Incite Magazine - September 2013

INCITE MAGAZINE VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1 ▪ SEPTEMBER 2013

COMMUNITY NBC, GEISHAS, AND PANTLESS TERRORISM PLUS ▪ POETRY, ART, FICTION, AND MORE

Olivia Rozema 2

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2013

CONTENTS

04 MOVING DAY

06 NBC’S

COMMUNITY

Sam Godfrey

08 10 PHOTOGRAPHY TERRORISM Sam Godfrey

Ronald Leung

12 THE GODLESS

14 LANDFILL

Ana Qarri

Sabrina Zhu

CHURCH

Kacper Niburski

16 ARTWORK

HARMONIC

WITHOUT PANTS

Sarah Paisley

18 LADY OF

THE CRANES Raluca Topliceanu

20 22 URBAN ARTS INIELECTRONIC TIATIVE: A PROFILE Amber Aasman

SUICIDE Dan White

TEAM EXECUTIVE EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Stephen Clare Sam Godfrey MANAGING EDITORS Avery Lam (Layout) Jessie Lu (Photography) Ianitza Vassileva (Graphics)

CONTRIBUTORS WRITERS Amber Aasman, Sam Godfrey, Ronald Leung, Kacper Niburski, Ana Qarri, Raluca Topliceanu, Dan White, Sabrina Zhu LAYOUT Sarah Conrad, Avery Lam

ARTWORK Sam Godfrey, Avery Lam, Jessie Lu, Sarah Paisley, Raluca Topliceanu, Ianitza Vassileva COVERS Jessie Lu

ASSISTANT EDITORS Khatija Anjum (Photography) Sarah Conrad (Layout) CONTENT EDITORS Devra Charney Matthew Ing Sarah Kanko Julie-Anne Mendoza Kacper Niburski Jessica Teicher Incite Magazine

@incitemagazine

PHOTOGRAPHY BY AVERY LAM

CORRECTION The graphic on the inside front cover (page 2) was mistakenly credited to Ianitza Vassileva in the print edition, and is actually by Olivia Rozema.

The production team sincerely apologises for this error.

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MOVING DAY Sam Godfrey

An Epic Tale

of One Girl’s Arduous Journey

Through Space and Time Towards Her Ultimate Goal

Which Involves Beautiful Young People

in European Villas The Sam Godfrey Story.

S

unlight danced on the Atlantic, gleaming like white gold in the dark blue ocean. The moped sped up the mountain, but I had nothing to fear, my arms wrapped around the strong young man driving. Driving up, up into the canopied trails to my new, beautiful home, and –

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Hold up, hold up! You expect me to believe this? I asked you about when you moved from Sarnia to Hamilton. This sounds more like the opening credits of some summer movie starring young, beautiful people leading adequately dramatic lives. Last I checked, your life doesn’t have a soundtrack of soft pop music.

Are you implying I may have not been 100% accurate in my recounting of this story? That I may have tweaked some details?

That I would give you anything but the truth, every syllable of every breath? The audacity!

You moved to a place in southern Ontario nicknamed ‘Steel City’: not to a lavish mountaintop villa with whoever that was on the moped.

He’s none of your business. As for the rest of it: fine, you want the nitty-gritty details? You’ll get them. Let me start again: On that day, I was glad all my possessions fit in a single plastic grocery bag, leaving one hand free to clutch the cool metal of the Glock hidden between the folds of my burlap sac-turned-dress. The shadows moved eerily, who knows what – Your parents are engineers; you grew up comfortably in a safe suburban neighbourhood near the lake with your two sisters and were always kept clothed, fed and sheltered.

I wasn’t born yesterday.

I know that much is true, but I don’t know a THING about the day before yesterday.

I’d been alive for a while then too. Can you just tell me what really happened?

I don’t know where you got this cynicism from; it’s putting a real damper on my INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2013

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ERICH FERDINAND (FLICKR)

fake memories though. However, if it is the “true” version of events you desire, then I will give them to you: It all happened one September morning. The weather was pleasant, but not in an amazing, or even notable, way. My parents had driven up me in our family’s red minivan, and the conversation was light and – are you sure you don’t want something more exciting?

No. I like this version so far.

Not even a hook-handed hitchhiker?

Treacherous shortcut? Slightly unusual signage?

If it didn’t happen: I don’t want to hear it.

Fine. So as I was saying, the conversation was light and comfortable. We’d left bright and early, so there was no traffic and we were at McMaster ahead of schedule.

Because of this, my roommate-to-be hadn’t arrived yet. Not wanting to seem rude on our first face-to-face meeting, I decided to

put all my boxes noncommittally down the middle of the room, so she could pick the side she preferred. I looked out our window.

Due to the prime location, we were graced with a stunning view of not only deserted tennis courts, but also the building’s entire parking lot.

I thought I made it clear: no fairy tales.

Okay: most of the parking lot.

That’s more like it. Carry on.

My parents couldn’t stay long to admire the picturesque landscape because they had to return to Sarnia and host the annual family reunion. They made their dutiful goodbyes; hugs all around, and then were gone. No fuss, no tears, just me in a room that effectively evoked Bedlam; complete with the sounds of incoherent screaming coming through the window.

Seriously? You were doing so well!

The walls are white concrete bricks, the fluorescent lighting flickers, and the garbled screeching was coming from some-

body’s megaphone.

Dear lord.

I can’t make this stuff up.

So that’s how I moved to Hamilton. Minus the dragon-slaying and princess-saving, of course.

Now see, that was a perfectly lovely story. It was plain, but you remembered it, didn’t you? You wouldn’t have remembered it if it didn’t mean something to you! Boring stories are nice like that: they show you what’s important to people, not just what’s exciting. It’s much nicer than a story about young beautiful people in a tree-top villa, don’t you think?

I still prefer the fantastical tales.

They’re thrilling, but the boring ones say more.

Can I tell you a thrilling horror story if I swear it’s true?

Are you listening to – whatever, yeah.

Lay it on me.

They call it “Frosh Week”… 

Are you implying I may have not been 100% accurate in my recounting of this story? That I may have tweaked some details? That I would give you anything but the truth, every syllable of every breath?

The audacity!

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PHOTO COURTESY OF NBC

NBC’s COMMUNITY Ronald Leung

W

hat happens when an all-star lawyer is forced to earn a bachelor’s degree after being ousted as having faked the one he supposedly held? NBC’s hit comedy series Community opens on this premise, revealing a lovable cast of misfits and paving the way for ripe humour. The primary setting is Greendale Community College, an educational institution that is clearly not Ivy League. The seven primary characters are all part of a study group:

Gillian Jacobs as Britta Perry The desirable blond who was the first Greendale target of Jeff’s charms, Britta appears to be trendy and sophisticated. Her modern exterior soon erodes to reveal a klutzy, but likable, individual who has anarchistic tendencies. She also aggressively advertises offers of counseling sessions, deciding that an in-progress psychology major qualifies her as a therapist.

Joel McHale as Jeff Winger Strong-armed into attending college after being dethroned from a plush lawyer job for faking his qualifications, Jeff’s womanizing antics are the catalyst to the formation of the study group. His body is his temple, and his extreme ego offends people just as quickly as his silver tongue reels them back.

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Danny Pudi as Abed Nabir As a film student of mixed South Asian background, Abed pursues all forms of popular culture. His emotionless demeanor and difficulty in reading social cues seems off-putting, but his ability to make countless metahumour and T.V. show/movie references has made him a fan-favourite.

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2013

Yvette Nicole Brown as Shirley Bennett A newly divorced African-American mother of two, Shirley enrolls in Greendale searching for a fresh start. Extremely religious, she is also not afraid to use passive-aggression to get her way.

Allison Brie as Annie Edison The overachieving keener of the group, Annie’s views of academic success are often at odds with Jeff’s minimalist standards. Her status as the youngest member of the group exemplifies her innocence and straight-arrow thinking.

Donald Glover as Troy Barnes The typical athletic jock, Troy rides the tailwind of his popular high school career into Greendale after an injury costs him a prestigious scholarship. He soon lets his cool façade slip to reveal a childish interior and becomes fast friends with Abed.

Chevy Chase as Pierce Hawthorne The oldest member of the group, Pierce’s xenophobic, sexist, racist, and homophobic views often isolate him, despite his attempts to gather attention. As an heir to a worldwide wet-wipe business, Pierce is not afraid to flex his substantial financial muscle.

How can such a varied group of individuals ever find common ground and become friends? Community answers this question and defies the norm of focusing on a young group of people and reaches past them for this diverse collection of unique characters. An important aspect is that they are all imperfect – each of them carry a fragile past of failures and insecurities. As much as each of their failings are the butt of humourous jokes, the realization that the presence of other flawed individuals that will allow them to heal also reaches a dramatic milestone. The journey of seeing the seven members grow as a group is one of the joys of the show. The humourous bickering and outlandish situations the group encounters are all part of the fun, as they realize episode after episode, that they wouldn’t have survived their latest troubles without each other.

A large part of Community’s charm is not only in the diversity of its characters, but the distinct presentation of its plots. The large number of main characters allows the show to keep things fresh by refocusing on someone else’s troubles every episode, revealing rich backstories such as Jeff’s surprising daddy issues or Troy’s dealings with a powerful air-conditioning school who attempts to poach him.

The commitment of Community is a clear defining point of the series.

Entire episodes are converted to various formats, including claymation, a pixelated video game, and talking and singing puppets – a level of dedication few other shows can attest to. Even when the actors and set are in their traditional format, strong motifs such as a Law & Order-themed episode, or a paintball war reminiscent of The Hunger Games, keeps every episode attractive.

Although some of the pop culture jokes can be attributed to the

actual format of the episodes, much of it comes from Abed. Wielding an encyclopedic knowledge of almost every show or movie of the past half-century, he constantly slips comedic references to relatable media, and although not all of the allusions may be universally recognizable, there is something for everyone. As an example, Abed falls in love with Inspector Spacetime, a fictional T.V. series that is a clear spoof of the wildly popular Doctor Who. In turn, this fascination spawns a multitude Inspector Spacetime-themed episodes that shine with metahumour, sure to please any Doctor Who fan.

The unique flavour of Community has fostered a cult following; the ingeniously lethal combination of creative formats and pop culture parodies are hard to resist. Even as general viewership declined for every consecutive season, a group of dedicated fans remain. When Community was missing from the 2011–2012 mid-season schedule of NBC, fans got to work, spreading word across social media. A flash-mob outside of NBC’s headquarters in New York and a video from the popular humour site CollegeHumor helped get the attention of NBC, who responded to the backlash by airing the remainder of the third season early last year. Community fans don’t have to hold their breath for this year – season 5 has been announced for this fall, with creator Dan Harmon returning after being briefly replaced for the fourth season.

The creative backdrops outline the witty dialogue within the study group, creating a sense of realism that yes, it is possible for these widely-different individuals to be friends. The study group soon learns that the dubious Greendale Community College isn’t so bad; after all, a community is as much as you put into it. 

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Sam Godfrey

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VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1 9

TERRORISM WITHOUT PANTS Kacper Niburski

S

ometime on June 9th, in between a healthy breakfast of eggs, coffee and Sunday morning cartoons, I found out that I was a terrorist.

At the time, I believed myself to be no more than a regular twenty-something year old with poorly trimmed facial hair, dirty glasses, and a voice that cracked like a radiator in the winter. My sedentary existence of sleeping, eating, and sleeping again, I thought, wasn’t of particular interest to anyone, not excepting myself. The daily excursions I took were trivial at best – sometimes I could barely be bothered to put pants on in the morning – and so I thought that on June 9th, with the television blaring and eggs scrambling, things wouldn’t be any different.

But as I pantlessly read the news that morning, and heard of Edward Snowden’s revelations that the National Security Agency (NSA) was indiscriminately collecting all forms of electronic communication data both foreign and domestic, I learned that I was an unquestionably dangerous, inescapably evil, somewhat bloated and helplessly ketchup-stained insurgent.

I was a terrorist armed with a butter knife.

Some I’m sure will deny this outright as I originally did. They see me as I saw myself – at ease, loose-jawed, and more willing to postulate about Cupid’s arrows than string a real bow, even if I knew how.

But that’s the point: it is the plots you don’t know about that are the most nefar-

ious, for those are the ones that can strike without warning or consideration. And my fear-induced machination must be so incredibly heinous because even I didn’t know I had them in the first place.

If I were hell-bent on a terrorist plot right this moment, however, I would plan to storm into the United States and disrupt its machine of wealth, avarice, and corporate partnership. I would get people jobs and better education and ensure high-quality healthcare and fair trials and see that everyone is treated equally no matter their colour, creed, or culture. I would care instead of neglect, do instead of speak, and subvert what has been ingrained as immutable by those who do not want such change.

As a terrorist, I would want nothing but PHOTOGRAPHY BY AVERY LAM

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PHOTOgRAPHY BY AVERY LAM

I was a terrorist armed with a butter knife. a cosmic shift of everything I see as unjust, unfair, and iniquitous. Though I wouldn’t know how quite to go about it, I would want the very universe to shake so that the stars fell from their orbits. That way during the darkest of nights and the most terrible of nightmares, people could wish upon the shooting stars above their heads for a terrorist to change things for them.

But such terror has yet to be wrought, and instead on that morning and all the others since, I felt and continue to feel this inescapable emptiness.

It is a feeling that although we live in a community built off the paradoxical evolutionary principle of togetherness, we – as a nation, as a people, and as a species – have grown so horribly apart. In every city, every province, and every country, we the people have become products of immitigable influence. We have been gifted with so much – the promise of security, the promise of hope, the promise of a better future election after election – that we have succumbed to our excesses, been spoonfed a life without bruising, and reduced our worries to our own immediate, egocentric concerns.

Our love for ourselves has ruined us.

Our hate for others has ruined us. And we,

a combination of both love and hate, have been ruined by our own desires, wants, and tormenting insecurities. Because when one looks at Snowden’s leaks holistically, they find that fear has become a form of culture and everyone has become an enemy. Everyone has become a terrorist.

In this helter-skelter aftermath of farcical civilian radicalism, truth drowns in the irrelevant claims of scare-mongering tactics.

Day after wretched day, we are bombarded with what to think, what to feel, and what to say.

This, I am led to believe, is the price of being a terrorist in a democratically elected country. As liberating individuals – terrorists – we have no voice, and when we do try to speak, it is being recorded, analyzed, and used against us if necessary.

Yet when truth does surface – and know that it always does – we learn that even as terrorists with our own ideas, thoughts, and preconceived notions of governance, we have participated in a system that profiles, categorizes, and charts the secrets of people we have never known in the name of our defense. We get the supposed luxury of safety through an indiscriminate collecting of data, not because we asked for it, but because we have been

led to believe that it is safer to be guilty until proven innocent, rather than the other way around.

Whether such policies are right or wrong is of little relevance; what is important is whether or not we, the community of countries, have become that which we sought to defeat in the beginning of all this, whatever this thing was.

If it was to avoid the terrifying helplessness against an omnipresent danger, then we have failed because everything has become dangerous. If it was to fight an illogical army of backward principles, I posit that our rationality has faded long ago. And if it was to avoid the sacrifice of liberty in the hopes of security, then we have lost both.

For no matter what is said, the terrorists won when we became them.

That morning, I didn’t quite know this all yet. I was suspended in disbelief and beginning to suffer an upset stomach. Terrorism would have to wait, I guessed. Instead, what I needed was a mid-breakfast nap. So I went upstairs, redressed into my pajamas, and whispered into my phone so that the NSA could wake me up on time. A lullaby would’ve been nice too, but a guy can’t push his archnemesis too much, you know? 

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PhotoGRAPHY BY AVERY LAM

THE GOD

Ana

L

ast April, I found myself walking through the doors of a United Church in downtown Toronto on a Sunday morning. I sat among the middle pews, sang along with the gospel choir, and whispered “Amen” when I was supposed to, as if these were routines I’d been following every Sunday prior to that one. On the bus ride to the Church, on the few steps leading to the aisle, and during every moment I spent inside, I wondered what I, an atheist and self-proclaimed enemy of organized religion, was doing listening to a sermon that I’d later dismiss as a fairytale.

Like most people with religious backgrounds, I was born into the Church. I was baptized at three and named after a saint.

When I was a child, my experience with

religion was very family-oriented. Religion meant spending your Sundays with your grandmother and cousins, sacraments meant receiving gifts from relatives you had never heard of before. Conversations about religion rarely involved God. They were usually about the details of future holidays and family reunions.

Throughout the years, my mother began to drift away from the Orthodox Church into Baha’i communities. As we left the family-oriented approach to faith, I found myself using religion as a way to connect and communicate with strangers. Every time I attended Baha’i camp or gatherings, I would meet new people, and despite having never met them before, there were never moments when I felt disconnected from

I sat among the middle pews, sang along with the gospel choir, and whispered “Amen” when I was supposed to.

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them. We all shared a similar purpose, and this made even the silences seem like a step in the right direction.

These were the memories running through my mind the day I attended a Sunday sermon for the first time in years. While I was singing and praying, God was the last thing on my mind. I was thinking about my family and friends – the ones I wouldn’t have met if churches and religious groups didn’t exist.

I’ve since stopped identifying with either faith and am quite content with my atheistic and empirical worldview, but the connections I built through religion were never really broken. As someone whose life has been impacted by the strength of healthy religious communities, there are days when I enjoy sitting in the pew, feeling like I belong somewhere.

In a TED talk he gave last year, Greg Epstein assured me that I wasn’t alone in wanting to belong to a religious community without, well… the religion. During his undergraduate education, he practiced and studied a variety of religions before stumbling upon Secular Humanism. Secular Humanism is a philosophy built upon science, logic and the idea that humans can be moral and ethical without the belief in a deity.

In recent years, North American and INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2013

LESS CHURCH Qarri

European societies have seen a shift towards secular life. The current number of people who don’t identify with a religion, faith or spiritual belief stands at 20% of the world’s population and is growing at a rate faster than that of any religious group.

Greg Epstein believes that this rise of secularism should be coupled with an effort to foster communities that fulfil the same human needs as their religious counterparts. He notes that while atheism is the intellectual backbone of secular humanism, it doesn’t touch on human emotions, dignity, or generosity – all things that need to be considered when building a moral human society.

The recognized need for secular communities led to the creation of secular chaplaincies, which are spaces for people to discuss their views, find support in others, as well as celebrate human life. Many who convert to atheism find themselves facing a reality without a clear meaning, and find it comforting to have a group of like-minded people to turn to. The chaplaincies, in Church-like fashion, hold weekly programs, as well as services to celebrate important moments in human life such as naming, birthdays, marriages, and funerals. Beyond creating a space for those who frequently attend, the chaplaincies also emphasize

The secular chaplaincies, in Church-like fashion, hold weekly programs, as well as services to celebrate important moments in human life. the importance of community service and intersectionality.

In their organization, Churches and secular chaplaincies seem indistinguishable; they bring together people with similar beliefs and encourage them to accept identical philosophies and moral systems. This has started to raise some questions from critics who think that the atheistic movement doesn’t need the congregation-like groups that Epstein is advocating for, and that it shouldn’t be associated with religious terminology like “chaplaincies”. Similar to organized religion, Epstein’s model for a secular community may be seen as another form of organized belief, which is exactly what some atheists set out to avoid.

As an atheist, let me say that I don’t know where I stand on this issue. Maybe organized religions have survived for so long because their template works. Maybe models that emulate it, like Epstein’s, are required to build sustainable communities for our increasingly atheistic societies. It might be the case that we need to move away from approaches taken by religious groups and create new community blueprints. Perhaps we’re looking for a community in the wrong place, and we should wait to see the direction that atheism and humanism take before we establish organized systems to govern their values.

But I guess, for now, unplanned bus rides to churches will suffice. 

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY PETER MORGAN (FLICKR)

LANDFILL HARMONIC Sabrina Zhu

T

here was once a lagoon just outside Asunción, Paraguay. Over time, waste from the city replaced the water and impoverished residents began building a community on top of the garbage. The landfill now houses one of the poorest slums in Latin America, where children grow up surrounded by drugs, gangs, and heavy pollution. It is called Cateura, and, against all odds, its youth orchestra is currently playing Mozart.

Favio Chávez first arrived in Cateura as an environmental engineer from a neighbouring village in 2006, working on a recycling project. Music had featured prominently in his childhood from early guitar lessons to a position as church choir director at age 13. Inspired by the orchestra he had organized in his home village four years ago, Favio began offering music lessons to Cateura’s children to prevent them from playing in the landfill.

Soon, he had more students than instruments.

In Cateura, a violin is worth more than a house. Most adults make a meagre living off the garbage as “pickers”, sorting through waste from the city to salvage items that can be resold. It was during one of these average workdays that Nicolás Gómez – known as “Cola” – came across what looked like the main body of a violin. He brought it to Favio and together, the two reconstructed a functioning violin us-

ing wood and wires also found in the landfill.

This was the first recycled instrument, and its creation marked the beginning of the community’s Recycled Orchestra.

After years of experimentation with other materials harvested from the landfill, Favio and Cola have produced instruments played by more than a hundred of Cateura’s children, including fifty current students, twenty-five of whom make up the unlikely youth orchestra. Pipes, spoons, and plastic buttons became flutes and clarinets, while guitars are made from cracked packing crates.

In fact, Favio now claims some recycled instruments sound superior to their wooden “Made in China” counterparts. They are also safer for children to carry home, greatly reducing the risk of theft that accompanies the transport of real instruments.

Ada, age 13, plays a recycled violin, and Juan, a 19-year-old cello player, has an instrument made from an oil can, some wood, and a few metal pegs. And when they all gather in Favio’s music room, Spring from Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons sounds as good as ever.

Cateura is a difficult place to grow up, where an environment of poverty and neglect create a bleak future. Children see few options besides that of becoming a picker.

Most are born into families plagued by drug addiction, or are abandoned at an early age by one or both parents. More than 40% do not finish primary school. According to Favio, the orchestra has become a place within the community where children can learn to cooperate and build something together, develop values, and find beauty in their surroundings.

True to his original intentions, Favio’s music program has helped children stay away from gangs and drugs by providing a constructive alternative. Through music, he teaches the importance of learning and building a better life. More youth now strive for a university education after being exposed to opportunities outside the landfill. The Recycled Orchestra has also inspired changes in Cateura’s adults through the children’s example. Those struggling with addiction have quit for spans of time in order to attend concerts. Some

The world sends us garbage.

We send back music.

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INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2013

have even chosen to return to school, intent on refocusing their lives. Music made from garbage has changed the atmosphere throughout the community.

In 2010, the Orchestra expanded into the global community. Alejandra Armarilla was born and raised in Asunción, capital of Paraguay and the city responsible for producing the garbage Cateura is built on.

While gathering research for a documentary about impoverished children in her native country, she found the story of the Recycled Orchestra. Since 2010, she has gathered a film crew and begun making Landfill Harmonic, a documentary to tell the story of how music and creativity brought a powerful social transformation to the poorest of slum communities.

The project came to public attention after the launch of a successful social media campaign in November of 2012, capturing international media attention and raising over $200,000 on Kickstarter from March to May of 2013. Recycled instruments have found a place on permanent exhibition in the world’s largest Musical Instruments Museum, situated in Phoenix, Arizona. With the additional funds, the Orchestra is planning a worldwide concert tour in 2013 and the launch of a Landfill Harmonic Movement across the world, bringing similar music programs to other impoverished communities in places like Haiti and Kenya.

When asked about what effect she hopes Landfill Harmonic will have on its audience, Alejandra says she wishes to “inspire, educate, and motivate”. In addition to highlighting the vital issues of poverty and waste pollution, the main purpose of the documentary is to testify to “the power of creativity, hope and empowerment and community work”. Music has brought great social change to a little slum village in Paraguay, and Landfill Harmonic seeks to bring that change to the world. Cateura knows that neither things nor people should be thrown away carelessly. Their message of inspiration comes from a community overcoming limitations and finding beauty and dignity, even in the worst of environments.

As the project’s motto reads: The world sends us garbage. We send back music. 

PHOTO COURTESY OF U.S. EMBASSY IN PARAGUAY

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Sarah Paisley

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Lady of the CraneS Raluca Topliceanu

I

recall the sun budding from behind the horizon that morning. Not very remarkable, as the sun rises every morning in much the same way, but there was something poetic about its visit today; it rose shyly among weeping clouds, which shed their infrequent tears upon the land. No doubt, the sun hid and the clouds wept for they had seen the woman weaving her way through the cobbled streets. I caught glimpses of her as she passed – her face, deprived of its usual paleness, nonetheless displayed a noticeable radiance; white cranes were captured in flight, imprinted on the lavish silk kimono she wore; her delicate hands held up a bright red umbrella. Yet, out of her compiled physical characteristics, the one I admired most was the way she walked – as if she was a creature not of mortal material, but rather a deity floating through our world, her steps short and the hem of her kimono gliding over stone. Then, as one would expect of a deity, she disappeared behind the walls of the city’s shrine.

Recovering from my distraction, I hurried to the factory and found a seat before I began sewing together clothing for our soldiers. I pulled piece after piece of old material – a yellowing lace tablecloth, a young woman’s modest blue dress, a pair of tattered trousers – and tried to incorporate them into something new with nothing more than a needle and thread. If I was lucky, amid the pile, I would find a sliver of a kimono, small enough in size that it would be useless for clothing, but big enough to make a beautiful keepsake. I could almost envision the ornate designs, the luxurious texture, with as much clarity as if I had worn the thing myself and felt the silk flow between my fingers. A foolish thought, though: geisha would never tear – let alone dispose of – their kimono.

There was a slight change in the wind, a scent that did not belong with the stale dust and dirt of the old factory, and I did not realize who had just sat down next to me until I saw a pale, delicate hand reach across my work-bench for some fabric.

“A geisha!” a woman behind me murmured.

“What is she doing in a factory? She should be in the tea-houses or practicing her art, not here doing this lowly work,” another said. “She’ll soil her kimono.”

Fabric rustled, as if someone angled herself to get a better look. “That’s Masuma,” one said. Everyone knew the name of the celebrated geisha – they could perhaps have identified her easily by her unique signature: the serene white cranes, a symbol of peace, flying along the hem and sleeves of her kimono. I dared not say her name.

To all the comments, Masuma gave little attention, as if the point of her needle making its way through the fabric was of the highest importance. Every stitch was a precise process, the motions of her hands following a path more gracefully than any I could ever attempt. The only flaw in her movement was caused by the thin silk sash wound around her kimono sleeves and tied into a bow at her back, which prevented her from fully extending her arm. She sat in the manner expected for a banquet, her legs

my hand across my face did little to remove the omnipresent dust and sweat from my skin.

Masuma pursed her lips at my silence, a show of mild disappointment. “Can the fabric be passed to me?” she asked, without removing her eyes from me. Puzzled expressions were exchanged as unsure hands delivered the fabric.

There was something in her air that rose the morale of the other women, seemed to ease the pain in their hands. Her fingers, although graceful, were unaccustomed to sewing; several times I saw her flinch slightly when the needle would emerge from the cloth to bite at her skin, yet no complaint was ever given. The sun grew tired before she did, and left her to work by a faint lightbulb. Some women stayed out of respect for her, or out of eagerness to see how long she would continue at her strenuous pace.

“She works so hard,” a woman said.

“Look at her hands,” said another, the dryness of her voice giving away her riper age. “Such a pity when beautiful hands are bruised.”

“This isn’t work for a geisha.

They belong in the floating world, not in warehouses sewing clothing for warring soldiers.”

“Tying up her sleeves like that will ruin the line of her kimono.”

“She does brighten up this miserable place, though.”

The older woman nodded. “She does.

I have not seen a kimono since the war started. There’s so much grey everywhere; it’s nice to see color again.”

“And she looks so proud.”

At this, Masuma’s lips curved in a delicate smile, and she paused in her needle-work. “Of course I’m proud. I’m doing this for our soldiers, our children, and our country.” More quietly, she repeated, “I’m proud.”

She resumed sewing in silence, purpose displayed in the actions of her fingertips. I reached over to take some of the fabric she had collected from earlier. There was a renewed passion in my needlework, a new life in my stitches.

She met my eyes and smiled. I smiled, too.

Amid the fabric was a sliver of kimono, imprinted with white cranes. 

I did not realize who had just sat down next to me until I saw a pale, delicate hand reach across my work-bench.

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tucked underneath and her figure poised.

Softly, she was humming an old children’s rhyme, so that we two were the only ones who could pick out the notes from the air. It was a tune my mother used to sing before the war started, a song she never sang since. Listening to it was like hearing a ghost.

By mid-afternoon, a few of the older women complained about pain in their hands and retired for the day, while their pieces of fabric were collected into a large pile at the front of the warehouse. No one saw past their own work to claim the additional fabric. Masuma’s eyes flickered from the undisturbed pile to my face, her hands unwavering. I kept my head bowed, pretending not to feel her gaze, hoping she would not identify the red pigment of my face as shame. Pain had long begun blossoming along my fingertips and I had lost count of the number of times the needle mistakenly pierced my skin. The hem of my dress was frayed, and occasionally wiping

INCITE MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER 2013

ARTWORK BY RALUCA TOPLICEANU

VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1 19

PHOTOS COURTESY OF URBAN ARTS INITIATIVE

URBAN ARTS INITIATIVE: A PROFILE Amber Aasman

Who We Are Urban Arts Initiative is a new and developing community arts organization located at 126 James Street North. UAI is designed to provide art-making opportunities to street-involved, homeless, and at-risk youth in Hamilton. Our space is perfectly poised to attract a wide variety of groups since we are located at the core of Hamilton’s art district, which also houses a handful of youth and social services dedicated to downtown dwellers. Urban Arts Initiative has two parttime staff, a steering committee who provides external governance, and several community and program partners who assist in different ways at the UAI.

What We Want We want to see youth thrive in our city.

All of the programs and activities at UAI are centred around three main goals: 1. To improve mental health for young people 2. To increase youths’ sense of community and civic engagement 3. For all youth to commit to education of some kind

around the globe that shows that art-making can be extremely beneficial particularly for marginalized groups, so our work aligns with this research in order to improve the overall well-being of youth who participate. This implicates the greater community as well, since youth have the opportunity to share their creative work with the broader community at Art Crawls and other showcase events, and because youth are a vital part of their own communities.

We are convinced that these goals can be attained through the arts, which are first picked up organically then intentionally. There is a rapidly growing body of research from

The arts can assist a young person to commit to education, and instill a sense of purpose and hope.

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What We Do All forms of art-making are welcomed with enthusiasm at UAI. Our space is a large, modular room with a gallery wall, mural corner, stage risers, Mac workstation, projection screen, and a large open area for any variety of art-making. During our one and a half years of operations, we have offered drawing, painting, writing, print-making, hip-hop, book-making, street art, beat-making, videography, mural, photography, and song-writing activities, all at our adaptable space.

Current Programs at UAI: Like most places, the summer months have been quiet at UAI. We have one regular program ongoing (RE-create) and we are working hard to fill up the fall and winter schedule. Below is a description of a few of the ongoing activities at UAI.  RE-create: Open Art Studio RE-create runs twice weekly at UAI: Monday 12:30-3; Thursday 2-6. During these open-studio hours, youth can drop in and work on a new project or continue

an ongoing project. RE-create is primarily a place to freely express and reflect creatively on experiences, struggles, or issues. This is intended to address issues around mental health, and by allowing youth to have a space to drop-in, improve their mental well-being.  Writers’ Workshop: WE ARE WHO WE ARE In these lively workshops, local author and artist Gary Barwin leads young writers through a series of writing exercises and games which will help them explore what words can do. Incorporating musical performance and engaging examples, he demonstrates how writing is about creative play, experimentation, and, ultimately, confirms the power of one’s own imagination. Through the Writers’ Workshop, youth gain experience in editing work for publication and have the opportunity to perform some of their work for an audience. These workshops run periodically through the year, with the next one scheduled for early this coming fall.

 Arts Express: UAI’s Youth Advisory Council Arts Express is a group of young leaders who want to make life better for other youth in the city. This advisory group is a very new association (we just started meeting in May) and is currently planning a summer’s end musical event which will showcase the talent of several young performers. Arts Express also promotes UAI and assists at special events like Art Crawl and outreach events.

The team meets on the first Monday of each month, and is still accepting new members (see urbanartsinitiative.ca for details).

How It All Happens Mandy (not her real name) is a young person who regularly participates in programs at UAI. She has worked on creative writing projects, video, photography, drawing, and a handful of other creative media.

A year ago when I first met Mandy, she was extremely quiet with staff and her peers. She participated in activities and demonstrated interest simply by attending, but interpersonal interactions were one-sided, as her overwhelming shyness contained her. Six months later, Mandy approached a local artist and requested to be his intern for the summer months. When she completed this internship, Mandy had a new goal: to go to college for photography. This was coupled with Mandy’s complete transformation. In just a few months, she had become a very friendly, excited, and outgoing young lady

with her dream. After her last year of high school, Mandy reached a huge milestone in achieving her goals: she was accepted to Mohawk College for photography, which she will begin in the coming fall.

This story is an example of how the arts can assist a young person commit to education, and instill a sense of purpose and hope.

To be clear – we do not claim to have been the only factor which has helped this young artist work towards her goal, but we do know that the change in her life was at least partially due to her increased involvement in the arts, the opportunity to present her work in public, and the collaborations that she participated in at the UAI. This story represents one youth who we can confidently state has been affected in a deeply positive way at the Urban Arts Initiative.

How You Can Help Spread the word! Come to our events!

The more buzz we can make, the more we can engage youth who could benefit from participating at the UAI. We are also excited to meet new people and show off what’s happening at the UAI. We are open every Art Crawl (second Fridays, 7–10pm) and for various events throughout the month as well.

Below is direct contact information if you wish to get in touch directly. 

126 James St. N 289 396 0422 urbanartsinitiative.ca Facebook: Urban Arts Initiative Twitter: @UAI_Hamilton VOLUME 16, ISSUE 1 21

 Electronic Suicide Dan White Envelop me with incessant sound With pulsing, flashing lights Torrent, stream it, download it, Let YouTube fill the void Throw in the disc and log me in Grant me access NOW Don’t call, just text, or bbm me Stuff those headphones in my ears Don’t force me to be civil To look you in the eye I’m caught up in an online game We just levelled up, okay?

Build that highway Make it fast It saves me from myself Plug me in so I can hide And send another txt Twitter, facebook, instagram, That is where I am I’ve got five hundred followers here, So I can’t see you there Technology defines my life ...electronic suicide. 

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY JESSIE LU

ELECTRONIC SUICIDE Dan White

A

s a child, Sunday night often meant gatherings at my grandmother’s house. My father had a dozen siblings, and the majority of them arrived for weekly Sunday dinners with the woman they lovingly called, “Ma”. The adults would busy themselves with conversations about life, about work, and about the Leafs or the Tigers, depending on the season. This chatter, combined with bursts of laughter and constant ribbings from siblings, was thunderous.

The kids spent this time outside of the rural house no matter the weather, finding ways to entertain themselves, always separated by age groups that no one ever spoke of but all accepted. At some point you would be invited to move up an age category: an event only slightly less exciting than Christmas Day. If, however, you were rejected, you licked your wounds for a while, then either tried again or drifted to a new group. Rejection was not the end of the world, just an unpleasant learning experience. And, if all else failed, there were adults who watched without hovering, who would intercede on your behalf and right the ship. It was about balance and community– the most foundational of all communities: the family. The place where you could make colossal errors in action or judgement, and still belong. The place where someone was there to set examples and guide you through the land mines of youth.

But that was almost half a century ago.

Children grow up in a completely different world now. A world with iPods, cell phones, and portable technology of all kinds acting as sources of immediate gratification. A significant percentage of society strolls down the street without hearing the world around them, whether it be the hustle, bustle, and chatter of a city street, or the sounds of nature. They are plugged in, connected, wired. And this infestation of technology is

They do not greet each other in the morning, nor do they discuss the last evening’s events with their friends. filtering down the age scale. Youth communities are increasingly digital. At the school where I teach, students walk together in silence, each absorbed in their own personal soundtrack. They do not greet each other in the morning, nor do they discuss the last evening’s events with their friends. Rather, they text each other, each ensconced in their own digital cocoon.

So how will they emerge? Sociologists have noted that children who are absorbed by electronic gadgets at a very young age

often never fully develop the ability to read facial cues. This skill develops in in the first 5 to 6 years of life, and it’s why babies study faces so intently – they are learning the language of emotion, and non-verbal communication.

This raises some concerning questions for socialization and communication down the line. Yet parents continue to introduce children to technology earlier and earlier; companies develop apps and video games that “help your child learn”, designed for increasingly younger age groups. Our children need to have time to play with other children, without being completely engaged in a virtual world, even if the goal of that world education. They need to be allowed to be bored out of their skulls so that they will choose to explore new things independently. They need to learn how to socialize and put others first, to fight and forgive, to see the pain they cause when they bully, and to correct their mistakes when they misstep in a relationship.

We are, after all, social animals. If we do not build a sense of community in our families, Sunday night will be just any other night. Our lack of empathy and understanding for each other will eventually spiral towards increased aggression and distrust within our communities. Our children will remain childish, never fully spreading their wings as productive community members.

We will have failed as a community. 

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