INCITE MAGAZINE VOLUME 18, ISSUE 3 ▪ NOVEMBER 2015
THEIR THERE THEY’RE
WRITERS Takhliq Amir, Khatja Anjum, Caitlyn Buhay, Salma ElZamel, Kayla Esser, Olivia Fasullo, Elina Filice, Elizabeth Fu, Aryan Ghaffarizadeh, Sana Gill, Aaron Grierson, Rachel Guitman, Catherine Hu, Chukky Ibe, Sadiyah Jamal, Osmond Jian, Sonia Leung, Alexandra Marcaccio, Linda Nguyen, Sarah O’Connor, Abena Offeh-Gyimah, Trisha Philpotts, Ryan Rupnarain, Emile Shen, Danielle Smith, Annie Yu, Sunny Yun, Hamid Yuskel, Rachelle Zalter, Michele Zaman, Coby Zucker
ARTISTS Sarah Mae Conrad, Kayla Da Silva, Mimi Deng, Shirley Deng, Jessica Escoto, Leah Flanagan, Lauren Gorfinkel, Zoe Handa, Dana Hill, Sonnet Irwin, Jason Lau, Jonsson Liu, Angela Ma, Diana Marginean, Patricia Nguyen, Theresa Orsini, Catherine Tarasyuk, Franco Simões, David Shin, Whishnave Suthagar, Melanie Wasser, Elaine Westenhoefer, Shannon Wu
LAYOUT DESIGNERS Catherine Chambers, Sarah Mae Conrad, Colline Do, Catherine Hu, Angela Ma, Elaine Westenhoefer, Annie Yu
COVERS/TABLE OF CONTENTS Sarah Mae Conrad, Mimi Deng, Lauren Gorfinkel, Jason Lau
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04 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19
DEAR YOUNGER ME Incite Staff
IN THE THROES OF A THRONE THROWN DOWN Coby Zucker
SNAPSHOTS IN TIME Linda Nguyen
A NIGHT FOR GRIEF Olivia Fasullo
MIS‐ Aryan Ghaffarizadeh
POTTER’S FIELD Sarah O’Connor
THE BLEEDING STRANGER Hamid Yuksel
RULE OF THIRDS Emile Shen
ART Jonsson Liu & Jason Lau
WHAT DO THEY SEE? Elizabeth Fu
THE GIRL IN THE TOWER Elina Filice
THE ART OF PEER PRESSURE | Danielle Smith
FOR SALE Khatija Anjum
HOW I MET MY MOTHER Annie Yu
A COMFORTING CONCLUSION | Caitlyn Buhay
20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 34 35
THREE Michele Zaman
TO BE OR NOT TO BE Takhliq Amir
PREDICTING THE FUTURE Osmond Jian
COMMENT BELOW Catherine Hu
PERSPECTIVES Alexandra Marcaccio
BLACK, WHITE, AND GREY Rachel Guitman
NON-FACTUAL FACTS IN GREEK MYTHOLOGY Trisha Philpotts
WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR NATURE? | Kayla Esser
IN TRANSIT Sonia Leung
5 LETTERS TO 5 PEOPLE I LET GO | Sunny Yun
CIRQUE DU MYSTIQUE Sana Gill
ART: IDENTITY & WHAT IF David Shin & Zoe Handa
THE EVOLUTION OF LANGUAGE | Ryan Rupnarain
A SINGLE THEY Aaron Grierson
THE F WORD Rachelle Zalter INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Sarah Mae Conrad Jaslyn English ART CURATORS Kayla Da Silva Lauren Gorfinkel Jason Lau Angela Ma CONTENT EDITORS Caitlyn Buhay Dalya Cohen Kayla Esser Gali Katznelson Nimra Khan Madeleine McMillan Sarah O’Connor Sunny Yun Rachelle Zalter IN-HOUSE ARTISTS Kayla Da Silva Mimi Deng Lauren Gorfinkel Diana Marginean LAYOUT EDITORS Catherine Chambers Angela Ma Elaine Westenhoefer
issuu.com/incite-magazine facebook.com/incitemagazine @incitemagazine
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MINE Sadiyah Jamal
THE WANDERING MIND Abena HOW THE TORTOISE GOT ITS CRACKED SHELL Submitted by Chukky Ibe
WHAT THE VENDOR TOLD THE MONK | Salma El-Zamel
VOLUME 18, ISSUE 3
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ncite Magazine is McMaster University’s student-run monthly publication with a wide range of content, from essays and research pieces to fiction and poetry. Every aspect of Incite’s production is carried out by student volunteers, from content to artwork and photography to layout. We invite anyone interested in contributing to attend our planning meetings, where we will brainstorm ideas together and you can sign up to contribute. All skill levels are welcome! We work to foster close relationships between our contributors and editors. This allows new contributors to collaborate with experienced writers and artists to develop their skills in a friendly and positive environment. Email us at incite@mcmaster.ca to get involved.
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what you would tell your younger self...
sunny yun madeleine mcmillan When it is 6 a.m. and you can’t fall asleep because you are worrying again, don’t count sheep. Don’t drink valerian tea. Don’t down the sleeping pills. Instead, take the weight of the world off your shoulders; set it down for a little while. I promise, it will be there when you wake up.
sarah mae conrad At some point, you’re going to decide you’re too old to sleep with stuffed animals and you’ll stop for a while, feeling proud of yourself and all grown up. Don’t bother. When you’re twenty-one, you fall asleep cuddling a duck pillow pet whenever your boyfriend is away. There’s no sense in not being cozy.
kayla esser Braces may not be forever, but pictures are. Don’t get Facebook until you get them off.
dalya cohen Remember that party? Yeah neither do I. Let’s not do that again, shall we? Remember that time you made a fool of yourself in front of your grade 2 class? I do. But I bet they don’t. Don’t sweat it girl. Remember staying up all night talking with your best friends over pizza and awful movies? I do. They do too, trust me. Remember the good times, hold on to those moments, and don’t let the small stuff get you down.
You’re going to be all right. You’re going to understand so much more about why things happen. And for the things you have yet to explain—it’s okay. Go out and play more. Don’t try so hard at school—it’s a stress that will only get worse with time. Just… just go have some fun. Don’t care so much about what others think, or about being quieted. Be loud. You can yell and not have to be guilty for doing so. You don’t have to be slotted into the space of “introvert”, even though you are one. It is not okay to be ignored. Don’t accept it. Don’t brush it off. Just know that it gets better. Even if it is only marginally. Things don’t have to be the way they are, and running from your fears doesn’t help. You’re going to be okay.
nimra khan Jumping back to myself between grade 5 and 6, I'd tell myself this: "You're worth it and you don't need the approval of classmates who like to bully you to prove it. Your talents and ability to do well in class aren't selfish or attention-grabbing ploys. Your disinterest in fashion and makeup (hello--you're 12 years old!) doesn't make you dirty and stupid. The people who make you feel like shit and send you crying to sleep at night are going to be involved in 0% of your life. In fact, thank them for showing you what you don't want to be. Most of all, do the things you enjoy and meet people who raise you up, instead of chasing those who bring you down and disappoint you." There's a little Nimra in me that still likes to remind me of how hurt she is; I hold her hand and march on.
ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD
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INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
caitlyn buhay sarah o’connor If I could tell you anything, I might tell you this. Being on a set track will make you feel confident and self assured, but things change. You are young and cruising on the highway of certainty and aspirations.You think you know exactly what you want, but sometime soon you will hit a bump in the road. The route you thought had been perfectly mapped out will suddenly encounter a detour to drive you in a vastly different direction. Everything you thought you wanted will change, not once, not twice, but countless times. It will be scary and there will be tissue fueled nights where you will question if you might ever make it to where you want to go. The answer—you will, but there will be stalling along the way. Stay strong and believe in your self and your ability to make your own choices. Do not let yourself be told what to do. Do what you know you need to do and you will find your way. And when you are on your way, you will be traveling on a brand new path. One with a vastly different destination than you could have ever imagined.
You’ve always heard the saying life is hard, but eventually you’ll have to deal with it and I can’t prepare you for it. Sure, if this was a parallel universe with time travel there would at least be the option of my foretelling these events to you, but I still probably wouldn’t warn you. There are going to be a lot of stressful moments that you won’t be prepared for, but you’ll learn. Unfortunately, you’re going to bottle things up (which we really shouldn’t do) and feel like you’re going to burst. Some days you will burst and you won’t feel any better. But there are some things in life that people need to experience for themselves in order to grow and understand themselves better, (if that makes any sense) and if I warned you about what was to come who would we be then? Is it fair? No. But hey, that’s life.
gali katznelson You get the feels each time you see a deer on campus. Bambi's mom's death is a deep wound that never heals.
kayla da silva Being a kid was hard. I had a great childhood but I wouldn’t want to go back and relive those times. If I had the opportunity to do so, I would tell my younger self not to be so critical and hard on myself. I always thought something was wrong with me because growing up, I never fit into the social cliques at school. I always tired to “fit in” but it never worked out for me. I was bullied a lot which lead to me deciding to just remaining silent. I felt worthless and that my opinion would never matter because I was always alienated. My likes and interests were uncommon and other kids were mean about it. I wish I could go back and tell myself not to take those things to heart. I would also say how important it is to be true to yourself and that it is okay to be different. Being yourself takes courage, it isn’t an easy task when you are constantly being judged by the world around you. One thing I adore about the McMaster community is how differences are always welcomed and celebrated.
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IN THE THROES OF A THRONE THROWN DOWN Coby Zucker
“T
here! They’re there!” said the heir. The man’s dominion had been naught but air since the toad toed the rebels into a war, which wore on until the prince had lost completely. He prayed his demise would be swift and honourable, though it turned out to be foul like a fowl preyed upon by a pack of dogs. It was less than five months past since the rebellion began with the prince giving insult about a man’s clubbed-foot. The man turned out to be a leader among the fishers who made up a majority of the working population and economy of the isle. The next day, the fisher marched up to the castle gate with his unwieldy gait, demanding an apology. The prince gnawed on his cheek for scarcely a moment before he gave a nod, signalling that the fisher be killed. Needless to say, the death of the fisher created a fissure between the nobleman and his people. He had created a holy martyr and in the process began a whole ordeal in which he had wholly dug himself into a hole. “Plain on the plane!” said the prince. He saw them and shouted inanities about the lawfulness of his reign until he was hoarse and lost his reigns, practically falling off his horse in the process. Night had fallen, and not even the few knights were without knots kneading their innards, yet all stilled their breath,
needing to look calm. But the prince spared no thought for fear. His forefathers were the harts, whose hearts were full of bravery. When he needed courage he’d heed the lonesome stag flapping in the hands of the last-remaining standard-bearer. He leaned over his beast’s mane, looking closer at the main force of his enemies. He did not see as two more of his dwindling army rode their horses along the road to the sea, where they rowed as far as possible away from the carnage. The pair pared the remaining host to a measly hundred flea-covered men. “I’ll kill the lot of you and raze your lands, then I’ll raise you from the dead and kill you again! I’ll wreak havoc on you reeking wretches!” he bellowed. The scent of the approaching army sent a wave of whinnies through the few horses remaining in the prince’s host. His men, who would no longer feign loyalty for the fair fare they were receiving, continued to desert. One by one his soldiers decided whether to weather the coming onslaught or flee. All chose the latter and soon, only the prince remained. It was not long before a sword soared through the air and the prince died, crimson blood soaking his dyed tunic. It was barely two days before the kingdom fully awoke from its daze and returned to normal. The throne was thoroughly thrown down.
He had created a holy martyr and in the process begun a whole ordeal in which he had wholly dug himself into a hole.
ARTWORK BY DANA HILL
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SNAPSHOTS IN TIME Linda Nguyen
H
ow do we make friends? It is no longer like kindergarten when we approach a new stranger in our classroom and ask them to play with us on the playground. Or how in elementary school we share our snacks with each other. Or even in high school when we work in study groups for class projects and assignments. As we grow older, we begin to make new friends and our social networks continue to evolve. Think about how friendships began to change after we graduated high school. We spent those last few moments of summer together before the next stage of our journey began. We took pictures and shared them for everyone else to see, but we also took them so that we could remember those memories ourselves – before we left for our own separate ways… During our first day of classes in university, we tried our best to network with the people around us: our roommates, our lab partners, or our classmates. We may have met someone for a brief second and suddenly, we became Facebook “friends”. We knew every personal detail that they shared on their profile… It was a way of being able to connect with others as we began to settle into the next phase of our journeys. We all have those friends on social media whose lives appear picture perfect. We mindlessly scroll through their photos, timeline events, and milestone achievements. Their posts immediately catch our attention and we see a brief glimpse
our own social media presence. Think about the memories that we post on our own profiles. The times when we go to celebrate a friend’s birthday, attend family reunions, and enjoy the scenery of our surroundings while on vacation. We never share the monotonous moments of our lives, when we are consumed with feelings of anxiety, self-doubt, or even uncertainty. We selectively choose the snapshots that define our online lives. Sometimes we become lost in the onslaught of social media that we forget the purpose and benefits of connecting with our friends with a personal message. Maybe it is time for a change. Think about connecting with the people who we haven’t spoken to in the last little while. Reach out and send them a quick message. Take the first step and initiate the conversation by checking in with friends we once knew so well. Remember that there is a story with every photograph. It is up to us to explore, discover, and unveil the meaning behind each story with our friends.
We may have met someone for a brief second and suddenly, we became Facebook “friends”. into their lives. Your friend from elementary school recently moved to a different city. The friend who you haven’t seen since high school is now married and working as a teacher in your hometown. Your co-worker from last summer is now writing a blog of her travels around the world. We are genuinely happy for them and proceed by adding an additional like and perhaps a comment. At the back of our minds, we wonder how our lives match up. The little voice saying how our life dulls in comparison to theirs… Yet we forget that these posts are only snapshots that provide us with a brief glimpse into the lives of our friends. We only see the highlights and features that probably comprise less than 5% of an individual’s life – we never get to see the bloopers and behind-the-scenes. When we witness the posts and pictures shared by our friends, we forget to think about VOLUME 18, ISSUE 3
ARTWORK BY JESSICA ESCOTO
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A NIGHT FOR GRIEF Olivia Fasullo
ARTWORK BY JASON LAU
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t is New Year’s Eve. Physically exhausted yet unable to sleep, a woman lies alone in a hospital bed. With the lights low and the curtains drawn, the only source of unwelcome light comes from the seam of the door. Nurses in lively colours and comfortable sneakers walk past her door, creating shadows and shapes in the dark room. But they never enter. The sound of family members come fill the air. Their laughter mixed in with their exclamations of joy creates a muted buzz that drifts into her room. The elevator door rings as bouquets of beautiful flowers and gifts are delivered, but none are for her. It’s New Year’s Eve. A woman lies in a maternity ward with an empty cradle beside her. In this long night, all she can hear are babies. A dozen different cries take turns sounding through the night. Proving that they have fully formed lungs as they wail lungful after lungful of lively air into the night. A name hadn’t yet been picked, but she feels the loss anyway. She feels it in the absence of sticky fingers and stubby toes. Her nursery will gather dust. She doesn’t have the heart to tear it apart, to dismantle the crib and return the rocking chair. Instead, a whole future will be lost and locked behind a closed door. She had placed
so many dreams on something that she thought was certain, yet in a single moment of pain, it had been ripped away from her. She missed a person who would never be and events that would never happen. It’s New Year Eve. She is alone. She sent everyone away. She was unable to stomach the empty silence as her loved ones sat by her bed and patted her hand. She couldn’t stand the shared looks of pity as she stared past to see her beautiful baby that was now lost to her. Maybe tomorrow the support would do her well, but tonight was for grief. The nurses tiptoe around her and her room, wary to open the door, but afraid to leave her for too long. Taking up the last private bed in the ward, she knows she is the unwanted reminder of the ugly realities, the broken dreams and the unexplained hurt that seems so far away during all of life’s miracles springing up around her. For tonight though, she’s happy to be that reminder. Drugged up to feel no pain, she is still an open wound. Each breathe she takes is felt in the hollow of her belly and the soreness between her legs. It’s New Year’s Eve. A woman has lost her baby.
She missed a person who could never be and events that would never happen.
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INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
MisAryan Ghaffarizadeh Words- non-spatial and weightless entities- can have effects of an atomic bomb “Silence is full of unspoken words” How should we break and shatter it? And palliate its trenchancy all at once? (referring to how when something clear like glass gets shattered to pieces, they become sharp. To prevent the sharpness when “breaking” silence or “shattering” it, what should we do) Wisdom, the oracular shrine of the mind, is the answer It is wisdom which conducts the antiphony of truth Ignorance is a syncopation that should be faded out by the fortissimo of intellect Yet, the sound of ignorance has been louder This contaminated atmosphere distorts the architecture of human virtues Pure love and jubilation will be rotten dreams for men who prefer the taste of idiocy Life without these raw intentions is just a life span; Breath will be the only proof of our existence Death will put our destiny in tequila bottles And in the hands of men who insist on repeating the same mistake over and over again Bitter taste of mistakes is turning sweet Repetition, repetition, sinful acts, mischievous temptations but no growth It is growth that stretches us towards enlightenment But we retrograde, our roots of ignorance plunge deeper and deeper Eventually, sin becomes our only virtue; The world, a living lie; And our humane truth, an oblivious enigma Behold the world, we have made a hell of our heaven… The wise swirl in bewilderment with the constant rhythm of rationality (it’s a paradox, like others, they don’t know but they admit they don’t know and try to use their rationale to know) They don’t gaze in awe, they consciously wonder The unknown is fearful, yet, we fear to know; Awareness is key for locking the doors of such confusions To be aware of means to encompass the moment, To be a drunken sapient who chugs down seconds By planting the seeds of awareness, knowledge blossoms When one reaches the altitudes of enlightenment The pulse of light will give life to the stagnant flow of thoughts “Let’s not soil the water” The reflection of faces is clear in river’s transparency One’s love does not get deviated, A virgin flow manifests the truth of every noble feeling and virtue Let’s be the people who understand water Let’s ignite a heavenly flame in this hell
artwork by Kayla Da Silva
VOLUME 18, ISSUE 3
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ARTWORK BY JASON LAU
POTTER’S FIELD Sarah O’Connor
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n a perfect world, Mike and I would be heading to Miami right now. Instead, I’m cruising down to Potter’s Field with Trey. He’s got his sunglasses on and his head droops against his chest, as if asleep. But hey, mistakes happen. “Oh Trey,” I mumble as we stop at a red light. “What am I going to do with you?” Trey is silent, as he should be considering what happened. Jesus, it was just supposed to be Mike and I. Break into Shay’s after dark, take the money, and drive to Miami as fast as possible, where Shay would never find us. But Trey of course had to ruin everything. That snooping bastard, always listening in and following Mike around like a puppy, which always pissed him off; acting like it was a coincidence that he was in the same place we were every time we had a thing, romantic or otherwise. “Didn’t work out so well this time, huh buddy?” Trey’s drooling onto that filthy white t-shirt, the one he seems to always be wearing. The armpits are stained yellow and the front is smeared with food stains, dirt, and blood. It wasn’t hard for Trey to annoy me. He was always trying to make it seem like he was the smartest guy in the room, the one who brought in all the money, always talking down to me like I was the dumb one. Mike always told me to ignore him but how could I when Trey was always there? So yeah, we got into a ton of yelling matches, and the occasional fistfight which pissed Mike off more than anyone else. He gave him a few kicks in the head for what he’d done, but not enough to make Trey any less of an ass. A grey Honda flickers its lights as I approach. Mike. I turn off my lights and drive slowly into the forested area and park. “Come on big boy,” I huff as I drag Trey out of the car. His sunglasses fall off and clatter, his head lolls to the side. “You’re late,” Mike grumbles, his breath clouding in the frosty air.
“It’s not my fault, there were some cops driving behind me for a good ten minutes. Did you want them to follow me?” “Let’s go deeper into the forest,” Mike says as he takes Trey’s other arm. It looks like we’re all walking together, three friends in the moonlight. “And why’d we have to drive so far? He’s really stunk up the car.” “Can’t have him near us, sweetheart, unless you want our faces plastered around town.” “Well we aren’t going home anyways-” “It’s just a precaution.” He cuts me off and finally we stop, leaning Trey against a tree. We’re silent for a bit, Mike keeps looking up at the stars while I keep glancing at Trey as he slowly falls down to the dirt and the leaves that carpet the forest floor. “You sure no one followed you here?” Mike asks, looking me straight in the eyes. “No police, no stealth cars, no-” “I’m sure, I checked,” I assure him. “You sure no one heard you shoot him?” “Oh, I’m sure some people heard.” “But no one followed you, right?” Silence. “Right?” Mike sighs, “I’m sure.” Finally he looks at Trey, “Poor bastard. He wasn’t such a bad guy.” I snort, “Speak for yourself.” Mike quirks a smile, the first I’ve seen all night. “He was just stupid, going to Shay’s before we got there. At least you didn’t get hurt.” I smile. “But he’s pulled this shit too many times before. He just made us vulnerable.” I lean against his shoulder. “You did the right thing.” He gives a sad smile and turns back to Trey. “Let’s start digging; we’ve got to be quiet and fast.” He begins to dig. “What? You want me dig in the dirt like a dog?” “Sorry princess, here’s a shovel.” Like I said, mistakes happen.
Sorry princess, here’s a shovel.
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INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
THE BLEEDING STRANGER Hamid Yuskel
A
t night, the desert thrives. Free from the torturous sun, animals of all sizes come out to play. What once was a barren, dry landscape becomes a world teeming with life under the cold cloak of night. The stars erupt in the sky. Saguaros form prickly forests. The whistles and calls of animals beckon your ears. In the Sonoran Desert at night, life is brisk and beautiful. But just over there, fading more and more into the distance, is the flare of a village being burned down. I still remember the sounds. The loud roar of car engines. The rattling of machine guns. The crackle of fire as it tore down our house. The screams. It was not supposed to be like this, not today. Today was el Día de los Muertos; the Day of the Dead. Today was a day of celebration. Like the creatures of the desert, we were to go outside as soon as the sun set. Nothing could stop our fun, not even the bleeding stranger who ran through town exclaiming, “They’re coming.” No one in the village knew who he was. He was clad in olive green, with intricate patches stained dark red. We took care of this poor delirious soul, though he kept uttering the same phrase: “They’re coming.” But who were they? I remember overhearing the adults discussing his presence. Maybe they were asking the same question. Even so, nothing changed. The day went on as usual, the Day of the Dead and all of its revelry would still happen. At least, that’s what I told myself. As night fell, the celebrations began. Admittedly, the stranger’s presence made the
They’re coming.
ARTWORK BY CATHERINE TARASYUK
But who were they?
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partying start more hesitantly than in past years. But as the moon rose higher and higher in the sky, our doubts and worries were replaced by dancing, drinking, and love. The dead had been prayed to, and the living comforted each other. We all knew that even in death, we were inseparable. This was the Day of the Dead as it should be. At least, it should have been. As we partied deep into the night, the stranger became more unnerved. He would scream, “THEY’RE COMING!” But his yells were absorbed by the music. Understandably, he became more frantic. By then we had all chosen to ignore him, to continue in our festivities, happily oblivious. To think he could’ve saved my family. If only I had listened to his warning. I don’t remember when they came, or when the screams began. It all blended in with the mess of noise. But soon enough, the only sound that mattered was the gunfire of the men clad in black. I realized that the answer to my question was right in front of me. It was the devil’s own army, hunting us down. They were coming, and now they were here. I ran away as quickly as I could, and could hear my family close behind. I heard them scream my name, and scream in pain. Soon, no one was screaming my name. Alone, I ran into the cold night, away from everything. The Sonoran desert was devoid of life. Everything was silent. Everything was dead. My bleeding feet stung, but I could not stop. I don’t even remember collapsing. When I awoke, I couldn’t tell how much time had passed. I looked around. The sun was glaring, and I found myself in an unfamiliar town, with a figure looming over me. She asked me softly, “Who are you?” I simply replied, “They’re coming.” 11
ARTWORK BY FRANCO SIMÕES
RULE OF THIRDS Emile Shen there (location)
“D
o you want to leave with me? This place smells of dripping roses and I can’t handle it.” He is not one for the sentimental. We exist in a vacuum of time and space. A slightly different night would have caused a difference in who we have become. But I want to believe in the inevitability of us. Together. The first time we meet it’s liquid courage, the second it’s excitement. The third is pretense. I don’t know what will become of us. Gen y, gen x, whatever bitter adults want to label us, claiming we are flighty. We are hesitant about things that matter. It’ll be a long time before we worry about mortgages—we can afford to change. I don’t know how we’ll change. I see more bottles of wine in our future, more cups of coffee. I have sketched the place we met, but I don’t know where we’ll go.
We will never be the same, we crashed into each other in slow motion. 12
their (possession) We will never be the same. In the twelfth grade, she started praying. (What is it like to grow up in suburbia?) It is good to have something to believe in. To her, god isn’t there to ask for more (she doesn’t need to). To her, religion is kindness. So she sings little prayers wherever she goes, to strangers she’ll never know. She’s not afraid, but there’s so much to fear. There is so much to lose when you know this will end with nothing or eternity. When will I go out and search for the answers? All she needs are her songs, I need something to pray to. All I know is that we swim well together. In the twelfth grade, he started thinking too much. We’re all terrified, like children among loud noises. Reticent and vulnerable, but still molding each other. There is so much to fear, but I focus on losing him. Love is necessarily like that, it’s painful to carve out a piece of you and give it to another. To change yourself, to see how the seasons move in cycles, and feel yourself moving with them. We will never be the same, we crashed into each other in slow motion. I swear he’s different from the other boys. If Bryan is the prom king, then he is a barista in a coffee shop that exclusively plays 70s acoustic and early 2000s synth-punk. I feel out of place because I don’t know any of the songs (I grew up on Britney), but it won’t stop me from uncovering him. Words can't capture it, but they are all I have.
The things we fear most have already happened to us. You are the sound of my heartbeat. You are the smile on my face. they’re (self) What is the point of no return? Everyone always writes about Prometheus and Icarus because they are what happen to overconfidence and divine intervention, but there is beauty in the commonplace too. The things we fear most have already happened to us. You are the sound of my heartbeat. You are the smile on my face. You have saved me from the buzz of my head. You are my commonplace. Love is not gold and moonlight; it is studying at the library until 3am on our birthdays. I look at you like you’re the future and for the first time, I know it’s okay to be me (something that has been a source of contention for as long as I have known). I stop fighting myself. This is the end of history. You have given me back myself. INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
Jonsson Liu
Jason Lau
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ARTWORK BY MELANIE WASSER
WHAT DO THEY SEE? Elizabeth Fu
She sits in the back, watching, always watching.
W
henever we look at children, we find ourselves wondering, what do they see? What does the world look like in the eyes of a newcomer, who is unadjusted, weak, and is free from burden? The first glance of life must have been surely confusing, cold rubbery hands supporting her, strange masks with round circles peering through. For others the scene would surely be different, the warmth of the world suddenly sucked away as she feels something different, which turns into a slip onto the crunchy, frosted grass. What do they know? She sits in the back, watching, always watching. The orange tinted leaves, the brewing clouds in the sky, the soaring office buildings, the billboards, the bright-eyed lady in the ad, 14
She looks in the sky; one day, she will get there.
the disillusioned student who trudges onward, the Jays fan, the struggle for power, the weary electorate, the birds in their V. She slowly pokes one foot into the water, the mist rising in a cloudy reverie, magical potions are being brewed down below. She pulls herself in, as the water seeps through her coat. She wades in following the others, as they paddle one by one on and on. She looks down and sees herself in the glass, and underneath is a murky and muddy scene with quick swishes of motion. Does she know A for Apple, B for Balloon or Blue, and C for cat? Apple, balloon, cat. Apple, Ant, balloon, ball, cat, castle. Apple, Ant, Amy, Balloon, Ball, Bat, Cat, Castle, Canoe. Apple Ant Amy Army Abortion, Ballon Balle Bat Battery Backstab, Cat Castle Canoe
Can’t Cancer. And the V in the sky. Splish! Splash! Water blurs her vision, as she is drenched in water, and she shakes the water off, feeling the softness of her fur weigh into the water as she paddles on. She looks in the sky; one day, she will get there. The V which she will be a part of. She hears her calling and beckoning, and paddles on. Ouch! A burning, familiar pain, she rubs her eyes violently, glass piercing, feeling redness. A glance upward, and she sees the V line, always moving, never stopping, heading somewhere. She wishes she knew where; she would like to sit on top of one, they would whisper their secrets of V, as they solemnly told her the way of the world. And all this before she even knew the letters, A B C. ď Ž INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
the girl in the tower elina filice their once lived a girl. she had brite blue ayes and a long blonde brayed down her back. butt she was bourne the daughter of a bad man who kept her in a tower, under loch and quay. he fed her only bred and gave her plane, course close to where, for he was vary afraid that won day a buoy would take her aweigh four she was his soul purpose in life, the only thing he loved. whirred got out around town of the beautiful girl in the tower. men from all over the country came to try to brake her out, butt the shellfish father never aloud them to even get clothes. the girl did not no any different, she had never bean outside the towerbutt still, every thyme her father cent them aweigh she bald and bald for ours, for her won dream in life was two sea the whirled. won day, a young buoy who was boulder then all the wrest came two the beautiful girls tower inn the middle of the knight. pleas owe pleas, she culled out two the buoy, I have never bean outside this rheum, won’t you pleas take me too the beech?
the buoy looked around him and saw a perfectly fine beach tree, tall and strong. they’re! he said pointing their is a beach! puzzled, she looked at the tree and thought, that’s awed, that is not how I imagined a beech. pleas owe pleas, she said to the buoy again, my tower faces west, I’ve never seen the son ryes inn the mourning! mourning? the boy thought, and pointed to a group of people in black headed toward a nearby graveyard their, he said, is morning! frustrated that everything she dreamed about had bean rite outside her window, the girl tried once more. pleas owe pleas, she said, I want to smell flours! seeing a loaf of bred on her windowsill, the buoy said, there! there is a flower four you two smell! well, said the girl, I suppose everything aye wanted to sea was wright outside my window. I want to meat you, and flea with you, but the reel whirled is not quite as aye imagined.
artwork by Diana Marginean
VOLUME 18, ISSUE 3
with that, she cent the buoy a weigh, and was left with her beech, and her mourning, and her flour, and thinking about the strangeness of the world. if everything she had longed two sea had bean a round her in plane sight, than maybe the hole whirled could be seen from her tiny tower.
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ARTWORK BY ELANE WESTENHOEFER
THE ART OF PEER PRESSURE Danielle Smith
T
he Plastics. The Heathers. The T-Birds. The Greasers. Spanning decades of film and becoming synonymous with cult classics, these cliques share many defining features. The glorification of thin, perfect bodies, the search for self-identity and the continual pursuit of peer approval. Thus, the notion of peer pressure emerges again and again. More often than not, films portray peer pressure as negative, with a common theme known as "peer pressure makes you evil." In films like Mean Girls and Heathers, peer pressure results in extreme violence and bullying. Characters resort to verbal abuse, physical abuse, and even murder, in an attempt to maintain the power, control and fear that manifests itself in cliques. Although the methods of peer pressure are much less excessive in reality, the power that peer pressure has can be clearly seen in rates of cigarette smoking, alcoholism, and sex. Nearly forty percent of all teens have smoked cigarettes, sixty percent have tried alcohol and twenty-five percent have had sex. Binge drinking has led to hospitalization and even death, and hazing in fraternities and sororities may trigger body image issues and eating disorders. Yet, some argue that peer pressure may have some positive effects. If peers value doing well in school or athletics, positive 16
peer pressure may encourage better fitness, health, and studying. In some cliques, peer pressure may also increase self-esteem and confidence. Cliques considered higher up on the social ladder, such as Jocks and Populars, have the highest self-esteem, as determined by both their peers as well as themselves. Acceptance and power can certainly lead to confidence—but at what cost?
the possibility of identifying with or striving to be accepted by complete strangers. To many outsiders, the inner workings of cliques and the disastrous results of peer pressure may seem to illustrate cruelty, narcissism and anarchic or rebellious tendencies in youth. But by taking a step back, it suddenly becomes clear that adolescence in fact mirrors adulthood. The social systems of many teens—the clique—and its
Binge drinking has led to hospitalization and even death, and hazing in fraternities and sororities may trigger body image issues and eating disorders. As Nietzsche accurately noted, "the surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.” With the advancement of technology, peer pressure is even more rampant. Fashion, trends and memes are popularized and then almost instantaneously made obsolete. The reach of cliques and the power of peer pressure has expanded greatly, with
power struggles, are replicated in society, complete with assimilation into social roles that demand to be filled. Peer pressure, of course, never seems to be able to disappear completely. For adults however, peer pressure may mean buying a luxury car to impress others or to "keep up with the Joneses." When appearance, social status and being accepted mean everything, the pressure is on. INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
For Sale Khatija Anjum there is a thunderous silence in this empty home, yet as I eavesdrop on my childhood memories, I can distinctly hear the soft sounds of the footsteps of my seven-year-old self echoing down the long hallway and the wide staircase, the unmistakable, consistent creaking of the bed I jumped on in secrecy, sheltered by the quiet summer afternoons, the forts made out of sheets and cushions, always leaning, prepared to topple at any moment, the walls that my dirty hands have stained thousands of times, a victim to my crayon-drawn feelings, the dreams etched into the ceiling above my bed every night, my naïve eyes leaving invisible imprints I can feel even today, the large window that lent its cool breeze, sunrise and sunset to me all these years, the click of the front door lock, signifying home, inspiring a drop-everything-and-relax reflex, the voices of family and friends, captured as laughter, tears, screams of excitement and anger, as chatter and love, nostalgic, I suppose. as I reach my hand out to touch the walls, now repainted, I swallow hard. the house I grew up in is for sale. it is merely four walls, but it has nourished my body and soul, witnessed everything I did. all the things I have grown to know are lifeless until they are attached with unseen strings to each corner of this house, animating my memories. my childhood is for sale. ARTWORK BY ANGELA MA
this house has been cleansed of my history: neutral in its milky white, impersonal in its hollows. I am stumbling on the thought that it is a vacant canvas for another child, just like me, to create childhood memories in this home that readily housed mine. how many children will these walls attend to?
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HOW I MET MY MOTHER Annie Yu
A
t 35, she was sprinting up the career mountain as the financial director of a national retail company based in Shanghai. At 36, she began working in a salmon cannery as a blue-collar staff, a job that was accepted with enthusiasm because it required only minimal comprehension of English. She is my mother, an ardent businesswoman who shattered the glass ceiling, threw away the burdens of marriage, hauled herself and her six-year-old to a new continent, but couldn’t break through the language barrier. “I live their with my doughter,” she wrote on her subsidy application, “I have small income.” While seven-year-old me did not quite grasp the grammatical difference between little and small, or how to spell “daughter” (sometimes seventeen-year-old me still flounders with simple spelling), I was already able to point out that she was using the wrong “there”. “Shouldn’t they understand it if they all sound the same?” she asked me in Chinese. But “they”, including my grade school teacher, had their own opinion on the matter. Mrs. Johnson was eager to emphasize the importance of correctly differentiating homophones in writing. She cheerfully reminded us that “using the wrong one makes you look dumb!” It was meant to be a careless comment, but I conformed to authority and absorbed her every sentence religiously. Suddenly, my mother, the ambitious, knowledgeable woman that I had always known, did not seem so respectably intelligent anymore. It was then that I began to judge not only my mother but also every immigrant around me who failed in their quest to master the English language. Armed with the fact that I could choose correctly between they’re, their, and there, knight and night, and even identify the meaning of bear in different contexts, I felt superior. But I had underestimated my mother. She dedicated her spare time to watching and re-watching all ten seasons of Friends to master verbal communication, her mouth struggling with the comedic lines. She read the newspaper from front to back every
day, her hands battered from long hours of handling frozen salmon but still fiercely jotting down new vocabulary. Her mind was endlessly differentiating each bunch of letters from another. Most importantly, she believed in her own talent. When a grocery chain was hiring a bookkeeping assistant, my mother applied with confidence. Five years later, she became the chief accountant of the company; her accent was drowned out by the applause of the crowd during her year-end speech. I sat quietly in the audience, seeing my mother for the first time as the resilient feminist, student, and educator
that she was. It has always seemed like an atrocious crime in North America to not be proficient in English. Literacy only counts for the English language, and the slightest error can lead to an immediate judgment of one’s intellect. My mother, however, showed me that the only prisoners are people locked in their own narrow minds.
ARTWORK BY MIMI DENG
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INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
ARTWORK BY SONNET IRWIN
A COMFORTING CONCLUSION Caitlyn Buhay
Y
ou are walking along when out of nowhere, WHAM! a pole hits you square in the face. As if the public clumsiness wasn’t enough, your unwanted contact with the pole has knocked your coffee right out of your hand to pour neatly down your brand new leather bag. As your lip begins to quiver and the tears threaten to spring from your eyes like the coils of a slinky, your friend flaps her hands in distress, while letting a few outbursts of “Oh no!”, and “Are you ok!”, and “Not your new bag!!” Your friend, bless her, is trying to comfort you in the best way she knows how. But is there really any right way to comfort someone? We have all experienced the classic “there, there” moment, when no one knows quite what to say, so they blurt out the first thing that pops into their head that will help to console you. But let’s say that it wasn’t a pole you walked into, but
an unbearable diagnosis, a sudden loss, or an unexpected accident. In the moments of extreme pain and stress, what are your expectations for those closest to you? It can be easy to forget that many find
has lost their teddy bear! So how should we, as adults aiding fellow adults, handle the comforting process? Well very simply, we should be present and emotionally empathic for those that need it. All anyone really wants is to know that you are standing by them, attempting to grasp their pain and trying to help in the best way you can. It is as simple as waiting with someone, removing them from a difficult situation, even calling or getting another person that you know will be most helpful for them in their current state. So if you want to be a better comforter, without needing to carry a constant mug of cocoa, tissues and stuffing your clothes full of feathers, try being present and fully in the moment. No one expects the world from you, but to stay by someone’s side when they need you most might be the best comfort of all. Even a simple “there, there”, can be enough.
So how should we, as adults aiding fellow adults, handle the comforting process?
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the task of comforting another person a daunting and mysterious endeavor-with each situation presenting its own challenges and emotional hurdles to leap over. Yet comforting another person needn’t be so complex. Parents do it daily to prevent breakdowns comparable to the collapse of a small country-and that is just if their child
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ARTWORK BY SHANNON WU
THREE
Michele Zaman
I
have not one, not two but three daughters, three hearts, three souls, oh how lucky am I to have my three stars, would you like to know about my three loves? Their oh my sweet Their – she is the oldest but not the wisest though she is the quietest. Obedience, she etched onto her skin though generosity did not seem to be in her nature yet she was the most thoughtful being that I have ever had a pleasure of knowing. I always knew she was never mine, somewhere deep in the bottom of my heart the truth screamed and screamed – ‘she’s not yours’ the voice cried ‘watch the way she moves for her, watch the way she dances with them, watch the way her eyes glitters for him and tell me you still believe she is yours’. Yes, I always knew deep down she never belonged to me. I’ll tell you a secret if you promise to never ever whisper the words I speak; she broke my heart the most. They’re oh my magnificent They’re – she was the youngest. I’d say she was like the ocean: beautiful yet petrifying. Her wrath was marvelous it left me breathless. She embodied the utmost grace in every movement. Her bones were made out of wild souls, hundreds of wild souls stitched together to create my per-
fect They’re. At one moment she would be so still I’d think she was dead! Hope would illuminate my mind ‘maybe I can tame her this time’ I’d say to myself but the moment I turned my back she’d take me in her arms and suffocate me, leave me gasping for air, she’d crush me with all her might. I stopped trying after a while. She was in love, I never liked him much but she loved him. It seemed as though her heart was made up of the same substance of his heart, always intertwined in one another’s arms I could never tell where she began and he started. I’ll tell you a secret if you promise to never ever whisper the words I speak; she made me the happiest. There oh my lovely There – to be completely honest I never saw her much, I’m not certain I saw her at all. Like the wind she would be all places at once, others from high and low would come to me and tell me stories of my There, telling me how wonderful she was. She was wonderful, she could shine brighter than the sun, sing louder than the birds, anything your mind could think of no matter how small no matter how large she could be. Unpredictable she was, unpredictable and electrifying. I’ll tell you a secret if you promise never to tell; I worried about her the most, she made my heart ache in ways I could never describe.
Their oh my sweet Their – she is the oldest but not the wisest though she is the quietest.
They’re oh my magnificent They’re – she was the youngest. I’d say she was like the ocean: beautiful yet petrifying.
There oh my lovely There – to be completely honest I never saw her much, I’m not certain I saw her at all.
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INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
TO BE OR NOT TO BE, IS THAT REALLY THE QUESTION? Takhliq Amir
H
amlet may have questioned his entire existence with that one quintessentially vital query, but his deep philosophical musings hold no candle to the ruminations and reflections of our protagonists. There is Lilac, of course, characterized as the sweet, dramatic idealist. She spends half her day dreaming and the other half vocalizing those dreams. She is Hamlet in modern day form, without the angst and suicidal tendencies. Her hobbies include singing and dancing, rhapsodizing to all within earshot about the places she’ll go
ARTWORK BY LEAH FLANAGAN
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Why stay here when I could be anywhere? Oh, but what does it mean to be here, to be there, to be everywhere? and the people she’ll see, the foods she’ll eat, and the air she’ll breathe. “Oh, to be or not to be? I have a better question: to go or not to go? How I wish to go to France, or Turkey, or Brazil, or … My, the number of places I could go! I can just close my eyes and see the rich history of Italy, smell the delicious pastries cooking in a French bakery, hear the sound of the ocean rushing in as it repeatedly fights a tug-of-war battle with the sand on the shores of Australia. Why stay here when I could be anywhere? Oh, but what does it mean to be here, to be there, to be everywhere?” Then we have Matilda, a slightly plump, moderately grumpy, and considerably bossy pessimist. She keeps all her cards close to her heart, and would much rather spend her time preventing others from having fun than stop to enjoy herself. More than anything, she dislikes the sense of loss that accompanies, well, anything. She would not let you breathe the air around her if she so could. “Well, what do they expect? For me to sit here, every moment of every day, listening to their chatter and their laughter? This is
my house, this is my land, and this whole neighbourhood is my neighbourhood. These roads are my roads, these roses and lilies and weeds are my roses and lilies and weeds. And they dare come here and take them away from me? They are nothing to me, and there’s no way I’d let them take away the things that mean something to me. No, never.” Completing the trio is Rosalie, with a rosy complexion to match her name. She is a fast thinker and a faster speaker, spouting off phrases to trounce even the biggest romantic. While love stories are her hobby, her true passion is the people who surround her. She fantasizes about the old days, when girls wore long dresses and curtsied and attended balls. “Oh, but to live in a time when people drank tea like royalty! And all the ladies would sit in a large hall, with gold ornaments filling up the room, and silver — real silver — goblets and spoons and real china to eat fancy dishes in! And then a lady would say, ‘But won’t you have supper with us?’ And I’d reply with ‘Oh, but of course, my dear Susan!’ And then we would gossip about the Duke’s wife and daughter, both too high-strung to notice the common-folk. Susan would say, ‘Rosalie, can you believe those women?’ And I’d exclaim, ‘Of course, they’re so full of themselves!’ And really, what else is there to say when all’s been said already?” Three different personalities, three different colours of life, but all interconnected in intricate ways — the three sisters were inseparable. While Lilac was naive, Matilda was her shield, and when Rosalie was dreamy, Lilac brought her back to reality. “Oh, but I wish to go see the pure snow that covers the peak of Mount Everest!” “This is home and you belong here. I cannot bear to see you leave!” “Well, Lilac wishes to leave, and Matilda won’t agree, so where does that take us?”. 21
PREDICTING THE FUTURE Osmond Jian
P
eople are always looking for unconventional ways to predict each other’s future. Things like an infant’s temperament, eye colour, or there first word, can all be signs that somehow foretell they’re destiny. One custom I heard of requires parents to place they’re babies in the middle of a
The common errors you make have a predictive value on your future. circle composed of coins, dirt, and tools to see which one the baby crawls to first. Another involves reading out a list of ancestral
names to see which one the baby smiles at, signifying a spirit that’s reliving his life in the child. I became fascinated by these theories, wondering how seemingly insignificant things could be so powerful at prediction. That’s why I was intrigued by a new theory emerging from south of the border that examines spelling and grammar. Over there, some people believe that the common errors you make have a predictive value on your future. Maybe they are more susceptible to misspelling words like receive, ceiling, and receipt, due to an ingrained habit of always putting i before e. According to the theory, people who do this are inattentive and will often miss the little details in conversations or movies. Maybe their the type to follow the ‘i before e, except after c’ rule too well, the ones who end up misspelling well-known exceptions such as species, science, sufficient, seize, and foreign. There spelling habits show a future of conforming
to authority, and always following the rules. Meanwhile, a grammar mistake such as mixing up affect and effect suggests that one is insensitive to the meanings of things. People like this might not care too much about birthdays or anniversaries. Not knowing the difference between i.e. and e.g. can predict a future passion in math and science, and a potential neglect of the liberal arts. The overuse of the passive voice can reveal personality traits such as shyness, introversion, and neuroticism. The list of meanings for every mistake is rather long, but definitely worth investigating. Unfortunately, none of the errors on the list were atrocities that I would ever commit, so I can’t tell you how reliable the theory is in practice. They’re is currently no scientific evidence supporting any of the claims made, as their is little funding for studies in divination. However, it’s still a fun theory to use on your friends, and maybe someday you’ll be proven right. ARTWORK BY SHIRLEY DENG
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INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
Pat Smith Is there even any need for debate? Hands down, Interstellar for best movie of 2014. Incredible acting, flawless direction, mind-blowing visuals. 10/10. Reply 20
COMMENT BELOW Catherine Hu
Deadpool9000 lol, interstellar is so overrated Reply 13 CottonCloudz +Deadpool9000 so truue Reply Pat Smith +Deadpool9000 Are you serious? Just looking at that INSIGHTFUL comment, I can tell you just weren’t smart enough to understand the genius of that movie. Typical Marvel fanboy. I bet you thought Guardians of the Galaxy was better. Reply 2 Deadpool9000 +Pat Smith lolololol, so butthurt (p.s. i’m a girl, not a boy :P). yeah, i liked gotg better. and so what if i like marvel movies, their funny and interesting and well-done. i thought interstellar was poorly paced, with an ending that didn’t fit. Reply 1 Pat Smith +Deadpool9000 How predictable of you to bring up the ending of Interstellar. Of course a Marvel fanGIRL (am I supposed to be impressed?) wouldn’t understand it. “Poorly paced”? Interstellar is the most divinely crafted piece of cinema of the past decade, perhaps of all time, and here you are comparing it to that half-baked spacefest! Sigh. Christopher Nolan is clearly too much for you. I’d encourage you to open your eyes to the mastery of his films if I thought your moronic little brain could handle it. “lolololol”? Give me a break. People like you are why I cry for this next generation of moviegoers. Do everyone a favour and get off of this comment section, and go back to fanGIRLing over Chris Pratt or something. Oh, and by the way, it’s “they’re”, not “their”. Reply Deadpool9000 +Pat Smith damn dude, why you gotta attack me like that :/ i was just telling you my opinions about a film, you need to chill. i told you i was a girl because i thought it was a funny thing to point out, not to impress anyone. cheers xx Reply
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Pat Smith +Deadpool9000 Who’s being “butthurt” now? Don’t try to paint me like the bad guy. You’re the one who needs to develop a thicker skin. You’re on the internet. The internet makes people mean. Known fact. If you want to pick a fight with someone like me, you’d better be prepared for the consequences. Reply Deadpool9000 +Pat Smith i don’t think that’s right. is it youtube’s fault you called me a moron, or made fun of me for being a fangirl? did youtube make you do it? no, you did it because that’s already the kind of person you are, and you’d have wanted to say those awful things anyways. the internet just gave you a platform to say them. there are loads of nice people on the internet, and the internet doesn’t make them worse, it just lets them show who they really are. why don’t you try being one of those nice people? Reply Pat Smith +Deadpool9000 And just like that, your diverting this discussion from what’s real and important. We’re talking about Interstellar and Guardians of the Galaxy and which one’s better, not about the nuances of internet culture and how it affects our social interactions. Is that all you’ve got? Distraction tactics? How pathetic. I should have known it’d be no use arguing with you. I’m out. *drops mic* Reply srirachapeas +Pat Smith Chris Pratt’s super cute tho. Reply 16 Pat Smith Comment removed Deadpool9000 +Pat Smith *you’re Reply 25 Pat Smith Comment removed
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PERSPECTIVES Alexandra Marcaccio
ARTWORK BY ANGELA MA
I
f my mom hadn’t insisted that I do this as a favour to her, I would most definitely not be here. I hate Queen’s. The only reason I’ve come here in the first place is ‘cause my parents basically gave me no other choice. I get to the diner early, hoping that I can brainstorm some bullshit things to say to this chick. Plus, people watching here is always fun. Immediately, the bus girl catches my attention. She’s dressed in all black, and her hair looks like she doesn’t give a crap about it. She has a scowl permanently fixed on her face, and rolls her eyes as some girls ask her a question about the menu. Her anger is almost laughable. I can already guess her backstory. Some punk rock girl. Probably hates anything to do with a place like Queen’s. Thinks herself superior since she doesn’t listen to Top 40. God forbid she just put on a smile and did her job. As I finish wiping down the table, a girl shoves past me, knocking the half-empty milkshake out of my hands and onto the newly cleaned table. Great, I think. Now my boss will definitely be mad. I wasn’t supposed to work 50 hours this week, but I volunteered to take my friend’s shift. I need the money, after all. I stop to take a look at the girl. She’s sitting at the counter talking to some guy, completely ignorant of the fact that she knocked me down in her quest to get a seat. Her blond hair cascades down her back in loose waves. Everything about her appearance is immaculate, from her French manicured nails to her pink blouse tucked neatly into her flouncy skirt. She tosses her head back and gives a high pitched giggle to the boy at the counter. Though I have never talked to her, I already know her. Shrill. Conceited. Probably head cheerleader or something. She’s your typical blonde Barbie doll, with the life in plastic to match. I weave through the crowded diner as fast as I can. I can’t be tardy, not for a meeting my mom set up – she’d kill me. There’s a guy seated at the counter wearing a neatly pressed golf shirt and khaki
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If my mom hadn’t insisted that I do this as a favour to her, I would most definitely not be here. I hate Queen’s. pants – the stereotypical frat boy getup – it must be him. I scoot around another table, hitting something in the process. When I reach the counter, I clear my throat and extend my hand. “Hi, you must be Mark”. The guy looks up, a large, lazy grin on his face. “Ah, so you’re Cassidy. Pleasure. Come on, sit down.” I know my mom said that talking to him could be useful, but I am immediately distrusting of him. I don’t know why – there is just something about him that puts me off. “Soooo…” he says, “you wanna know about life at Queen’s? Your mom tells me she went there too.” I raise my eyebrows at him, and let out a nervous giggle. “Uh, yeah? That’s kind of the point of this meeting.” “Well, I can tell you for sure, the parties are something else. Nobody can beat our Hoco!” I try my very best not to roll my eyes at him. This isn’t what I wanted to know. Everybody already knows this crap about Queen’s; it’s all you hear about. What I want to know about are the academics, the libraries, the stuff that I can’t just find out through the rumor mill. Guess this idiot frat boy is of no use to me after all.
INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
ARTWORK BY THERESA ORSINI
BLACK, WHITE, AND GREY Rachel Guitman
J
ohn M. Deinhart said that “making comparisons is a very human occupation. We spend our lives comparing one thing to another, and behaving according to the categorizations we make.” From my experience as a human, I can’t say I disagree. And to me, this quote immediately brings up the idea of prejudice and social categorization. In social psychology, social categorization is known as the process of classifying people into groups based on their characteristics – age, gender, nationality, etc. It also seems to be quite commonly accepted that we naturally gravitate towards social categorization. At the same time, however, I think it is easy to see how social categorization can become stifling. For instance, the boxes we put people into with relation to gender are seriously harmful. Those who identify as male or female are forced into rigid social norms associated with each gender. Even worse, those who don’t identify as either of those suddenly don’t fit in; there is no place in the simple male-female dichotomy for variation. That is irreconcilable with the plain fact that humans are incredibly diverse. Whether we’re
talking about gender or race or any other social category, humans will always be multifaceted, complex, and unfit for generalization. While our society has movements seeking to end this type of generalization, it also houses a lot of corresponding resis-
these boxes, meant to create clear, neat, easily understandable identities, can actually be reductive and obfuscating. So how can we reconcile this totally human tendency to categorize with the totally human reality of variance? It’s a loaded question that has no clear answer, at least not one that I’m aware of. But perhaps the solution, as with most moral dilemmas, starts at understanding. If we can begin to understand the basic fact that everyone is different, we can start to loosen our grip on social categories. We can make room for in-betweens and shades of grey. Perhaps a big part of this is letting go of the need to understand at all. Since people can’t neatly fit into boxes that are easy to comprehend, sometimes we simply won’t, and that’s okay. The important thing is to accept even what we don’t personally understand. I think that this is a stepping stone to letting marginalized members of society in. It’s one small move towards mutual respect and perhaps the beginning of a more compassionate society. To me, that seems like it’s worth a little cognitive discomfort.
People want to cling to social categories, and in a way it’s understandable. After all, our brains work by categorizing. It’s much easier to see the world as black and white, easily reducible to this-or-that, than as an amalgam of in-betweens.
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tance. People want to cling to social categories, and in a way it’s understandable. After all, our brains work by categorizing. It’s much easier to see the world as black and white, easily reducible to this-or-that, than as an amalgam of in-betweens. But reality will never stop being an amalgam of in-betweens – a mosaic of different shades of grey. As long as we continue categorizing and shoving people into boxes, we ignore who people are in reality. It’s ironic that
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NON-FACTUAL FACTS ABOUT GREEK MYTHOLOGY Trisha Philpotts
O
ne in the hand is worth two in the bush. If it’s not broken, don’t fix it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings. You know what they say – but do you know exactly who they are? In fact we know these proverbs and many others all too well, but the question we never ask is: Who is this ever opinionated ‘They’? And why do we live by their words? The origins of the saying “You know what they say” can actually be traced back to ancient Greece. In Greek mythology two entities were said to exist before all else. They were known as Uranus and Gaia, or
Father Sky and Mother Earth respectively. After them came the gods, the titans, Cyclops’s, mankind, and all other creatures who were to inhabit the earth. Gaia came into existence first, and alone she gave birth to Uranus who soon became her husband, thus uniting the earth and the sky. Unbeknownst to most and often left out of the mythology, however, is the fact that Gaia gave birth to twins. Uranus had a brother and his name was Theyne. Theyne was also known as Father Wisdom for the fact that he embodied all of the knowledge the world would ever need and was gifted with the ability to foresee the fu-
ture. When Gaia, Uranus, and Theyne were still the only entities filling the empty void which existed before them, Theyne would often spend his days creating proverbs which he would one day pass on to mankind – small beings which Theyne prophesied would one day inhabit the plains of Gaia and rely on the three of them equally to survive. Mankind would rely on Gaia’s soil for food, Uranus’s clouds for rain, and as they would be flawed by nature, they would rely on Theyne’s wisdom for clarity. Gaia grew quite fond of Theyne and his wisdom, while Uranus grew jealous that his mother and now wife spent so much time with his brother. Uranus envied Theyne’s wisdom and set out to destroy it ensuring that mankind would face a life of foolish decisions and terrible mistakes. In a rage Uranus swept up all of his winds, gathered all of his clouds, and bolstered the greatest of his lightning and thunder. The sky grew dark and Gaia and Theyne feared what Uranus would do with his storm a brew above. Theyne, foreseeing his own death, gave Gaia hundreds of scrolls containing all the wisdom he had, and Gaia set off to hide them in her mountains. Uranus at the peak of his envy and rage struck Theyne with thirteen lightning bolts, immediately killing his brother. Theyne’s death is often cited as the reason why thirteen is an unlucky number. Thirteen bolts took away the hurdle-less life Theyne intended for mankind to live and instead left mankind in a constant state of uncertainty and devoid of any true knowledge. Today the proverbs which often follow behind “you know what they say” are the results of a broken history. Theyne died before man inhabited the earth and the proverbs which Gaia hid in her vast mountains were found in the Himalayans around 480BC. What started out as “You know what Theyne said” centuries ago was eventually diluted and turned into “you know what they say” through a series of generational broken telephone. Proverbs which were intended to act as the answer key to life have been demoted and are now the sayings grandfathers use while lecturing their grandchildren, the inscriptions inside of greeting cards, and the water cooler responses co-workers give to your current crisis. But you know what Theyne said, you win some, you lose some.
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WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR NATURE? Kayla Esser
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first asked myself this question when sitting in a Global Justice lecture on worldwide water sanitation. It’s deceptively simple, because the answer seems obvious: everyone is. Nature, when defined as the physical world of plants, animals, and landscapes, cannot belong to any single person or corporation. As such, its care and maintenance must be a global responsibility. The real question is one I’ve been struggling with for longer than I can remember: who is going to enforce a standard of care for a world in which we are all the primary caretakers? I still haven’t been able to come up with an answer. In order to give you a sense of why communal ownership isn’t as great as it sounds, I’d like to do a little thought experiment. Imagine a large field of tall grass, bordered on one side by a gentle river, open to the sun’s warmth from dawn until dusk. Everyone in our imaginary farming world is welcome to bring his or her cattle to graze here. As rational beings, we can expect that each herdswoman will raise as many cattle as she can on the common pasture. Whether consciously or unconsciously, she asks herself: “What is the utility to me of adding another animal to my herd?” and the answer is always positive, as our herdswoman will receive more profit for every animal she can sell. What she ignores is that with each additional animal, the risk of overgrazing the pasture increases by a small fraction, not only for herself but also for everyone. As long as the benefits outweigh the negatives, every herdswoman will make the same decision, adding more and more cattle until the pasture is reduced to debris on the bank of a dried-up river. This is called the tragedy of the commons, and here is where the tragedy lies: every person is locked into a system that compels her to increase her herd without limit, in a world that is limited. In pursuing our best interests, in believing in the freedom of the commons, we rush towards ruin. Some of you reading this may laugh at how dramatic I sound, and while I wish I could tell you that this doesn’t apply to you personally, I would only be denying you the truth. Denying hard truths such as this is a common survival mechanism that we’ve been employing for centuries, because it allows us to function even while society as a whole suffers. It lets us go about our daily lives without feeling consumed by guilt or fear about the future. A perfect example of this is climate change. The excessive pumping of carbon
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dioxide into the air by some countries can result in glaciers melting elsewhere around the planet. Groundwater resources, though technically a shared property, are often monopolized and depleted by certain groups within a region who hold more power than others. And the cattle industry that most of the world relies on is responsible for many chemical threats to water and air quality that often go unacknowledged. But when we drive our cars and eat meat and run the tap for just a second too long, we never question where our resources are coming from. And with that, we are passively ignoring a much larger problem, one that can only be solved once all recognize its urgency. If this article does nothing else, I hope it leaves you feeling unsettled. The reason you should care is the same reason that you voted in the recent federal election. We often feel that our impact on the world is small, even negligible, and therefore we have little power to change the injustices we are faced with. But when you add up the voices of all the people who don’t vote because they don’t believe anything will change, and convince them to join the decision-making process, you nearly double the population of people who are now aware, engaged, and capable of making change. The same theory applies here: while it’s great that many students do their part with recycling and composting and eating local, it isn’t enough and it most definitely will not solve any of the problems that we are catapulting our world into. In order to make effective change, we need to start caring, and what’s more, we need to express that care in a way that can make meaningful changes within society. Vote. Lobby. Protest. Educate. Treat the world’s resources as a responsibility, and not a right that you can mistreat as you see fit.
It’s hard to want to take responsibility for the planet when the future seems so daunting. I know that feeling overwhelmed often causes us to appear apathetic or unmotivated about certain causes which have the potential to dramatically impact our lives. But the solution to wicked problems like climate change and water sanitation is not to remain silent and wait for someone else to pick up your mess. In order to avoid the tragedy of the commons, we need to strike a balance between the rights of the individual and the rights of the commons. This world is not someone else’s ruin to deal with – it’s ours.
ARTWORK BY DIANA MARGINEAN
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5 LETTERS TO 5 PEOPLE I LET GO Sunny Yun
“So many people enter and leave your life! Hundreds of thousands of people! You have to keep the door open so they can come in! But it also means you have to let them go!” - Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
L
ast seen when you were 6: They told us that we were moving to different places. We looked at each other and then back to them, asking if our houses would be far away from one another. When they smiled sadly, we must not have noticed because we went back to singing and blowing bubbles on the spring grass. We pressed our dewy palms and noses up against the schoolhouse window, where our drawings of each other were tacked up inside. What did we know? Vanilla ice cream was waiting for us back at your place, which was mine, which was yours. If I called today, I wonder if you would remember me. Last seen when you were 17: Have you found the edge of the world yet? Jesus. When you spoke about throwing everything away, we thought you were joking. Then you took your books and vanished from our lives. Mom and Dad keep the door unlocked at night, hoping you’ll return. Every dinner, there is an extra chair at the table. There are still two unopened presents from last Christmas. I know that you were always a wanderer by heart, but if you could see how often Mom checks her cell phone, you would be here. Last seen when you were 24: We were both there on a whim. Swept onto the bustling sidewalk, breathing in the musty air, and listening to the gabble of girls and boys. I can’t recall what your first words were. All I can remember is that we found a little alcove in your friend’s apartment, and marvelled over how much we were both in love with, and repulsed by, the artificial lights that kept the city aglow. We drowned out the terror of the night with our laughter. As it turned
out, the street lamps lit the runway to our short and grand adventure. This was the story of your favourite lake, my Walkman and bad singing, and dark chocolate cake split between two. I wonder where you are. Maybe we will run into each other again, on a night that we are both carried back to our younger years. Last seen when you were 35: You were an absolute spectacle, in the best way possible. I mean, you always were, but as you walked down the aisle, I swear the stars shined a little brighter. Your skin shimmered silver by the gleam of the moon. You couldn’t help your beaming gaze; with it, you graciously invited every guest into the intimate affair. We clinked glasses as little girls with pink hair bows darted between the white lawn chairs. This was the night of your most important union. When you shared your first dance with him, the crowd grew hush and we all held our breaths, the jigsaw pieces of your life finally falling into place. Last seen when you were 71: Grandpa, you were in my dream last night. Dad was right next to you with his hand on your shoulder. He was happier than he’s been in a long time. He looked about 5 years younger, too. In my dream, you didn’t have a limp. Your stomach didn’t hurt. Instead of a stained white tank top, you were in a crisp blue shirt and khaki pants. I came up to you and gave you a great big bear hug. You were so real. When I woke up, I was confused. I found myself crying, because I remembered that you’re gone—for good. I should have given you more hugs when we had the time.
ARTWORK BY PATRICIA NGUYEN
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In Transit Sonia Leung Spinning like a top Helpless on the ground Listening to the preacher Deaf to the sound Rhythm flow beside me Sitting in a line Everything is happening But I am in my mind Circles in the space And waves in the air Critics and ideas Stopping me to stare Spaces and their sounds Come flutter about Nobody is stopping To help me out Brave and alone Endlessly crave With reckless abandon Forging a way
Forgo the consequences You’ll pay back in time No regrets or hesitation Will my eyes belie Count the constellations In the expanse Parallel to earth In happenstance Anywhere but here I will go Rummaging for answers That the future knows Wonder is the map Deterrents on the road Never was there pavement Leading to gold Always to the next Somewhere in the far Hope is in the distance Looking for the mark Seeking all the reasons Finding a way I just want happiness A place to stay
artwork by Jason Lau
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Sana Gill
CIRQUE DU
MYSTIQUE
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here are jugglers, jokers and jumpers, all gathered to share aimless chatter over cheap whiskey as they bid farewell to Legendsville, a town to which the Cirque du Mystique crew may never return. The circus moves from town to town, rarely returning to the dazed audiences again. Legendsville is a rare exception - the only town to have been revisited after three years. When the venue at a neighbouring town was cancelled due to raging storms, Legendsville seemed like a convenient alternative.
But is that the only reason we are here? “But is that the only reason we are here?” Kristine wondered as she smiled sympathetically at the intoxicated clown trying way too hard to make eyes at her across the party tent. Usually, Kristine loved these farewell parties. It was one of the rare occasions when the crew members could amuse themselves, rather than pleasing unrecognizable faces from nameless towns. Having a little time with the crew that made up her dysfunctional family put Kristine at ease. Tonight, however, she felt troubled. Unable to keep up the facade of enjoying herself, she silently slipped out of the tent. The full moon, hung low in the clear summer sky, bathed Kristine in its silver brilliance as she advanced towards a clearing far from the tent. As she walked, she welcomed the feeling of warm, dry dust beneath her cold feet, and the gentle song of the wind falling on her ears. The sandy dust below was an untouched layer of beige powder that glistened under the full moon. As if drawn by an external force, she extended her tender foot to draw a wide a circle around herself. Then
another. And another. Soon, she was spinning - eyes closed, feet moving to the whispers of the wind, and her swaying arms reaching out to the moon. She felt herself being transported back to three years ago. Their eyes meet, and the screaming crowd falls silent. Kristine is mid-twirl and caught in an intricate set of ropes when she notices the motionless figure standing at the back of the hysterical crowd. He smokes a blazing cigar as he memorizes her every move. She feels naked under his gaze, caught off guard. It is the first time a face has stood out to her among the shifting audiences. As she twirls and spins, she only catches glimpses of him, as if taking snapshots. -clickThe aloof stance. The crossed arms. -clickThe burning cigar caught between his lips. -clickThe dark, steady eyes, burning into her existence. -clickVanished. There she stands, on shaky feet, caught between the urge to dart through the crowd in search of him, and the desire to forget it ever happened. As she stands paralyzed, the curtain falls. The show is over. The howling wind snapped Kristine back to reality. As she opened her eyes, she found herself surrounded by a thick cloud of sand. Her pounding feet and swinging arms were still caught in a manic dance of ache and longing, as she spun faster and faster. She glanced at her feet as they dissolved in the sandy haze. She gazed at the ecstatic galaxies of stars spinning above her. Then she looked around - she was being watched by a figure from a distance. There was the blazing cigar (with stars burning in its flame). Their eyes met (such that the moon shied away). They’re reunited (and the world is born again).
ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD
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David Shin | Identity What If | Zoe Handa
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the evolution of
language L
anguage is first and foremost a tool of communication. As it is refined over time, grammar, syntax, structure, these things give us a working system to make communication easier. While many people often pride themselves on mastering this complex system from both the perspectives of creator and consumer, we mustn’t forget that key concept of communication that it serves. There is no sense in being that old-urg e n t - g r a m m a r- n a z i who sticks so rigidly to the rules since, like every aspect of human culture, language is fluid. It changes. It changes right along with the people who use it. They find new and increasingly streamlined ways to say what they want to say in new and interesting ways. Always putting the function always over the form. Yet I’ll include myself as one of the first people to forget this sometimes. Slang was always the big hangup of mine. I’ve always thought of it as the linguistic equivalent of stupid teenage fads; something we’d all look
back on and cringe when it fades away. The half-life of the average slang word didn’t help either, seemingly dropped as soon as it rose into the popular lexicon. Who can still say ‘swag’ without cringing? Are people still using ‘on fleek?’. Of course, fancying myself ahead of the curb, hating it right out of the gate, I’d say: “You know you can stick to the words in the actual dictionary. They’ve been working just fine for thousands of years, thank you.” Looking back now it serves as a great encapsulation of my point. With the twenty first century’s lightning fast knack for innovation seen in the technology boom or the weird new globalized melting pot, we’re almost at a loss for words when new things pop up. We literally have had to find the words for things the human imagination couldn’t have even conceived less than a few decades ago. Now I see this whole process for what it was all along: a grand experiment. Words
You know you can stick to the words in the actual dictionary. They’ve been working just fine for thousands of years, thank you.
Ryan Rupnarain
have always come and gone out of style throughout history. It’s almost as if the collective unconscious that spawns these things is just throwing new ideas at the wall and seeing what sticks. But words that do successfully express what the culture wishes to convey will stick around, language structure changing to communicate what it needs.
We literally have had to find the words for things the human imagination couldn’t have even conceived less than a few decades ago.
ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD
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ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL
A SINGLE THEY Aaron Grierson
U
ntil one of my English professors told me I was wrong, I had no idea it was considered, at least by a portion of the population, wrong to use the term ‘they’ when referring to a single person. It was in reference to a creative piece of mine, where I was using ‘they’ with respect to individuals that hadn’t been identified by name or gender at that point in the narrative. My professor of course, never elaborated on the reasoning behind this in class or in an email I initiated some months later. I didn’t push it because, frankly, maybe I was wrong. It’s happened before, and I’m aware that there is a lot of French rotting in my brain these days. Between ‘vous’, a term that can be used in the ‘polite’ second form, and ‘ils’ which can be used when referring to a group, maybe I had just buggered up. However, with a bit of research, it turns out, that I’m only wrong according to some people, regardless of whether it’s their views on grammar or their held tradition (my professor, I later found out, falls into the latter category). My first major question was: “When exactly did ‘they’ become an (un)acceptable substitute for s/he?”. Some sources seem to indicate that it travels as far back as the 15th century. Further research, including Reddit, shows that I’m not really wrong; I just have more modern-leaning sensibilities. The next question is whether traditionalists such as my professor and the Oxford
Dictionary are wrong. The answer is, for me, a no; ‘they’ just might put themselves in danger of some backlash. The backlash I’m talking about might be one of the stronger forces moving a lot of people towards
tions are justifiable. Writers, for instance can make things complicated. To quote, “She kept her head and kicked her shoes off, as everybody ought to do who falls into deep water in their clothes.” Lewis here expands outwards, referring not only to the swimming girl but to people in general, and I fully believe that, without exception, this is a totally correct use of the word ‘they’. He could be referring to anyone, or at least anyone that’s fallen into water with their clothes on. This is, however, a minority of the occurrences where one might see ‘they’ used. Usually it would be in reference to a group, which is incontestable, or an individual, which is obviously the subject of some debate. I believe I did the correct thing in my piece of fiction: the genders are revealed later and ‘they’ is discontinued. And I am aware that there are people out there that don’t follow the gender binary. And, quite frankly, I can’t spit on tradition or the grammar rules of others (as much as I might like to, sometimes) but let’s face a few facts: Language in general evolves. English not only evolves with its speakers, but is a literal bastard of a language to begin with. A number of our words have multiple meanings, multiple contexts and multiple definitions. So let context be the guiding factor – if you know or have revealed the gender of someone, use he or she. If you don’t or haven’t revealed it, go with ‘they.’
When exactly did ‘they’ become an (un)acceptable substitute for s/he?
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the word ‘they’: the increasing number of people (publicly) diverging from the gender binary. Some people do this strictly visually – is it appropriate to call an androgynous individual he or she, based on minute facts such as their hair length or some other equally arbitrary physical signifier? Or to
I just have more modernleaning sensibilities. call a Drag Queen a he while they’re, well, in drag? I think not, but acknowledge that in the countless situations where we don’t know, or perhaps have forgotten a person’s name, that it can be hard to remember to say ‘they’. I think in today’s world, this sort of conscientiousness makes a whole lot of sense to a whole lot of people. But not everyone will care, or even think such situa-
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THE Principal Clark I don’t need to know about that, Ms. Silverstar. Just tell me what happened. Sarah Silverstar I’m getting there. So, in grade five, Ruby was still very secretive about—can I say the word? Principal Clark (Hesitant voice crack) Sure. Sarah Silverstar Fruit punch. Ruby was extremely private about her fruit punch. PRINCIPAL CLARK PALES. Sarah Silverstar
WORD
Are you sure you’re ok? Principal Clark Yeah. My mom used to talk about her-Sarah Silverstar
Rachelle Zalter Fruit punch? FADE IN: INT. PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE- DAY SARAH SILVERSTAR IS SITTING ACROSS FROM HER PRINCIPAL.
Yeah. My wife doesn’t… but, um, please continue.
THE ROOM IS BLAND. THE BOOKS ARE BINDED GREY, THE DESK IS BROWN, THE WALLS ARE BEIGE. SARAH IS WEARING BRIGHT MAGENTA.
Sarah Silverstar
Sarah Silverstar Ruby Finkelstein is an F Word activist. She goes around saying it all the time, and I’m telling you she’s never loved anything more. She started using the F word in grade five, which is extremely early. Most girls don’t use the F word ‘til grade seven or eight. I’m still waiting to use the F word, personally. My mom doesn’t think I’m ready. 34
Principal Clark
So, Ruby didn’t want people thinking she was weird or disgusting. You know? Because some people—apparently including YOU—get uncomfortable about girls drinking fruit punch. PRINCIPAL CLARK CHOKES ON HIS COUGH DROP. Principal Clark I’m fine.
INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
Sarah Silverstar (CONT’D)
Principal Clark
Suuuuure.
Well, I didn’t know about Ruby’s early tolerance for fruit punch until grade six. This one time I asked to go to the lunchroom right after Ruby. She didn’t know I was in there but I saw her take the fruit punch right out of her bag. I didn’t see her drink from it, of course, but I knew that’s what she was doing. I kept the secret for Ruby, though. I’m not much of a gossiper.
So nobody talked to Ms. Finkelstein? Sarah Silverstar Well the boys started calling her Ruby Drinkelstein, but that’s just because they’re immature. Girls are A LOT more mature at this age. Principal Clark
But things are different in the seventh grade. You know what I mean? Girls start going to the lunchroom in packs. Nobody watches each other drink, but sometimes the boys think we do. They’re crazy. But somehow, somebody saw Ruby’s fruit punch and word got out this morning. I had nothing to do with it. Amanda thinks it was Pamela who might have told Olivia, but I also heard it could have been Ketan because he was kissing Cassandra at the time.
Any boy in particular I should talk to? Sarah Silverstar I really don’t think it’s their fault. They’re only boys. Principal Clark Right. But Ms. Finkelstein is quite upset. Sarah Silverstar
Principal Clark
Well, not anymore.
Ms. Silverstar.
Principal Clark
Sarah Silverstar Sorry. You probably didn’t need to know about Casket.
What do you mean? Sarah Silverstar
Principal Clark I beg your pardon? Sarah Silverstar Cassandra and Ketan. That’s their couple name.
With all do respect, sir, the morning is ancient history. By lunch, Ruby was posting about her fruit punch on Twitter AND Instagram. The number of retweets and likes are in the hundreds. #Rubysfruitpunch is trending everywhere. People are expecting her to have a Tumblr dedicated to her fruit punch by home time.
Principal Clark Principal Clark What are you getting at, Ms. Silverstar? So Ms. Finkelstein’s not upset? Sarah Silverstar Sarah Silverstar Ruby’s fruit punch was the biggest dirt of the day, but of course I already knew about it. It was NBD. But to Ruby, it was huge. Like, viral. She was crying all morning, because, you know, how’s a boy supposed to like you if he knows about your fruit punch? That’s social suicide. I mean your WIFE doesn’t
No, I thought I made myself clear at the beginning, sir. Ruby Finkelstein is a fruit punch activist. Pretty soon I think she might even try drinking it in public.
FRUIT PUNCH, ANYONE?
SARAH PAUSES FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT.
even talk to you about her fruit punch. So I really did feel bad for Ruby. I couldn’t tell her that because then people might see me talking to her and they might think I’m open about my fruit punch too.
Sarah Silverstar
FADE OUT. ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL
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35
MINE Sadiyah Jamal
A
s children we are taught to share from a very young age. We are taught that sharing is caring, and not sharing makes us selfish. Even if it hurts us, even if they’re asking for our favourite toy and we know they are that kid that never returns a toy in its original form or state, we should give it to them, because it’s the right thing to do. But as children, we are often not taught to distinguish between sharing with those who deserve it and those who don’t. We are not taught that when some people ask for things it may hurt us to give it to them, and so giving those things to them is wrong. We are not taught that there is a limit to what can be asked of us. This is especially the case for young girls who are being bombarded by the idea that they are commodities to be used and shared at the world’s discretion – that it is not for them to decide how their minds and bodies are used, or even that their minds have nowhere near as much value as their bodies do. Yet they are simultaneously being
...she also has the option of creating her own truths. taught by struggling education systems and worried guardians that they must not share their bodies with just anyone. Or anyone at all for that matter. What neither of these parties recognises is that both are in the wrong. Both are taking away from the young girl her ability to make this decision for herself. Both are telling her what to do, and neither is considering that maybe she has a preference.
It is when that young girl’s autonomy is disrespected that she comes to realise that she has been taught many things, most of which she didn’t really question but now she sees they don’t sit well within her skin. She shrugs her skin on every morning without asking why it is woven the way it is, and when she learns of this new thing, this autonomy, she suddenly wants to shed her skin and weave a new one to wear. She slowly comes to learn that just be-
cause they’re all saying it, it isn’t right, and that their opinions are not the final verdict. She learns that there is a whole world of knowledge out there, and she doesn’t have to pick and choose, she also has the option of creating her own truths. What the young girl has now learned is that her mind and body are hers, and what she will struggle with for much of the remainder of her life is reclaiming it from the world that thinks she is theirs.
ARTWORK BY WHISHNAVE SUTHAGAR
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My mind is screaming to be set free. cing to different tunes of the same song. I cannot figure out exactly why I feel this way. What bothers me more, I sense, is that I am losing connection with close friends. My constant “okay’s” and “I hope so’s” in conversation are becoming redundant. The shrugs and short conversations are getting annoying, my once rarely used“I will get back to
Maybe this is just how it is going to be.
ARTWORK BY MIMI DENG
THE WANDERING MIND Abena Offeh-Gyimah
I
s it just me? I wonder. For a year now, I have found it challenging to be present when I talk to people. I love listening to stories, hearing about moments in people’s lives, sharing thoughts,
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and just merely enjoying a conversation. But why has it become increasingly difficult for me to be present? I have become a hard person to carry a conversation with lately. I am there but not reallythere; I am listening but not necessarily paying attention; I am giggling but not fully laughing; I am smiling but it is not genuine; my eyes seem fixed but distracted. I am moving to a different dialogue in my head. I almost feel as if my body and mind are dan-
you soon” is becoming a constant response to friends, and I feel people can sense that I am not really present. I miss tossing my head back to laugh with tears coming down my eyes, I miss when an hour coffee date lasted three hours of non stop listening, or when a short walk in the park became an exploration of a neighborhood. But even alone, my mind still wants to go elsewhere, and do something else. Recently, during a business planning session at my work, instead of thinking of revenue streams for the organization my brain wanted to ran away to catch an episode of nothing. The truth is, my mind feels imprisoned, as if trapped in a reality it no longer wants to be a part of. This absent mindedness or lack of awareness is perhaps my emotions telling me my mind is not balanced, or my thoughts clouded from over commitment, or I need a change in perception. My mind is screaming to be set free. I always wondered what it would be like to explore my mind, to stay focused on one thing at a time, to hold someone’s attention for awhile, to really just have my mind present, to just have clarity and talk to people in meaningful ways. I want to be in the moment so people can feel my presence. I want to live fully engaged, paying attention to the uncomfortable moments, knowing when my mind is swaying and where it is running off to. I am terrified if what I am experiencing might be a mental health issue or if it is just a case of doing too much at once. But, for now, my question is: how do I get my mind to settle down so I can figure out where it has been wandering. Maybe this is just how it is going to be. Temporarily, I hope. 37
HOW THE TORTOISE CRA C KE D ITS SHELL
Submitted by Chukky Ibe
This is an Igbo Folk tale. It is written by the spirit of the Igbo people, I have only made it available so you can learn with all of us.
T
he tortoise is the most cunning in the animal kingdom. After months of famine he observed the birds looking full and healthy. He made it his business to uncover the secrets of the birds. “I know you all fly to the heavens to eat with the Gods. Let me come with you, we can return with food on my strong back to the village square.” ”It is known that I am a strong orator, when we arrive in the heavens let me speak on our behalf. I will convince the Gods to give food for all of us in the village.” After they agreed, they hatched a plan. Each bird would contribute a few feathers to Tortoise until he had enough feathers to make wings to fly. Tortoise told the birds, “The Gods will ask us for our names. We must have beautiful names as they do. Let us take alternate names.” And so the birds searched for the most beautiful names in the world: Ambika, Anam, Mohammed, Pedro, Bipasha, Bob, Yara, Xsenia, Shivani, Connor, Ya, Priya, Naz, and Sara, they called themselves. Tortoise said he would decide on a name as they fly to the heavens. In the heavens, the Gods asked, “Who amongst you will join us to feast?” As Tortoise was their spokesperson, he answered, “Yes, this feast is for all of us!” The birds were elated. “Finally, we shall take food to all our friends and family.” They sat down ready to dine. Shivani the eagle asked, “Tortoise, have you decided on a name for the feast?” “I have already spoken my name since we arrived in these heavens.” “You cunning man, all of us are eager to know your name.” “You have spoken my name as well.” As the Gods returned with a hot bowl of rice they announced “This food is for all of us.” Tortoise responded, “I am here! That is my name. Now you must bring in the food for the other birds.” “But this is the last meal of the day.” All of us responded, “Well, you have made it clear that this is for all of us, ‘all of us’ is my name. Should I give to others what is not meant for them after they did not share with all of us in the village during the famine?” In anger the birds took the feathers they bestowed upon Tortoise. He begged the birds to tell his wife to bring out all soft things so he may fall from the heavens and land on soft bedding. When the birds returned to the village, they told Tortoise’s wife to prepare his hunting gear. She should bring out all the sharp objects, and when she had them ready, she should look up to the sky and scream, “This is for all of us!” And so she did. When Tortoise heard the cry, he jumped from the sky expecting to land on soft objects. Too late, he realised that he was going to land on stones and sharpened wood. His shell broke into a million pieces. The food he carried on his back scattered, and the ants came to carry it away. In gratitude, the ants helped him repair his back, though it never recovered its smooth shape again. And this is why the tortoise has a cracked shell.
ARTWORK BY LEAH FLANAGAN
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INCITE MAGAZINE, NOVEMBER 2015
WHAT THE VENDOR I TOLD THE MONK Salma El-Zamel
VOLUME 18, ISSUE 3
n June 1963, at the busy Saigon road in what used to be known as South Vietnam, a group of monks marched in front of the Cambodian embassy. The place was strategically chosen to be only a few blocks away from the presidential palace. Out of the march, came a monk who sat down on the ground in a Buddhist meditative position named the lotus. Meanwhile, another monk came pouring a barrel full of petrol on the sitting monk’s body. In a few seconds the sitting monk set himself on fire. To the astonishment of many, as a tower of fire erupted, the burning monk remained unflinching in complete stillness, without uttering a sound. All monks surrounding the self-immolated monk fell into prostration and prayer. The smell of burning human flesh and gasoline packed the air, and as the South Vietnamese police stood in daze, Vietnamese people of all ages rushed running, prostrating on the ground to the self-immolated monk. The monk was Thích Quảng Đức. His self-immolation was an action of protest against the oppressive regime of Ngô Đình Diệm. Diem was a Roman Catholic who was significantly supported by the US, financially, politically, and militarily. The visible support was due to his resistance against the crawling spread of communism in North Vietnam and the rest of Asia. In another sense, Diem was just another puppet who offered US imperialism a place for power exertion in Asia. About more than 70% of the South Vietnamese population were Buddhists. That said, Diem portrayed strong opposition of the religion by executing Buddhists, destroying their temples, and discriminatorily favouring services for Christians over Buddhists. Diem viewed Buddhism as another leaf stemming from the tree of Communism that had to be disrooted. While the US was aware of Diem’s human rights violations, they continued to support their imperialist lackey. Once Đức shook the political structure in and outside of South Vietnam, the US retreated its support for Diem, tossing him as a burnt card. Eventually tension elevated in the unsettled state. Diem was assassinated four months later and South Vietnam fell into a sequence of inconsistent stratocracy. Fast forward, 48 years later. In December 2011, in front of Sidi Bouzid governor’s
office in Tunisia, stood a street vendor man who burned himself protesting the injustice he received from his government. The man was Mohamed Bouazizi. Bouazizi, an unemployed man, was subject to continuous police bullying and humiliation. 30% of Tunisians were unemployed and the state was known for its tyrannical political corruption. Bouzazi’s self-immolation led to the Tunisian Revolution that flourished as part of the Arab Spring, and the ousting of Tunisia’s president Zine El Abdine. Tunisia was also funded by the US despite its human rights violations and authoritarianism. As a matter of fact, the US funded and supported almost all of the pre-Arab Spring presidents and their regimes. Unsurprisingly, US indirect support of authoritarianism has also been evident in parts of Latin America and Africa. Đức and Bouzazi are two of the many third world citizens who were subject to the torn injustice between their brutishly abominable regimes and US imperialistic interests. To better clarify, US imperialism is not some specified US political tactic of domination. In simple terms, imperialism is the power expansion of any dominant state. Japan was an Asian imperialist state pre WWII, where Chinese and Korean comfort women (sex slaves) were just one of the many tragedies caused by its dominance over Asia. Britain and France were the prevailing power before America, as they militarily spread their “Enlightening” educational ideologies replacing Middle Eastern and African traditional judicial and educational systems to this day. More so, there is no better time for cultural imperialism to accompany political imperialism than in our globalized cosmopolitan world that is un/consciously gradually developing. We can see this as states are usually denied to rule under their own traditions or political values. Socialism, Confucianism, Indigenous politics, and political Sharia have all faced aggressive US disapproval. Thus, the “worldwide democratic revolution” pushed by Reagan in the 1970s became the only acceptable option for governance. And while more people like monks and vendors are born into the third world, we are left to wonder how they will find new ways to shack the unwavering implications of the so called US imperialism. 39
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