance at the girl, she turned and ran back towards the parlor.

November, 1967

N

oor was not in college, but she very badly wanted to be.

She loved being challenged, exposed to new concepts and ideas, and knew that one day, no matter how old she was, she’d get an undergraduate degree. For now, she was happy learning things on the front lines of the civil rights movement, from the innovative men and women fighting for social change. She felt revolution in the air. Later in life, she would reflect on her early twenties and feel so lucky to have been alive and active in an era teeming with social change. She was currently at a protest opposing the Vietnam War. Strangely, she found her mind wandering as she thought about the girl she saw in the ice-cream shop over fourteen years ago. The one with the red hair, and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose. She wondered how she was, what she was doing. Was she at college?

What did she think of the war? Although Noor had barely made a peep that fateful day, the only time, her father liked to joke, that she’d ever been so quiet, she felt as though the girl was her kindred spirit. >> SONDER

75

After that fateful day in the ice-cream parlor over 14 years ago, Sarah begged her mom to take her back every chance she got.

She knew, subconsciously, that the probability of seeing the bold-but-also-timid girl with the poufy hair was extremely unlikely, but she couldn’t risk it. She never did see her again, yet, years later, thought of her often. What was she up to now? Was she away at college? What did she think of the war? Why didn’t she say anything that day? Sarah had recently become involved with the feminists at her college, and she was grappling with the new ideas and worldview she’d been exposed to. She wished she could talk about it with the girl from the ice-cream parlor; Sarah was certain she would understand. Though the brief conversation they had that day was one-sided, Sarah felt that they were kindred spirits, in a way.

Present day, 2016

N

oor could not believe that she had lived this long. It was her birthday, her 70th to be exact, and the only way she wanted to spend it was by treating her grandchildren to a mint-chocolate chip ice-cream at the parlor in her hometown of Annapolis. After years of working as a receptionist, she finally enrolled at a local community college after her 45th birthday and got an undergraduate degree in political science with a minor in women’s studies. It was challenging, and there was many a time when she thought she wouldn’t be able to do it, but she absolutely loved it.

She couldn’t afford to quit her job and go to school full-time, so it took her longer than most to complete her degree, but she had no regrets. She was exposed to new concepts and ideas, and she loved learning. She walked into the ice-cream parlor, trailing behind her grandchildren.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Standing at counter, holding her very own cone of mint-chocolate chip ice-cream, was the exact carbon copy of the girl she had seen in this very same parlor that hot summer day in 1953. Could it be? Noor thought. I am not smart enough to figure out the mechanics of time travel, my eyes must be playing tricks on me. She looked around. She was about to approach the girl when someone bumped into her, as she was still blocking the entryway of the parlor…

She wasn’t sure how, but Sarah instantly knew who she had bumped into. She knew that this was the very same person she had crossed paths with all those years ago at this very same parlor. The person that she thought wistfully about at all the major events in her life, the person that she could not seem to get out of her mind, even though they had only briefly met over 60 years ago. The parlor had hardly changed in that time, and neither, it appeared, did the woman. The years had been kind to her – her hair, still in a poufy ponytail, was streaked with grey, but other than that she had no obvious signs of age. Sarah just could not believe that the woman was standing right before her. Their eyes met. Sarah saw a glimmer of recognition in her face, then confusion.

“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to block the entryway, that was rude of me.” Sarah had to hold in her urge to laugh, “No worries! I should have paid more attention when I walked in. I’m Sarah, by the way.” She held out her hand. Noor smiled. Sarah couldn’t help but notice that her smile hadn’t changed either.

“Sarah? Nice to meet you. My name is Noor…” x

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WORDS AND ART by KRISTEN GRACIE

Superheroes

The train was delayed again this morning. This sort of thing has become a normal occurrence in recent years. Still, it always seems to happen on the worst days.

I woke up to a page at 6 in the morning. The ringer went off and in my blurry stages of waking I hoped that it was my CF patient or even my AVS patient. Sounds wrong wishing for something bad to happen to those two, but if it was either of them I could have fixed it. I would have a chance. I looked at the screen and my heart sank.

Her O2 sats had dropped and she had been placed on a ventilator.

I threw on my clothes and dashed out the door, my keys fumbled in my hand as I turned the locks behind me. In my head I was going over what exactly had to be done once she was prepped for surgery.

Earlier in my career I would have grabbed a cab to the hospital, but these days the roads were worse than the train on account of being so torn up. Even so, I wondered if there was any other possible way I could get there. Everyone around me in the train station just stood there waiting, content in their own little worlds. It was maddening watching their nonchalance knowing where I had to be.

She was a tricky case, a transfer from the cancer ward. When I first got her chart I knew this would be tough. When I actually met her I realized this case would be even tougher than I originally thought. But she was so determined not to let her health get the better of her, so positive in the face of awful circumstances. Every time I checked on her she always managed a smile. She was so damn likeable.

When I finally got to the hospital, it was too late to even attempt the surgery. I spent ten minutes trying revive her from cardiac arrest. She was two days shy of her tenth birthday. I found out later on the news that night some psycho with a ray gun had to be stopped by Captain America. He had saved the civilians in the train in front of us, pulled out some pretty damn heroic moves, but we were left waiting as they cleared off the tracks. The footage on television showed all the people gathered around, crying and thanking him afterwards. Nothing like her grieving parents. x

SONDER

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ART by DEBBIE K AO WORDS by SAMANTHA JACKSON

A Sonder-ful Commute

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Yoshiro Maki’s heart pounded in his chest, his tie slapping him in the face every few seconds, his black hair flying every which way.

He glanced down at his silver watch, a gift from his wife. 7:34.

Maki still had a chance of avoiding an unwanted meeting in his boss’s office, if he could keep up the pace.

He skidded to a halt at the platform, inwardly cringing at the sound of his fine dress shoes grinding against the rough cement.

Maki took a deep breath as he boarded his subway train. As usual, there were no seats left. He made it, and that was all that mattered. The other commuters were packed in like sardines, a claustrophobe’s nightmare. He was thankful to not have that fear himself, but he was well aware of his own: clowns, failure, and death, to name a few.

Maki ran a hand through his hair, clutching his briefcase in the other. Finally, he could relax. Yet the suffocating sensation in his chest, the pit in his stomach, and his sweaty palms lingered.

For what reason, he couldn’t have been sure. He was going to be on time for work, so it couldn’t have been that. Furrowing his brow, he thought about it. It could have been what his wife had said to him on his way out the door that morning.

“I swear to God, Yoshiro, if you don’t stop this soon, I…” She sighed, sounding as though she hadn’t slept in days. “I don’t want this to end, but I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I need you, but you’re never home.”

The baby: that had to be it. Maki knew she was stressed out about it, and it was certainly taking its toll on him as well. The two of them had been all too excited about the newest addition to the family until his wife had lost her job. Suddenly, all their careful planning had been for naught. The finances fell to Maki alone, and he’d been taking every shift possible with overtime to make ends meet. She wasn’t happy about it; she told him this many times, but now it was only getting worse. It wasn’t as though he had another choice. Maki couldn’t be sure if they’d make it or not.

That had to be why he felt so terrible all of the time.

Maki inhaled slowly; he needed to get a grip before arriving at work. He sifted through the sea of faces around him: an elderly woman reading a book, a chubby teen eating his breakfast with headphones on, and a middle-aged woman in a suit standing stiffly in the crowd stood out to him.

He couldn’t help but notice that only the old woman looked remotely happy. The frail woman was reading a romance novel and her eyes brimmed with tears. Maki silently cursed the author for writing such a sappy love story, simply because he wished he could claim its plot for his own life. An idealistic romance would have been preferable to his current circumstance. He noticed that she was sitting alone. Maki began to wonder: did she have a lover of her own, or was she merely living vicariously through the protagonist after going through crippling heartbreak? Perhaps she was just an emotional person, easily moved by a welldeveloped plot.

Then there was the teen. Maki almost felt badly for him, seeing the sharp downward curve of his lips and the gloomy cloud cast over him. Surely he didn’t have a wife threatening to leave him, so he couldn’t have had such a deep reason to look as miserable as he did. Could he? What was going on in his life?

What were his grades like? Did he have a lot of friends? Little about his appearance gave any indication of an answer.

The stuffy-looking woman captivated his attention next. She looked cold standing so rigidly in her suit, as if judging the other passengers for not mimicking her perfect posture. Her hair was cut as straight as a ruler without a single strand out of place. She was impeccably groomed, but hardly looked comfortable. Maki noticed that she kept to herself, shooting a venomous glare to anyone that so much as looked at her sideways. Was she afraid of someone dirtying her clothes? Or, could it have been a fear of crowds that caused her discomfort?

So many people, so many questions; Maki realized he’d never get the answers to them. He’d never truly know what they were going through. They all led complicated lives, filled with laughter and tears, successes and failures. It astounded him that they could currently be going through things much more difficult than what he was facing, yet he’d be none the wiser. At the same time, they had no idea what he was going through either.

Everyone had a complicated life of their own, yet only a select few would ever know the intimate details of it.

“The next station is Union, Union Station,” the automated voice announced to the passengers. Maki turned to face the doors, ready to exit. Somehow, he’d find a balance between working to support his family and being there for them at home.

Maki could only hope those people he saw would be able to do the same. x SONDER

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by C A VA L A NN N U A PA S R K

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r e g e r n u a t r l t S Cu

I’ve noticed something problematic about the way strangers interact with each other:

They don’t.

I enter a subway car full of people and notice that every middle seat is empty. Everyone is spread out like electrons around a nucleus; as far away from each other as physically possible. At the next stop, a few people get off. The remaining passengers undergo a noticeable shift in position as the invisible forces of repulsion regain equilibrium. I want to reach out and touch one of them, just to see if it’s possible. Then, as I raise my arm, the doors open again and a woman rushes in, colliding with the man who was inches away from my fingertips. There are shouts and exclamations. But instead of bouncing off of one another as I expected, they embrace and converge. The equilibrium has been disrupted, and I have no idea what will happen next. Again, I observe a shift but this time it is a change in energy: “So nice to see you again!”, I hear.

Whenever I tell people that I am worried about how strangers interact, they look at me like I am crazy. Of course they don’t talk to each other; that’s why they’re called strangers! But what is the difference between a friend and a stranger? I would like to challenge this binary. Were all of your friends not strangers at some point? If that’s so, aren’t all strangers technically potential friends? I read a study recently that said people who talk to strangers during their daily commute have a better experience and come out ultimately happier than those who don’t. Finally, some science to back up my crazy ramblings!

That said, even with this belief held firmly in my mind, I find it just as difficult to navigate the blank stares at personal screens, shoes, and billboards that are so deeply instilled in our “stranger culture”. Avoiding eye contact with someone effectively denies their existence. No wonder the company that surrounds me on the subway often induces more loneliness than comfort.

However, we must remember that all it takes is a tiny push to throw everything into flux. Newton said that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and I myself can attest to the truth of these words. For as soon as I see someone smile at me, a mysterious and beautiful chemical reaction transforms what I thought was an empty vessel into a living, breathing, story-bearing person. I can then see that this person must love someone as much as I do, has had bad days just like me, and carries passions as fierce as mine. The urge to smile back is always too strong to resist.

As a first year starting at McMaster, I live in a sea of strangers; a sea of potential friends. I am still too shy to smile and strike up a conversation with everyone I come across. But I have started to do something that all my life I have been told not to do: I stare at people. This may sound odd, or even creepy, in the context of our current “stranger culture”. But by staring at someone – by making eye contact – I am unapologetically acknowledging our joint existence. Staring is the first step to smiling. And after smiling, who knows what will happen? If it’s in accordance to Newton’s laws of motion, it’s bound to be something good. x SONDER

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WORDS by COBY ZUCKER ART by HAMIT YUKSEL

The Man in Nine Ninety-Five Nine storeys up, on the balcony of an apartment at the corner of Lake and Church, room number 995, a man takes a lengthy drag from his smoke. He taps off the ashes on the railing overlooking the street before dropping the butt and flattening it beneath his toe. The man himself? Worthless. Less significant than the expired cigarette staining the underside of his loafer. Even he considers his existence dull, but that doesn’t mean he cannot have an interesting life; no, quite the opposite, the man leads innumerable interesting lives. Sixty-two to be precise.

He pulls out his pack of Camels and glances inside. Last one.

He eases the lighter from his pocket and, with practiced fluidity, lights up and inspires gently. As he exhales, the puffs of smoke temporarily obscure his vision of the lofty condominium across the street. As the last tendrils lose themselves in the air, the man catches sight of movement on the condo’s nineteenth floor.

Ah, the old lady’s out. Like clockwork that one. Must be her 6:00 PM appointment.

Mrs. Smith, as the man had labelled her, is a perfectly ordinary wife and mother. At 9:00 AM, she would leave for work, always exiting the building with a Grande in her right hand and a briefcase in her left. Prim and neat, she would kiss her kids good-bye in front of the double-doors and walk off in her black pumps. Mr. Smith would take the ankle-biters to school.

Ordinary. Exceedingly so. Almost.

Mrs. Smith shares a nasty tendency with the man in apartment 995, which often takes her to the balcony. That is to say, Mrs. Smith is an avid smoker. Though she is a Marlboro woman, the man cannot find it in himself to fault her. The twist, the real kicker, is that Mr. Smith does not know about his wife’s twice daily trips to the balcony. And that is the way Mrs. Smith prefers it, to the extent that once, upon being nearly caught in the act, the man had seen her fling an entire pack of cigarettes to the street below. This is the woman who draws his attention now as she abashedly takes another pull, committing adultery with her ashy cowboy.

Mrs. Smith puts out her cigarette, taking pains to douse herself with an extra coating of perfume, and returns to the loving embrace of her nuclear family. Not five minutes later, the man’s eyes are drawn to a flurry of motion three floors down.

Oh-ho, what do we have here? I’m in for a treat. It’s been a good, long time since I’ve seen him.

A couple, both young adults around thirty to thirty-five, are in a shouting match on the balcony. Their voices do not carry over, but it is plain from the frenzied waving that they are upset. The man, the bachelor, he recognizes. Mike, the bachelor seemed like a Mike, was always entertaining some woman from an ever-changing rotation. Today, it’s a slight brunette with high cheekbones and pursed lips. She looks like a Daisy or maybe a Rose. Some sort of flower. At the moment, Daisy-Rose is hitting Mike in the chest over and over. No doubt she has learned about her paramour’s philandering. He would be trying to talk her down. The man from 995 mentally supplies the dialogue: “No! No. The others aren’t like you babe. You think I take those girls out? You think they keep toothbrushes in my bathroom? You think I make them eggs in the morning? Most definitely not.

They’re not like you Daisy-Rose. You say the word. Say the word and I’ll never see any one of them again. Cross my heart.”

As quickly as it had started, it’s over. Now they are hugging and Mike is peppering the top of her head with kisses. He takes her by the hand and leads her back inside.

Skank.

The man from 995 backs away from the railing and sits down in his recliner lawn-chair. Sometimes he has to wait hours for a peek into one of his sixty-two unfolding dramas. If he’s really lucky, every couple months or so, he glimpses a brand new life.

Sixty-two becomes sixty-three. Or sixty-one if someone kicks the bucket or stops visiting the balcony. These are the many lives of the man from apartment 995. x

SONDER

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WORDS AND ART by JESSICA ESCOTO

A Trip to the Philippines

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In these moments, I had difficulty accepting the idea that I was in a whole new country. Just like an explorer venturing out to learn something new, I often turned my head in all directions to absorb as much of this environment as I could. Although it was amazing to have the opportunity to travel, it admittedly felt strange to be outside of my comfort zone. My comfort lies in a seemingly ordinary, fast-paced life filled with self-indulgence.

The people I met here knew no such luxuries. Yet here I was, feeling uncomfortable that I had been pulled away from familiarity and surroundings that were as easy to recognize as it was to breathe.

It was as if I had been teleported into a whole different world, even though I had once called this place “home”. My life seemed so much easier compared to those of the people I met, and it

made my heart heavy with the guilt of all the complaints I’ve ever made about the things I didn’t like, things I couldn’t have.

I saw their situations as hardships, but their big, inviting smiles would beg to differ. I became fascinated with the lives of the people here, and wondered deeply about their daily routines.

Out of empathy, I taught myself to forget the incredibly normal life I once knew and learned to embrace this extraordinary life, even just for a little while. I wanted to know the reasons behind those smiles, and how I might be able to express the same kind of joy even though I may not share the same kind of daily hardships as they do. I knew that there was something special about this place, and once I left, it would be a while until I experienced something so wonderfully mind-boggling again. x

It was as if I had been teleported into a whole different world, even though I had once called this place “home”.

SONDER

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Reflect the world in striking tone To boast of vast and endless place Or weave our tales from bone to bone And bring to light things yet unknown Face-to-face the mellow glow Of eager lips and telling eyes That bear the weight of living though Whose stories now I’ve come to know x

WORDS by JORDAN SAMUEL ANASTASIADIS ART by CASSIE WHALL (RIGHT)

INTERNALIZED The centre of my world wavers in parallels of fastidious independence and woeful privacy.

By mid-day I feel defeated from amending fragile arrows to feed the bull’s eye that is starving, insatiable, ideal.

But still I play the crafting waitress who nimbly prescribes recipes to sedate the appetite I know too well.

By dark the upward abyss adopts the hollowness in my chest while some echoing timbres revive its treasures, kindling a yearning for warmth.

Then with little rest or contemplation, I stir to an orange sunrise that saturates a woman’s cheek with a kiss in golden tones.

Briefly, my thoughts meditate on the painting’s glowing corner before the timed dawning calls for my involvement.

I confess I have a way of seeing how grace transcends moments of existence until my consciousness dissolves this infatuation back into a subtle, mundane privacy. x

WORDS by ISABELLA FAN SONDER

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WORDS by NICHOLAS SCHMID ART by ARTEM KOV YAZIN

2P

An array of fruit was laid out decoratively in a bowl. Apples and oranges laid the foundation for bananas to rise higher, where they peaked in grapes and berries.

Around the bowl sat three people, trying their best at conversation.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, gesturing at the bowl of fruit laid out on the table.

“No thanks,” I replied and patted my stomach for emphasis.

She picked out a fruit from the bowl and began to unpeel it. “I am,” she smiled with relish.

Across the table he took out a notepad, keeping it just out of sight from her. “Why is that?” he asked.

I found it odd that he should want to record her response, but I knew more than most how difficult people could be to read. Without noticing the notebook, she simply shrugged and gave another smile. “I haven’t eaten in a while.”

I laughed, not quite sure what was going on.

“Why haven’t you eaten in so long?”

She took a bite and shrugged again: “Nothing was tempting here on campus.”

“How come?”

“I’m new here; nothing fits my appetite,” she said, and I could not help but grunt an agreement. He looked at me strangely; whether out of mirth at the sound I had just created or in offense at what I realized was probably a weird noise, I could not tell. After a moment, he flicked his gaze back to her.

“Though,” she continued, “perhaps I’ll find something. Soon, I hope.”

He dropped his pen with a clatter and cursed. I laughed and she followed soon after.

“Are you hungry?” I asked. I pointed at the bowl of fruit as if anyone needed a hint at what I was referring to.

Across the table, he murmured “No thanks,” and then rubbed his stomach like the nicely brought up idiot he was.

“I am,” she said and flashed me a smile that sent warmth flooding from my cheeks down. She picked a banana from the bowl and twirled it in her fingers. Not wanting to seem as foolish as him, I pulled out a pen and paper and began to doodle.

“Why is that?” I wondered, not meaning to speak aloud.

“I haven’t eaten in a while,” she replied with another smile. I looked fiercely back at my book. Next to me, he laughed impishly. If what I thought was happening was the same as him, then I wagered that that laugh had a tinge of jealousy.

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She was eyeing me expectantly, so I said the first idea that entered my head, and as was common, the most ridiculous.

“Why haven’t you eaten in so long?” I can always tell when I’m flummoxed when I start talking as if I’m giving a eulogy.

She bit into the banana. “Nothing was tempting here on campus,” she fake-pouted.

The effect was slightly ruined by having a mouth full of food.

“How come?” I inquired, silently seething at myself that this was beginning to sound like an interview.

She took her time with this question. I fumed at myself until she replied, “I’m new here; nothing fits my appetite.” On my right, he gave what could have passed for a constipated grunt. I glared at him, not sure whether I wanted to laugh or scream.

Once our companion had finished his best imitation of a sow, she murmured, “Though perhaps I’ll find something soon.”

My double take caused my pen to slip from my grip. I reached to grab it, no longer minding his giggles ringing after me. And then she started laughing as well.

“Are you hungry?” he asked and pointed to the fruit on the table. I may be new, but I didn’t need to have a pantomime to understand simple questions.

The other man at the table shook his head and then slapped his stomach for absolutely no purpose. “No thanks.”

I reached for the nearest fruit, toppling the bowl’s carefully engineered display.

Someone had to accept his offer so I smiled politely, “I am.”

The one who had asked the question made some rustling motion. “Why is that?” he spoke after a moment.

The question was odd – was I a lab rat for a survey? Still, I humoured him and explained nicely, “I haven’t eaten in a while.”

The other man vented a laugh and I was hard-pressed to stifle my own.

“Why haven’t you eaten in so long?”

This conversation was getting weird, fast. I decided to finish my food and then make my escape. “Nothing was tempting here on campus,” I shrugged through a mouthful of food.

“How come?”

Exasperated, I smiled what I hoped was a brittle smile. “I’m new here; nothing fits my appetite.”

A noise stranger than the questions emerged from the man to my left. To cover for his obvious embarrassment, I resumed, “Though perhaps I’ll find something soon.”

The interrogator fumbled with his pen and then with what I could only assume was his survey paper. The other man laughed and this time I could not stop myself from joining. x

An array of fruits were scattered in what had once looked like a display.

Around the bowl sat three people, each more perplexed than the last.

SONDER

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ART by HAMZA FURMLI WORDS by RUVIMBO MUSIYIWA

The Isolation of Immigration Tightly clutching the small Canadian flag I was given at the front door, I rise to sing the Canadian national anthem. I stand next to my mom and many other families who have had their own interesting journeys; somehow our paths have crossed here. I see some faces of relief and excitement, while others look like they are in line at the DMV and can’t wait to get it over and done with. I look around and make up unique stories about those in my line of vision, like I do when I’m on the bus or the subway. I assign each of them a story, a narrative that defines them beyond just being newly Canadian. The family from Sri Lanka, the young couple from Trinidad and Tobago, the single mom from Ecuador, all very different backgrounds, and yet we’ve all ended up here, at the same time and place. Now we pledge to uphold a new way of thinking and living in the world.

As we start to sing “Oh Canada”, I reflect on the journey that has led me and my family to this moment; the countless months, days, and hours we waited to get to this point. “…Our home and native land…” we sing in unison, a melody of different accents vibrating through the air. I think of the times when I wondered what it would feel like to sing the anthem as a Canadian. The times when I thought that somehow, having an official seal of approval would make me feel like I fit in, like I was special… like I was a Canadian. I thought that my few years in Canada, marked by isolation from close family and friends, would feel worth it. I thought that the disappointments and struggles that come from the immigration process itself might be justified. I thought that the separation from the things that make me ME, like food, culture, tradition, ideals, and the social fabric that moulded me from my infancy, would make me feel less lonely.

Unfortunately, it didn’t really feel that way at all, and that’s something I still can’t wrap my mind around. It’s like you are climbing a mountain. Slowly, you make large strides, and you are so excited to get to the top to appreciate your achievement.

Perhaps, you just want to take in the long-awaited view. But once you reach the edge, and you are finally about to pull yourself to the top… everything just falls apart, and you are back at square one.

That is how the immigration process felt for me and I can’t understand why I felt so conflicted. You yearn for a sense of closure and clarity, but for some reason that gap doesn’t seem to close or heal. All those things rise to the surface when you choose a new life. We finish singing the anthem, and as luck would have it, I continue to feel nothing but mixed emotions.

Feelings of joy and excitement are quickly overshadowed by feelings of loss. Maybe a loss of identity? I am left with the big question, “Who am I now?” I feel even more isolated as I try to navigate these confusing feelings. Where do I even start in this new life? What I thought I would feel and how I feel now are worlds apart, and I can’t seem to reconcile these conflicting feelings. I feel guilty and ashamed, because in reality, this is an opportunity that is denied to many people across the world.

This is a chance to start over and to build new a life. And yet, at times I can’t seem to resist the urge to pit that thought against the idea that maybe, this is all not worth being separated from the only life I’ve ever known.

So, as new citizens, we leave the citizenship ceremony and go our separate ways. Like many others, I remain isolated in my psychological cage. I hide my muddled feelings from the rest of the world as I attempt to make sense of the life my family has chosen. Maybe the only way to deal with this is to “put my big girl shoes on” and to “play the best game with the cards I have been dealt”. By the same token, I hope to never forget my home, my real home. Some may never understand the sacrifices that many people are forced to make, but I hope that a lesson is learned here… a lesson about some of the painful choices we have to make for a chance to start anew. x SONDER

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ART by CLARA LARATTA-GERRARD WORDS by TAKHLIQ AMIR

One Story

Believing that the world only contains one person – you – and that everyone else is just a prop makes for a good story, doesn’t it? It’s the whole case of “the world revolves around you” gone wrong. It’s the mentality that your problems surpass those of others. That nobody could ever understand you. But isn’t there some truth to that? I’ve always wondered how it would feel to view the world from the perspective of another. I don’t mean empathizing with another person, trying to feel their hardships or their obstacles or their pain or their glory. I mean that literally we can never see the world from the eyes of another. We can never be inside another person’s head, listen to their thoughts or feel their emotions.

The only world I see is mine, the only world you see is yours.

So, in a world where we can only see individually, how can we expect ourselves to see the world as a whole, as an image that includes the viewpoints of everyone around us? Some would argue that we accomplish this through social connection and shared experiences. However, although sharing experiences means you might be participating in the same experience at the same time, it might not necessarily be having the same shared experience. People see the world differently – that is why we share experiences differently, as well. Others would like to believe that it is precisely because we are so different that we can never really understand one another. But we don’t need to have the same experience to have a shared understanding – sometimes simply accepting these differences leads to it on its own.

That is what we, as humans, as individuals, were meant to be. To be ourselves. We were meant to be free of the constraints of fitting a mold, open to choosing all the pathways of life, be different and unique. We can never see the world from the perspective of another because we were never meant to become another.

As I meet more and more people everyday, many of whom I know and many still whom I might never meet again, I am

beginning to realize that people live in stranger worlds than I could ever envision. I’ve met people whose summers involved memories of ski resorts or cottaging or days spent walking across London. I’ve heard stories of others who grew up fearful of the dangers in the outside world, or stress about what to do after graduation, or fear old age in all its uncertainty.

I have realized that their stories will never necessarily be mine, but that our stories will inevitably connect. I have realized that through our meeting our stories have crossed – we are now connected through a story that met at one point and may now diverge onto different paths, only to encounter more and more stories till the web of memories of pasts and presents and futures grows.

I now wonder how many stories are intertwined with mine, and how many more I have yet to encounter. It seems easy to say that everyone has a story, and to a certain extent that may be true, but while we all see the world differently, is your story really that different from mine? Your past might be different, or your present or your future, but at some point you would have met someone whose story became part of your own, whose story you became featured in.

Our worlds aren’t as different as we make them out to be, and the people who live in them are much more similar in their uniqueness. At some point, we just have to take us as we are, humans who star in our own stories even as we join the supporting cast of another. Without attempting to oversimplify the complicated relationships of the world, this perspective just allows us to revel in our connection to one another, regardless of whether we truly do know the perspective of another.

As I write this, and as you read this, I believe our paths have crossed, though we may never meet. Perhaps that is how it was meant to be. Maybe our stories will one day collide again, and we may never know they already had. x SONDER

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ART by MIMI DENG, NIMRA KHAN, DANA HILL & IMASHA PERERA

INCITE MAGAZINE VOLUME 19, ISSUE 1 “SONDER” Published October 2016 Incite Magazine is McMaster University’s creative arts and writing publication.

We aim to unite a community of creatives by promoting self-expression, collaboration, and dialogue within our university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every aspect of Incite’s writing, graphics, design, multimedia and event production is carried out by our wonderful student volunteers. If you’d like to get involved, feel free to get in touch by emailing incitemagazine@gmail.com. @incitemagazine facebook.com/incitemagazine issuu.com/incite-magazine

Editors-in-Chief Jason Lau, Sunny Yun Art Direction Lauren Gorfinkel, Jason Lau Copy Editors Takhliq Amir, Angela Dong, Catherine Hu, Emma Hudson, Rachel Guitman, Nimra Khan, Henry Krahn, Aminata Mageraga, Alexandra Marcaccio, Jennifer Scora, Coby Zucker In-House Artists Mimi Deng, Shirley Deng, Lauren Gorfinkel, Theresa Orsini Art Curators Alexandra Decata, Camelia McLeod, Imasha Perera Layout Editors Matthew Lam, Angela Ma, Gabby Yoo Events Managers Kayla Esser, Annie Yu Promotions Coordinator Dana Hill Cover Credits Another Bus Ride by Sabnam Mahmuda; All #InciteLife social media photo submissions from our October 2016 contest (thanks, everyone!)

Contributors Kainat Amir, Takhliq Amir, Gillian Bochenek, Kandice Buryta, Rachel Butts, Danielle Canagsuriam, Mimi Deng, Shirley Deng, Colline Do, Angela Dong, Amanda Emmanuel, Jessica Escoto, Isabella Fan, Elina Filice, Erin Fu, Hamza Furmli, Nicola Gailits, Emily Gaudet, Aryan Ghaffarizadeh, DJ Gomez, Lauren Gorfinkel, Kristin Gracie, Aaron Grierson, Lynda Gutierrez, Zoe Handa, Katrina Hass, Dana Hill, Grant Holt, Emma Hudson, Chukky Ibe, Aranya Iyer, Samantha Jackson, Sera Ji Hyun Lee, Katelyn Johnstone, Nikita Kalsi, Debbie Kao, Nimra Khan, Henry Krahn, Annabel Krutiansky, Rachel Kwok, Clara LarattaGerrard, Jason Lau, Sonia Leung, Patricia Lora, Angela Ma, Aminata Mageraga, Sabnam Mahmuda, Alexandra Marcaccio, Leah McDonald, Hayley McKee, Ruvimbo Musiyiwa, Laura Newcombe, Alexia Olaizola, Theresa Orsini, Annecy Pang, Alana Park, Imasha Perera, Josh Ravenhill, Jordan Samuel Anastasiadis, Nicholas Schmid, Jennifer Scora, Alicia Serrano, Emile Shen, David Shin, Sophie Silverton, Tanvir Singh, Rachel Tran, Carly Van Egdom, Eric Van Nus, Nicole Vasarevic, Nicole Vasarevic, Matt Watts, Melanie Wasser, Cassie Whall, Anqi Wu, Annie Yu, Hamit Yuksel, Coby Zucker Special Thanks to John Koenig, Sarah Conrad, Jaslyn English, Avery Lam, folks at The Underground, McMaster Museum of Art

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the young eyes of a first-year watch the city lights blur as she blinks back gossamer tears, redefining home the hands of an eighty-something-year-old tremble and search for the warm hands of his wife who had always been but, is no more the yawn of a single mother escapes her lips like a melancholy tune as her tired arm holds her sleeping son in a cocoon i, the weary graduate, drift in and out of the world within my phone sipping consciousness from the world beyond swaying to the rhythm of an almost empty bus, we all settle into the comforting silence– surrounded, yet so alone –another bus ride x