Marianopolis Literary Magazine Vol. II: JUSTICE! by mari.litmag

Cover Art by Ana Tue, first-year Health Science Student

Marianopolis Literary Magazine Vol. II: Justice

Why Justice? For a long time, I have felt powerless: small, insignificant, and unable to effectuate change. Recently, however, this sense of powerlessness has been put into perspective for me. I attended the Climate Marches right here in Montreal. I watched as Greta Thunberg, a fifteen-year-old from my second home, Sweden, spoke to the entire world. Then, even after the pandemic set in, I watched as people took to the streets again, again and again, to protest the murder of George Floyd and countless others. On Facebook and Instagram, people my age shared their grievances, and refused to back down. Let me add that I know that people have been demanding justice for a long time. The Climate Crisis was not invented yesterday. People of colour have endured centuries of injustice. Black Lives Matter has been around for years. However, I have to confess that this past year or so has been an awakening for me. It opened my eyes to how entrenched injustice is in our society. It forced me to realize that the system is not broken, but designed wrong. At the same time, I realized that I have power, too. If I want something to happen, I can do it. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to sit back and wait. I mean, we published the first issue of the Literary Magazine at the height of the pandemic! Even when it was tough, there were people I could count on. There were editors who were willing to get the work done. Over the summer, I realized that I had created a platform. And I wanted to use that platform for justice â&#x20AC;&#x201C; whatever that meant. If other young people could risk their lives for the sake of justice, then I wanted to do something, too. And this issue of the Literary Magazine, especially focussed on justice, was the obvious thing to do.

I felt powerless, but power was staring me right in the face. All I had to do was use it, deliberately, as best as I could. I’m sure that this issue of the Literary Magazine will not be as momentous for all of you as it has been for me. But I hope that it gives you something, if only as a starter for conversation. And if you’re going to take anything away from it, please remember this: justice is your issue, too. You are not as powerless as you think. Sofia Watt Sjöström, Chief Editor

The Thank Yous Thank you to the authors and the artists. Your work is amazing. In fact, this semester, we editors were more enthralled than ever with the lovely array of contributions: the creativity, the originality, and of course, the quality of student work. Your enthusiasm and dedication was a pleasure to work with. Hopefully, the chance to share your work with the school will be an opportunity for you to gain confidence as well as skill. You certainly merit that much! Thank you to cover artist Ana Tue, for your outstanding work and commitment! Thank you to the editing team! It’s obvious, but still: I couldn’t have done it without you. Your smarts, your diligence, your thoughtful feedback and careful work; your eagerness to get involved; your commitment and enthusiasm. Working with you has been invigorating. I hope that you got something out of it, too -- and please stick around! I hope to work with you all again this Spring. Thank you specifically to Abby Wolfensohn, Abby Kocsis, Amanda Watson, Anne Lin Arghirescu, Bryanna Bragagnolo, Denise Economides, Eva Levin, Flora Situ, Katalina Toth, Makéda Ékoué, Maria Azadian, Michael Carrara, Millicent Penner and Seol Han. Also, special thank you to the editors who helped out with Layout: Bryanna Bragnolo, Katalina Toth, Makéda Ékoué, Maria Azadian and Seol Han. Thank you for stepping up! Special-special thank you to the amazing Director of Marketing, Communications, etc. and my second-in-command. Maria Azadian, you have helped me so much! Your consistent enthusiasm, resourcefulness and reliability are incredible.

CONTENTS: The Importance of Unheard Voices / Club Essay

Black and Blue / Poem by Makéda Ékoué

Self-Love / Art by Ephrathah Hagdu

Open Letter to Environmentalists

Subtle Violence / Stories by Flora Situ

10, 19, 25, 32, 40

Mother Earth is Dying / Art by Mia Moghrabi

L'Esprit d'une nation / Story by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Silenced / Art by Anne Lin Arghirescu

The Dream / Poem by Bryanna Bragagnolo

Colours / Poem by Denise Economides

Nature Series / Art by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Intersectional Justice / Crossroads Essay

Empowered by the Shemagh / Poem by Athina Sitou

Shemagh, Empowerment Symbol / Essay by Athina Sitou

Mad at Me / Poem by Flora Situ

Before the Law / Poem by Omar Aggad

Photos by Michael Carrara

33, 41

Derniers instants d'une agonie / Story by Anne Lin Arghirescu

All the Rats we Know About / Poem by Millicent Penner

The Injustice of Revenge / Poem by Denise Economides

Open-Minded Straight Girls / Story by Sofia Watt Sjöström

Violets for my Love / Prose by Amanda Watson

TIRED / Anonymous

The Importance of Unheard Voices by Lina Li, Abigail Wolfensohn, and Naama Goren 2020-2021 executives of the Unheard Voices Book Club Take a moment to reflect back on the books you’ve read for school or leisure over the years. Perhaps you’ve read The Catcher in the Rye, or even 1984 or Of Mice and Men. Maybe you went through your early teenage years obsessed with Paper Towns or Twilight. But have you ever thought about who wrote these books? If you take a second to ponder it, chances are you’ll notice that nearly all of these authors belong to the same demographic: cishet white men and women. While their work holds important literary value and can definitely be enjoyable to read, these perspectives are but a small portion of what is actually out there. Authors from a wide variety of backgrounds have been contributing to literature for centuries, yet their voices remain unheard. Why should you care, though? For one, these authors bring new perspectives to the table, giving readers the opportunity to see the world from different angles. Society is composed of an amalgamation of different perspectives, and focusing only on a small portion of society leads to ignorance and bias. To understand the world that we live in, and the people that we coexist with, we need to explore all these worldviews. Widening your perspective by reading more diverse literature can help to foster empathy, as you connect your own experience to that in the stories. The more perspectives explored, the more you enrich your own life. For another, diverse writers often create accurate positive representations of marginalized groups. Otherwise, in mainstream literature, marginalized characters are often tokenized, if they are present at all. They may act as comic relief, or fulfill the role of a quirky but unimportant sidekick. Whilst

other characters get happy endings, these characters often die at the end. Although this representation may not be deliberate, it is frustrating. Readers hailing from those groups would like to see complex, fully fleshed-out characters they can identify with, just like everyone else. Thankfully, because marginalized authors have firsthand experience as members of those demographics, they tend to bring depth and authenticity to characters from their communities. Stories lie at the core of the human experience: they help us teach history, morality, and values to one another. As such, being exposed to diverse stories is key to understanding diverse perspectives, and with understanding, comes true respect. So, next time you buy a book, pick something that will broaden your horizons! If you find yourself in need of suggestions, you are welcome to take part in our club.

black and blue by Makéda Ékoué, second-year Arts and Sciences student and editor

hey, didn’t you hear? she told you to let me go she cried for you to stop, got on her knees just walk away, she said. this can stop now, she cried. no one has to get hurt. she screamed at the top of her lungs, begging for you to leave me alone everyone knows you heard her i know you did, i saw your lips quiver into a shark smile i noticed a tiny little spark in your eye and your nails pierced holes in my skin as you plunged them deeper into my arm now your spit’s in my eye your nails are in my bicep and your spit’s in my eye wait, you haven’t seen? that was your face on tv those are your sharp teeth and slobbering mouth on the news unidentified officer used excessive force, they announced. that’s not enough! we replied. say more, we exclaimed! are you neutral, or are you complicit? my bloody arm is all over their screens your ball of saliva is all over their screens

my cracked opened skull took over their screens and they noticed those quivering little fingers, dancing on your gun ready to go oh, you didn’t know? there’s a crowd outside, but they don’t really care about you they know the building is shaky, the foundations are weak someone taught you to push and pull and hit and break you didn’t learn to point all on your own watch and learn, they probably said. you did but we’ve watched and learned, too we’ve seen and grown counted the ones we have lost, lined up the ones we have left prayed, hugged, cried, and then tried harder tried to scream louder than your noise and hit harder than your fists i know no one could’ve warned you this would all blow up but you still made me black and blue until i couldn’t get up

Self-Love by Ephrathah Hagdu, second-year Arts and Sciences student @ephihadguxart

Open Letter: Systemic Discrimination within the Environmental Movement by Shi Tao Zhang, second-year Arts and Science student, Élyse Zadigue-Dubé (Cégep de Maisonneuve), Mika Pluviose (Cégep du Vieux-Montréal), and Tian Chiu (Royal West Academy)

As Black and racialized members of the environmental movement, we are disappointed. We are unsatisfied. We believe in a green and just future, but the mainstream environmental movement’s vision is exclusive and unsatisfactory. It is because we believe in our movement that we are publicly denouncing the fundamental problems that have hindered its growth and will continue to do so unless there is a quick and drastic change. Today, we denounce the systemic discrimination operating against us and we ask for institutional changes that will lead to the equitable and oppression-free future that we are fighting for.

Lack of representation within the movement As members of Extinction Rebellion and CEVES, we became aware that these movements often fail to take into account the populations most impacted by the climate crisis. This includes Indigenous communities, women, the LGBTQ2S+ community, BIPOC people, Global South populations, and climate refugees. Not only does this ignore the suffering of these marginalized groups, but it means that the demands championed by movements such as these focus almost exclusively on the protection of a Western future. The lack of intersectionality within the environmental movement is one of the reasons for the lack of diversity in its members’ worldview. Since activists

who belong to minority groups often navigate life very differently from their more privileged counterparts, we feel isolated and inadequate when we are unable to see ourselves within the movement. Given that environmental protests also often take place in mostly white and gentrified neighbourhoods, it is obvious that there is an exclusion of people of colour from the movement. We also denounce the failure to recognize the contributions made by marginalized groups. Indigenous peoples have led the fight against environmental destruction well before it was popularized by the Western movement. Refusing to acknowledge the work that they have done, as protectors of land and water, is appropriative and unjust.

Oppressive internal dynamics The microaggressions we encounter from within the movement (i.e. refusing to use correct pronouns, cultural appropriation, inappropriate jokes about police brutalityâ&#x20AC;Ś) make us feel unheard and disrespected. It is not okay to justify problematic rhetoric by saying that you are playing devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s advocate, nor is it fair to accuse us of refusing to see both sides of the picture when the socalled other side denies us our humanity. Too often, to speak up about grievances like these is to be gaslighted and dismissed. We are outraged by members who refuse to take a position on social justice issues (i.e. anti-racism, anti-colonialism, anti-homophobia). The mainstream environmental movement claims that the climate crisis is of utmost importance and that social justice is, at most, secondary. However, social justice is intrinsically connected to climate justice. Not only do those of privilege contribute more to the degradation of the environment, whether through greenhouse gas emissions or otherwise, but marginalized groups tend to be the first to experience its effects.

If you don’t care about these issues, it may be that you can afford not to prioritize them, whilst others cannot. Remember that you do not hold the norm of objectivity. It may even be that you actively benefit from maintaining the status quo in place. In refusing to see the other side of things, you are alienating us. Although we have been reproached for having “unrealistic expectations,” we are not about to give up. For us, climate justice is a fight for survival. You might not feel that. People have told us that they cannot fight for all these causes at once, “due to fatigue”. However, we do not have a choice but to fight for them. What might seem like abstract ideas to you have concrete impacts on our lives. We suffer from fatigue, too -- we are exhausted from having to explain this again and again. It’s a waste of precious time and energy. Yet we do not feel that we have a choice. So, despite fatigue, we keep fighting. We hope that we can start using the time and energy that we have devoted to convincing others that we suffer legitimately, to ending that suffering. We hope to see a more united environmental movement, especially within XR and CEVES, that works towards climate justice in multi-faceted ways.

Tokenism Even when we are not excluded, we still experience injustice. Our identities are often instrumentalized in order to convince the public that this movement is diverse. This not only creates the false impression that racism is not a problem, but legitimizes the setting aside of opinions that contradict that message. “I had the privilege of being a racialized spokesperson for Pour le futur (high school sub-group of CEVES), and that was one of the important arguments

that got me elected. I initially thought it was a good step forward. However, I now look back on this event bitterly, as the group I represented never put their money where their mouth was in terms of intersectionality. Certain members said that Pour le futur should not address equality and rather focus on the environment. I was even told condescendingly that the colour of my skin was the only reason behind my election.” – Mika Pluviose. This phenomenon is known as ‘tokenism’: Black and racialized members are delegated to the media and are thus used to promote a false sense of diversity and inclusivity within the group. At the same time, these same members are often described as “aggressive,” “irrational” and “emotional” when speaking up against racism within the movement. For instance, a racialized female member remembers being dismissed for promoting “ideological totalitarianism,” when all she did was critique oppressive dynamics within the movement. Overall, we firmly believe that the mainstream environmental movement must position itself in solidarity with social struggles by putting in work to dismantle oppressive systems, both internally and externally. We are also convinced that the environmental movement will be more successful in its fight for climate justice if it includes QTBIPOC individuals, who can add valuable perspective to the movement. This means going beyond tokenism, and actively listening to what we have to say. We demand that our voices be taken into consideration when making decisions, and that chosen leaders represent us as well. Climate change affects the most marginalized first. These groups must be allowed to fight and be heard.

This article was originally published in Le Journal des alternatives in French.

Subtle Violence, Pt. 1 by Flora Situ, second-year ALC student and editor based on personal experience

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn around, startled. A middle-aged woman is expectantly staring at me. I take off my headphones. “Yes?” “What do you have in your hand?” My hand? I look down. I realize that I have some lettuce in my hands. I raise an eyebrow at her. “Oh, uh, it’s lettuce,” I reply, perplexed. “No, it’s not,” she gestures to the sign in front of us, “The sign says it’s Chinese lettuce.” I stay silent, my eyebrows furrowing. If she could read what the sign says, then why did she feel the need to ask me? She is still looking at me expectantly. I offer her a smile and a nod, hoping to end the conversation. “How do you cook it?” “Uhm. You can cook it like you do with any other lettuce. Do you know how to cook lettuce?” “Well, I know how to cook normal lettuce. How do your people cook it?” I pause. This feels familiar. “I’m not sure what you mean, but usually, I boil it in water and then add some oyster sauce on top of it. I usually eat it with rice.” “How fascinating!” she offers me a smile, showing me her teeth.

Her enthusiasm throws me off. I mean… it’s just lettuce. “I’ll do that as well. My husband loves authentic Chinese food.” I give her a half-assed smile before walking away.

Mother Earth is Dying by Mia Moghrabi, first-year Health Science student

L’esprit d’une nation by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student and editor Août 1990 Le visage collé au carreau de la fenêtre, je les voyais s’agrandir et se multiplier, les ombres, les ombres humaines qui colonisaient mon jardin dans la nuit. Avec horreur, je les regardais s’avancer vers moi, sans un bruit. Je me suis dit, en délirant, que ce devait être les Warriors Mohawk qui planifiaient un assaut de ma propriété. L’image qui faisait la une du journal revenait me hanter. Elle pulsait faiblement devant mes yeux comme un battement de cœur prêt à s’éteindre. Je ne voulais pas me rappeler, cette poupée disloquée qui s’affaissait… Dans mon esprit malade de terreur, je revoyais les Indiens des bandes dessinées que j’avais lues enfant. Leur visage sanguinaire et barbare strié de couleurs, leurs yeux effilés plissés de plaisir. Ils tenaient entre leurs mains le scalp arraché à une victime qui dégoulinait sur leurs mocassins vermillon. Et puis soudain la vision s’est noyée de noir, les silhouettes menaçantes se sont évanouies dans la nuit de la fenêtre. J’ai fermé avec violence les rideaux et, trempé de sueurs froides, trébuchant, défaillant, je me suis dirigé vers ma chambre. En traversant la cuisine, mes yeux se sont attardés sur la couverture du journal qui traînait sur le comptoir. Elle montrait une photographie de l’émeute à Châteauguay. Les habitants, furieux que la Sûreté du Québec ne parvenait toujours pas à rouvrir la circulation sur le pont Mercier bloqué par les résistants autochtones, manifestaient sur les routes. Pour les apaiser, j’avais décidé de réclamer l’intervention de l’armée canadienne. L’image les montrait mettant le feu à l’effigie d’un Warrior, poupée grotesque pendillant d’un feu de signalisation. Un bref instant, j’ai

senti mon cœur sauter jusque dans ma gorge. Et si… et s’ils venaient me chercher, pour m’accrocher comme ça? Dans mon lit, sans parvenir à m’endormir, je repensais à la visite importune que m’avait rendue, plus tôt dans la journée, John Ciaccia, le ministre délégué aux affaires indiennes dans le gouvernement du Québec. Il avait eu l’audace de me venir voir chez moi, pour tenter de me dissuader de mettre en pratique mon projet d’élargissement du terrain de golf qui, à son opinion, empiétait sur la pinède revendiquée par la nation Mohawk de Kanehsatake. Avec force apostrophes obséquieuses, de Monsieur le Maire d’Oka et de mon cher Ouellette, il pensait pouvoir me faire changer d’avis. Je l’avais congédié surle-champ, assez rudement peut-être, mais il n’en méritait pas moins. Après tout, qu’adviendrait-il si les Indiens se mettaient à nous dicter nos lois? Allaiton négocier avec eux tout le Québec sous prétexte qu’ils étaient là avant nous? Je devais me rendre le lendemain sur la réserve Mohawk afin de tenter d’établir un consensus avec les Warriors pour qu’ils démantèlent leurs barricades. Mais je n’avais aucune crainte. Je savais que ces négociations n’aboutiraient pas. Le gouvernement fédéral n’avait nullement l’intention de s’interposer en faveur des Mohawks. J’ai serré les dents, en tournant le dos à la fenêtre. L’espoir semblait régner dans la pinède en ce matin d’été. Encadré des négociateurs Mohawks et d’autres représentants provinciaux, je me suis fait conduire de l’autre côté de la toute première barricade en terre. Les soldats de l’armée n’étaient pas sortis de leurs tentes. D’eux, on n’a vu que l’ombre kaki du pantalon. Des discours émouvants et pleins de bonne volonté ont été prononcés ce jour-là, de la part des deux parties. Promesses creuses, fauxserments. Je connaissais la stratégie du corps officiel; j’en faisais moi-même

partie. Et pourtant… Pour la première fois, quelque chose comme un doute s’est insinué en moi. Un inconfort, une démangeaison dans la poitrine… une honte? Lentement, alors qu’ Ellen Gabriel, porte-parole officielle du peuple de la Maison longue, livrait son discours larmoyant, je me suis écarté du groupe. Acculé contre le tronc d’un arbre, je disparaissais. Je pénétrais dans la forêt à reculons, et goûtais le plaisir de me dérober aux yeux d’une foule. Aucune caméra de journaliste n’avait trahi mon évasion. Et puis, au moment des applaudissements, je me suis retourné et j’ai couru, j’ai fui les tracas administratifs, les câbles et micros des médias, la honte de celui qui se sait traître. J’ai couru, sans m’arrêter, jusqu’au moment de déboucher à l’orée d’une clairière herbue. Là, à bout de souffle, je me suis effondré sur un rocher couvert de mousse. Il se dégageait une atmosphère sacrée et apaisante de la cime des arbres, et quelque chose le murmure d’un grand esprit agitait leurs aiguilles odorantes. Au centre de la clairière se creusait un cirque de lumière, et dans cet enclôt s’érigeaient des colonnades de poussière mouvante, qui flottaient jusqu’à moi en essaims dorés. Ce flot de lumière accentuait encore l’obscurité des alentours; c’est pour cela que je ne l’ai d’abord pas vu. Debout devant moi, de l’autre côté de la clairière, dissimulé derrière d’un arbuste qui fleurissait en touffes nuageuses, couleur saumon, couleur peau. Un cerf. Lorsqu’il a vu que je le regardais, il s’est glissé hors de l’ombre. De nouveau j’étais debout et roide, les mains moites. Il était monstrueux de taille. De son front partaient d’innombrables bois qui l’entouraient comme d’un halo. Des fleurs poussaient sur ces ramifications osseuses, et sa crinière tressée en de lourdes nattes blanches était chinée de fils jaune et bleu. Il s’est avancé jusqu’au bord du précipice de lumière, et j’ai vu que sur ses sabots

larges comme deux pierres, le lichen poussait en tapis denses. Ses yeux m’ont arrêté, et j’étais soudain terrifié en les regardant, sans pouvoir détourner la tête. L’expression de ses yeux, si… si pleins d’intelligence et de compassion. Je me sentais véritablement broyé par ce regard, et je m’égrugeais lentement en poussière alors qu’un effroi indicible me remplissait. C’était une nuance de la peur que je n’avais jamais éprouvée avant, qui me laissait tremblant et interdit. Et puis, il s’est mis à parler : « Sous ces arbres centenaires, s’étend la présence apaisante de nos ancêtres. Sous ces arbres centenaires, nos mères nous ont chanté des berceuses pour nous endormir. Et vous voulez en faire un terrain de golf? » Il a marqué une pause brève, en secouant sa crinière. Des oiseaux se séparaient de sa chevelure pour se dissiper dans l’air comme de la fumée. « Jean. Jean Ouellette. Tu ne connais pas la vie sur la réserve. Tu ne vois pas les projecteurs lumineux qui nous harcèlent la nuit venue, les fusées éclairantes qui menacent de mettre feu à la pinède et que nous devons éteindre précipitamment avec l’eau de la rivière. La rivière, dans laquelle l’armée a tendu des filets de barbelés, pour nous empêcher de fuir, pour nous prendre au piège comme du gibier. Tu ne connais pas la douleur d’être séparé de ceux que tu aimes, les cris, les pleurs. Les coups de pied des soldats sont une humiliation qui t’est inconnue. Jamais tu n’as parlé à l’homme hagard qui attend inexorablement la fin et qui avant d’être Warrior était simplement père. Le rationnement pillé, les sacs de farine percés au couteau, les bouteilles d’huile éventrées, savais-tu que des hommes s’en nourrissaient? Dans la faim, ils s’en délectent presque. Mais si tu connais tout cela et que tu t’obstines à persévérer, alors tu es une brute et ton cœur dans ta poitrine n’est qu’un trou. Jean, que fais-tu ici? »

Tout d’un coup, le visage de la créature, si doux, si placide, s’est tordu de rage. D’un mouvement souple, il s’est retourné et s’est rué vers moi. D’un bond ailé, il a franchi la clairière, comme s’il s’était agi d’un fleuve de soleil. Suspendu dans les airs, je l’ai regardé se métamorphoser. Sur son cou avait poussé une tête d’une chèvre, des griffes et des écailles avaient recouvert ses sabots. Au moment où il allait me heurter, j’ai fermé les yeux, prêt à subir le choc de ses bois. Après quelques secondes, j’étais toujours debout. J’ai rouvert les yeux et j’ai regardé autour de moi. La créature avait disparu, comme absorbée par le soleil de la clairière. Mes os craquaient encore d’horreur et ma chair frémissait de l’impact d’une collision qui ne s’était jamais produite. Ma chair est devenue gélatineuse. Elle se répandait partout entre les plis de mon costume auréolé de sueur et de terre. Je chancelais. En me traînant d’arbre en arbre, je suis retourné à la lisière de la forêt. J’ai levé une main en direction de la table des négociations, puis je me suis retiré dans une voiture privée. De toute façon, ils n’avaient pas besoin de moi pour faire échouer les pourparlers. Je me suis réveillé en sursaut, haletant, trempé. Qu’avais-je donc, bon Dieu?! La crise n’était-elle pas terminée? Les Mohawks n’avaient-ils pas été défaits? Dans la soirée, ils avaient annoncé la réouverture du pont Mercier, et l’arrestation d’une demi-douzaine de dangereux au visage fatigué. J’aurais voulu pouvoir dire oui, pouvoir me mentir avec confiance, mais je savais que je n’étais aucunement victorieux. Ce êve que j’avais fait… Les ombres des Warriors me poursuivaient à présent jusque dans mon lit, et leur démarche gagnait en vigueur au fil des heures nocturnes. Devant eux, menant l’attaque, le cerf que j’avais vu l’autre jour. D’heure en heure, les bois de sa tête se

multipliaient et se couvraient d’un feuillage luxuriant, qui formait une canopée tropicale à la clairière. Un bruit m’a fait perdre le fil de ma rêverie. On frappait à la porte. Je me suis habillé avec précipitation en me disant que si c’était encore Ciaccia qui venait me déranger à une heure impossible, je le foutrais dehors. Mais ce n’était pas le ministre qui se tenait devant ma porte. « Une lettre pour vous, Monsieur le Maire d’Oka. » Solennel, le postier m’a remis une enveloppe qui avait été envoyée de Kanehsatake. À côté de l’adresse, le visage féroce d’un ours me menaçait sur le timbre. Mes mains se sont mises à trembler légèrement. D’un mouvement brusque, j’ai déchiré le rabat pour récupérer un petit carré de papier. Une main féminine avait tracé en cursives : « On ne vous en veut pas, Monsieur Ouellette. Notre esprit est encore fort. Comme qui dirait chez nous, skén:nen, paix à vous. » Sous le message, une main d’enfant avait tracé les contours hésitants d’un animal au pastel. Un animal au corps de caribou, au visage de chèvre et aux pattes de reptiles. Il avait des bois sur la tête.

Silenced by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student and editor

Subtle Violence, Pt. 2 by Flora Situ, second-year ALC student and editor based on personal experience “She said yes?” I squeal, “Holy shit, you have a girlfriend! Congrats, dude!” “Yeah, fucking finally! Now you’re the only one in the gang that is still single,” he teases me. I laugh and we try our best to hug each other in the cramped space of his car. I back away and notice his smile. I’ve never seen him so happy. I know how much he is into this girl, and I’m so glad he is in a relationship. “I wish I could find somebody too,” I let out a soft sigh. “God knows none of my relationships ever go past the ‘talking’ phase.” “Well, you can’t blame these people. You’re not exactly a reliable girlfriend.” By the tone, I can tell that he is still teasing me, yet I know that he didn’t mean it fully as a joke. I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Well, I mean, Flo, you’re bi.” He is serious now. “…So?” “You’re bisexual,” he repeats himself as if the answer was blatantly obvious, as if I was the one in the wrong, “Bi people are most likely to cheat, because they like girls and guys. If you get involved with a bi girl, it’s like you have double the competition. No one wants that.” I pause. This feels familiar. “Who the fuck told you that bullshit?” “Woah, calm down,” he is genuinely surprised at my anger, “I’m not attacking you in particular, dude. I’m not even attacking bi people, like, it’s their lives, they can do whatever they want, and I fully accept that. I’m an ally.” I look at him for a second in disbelief before opening the car door. My face feels flushed. “Flo! Where are you going?” “Go fuck yourself.”

The Dream by Bryanna Bragagnolo, second-year Liberal Arts student and editor

Isn’t it funny how We have the pale yellow walls And a homey feel, With lace decals in our living room And the big bay windows that let in sunlight To illuminate the glossy hood of our piano and your framed PhD. We have the white picket fence on a freshly mowed lawn That Mr. Roberts does for free because I teach his daughter. Isn’t it funny how We have the good jobs and uphold a faithful union And we pay our taxes, Yet we can’t go out to restaurants or dance at dining halls Or comfortably drive by my old Parish, And we still smile and nod when strangers ignore our intertwined hands And call us sisters

Colours by Denise Economides, first-year Liberal Arts student and editor Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a bitter realization that comes every fall, When the year fast approaches its untimely demise. It can be found in the demeanors of young girls and boys, When a certain unbridled fear starts to show in their eyes. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a grim subjection, and a reluctant acceptance, That the life they once had will never again be the same. When the world shackles them with an inescapable clasp, And they are forced to submit to its cruel little game. Some take to it happily, as they see in magazines, And play their parts with gusto and relative ease. But to others it is a sudden isolating reminder, That there are many out there they can never appease. Colours become muted and silence is favoured, For the truth often leaves people shocked and awed. And those who cannot strictly conform to their roles, Are said to be a disgrace and a sin before God. Girls become passive, shy, and all too aware, While boys become hardened, cold and detached. And though many work to escape their sad fates, Their attempts quickly dissolve into cinders and ash. For society is built of binary, of trauma and hardened clay, Despite the kaleidoscope of colours that invigorates our sight. And until change shatters the glass prison of gender, It will forever remain white and black, black and white.

From a Series on Nature by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student and editor

Intersectional Justice: Why? by Hyerin Kim, second-year Health Science student and exec of Crossroads Justice. On paper, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s defined as fair treatment, or even equity. It is also used to describe the system of laws put in place by a country to judge and punish people. However, these two definitions are not always equivalent. Sometimes, the justice system is unfair: it sometimes fails to bring about justice, and even punishes the innocent. In recent months, many different calls for justice have come to our attention. However, the demand for racial justice has surely been the most prominent movement this past year. Racial injustice has been in the spotlight of the media ever since the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd were filmed and circulated on social media. These videos, 4 months apart, both depicted the graphic, tragic deaths of unarmed, innocent black men dying at the hands of white men who believed that their acts were justified. In response to these killings, much of the public took to the streets, demanding justice for these men and victims of similar crimes. Sadly, other victims of racial injustice received nowhere near the same outcry. In many cases, this is due to an added element of injustice, such as misogyny, homophobia and/or transphobia. For example, in Louisiana, Brooklyn Deshuna was murdered for being a Black transgender woman. She was only 20 years old. Now more than ever, it is critical that we consider intersectionality, and change the idea that different social problems are distinct. Those who are affected by multiple forms of disadvantage are often excluded by their own

communities. Yet inclusivity is not the only reason that it is important to acknowledge the intersectionality of different identities. It is also for the sake of progress. Not taking into account the diversity of each community is potentially to the detriment of the very cause that one purports to support. For example, failing to acknowledge the disproportionate amount that black transgender women suffer compared to other members of the black community, fails to truly bring about racial justice. Intersectionality is important across all forms of activism. For instance, environmentalism is not only about developed countries using less plastic. It is also about developing countries suffering the most direct effects of climate change, and the millions of climate refugees worldwide. Feminism and true gender equality can not be achieved without taking women of colour, disabled women and LGBTQ+ women into account. By recognizing that each community contains members of the other, we can create policies that have a positive impact for all. Intersectional justice is not easy, because it requires a deeper analysis of each social problem and its diverse effects. However, it is essential.

Subtle Violence, Pt. 3 by Flora Situ, second-year ALC student and editor based on personal experience “Would that be it for today?” I flash this man my perfect cashier smile. He nods and grabs his bags. I give him his receipt and thank him for his purchase, wishing him a nice day. He begins to walk away but, at the last minute, something catches his eye. He walks back towards my cash register and his eyes move from me to my co-worker, then back to me. “Are you two sisters?” he asks, a smirk on his lips. He expects me to say yes. “No. Why?” He seems shocked. “Oh, you’re not?” he sounds genuinely surprised and a little disappointed, “You guys look so much alike!” I turn around to look at Jasmine. She looks back. My eyes roam around her face. Her eyes are a bit smaller than mine. My nose is bigger than hers. Her face is rounder than mine. My lips are bigger than hers. Her hair is dark brown. Mine is black. “I don’t think so,” she says, amused. “Well, you’re both Chinese, so…” “I’m Korean,” Jasmine corrects him softly. “Bah, same difference,” he chuckles. I pause. This feels familiar. “And you’re both very pretty,” he adds with a wink, “for Asian people.” I bite the inside of my cheek and plaster my perfect cashier smile on my face. He expects me to thank him. I do not. “Have a nice day, sir.”

Empowered by the Shemagh by Athina Sitou, second-year Honours Health Science student Notes: The shemagh is the traditional headdress worn by men throughout the Middle-East region. The abaya is the loose full-length robe worn by women in Saudi Arabia. The mutawa is the religious police in Saudi Arabia.

In front of the mirror I stand. A shemagh around my head I wrap. The male headdress I choose, Rather than the abaya and the black veil. And I wail. I wail for us, we Saudi women who have to conceal. I wail for the mutawa who enforce women’s dress code While turning a blind eye to men’s violations of The Qur’an. I wail for the shemagh. And I gaze at the mirror. The shemagh traditionally belongs to a man, And the shemagh reflects the epitome of power. Thus, power belongs also to a man. The state we are in Reminds me of the withering cold winter months. Saudi Arabia is like a lake: Frozen and stagnant during the harsh, withering winter But flowing during the great spring bloom.

The Bible and the Islamic creed are distinct, Yet they both endorse a patriarchal regime Out of which male guardianship laws seem to teem. My gaze still on the shemagh, I grasp a ray reflected off the mirror, And the light beams. My choice to wear the shemagh empowers me.

Ms Saffaaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work was first exhibited as large screen prints in November 2012 at Sydney College of the Arts and then, a smaller version appeared in the Jeddah Art Week 2015 in Saudi Arabia. I found these images on her personal blog. (For more, see essay on page 28).

The Shemagh as a Symbol of Empowerment by Athina Sitou, second-year Honours Health Science student I am my Own Guardian is a series of four portraits done by a Saudi feminist artist and activist who goes by the pseudonym Ms Saffaa. In each portrait, a woman’s head is covered by a headdress typically donned by Saudi men: the shemagh. Women in Saudi Arabia are required to cover themselves with an abaaya and a black veil concealing their face. Since the shemagh is a symbol of power that belongs exclusively to men, it represents the patriarchy. As a child, Ms Saffaa used to wear men’s garments for fun. As an adult, however, these actions become subversive. Ms Safaa uses her artwork to reclaim power from men. The Saudi Arabian constitution is Islamic Sharia law, from which the country’s other laws obtain their legitimacy. Unfortunately, Islamic family law is inconsistent with non-discrimination and gender equality. In fact, women need a male guardian’s approval to accomplish even daily tasks. This guardian is typically a woman’s father or husband, but her brother or son can also take the role. A Human Rights Watch report released in July 2016 described this system as “the most significant impediment to women’s rights in the ountry”. Following a review by the United Nations Human Rights Council, Saudi Arabia agreed to end male guardianship in 2013. Some reforms were implemented, including voting rights and the right to run for municipal office. However, the government failed to abolish the guardianship system. The strict dress code for women is also still in place. Although they turn a blind eye to men

that violate the Qur'an requirement to be covered from waist to knee, the muttawas (religious police) strictly enforce the women’s dress code. The veiling requirement is not derived from Sharia law, but this is nevertheless considered to be part of the Islamic creed. Within this patriarchal regime, Ms Saffaa’s artwork is a way of asserting her right to exist. Even while studying art in Sydney, Ms Saffaa has been forced to prove that she is constantly under male guardianship. During her talk at a Human Rights conference in 2019, she stated that “[her] whole life has been a political statement”. Her art creates a counter-narrative to the limited narrative around women in Saudi Arabia. This has given rise to the campaign #iammyownguardian, which was initially launched as an online petition on Twitter, where it collected more than 15,000 signatures. Since then, it has inspired a whole generation of young Saudi Arabian women to speak up in politics. Thus, Ms Saffaa’s work not only asserts her own existence, but gives other women the courage to assert themselves, too.

Mad at Me by Flora Situ, second-year ALC student and editor

hey, are you mad at me? oh okay. then i’ll leave you be… no wait, but, like, seriously, were you dismissive or speaking honestly? i won’t be hurt, i guarantee! i just want to know, for my sanity, are you, in any way, mad at me? take this pathetic question as a plea please just tell me on a scale from 1 to 3 just how mad are you at me? i really wish i could be carefree and not care about this crappy, overused, annoying, stupid— sorry. it’s just that, in reality, my insecurities tend to bring out the worst in me. always searching for attention, validation and vindication. in this desperation, all i crave is human connection.

Before the Law by Omar Aggad, second-year Arts and Sciences student inspired by Franz Kafka's story with the same title A woven gate with roots that clutch crude soil Emanates a brilliant unfathomable light; A traveller from afar seeking entry Greets a gatekeeper, who stands sleeplessly stout. The pilgrim waits for days and then years, Grows old and frail, then dim of sight, Yet the gate shines brighter and brighter each day Till the pilgrim finally signals surfeit. Shout upon your failing senses Gather together life strand by strand The gatekeeper trudges his way with a question: “**** *** *** ******* ***?” To which the pilgrim faintly nods his head, then dies. This gate is yours and yours alone, You will count the fleas, and beg them too, All others to their own gatekeepers— Where they sit and await the gate’s closing Before the Law.

Subtle Violence, Pt. 4 by Flora Situ, second-year ALC student and editor based on personal experience “That’s horrible,” Dyna shivers in disgust, “I can’t believe he really followed you all the way from your workplace to Square-Victoria. How did you lose him?” “I got out of the metro at Square-Victoria and waited for him to follow me. Then, when the metro doors turned red, I ran back into the train and the door closed before he could get in with me,” I mutter. “That is fucked up, babe,” Michael shakes his head as he wraps an arm around me. I put my head on his shoulder, trying to forget the memory. “I mean… there is no guarantee that he was actually following you,” William intervenes, shrugging his shoulders. “Dude, you know if somebody is following you or not,” I snap back, “Do you really think that a sketchy-looking guy would coincidentally walk the same path as me from the entrance of my workplace all the way back to Square-Victoria?” “Plus, even if he wasn’t following her, she shouldn’t take any risks. It was 8:30 at night and it was dark outside.” Dyna adds, “If I were you, Flo, I would have kept my keys between my fingers, like Wolverine. Then, if he attacks you, just punch him in the eye. My mom taught me that one. Anyway, my point is: fuck all men!” “Chill out!” William seems annoyed, “Stop thinking that every man is out to get you. Most of us are good, you know.”

I pause. This feels familiar. “Maybe you’re right, Will,” I try my best to stay calm, “Maybe most of you guys are good. However, literally every single woman I know has gone through something like this at least once ... and I know some pretty young girls. You have to understand that women cannot walk alone at night without some kind of fear, because we know there are some girls who are raped and left for dead on the streets. That’s something that I don’t think you can understand.” There is a silence. William looks uncomfortable. Dyna’s eyes are fixed to the floor. Michael hugs me tighter. I sigh softly.

Photo by Michael Carrara, first-year Liberal Arts student and editor

Derniers instants d'une agonie by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student and editor

Avec un soupir de lassitude, il essuya du revers de sa manche la sueur qui perlait sur son front. Il aurait bien aimé retirer la combinaison qui couvrait l’entièreté de son corps, mais il savait que sans son habit protecteur, il s’exposerait à la fureur brûlante du soleil. Il leva la tête. Sous les épais verres noirs qui protégeaient ses yeux des rayons ultraviolets, il observa avec angoisse et appréhension l’énorme œil rouge qui déjà avait atteint la taille d’une petite école. Il ressemblait étrangement au visage rond de Mars, vieille femme ridée de cratères et de volcans, mais coquette toujours, fardée de safran et d’ombres grises. L’atmosphère tout autour de l’astre mourant était lourde : une masse fluide comme du métal liquide en fusion où brillaient par endroits des marbrures jaune cuivré. Il réalisa avec nostalgie qu’il n’avait pas vu de ciel bleu depuis plus de six mois. Mais après tout, il y avait bien de quoi se sentir mélancolique lorsque l’on était le dernier homme à fouler le sol terrestre. Les autres l’avaient peu à peu quitté pour se rendre sur la planète rouge. Il était le seul qui avait voulu rester, pour assister au déclin de la Terre, et mourir avec elle. Les autres enfants de la planète lui avaient tourné le dos, et envisageaient son extinction comme la promesse d’un nouveau commencement. L’agitation des derniers jours lui tournait encore la tête; le décollage incessant de milliers de fusées partout à travers le globe assourdissait toujours son oreille. C’était la colonisation du nouveau monde reprise à nouveau. Le rêve martien. S’il n’avait pas eu si soif, il aurait craché par terre de mépris et de dégoût. Le paysage qui l’entourait était désertique et désolé. Il avait l’impression de marcher sur le corps vaste et nu d’une lépreuse. Il s’arrêta soudainement

sur le bord d’un précipice béant. Sous lui, plusieurs centaines de kilomètres de vide. La vue qui s’étalait devant ses yeux était des plus extraordinaires. Le relief de sommets escarpés s’élevant comme des doigts maigres ornait d’une dentelle sinistre et macabre le ciel rouge. C’était l’image même de la solitude et de l’aliénation, qui faisait écho à son propre cœur. Il se rendit compte avec horreur qu’il avait devant lui le ventre vide de la Terre, le creux qui autrefois avait contenu ses eaux fécondantes. Une violente douleur le saisit à la poitrine et un spasme de rancœur le parcourut tout entier. Il se devait de l’accompagner jusqu’au bout. Il fixa son crochet dans une faille de la muraille et, déroulant la corde le long de la paroi de roche, il entreprit la périlleuse descente vers le fond du gouffre. Le plancher de l’abîme était recouvert de sable blanc, sur lequel il atterrit avec un bruit mat. Quelle étrange et glaçante sensation que de se retrouver ici-bas, sur le fond de la mer asséchée! Il était entouré de cadavres qu’il n’avait pas remarqués depuis son observatoire en hauteur. Sous le ciel incandescent, des os jaunis finissaient de s’égruger en poussière. Rempli d’effroi, hésitant, il se mit en marche. Sur le sommet d’une dune de sable, une touffe d’avoine de mer se desséchait en arquant ses épis bitume. Il se rappelait avec tristesse la manière dont ils avaient autrefois ondulé sous la caresse du vent et des vagues, gracieux comme les chevelures abondantes de sirènes. Le sol accidenté était troué çà et là de crevasses dans lesquelles subsistait encore une eau noire et visqueuse. Il approcha sa loupe-microscope d’une de ces cavités. Sous son œil, un monde infiniment petit agonisait lentement. Du plancton, sous toutes ses formes et couleurs, s’agitait furieusement : un siphonophore ondoyant à l’image des plis d’une robe de soie bleue, une méduse aux tentacules bouclées tels des fils de cheveux, un radiolaire au noyau comme deux poumons rouge sang de bœuf, une larve d’Hippolytidae aux moustaches striées d’écarlate. En relevant la tête, il aperçut au loin, à travers la brume rougeoyante, une montagne colorée qui se distinguait des autres pics noirs. Intrigué, il se releva et s’en approcha.

Ce qu’il découvrit le laissa hébété, trop bouleversé pour ressentir de la colère. Il se tenait face à un énorme amoncellement de plastique multicolore, qui devait bien faire plusieurs centaines de mètres à la base et s’élever à plus de mille mètres. Alors que tout le paysage aux alentours s’était revêtu du voile sombre du deuil, cet amas de résidus seul semblait prospérer. Il y avait là des filets, des bouteilles, des sacs et de plus petits morceaux allant jusqu’à des billes de polystyrène à peine visibles. Des remords cuisants commençaient à refaire surface en lui, le torturant et l’étourdissant. Il se sentait défaillant, au bord de l’évanouissement. Dans un effort pour se maintenir debout, il prit appui sur la montagne d’ordures. Sa main rencontra un objet lisse et froid. La température en surface, en escalade depuis six mois, avait déjà atteint les mille degrés. Comment se pouvait-il alors qu’un objet garde de la fraîcheur? Il retira sa main et vit qu’il s’agissait d’une enveloppe sur laquelle des taches vert et orange suggéraient une végétation de mousses et de champignons. Curieux, il décolla le rabat et en retira un morceau de papier. Lorsqu’il le déplia, un hurlement atroce s’échappa de la lettre. Devant ses yeux mi-clos passèrent comme une vapeur le fantôme de pivoines de Chine et de forêts de sapins, d’écume spumescente et d’une queue de dauphin, d’une corne d’antilope et du béret rouge d’un sizerin. La force de cette lamentation était telle qu’il chancela. Juste au moment où il pensait qu’il allait perdre conscience, une dernière vision fulgurante s’imprima sur sa rétine : celle d’un enfant perdu, délaissé, le visage crasseux et des larmes plein les yeux. Un enfant sans mère.

All the Rats we Know About by Millicent Penner, first-year Arts and Sciences student and editor From the vent, an eye pops out. Through the openings, it digests pinstripe light; It watches. Between bars, between Faces grinning around tables, Greedy hands surround ink. Stain! This pen leaks the water black This hunger left our fields dry. Hold steady, spy The tightest fists always seem to lack. Is there an underground to this underground? From sewage to cement From cement to dirt What lies below is too dark to see, Yet through these drainpipes, their illness runs fast; Pale, bottomless veins, never satisfied. Blue sickness emanates cyanide from those hands; White brats, collared brats, Hold dear to your caviar and capital Fat rats, rolling rats, Devour because you can, Devour just to show it.

The Injustice of Revenge by Denise Economides, first-year Liberal Arts student and editor My father died many years past; He was found murdered and robbed by the bay. And though I was still young, and naĂŻve, and kind, Something in me broke on that fateful day. My mother passed shortly after his fall: Her grief had consumed her and left her for dead. And as the life faded from her once vibrant gaze, She clawed at my arm and quietly she said: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Kill for kill, Eye for eye, Blood must spill, The killer must die. Find the one that is to blame, And no matter the cost, You must do the same.â&#x20AC;? I searched for ten years, only to find, The killer was considered a saint by all. He helped the unfortunate, gave himself to the poor, And made the smallest among them somehow feel tall. I was not fazed, and finally caught him alone, And raised the knife in my hand with glee. But then he turned, a calm expression on his face, And began to say to me:

“Don’t waste your life making the mistake I made, For the murder I committed a great price I paid. The stone walls of isolation are cruel and unforgiving, They make death seem worth far more than living. I’ve been burdened by guilt and have forced myself to fight; To work myself to the bone turning wrong into right. I regret what I’ve done and I’ll do what I must, To make amends with your family and earn your trust. It’s no excuse, and I know you must ache, But there was so much more than myself at stake. I killed for my mother, who was sick and old, Her breathing was rushed and her hands had grown cold. We were poor, and her life was held by a cord, And your father had things we couldn’t afford. So please, take my hand, and I assure you I’ll do Anything and everything to bring joy back to you.” I briefly hesitated, staring blankly at the man, Who had over a mere decade become noble and true. But as I began to lower the blade in my palm, The logic of justice once more came through: Those who do wrong must always meet fate, For our world would be chaos without consequence for hate. And without a price, life would have no worth, And corpses would be nothing but blood for the earth. And I also remembered: Is nature not birthed from strife? So I struck him down, carved his throat with my knife, Because I put vengeance before justice, Kill for kill, Life for life.

Subtle Violence, Pt. 5 by Flora Situ, second-year ALC student and editor based on personal experience “What do you mean my dress is offensive?” she glares at me, “I think it’s hot. It was on sale at Simons.” “For the millionth time, it’s cultural appropriation. This is clearly a qipao. There is a rich history and culture that comes with this dress that you obviously don’t care to understand since you’re wearing it to a fucking party,” I reply, my voice cold. “No one else is annoyed except for you, so I don’t see what’s your problem with me. The dress looks hot and I was looking for something exotic and cool to wear, so I chose it. Wearing an Asian dress doesn’t mean I’m being racist.” “Your blatant disrespect for my culture is racist!” I raise my voice, “This dress is not exotic, and this dress is not just any ‘Asian’ garment. This dress is a symbol for the liberation of Chinese women. In wearing this dress, you are encouraging a colonial ideology that strips my culture away from me and that, Emily, is fucking disrespectful.” She takes a gulp out of her can of White Claw and stares me up and down. She is unimpressed. “Why are you gatekeeping a dress, honey? It’s not that deep,” she chuckles, amused at my anger. “It’s just a dress. A piece of cloth. Are you saying that I can’t wear a piece of cloth?” I pause. This feels familiar. I take a deep breath before replying:

“I’m saying that you have to appreciate my culture to be able to wear that ‘piece of cloth’ in a respectful way.” “Whatever,” she rolls her eyes at me, “I didn’t come here to get yelled at by a maniac that thinks wearing a dress is offensive. Grow up, Flora. Stop being so sensitive.” “Stop being so racist, Emily.” She scoffs at me before she walks away and hits my shoulder on purpose. I shake my head in disbelief as I watch her go back to her friends, unfazed by the words I just said.

Photo by Michael Carrara, first-year Liberal Arts student and editor

Open-Minded Straight Girls by Sofia Watt Sjöström, second-year Liberal Arts student and chief editor I had been Amy’s queer best friend for three years when she came out to me. She had been there for me through everything: my turbulent emotions, my first relationship, and even my first breakup. She had been there for me as my straight, cis best friend. Yet now, she was bi. Or at least, she said she was. She’d never brought it up before. We were sitting on her bedroom floor, drinking tea, watching pink and blue light smear the sky in the light of the setting sun. Amy set her cup down. “I have something to tell you.” “Yes?” “I think—” she paused, hesitating. “I think I like girls, too.” “What?” I said, and could not stop the disbelief from rising into my face. Why hadn’t she told me before? How long had she known? I mean, I was queer, too! What did she have to fear? If my feelings were hurt, I didn’t show it. Instead, I decided that she must be lying to me. If there was no reason for her not to share her questioning, or to come out earlier, at least, then there was no way that she was telling the truth. Maybe she was just copying me. After all I’d been through, and all I continued to face… I was angry. How could she lie like that, to my face? I decided not to mess around. I tossed, carelessly, “I guess we’re all bi when it comes down to it – I mean, it’s a spectrum, isn’t it? … but like, you’ve only dated guys…” “I’ve only dated one guy,” she corrected, and her voice was slightly hoarse, “but why should that matter?” “Okay, chill,” I said, raising my arms placatingly. “I just want to make sure.” She raised an eyebrow, but held her tongue, so I continued, launching into a

small tirade: “But it’s like, there are so many open-minded straight girls these days,” I sighed. “Like, I’m all for open-mindedness, but bisexuality isn’t the same as bicuriosity! I mean if everyone is bi, then…” “Then what? No one is bi?” Amy said sarcastically. “Well, no,” I stammered, feeling flustered. The words were warping in my mouth. What was I trying to say? I looked out the window for inspiration, but a murky twilight had descended, robbing the sky of its vivid pinks and blues. “What is it, then?” “Look,” I tried again, “you can’t just say that you’re bi. I know it sounds weird, but what you need to understand is that you have to live it. It’s not enough that you just might date women – in theory…” “So, you want proof,” she surmised. “You won’t just take me at my word. You think I might be lying…” Her voice was very small. I felt myself shrinking, too – shrinking away from her. I looked at her face and couldn’t make out her eyes. Outside, the light had just about disappeared, and neither of us had bothered to turn on the overhead light. The darkness rippled around us like the sea. “That’s not what I mean,” I attempted to interject, but she ignored me. “What proof do you want?” she continued. “Would it be enough if I kissed a girl?” “Did you?” I said, taken aback. She hadn’t mentioned that. She shook her head with frustration. “No! It’s – that was hypothetical.” “Even so,” I added, feeling my power return. “You know it’s not the same thing – like, it’s one thing to kiss a girl – or make out – straight girls do that all the time! It’s another thing to actually date women.” “Right…” she said softly. I looked at her desperately, but could only see swathes of dark hair covering her face. Her body was curled slightly, so that her knees came up to her chest. She hugged herself like a baby, and I realized that she felt terribly alone. I knew, even before I heard it, what would come next. Out of the dark,

fondling silence erupted a feeble sniffle, like the bleat of a lamb. It gurgled and transformed itself into a sob. The air was still and silent but for the murmur of her tears, and I realized that I had failed her. I had failed my best friend. The weeping silence lasted about three seconds, but it felt like much longer. I wished that I could disappear – my whole body felt heavy. I was taking up too much space; the room felt tiny, all of a sudden. After those three seconds had elapsed, she slowly turned to look at me. I saw a stroke of water shoot down her cheek. It glimmered in the moonlight like the slimy trail of a slug on the pavement. I felt my face flush with heat. I waited another two seconds before I ventured: “What’s making you so upset?” It sounded like an accusation. As if I didn’t know… Two more droplets dashed down, and she looked away again. It was painful for her to meet my eye. “You’re—just—so—” she broke off. “So what?” I said as gently as I could, cajoling her into saying the words I really had no desire to hear. “You’re – I know you’re queer, but honestly, sometimes – you’re queerphobic!” Amy burst, defiant. “I mean, ‘open-minded straight girls’? ‘You’re just bicurious’? I’m sorry, but what the actual fuck?” I opened my mouth, but I had nothing to stay. The sting of her words left me dumb. “What difference does it make?” she continued. “How does this affect you? Why does it matter whether I like girls – whether I kiss them and date them, too? Who I am, and what I do – what does that even have to do with you?” There I was, naked-fleshed beneath the morning sun – Amy had swept the curtain away. I was judgemental and cruel; I was everything that I claimed to despise. “You probably wondered why I didn’t tell you before,” she added. I nodded tentatively. She looked me in the eye. “Isn’t it obvious?” I winced.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve said this kind of thing.” I felt like the floor had peeled away beneath my feet, leaving me to flail in thin air. Amy was right. This wasn’t the first time I’d judged people. This wasn’t the first time I’d hurt my friend – and myself. The memories that came to me were irrevocable. In my mind, there was room for only so many queer people. I remembered telling Amy about “open-minded straight girls,” scoffing at them for making queerness into a trend. Young people these days – everyone just wanted to fool around. I didn’t just remember saying those things – I remembered thinking them. I remembered them surfacing in my brain, when they were still raw and lumpy, like dumplings in soup. On some level, this was what I believed. Me! Who preached acceptance, critical thinking, empathy – who acknowledged that everyone existed on a spectrum – who knew all too well what it felt like to question, to be unsure – Not only was I a shitty best friend, but I was a hypocrite. On the one hand, I said that it was okay not to know who you were – not to let labels define you, and not to fixate, when life is always in motion, and things change… On the other hand, I criticized people for exactly that. I expected certainty, when I knew all too well how difficult that was to give. I said one thing, and thought another. I was just as bad as all the people who had ever judged me. I felt sick with shame. “Amy,” I said haltingly, “I need – I wish – that this never happened. I wish that I had stopped, and thought about what I was saying – what I was doing to you…” She looked at me. Her mouth was a rough line, but her eyes were soft. “I’m so ashamed, so disappointed in myself… And all I can do is apologize. I wish I could say I didn’t mean it… but I guess I did. Which sucks. That isn’t the person I want to be.”

“I know,” she said with a sigh. I cringed. “Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said – this time, every time. I’m sorry.” She attempted a lopsided smile, but didn’t say anything. “It’s not about you,” I added, trying to fill the silence, trying to make up for the hurt that was palpable in the air. “You’ve probably already realized that, but I need to say it. It’s about me – I’m the awful, judgemental one, and you’re totally right: what you feel has nothing to do with me.” “We all say awful shit,” she shrugged. “But I didn’t just say it,” I sighed. “I wasn’t ignorant. On some level, I knew that I was hurting you. Yet I said it all, anyway. I’m an awful friend.” Amy bit her lip. “We all say awful shit,” she repeated, “but I have to admit that this did really hurt me. Still, I’m glad that you can be honest about it.” “Honestly, I wouldn’t have been if it weren’t for you. You helped me – you made me see these thoughts for what they really are – shit.” Amy smiled. “Thank you.” Suddenly, she reached towards me across the floor, and hugged me. The floor returned beneath my feet, and I felt a twinge of hope. Even though surely, I deserved to lose her trust, she had not given up on me yet. I sighed. “Sorry for a shitty evening.” “No,” she said. “I mean, this evening has been a whirlwind, but… In some ways, it’s been good – it feels good to clear the air.” “I agree,” I confessed earnestly. “I hope that you’re right.” I took a sip of my now-tepid tea, and glanced at Amy. She seemed pensive, yet calm – maybe not happy, but not distressed, either. I looked around me. The shadows that cloaked the room felt soft, peaceful somehow. Outside the window, one last glimmer of sunset could be caught, bright lights dwindling. It was a banner of pink, purple and blue.

Violets for my Love by Amanda Watson, first-year Music/ALC student and editor My dearest Lenora, I am very glad that you received my last letter and the pressed violets from my garden. For a short while, I feared perchance that someone had seized it and it would never make it to you, my love. I know that you think I fear too much, but that does not diminish the fact that if these letters were to be found, this might all end. My biggest fear is no longer being able to write to you, to express how much I adore you. I wish I could be honest about how I feel, without the fear of my husband finding out our secret; our love. As much as he loves me, he will never be able to accept that when we sit together at meals, all I think about is how I wish it were you sitting with me, eating with me, joking with me. When we retire to bed, I curl up and wish his side were your side, I wish his scent were your scent. I breathe in, and drift off into a deep slumber by your side. I have put some thought into your suggestion that we leave together. Originally, when you suggested it, I was shaken. The thought had occurred to me beforeâ&#x20AC;Ś though it fears me that we would not just be leaving our husbands, but our lives as well. We would be fugitives, on the run for the rest of our lives. If anyone from a neighboring town found out, there would be trouble, surely. You must have heard of what happened when Eliza and Beth ran away. I can still smell the smoke, and the screams have haunted me ever since. I could never bear it if you had to suffer that. People like us, who love like us, are not meant to live happily ever after. I feel your pain, and I wish we could be together again, like when we were kids, but

my dear, it is forbidden. I wish I could wash away all your fears and hold you tight like I used to, but I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. We will just have to live off of these letters. When I come up with a way to be with you and keep you safe, I will tell you immediately. Until then, you must stay strong. My love, my time with you is being cut short. It is late and my husband is coming home. I must draw him a bath and prepare for the night. Before I depart, I will share a short poem that I wrote for you. I thought of it just now. My love for you is a coursing river. No matter the obstacles, Or the most confusing of routes, I always manage to make it back To you, my ocean. My love for you is like a tree, Ever growing in height and girth. Shedding all unnecessary things To make it all the way up To you, my sky. My fairest Lenora, with this, I leave you. I anxiously await your reply. Love always, Your Molly

TIRED Ask me how I'm feeling right now: I’m TIRED. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just TIRED. To feel enraged, I would have to experience something new. But everything is all too familiar. For me. For all of us. NONE OF THIS is new. NONE OF THIS is something we haven’t heard before, or witnessed, or been afraid of all our lives. Your sudden outrage, your performative activism, is drowning our mental health. What you’re finally beginning to understand, we’ve known for a long time: it's not just about a few bad apples. The whole system is based on white supremacy. As black people, we're TIRED of seeing you defer piecing the reality of our situation together. We’re TIRED of the graphic videos of black suffering that you circulate. We refuse to be reduced to a blurry image for you to pity. Because you never believe our words until you see the atrocities with your own eyes. We're TIRED of you trying to grasp that black lives matter. Yes, that black lives ACTUALLY matter. We're TIRED because it took protests in all fifty states, and many other countries too, simply to arrest all the officers involved in George Floyd’s murder. It took the arrest of thousands of protestors simply to change the charge to second degree murder. We’re TIRED because there’s still such a long way to go: what about all the other officers who need to serve time? What about all the crimes against the black community left unresolved? We're TIRED because we don't know how long this momentum will last. When will white people and other people of colour stop caring about black lives? When will they decide that it’s enough activism for one day and call it quits?

- A black girl who was tired in May 2020, and is now as tired as ever