Marianopolis Literary Magazine Vol. III: IDENTITY by mari.litmag

Vol III: Identity MARIANOPOLIS LITERARY MAGAZINE | MAR 2021

Cover Art by Anne Lin Arghirescu: In Between Description on p.1 Mediums: watercolour, gouache, drawing ink

Marianopolis Literary Magazine Vol. III: Identity

Who am I? What is my purpose? Most, if not all art and literature attempts to answer these questions. No matter who you are, you have probably tried to answer them, too. Identity is central to the human experience. It can be cultural, economic, sexual, political, gendered – often all at once. It can be based on inherent factors, even physical characteristics, but it is typically conceived of in the mind. And, although it is highly personal, it is also rooted in societal norms. As such, identity means many different things. Perhaps there are as many identities as there are people alive. Perhaps there are infinitely more than that. After all, no one is the same person both at birth and in old age. As years pass, experiences accumulate, and people change. Arguably, people don’t stay the same even from one moment to the next. Virginia Woolf once wrote: “I am made and remade continually.” The concept of identity has the potential to liberate individuals, by empowering them to define themselves. However, it can also be constraining. How does one encapsulate a being that fluctuates perpetually? Personally, I find that labels are more useful to others, than to myself, for understanding me. But of course, identity need not only be about labels, either. As you’ll notice, very little in this magazine is about labelling and pinning down. Ultimately, identity is a lived experience that does not lend itself to oversimplification (though we do so regardless, because it has some uses, too). Of course, identity is not only personal, but political. Perhaps you’ve already noticed that this magazine likes to exist somewhere at the junction between those two things. That is because I do not believe that creativity needs to exist in isolation from society. Rather, I’d argue that it is most powerful and

enticing when it is relevant to our circumstances – when it is politically and socially aware. In a sentiment that may be familiar to our returning readers, I feel that art and writing have the potential to serve justice. With this in mind, this issue embodies a diversity of content fitting of Marianopolis’ student creators. At the same time, because February is Black History Month, the LitMag editors also created a section devoted specifically to that theme. Within that section, we are excited to include a statement by Marianopolis’ own Black Student Union. Please take a look! This is in all likelihood the final iteration of the Marianopolis Literary Magazine under my leadership, so I sincerely hope that it is well-received. Congratulations to our three new First-Year Chief Execs, who will continue to share Marianopolis’ creativity and culture next Fall: Anne Lin Arghirescu, Michael Carrara, and Seol Han! I’m overjoyed at how far the Literary Magazine has come over the past year and a half, and I can only imagine how far it will go after I’m gone. Sofia Watt Sjöström, Chief Editor (for now)

This issue is dedicated to the eight victims of the massacre in Atlanta on March 16th, 2021: Soon Chung Park, Hyun Jung Grant, Suncha Kim, Yong Ae Yue, Delaina Ashley Yaun, Paul Andre Michels, Xiaojie Tan, and Daoyou Feng. Let us not forget that for some people, identity is, unfortunately, a matter of life and death.

Acknowledgements Big thank you to the LitMag Editorial team for making this dream endeavour come true, for a fourth time! Thank you: Abby Wolfensohn, Abby Kocsis, Amanda Watson, Angelika Sachlas, Anne Lin Arghirescu, Bryanna Bragagnolo, Denise Economides, Edward Li, Eva Levin, Flora Situ, Gerlando Guarraggi, Herrinah Zhang, Katalina Toth, Makéda Ékoué, Maria Azadian, Michael Carrara, Nikita Negi, and Seol Han. Special thanks to Maria Azadian, the brilliant and reliable Director of Communications/Publicity/etc., and my wonderful friend! Thank you, and best of luck, to the new Chief Editors (you'll do great!): Anne Lin Arghirescu, Director of Culture and Club Liaison Michael Carrara, Director of Publicity and and Professor Liaison Seol Han, Director of Production and Author Liaison And of course, Reader, thank you...

Table of Contents About the Cover, "In Between" / by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Identity / poem by Amanda Watson

Saint-Nicholas Street / photos by Maria Azadian

The Archbishop's Dinner / story by Clara Prendergast

Colors of the Soul / art by Anna Shi

Coming Out Day / poem by Charl Margaux Elcano

What Am I / poem by Flora Situ

Au Naturel / poem by Charl Margaux Elcano

A Heart's Struggle / art by Eva Levin

Toxic Identity / story by Sofia Watt Sjöström

Hollow Respite / art & prose by Ana Tue

In Celebration of Black History Month: Cover with Black Icons / art & description by Ephrathah Hagdu

Introduction by Yu Zheng Lu, Cultural Affairs

Significance of BHM / by Marianopolis Black Student Union

Néant / art by Nirujah Muthukumaru

Blueprint / art by Ephrathah Hagdu

Les deux Salvador / story by Anne Lin Arghirescu

Facelift / story by Denise Economides

Masks Down / art by Chen Song Ling

Today and All the Days After Tomorrow / poem by Makéda Ékoué

Mama / poem by Clara Prendergast

Saguenay Summer 2020 / photo by Emma Westenberg

a breakup with individualism / poem by Maria Azadian

Grandma's Smile / story by Clara Prendergast

Between Two Lines / poem by Charl Margaux Elcano

The Art of Patience / interview by Artists for Society execs

Persian Illumination / samples by Artists for Society

The Great Zodiac Race / story by Flora Situ

And Then They Became Friends / art by Chen Song Ling

About the Cover, "In Between" by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student & firstyear exec In Between is many things at once. It acquired different meanings in the process of creation. In Between is about Identity. A man is falling in a position of—some would say ‘effeminate’—vulnerability, with his coat unbuttoned and his chest exposed. He is in a liminal and fleeting position, caught between two conflicting states of mind, which are represented by the juxtaposition of two complementary and assertive colours in the background: a deep magenta and a green ochre. In his fall, he manages to remain graceful, and we know he will make it through. Surrounding him are menacing, goblin-like figures which symbolize his doubts, his anger, and the negative thoughts assaulting him. These gruesome faces appear in mirrors with silver frames, and, being mirrors, these are possibly distorted and untrue to reality. But the falling man is also flanked by golden hexagons, symbols of light and enlightenment, of hope. I struggled to decide how to portray the human figure in my painting, what kind of clothing I should dress it in, what facial features I should give it. I eventually chose a loose coat and shorts, which challenge the dominant perception of masculinity in our societies. As for the face—unconsciously I etched out Asian features. This was not my initial intention, but somehow, it came out that way. I suspect it has to do with recent hate crimes against Asian people in North America, which are gaining traction on social media, and that I have been mulling over for the past days. Being myself partly of Chinese origins, and having experienced my share of racism, notably in my previous school, this hit home in a painful and unforeseen manner. And so, I painted in order to regurgitate the memories and make peace with them. In this moment in time, I feel, I am, in between.

Identity by Amanda Watson, first-year ALC/Music student & editor

My identity is turbulent Like a sea of crashing waves Surging, with unexpected force To surround, and overwhelm me One obsession after another One emotion after another Crash and fall into my mind, Drowning out all else One day, I can focus; read for hours The next, I cannot move, I barely even feel I tread water helplessly, surrounded By all the things I cannot do I hope, one day, to tame the waves forever And focus on something real But until then, I just get pushed around In this turbulent sea My turbulent identity My passions, my despair, me

Saint-Nicholas Street taken in Beirut, January 2021 by Maria Azadian, second-year Liberal Arts student & editor

The Archbishop's Dinner by Clara Prendergast, second-year ALC student I sit in a hard, plastic chair, facing an unsteady table with twelve people around it. My brother is to my left, my mom a chair to my right, and my dad next to his brother, the host. I don’t recognize everyone. I know some faces, but not all of them. I am at the 2019 Archbishop’s Dinner, a charity event, and my uncle is the archbishop himself. We sit in the center of the room, with the important people, right below the stage. Most of the people here are members of the Church: nuns, priests, monsignors, bishops, and an archbishop. There’s even an envoy of the Pope. Next to me. His name is Luigi, but I know I can’t call him that. When we were introduced, he grabbed my hand firmly, and wouldn’t let go. I felt uncomfortable. His hand was cold and wrinkly. I became increasingly aware that I was the only young woman figure present. I felt pressured, because he is a very important figure in the Catholic Church. Yes, it is an honour, but it doesn’t really feel like one to me. I just feel trapped. He is definitely an educated man. We actually discussed Caravaggio while eating. He was delighted to discover this interest of mine, but disappointed that I knew so little. I hadn’t even finished my first art history course yet. I wasn’t sure what to say. That I am not Italian? Or perhaps, that what I like most about Caravaggio is the way he paints the young men so sensually? Ha, no. Luigi is gone now, and I am relieved. He goes around the tables, talking to various priests and nuns. He grabs their hands much like he did mine. But I

notice that he never holds them for as long. I tell my mother I am going to the washroom. I have to get out. I am suffocating in this seat, this crowded room. I enter the bathroom, and lean onto the sink. I can barely hold myself up. I look at myself in the mirror. Is it too obvious? I tried my best to wear clothes that catholic girls wear, but most of them don’t wear floral men’s shirts, do they? And they certainly don’t cut their hair short, or not wear any makeup, especially when they are at the center of a show. I doubt my white, feminine sweater really covers much. I look gay, don’t I? I turn on the tap and run my fingers through the cold water. I splash my face and look at it in the reflection. Fuck. I do look gay. I don’t usually hide it. Rather, I express it very openly, because I want to. For me, it doesn’t mean I wear rainbows 24/7, or bring up my sexuality and gender at every opportunity. It means I wear what I want, I talk about my girlfriend, and I move my body how I like. Right now, though, I can’t do that. I cannot let every important member of the Catholic Church in Canada know that yes, the archbishop’s niece is gay. She’s gay! And she doesn’t even like being called a woman! Yeah, no. I rip off my sweater and look at myself in my floral shirt. Better. I can breathe now. This is me. That person, with this shirt. Not that fucking white sweater. I want to collapse on the ground and hide here for the rest of the event. I

don’t want to go back there, to the center of that room, next to a man that reports on my uncle directly to the Pope, under the scrutiny of all those eyes, beneath the fierce stage lights. I take out my phone and look at pictures of my girlfriend. I text her, and tell her I miss her. I don’t mention how suffocated I feel right now and how, if she was here, I’d likely cry in her arms. I just tell her all is well. I turn to the mirror and look at myself again. Gay. Gay, gay, gay, gay. I brush it off and put on my white sweater. I practice smiling and posing femininely. Less gay. Let’s do this. One hour left. I exit the bathroom, step into the hall, and enter the room. I sit down on the cold plastic, and stare at the faces of those sitting at my table. They seem at ease. I look up at the stage lights hanging from the ceiling for a moment, focusing on them as if they were the only objects in this room. I turn my head back to the faces and to the stage, and inhale deeply. Then, I ask my mom what she thinks about my cousin Caitlin’s new hair colour.

Colors of the Soul by Anna Shi, first-year Health Science student

Coming Out Day by Charl Margaux Elcano, first-year Health Science student Sometimes, the room feels small, The space around you tightening, Making you want to crawl Out, to see the sun shining— Yet you cannot move. It can’t be helped, so you stay still— Thinking, “Perhaps another day...” You lie there, and you fray away. Other times, when the room feels big, You feel like you can take a step! And you do — in fact, you leap quick — But, then, you misstep. Funny, how one moment can change the whole course. You find yourself on the floor, mid-room. Stand up, stand up — even if it saps your force! Bloom, please, to avoid doom! What are you doing? What are you doing? Do you want time to keep on going? Why are you still? There’s so much you should be pursuing! Don’t you see? This is your life you are throwing!

You tell me to shut up, quiet down! You’re angry — I feel the blaze in your eyes. Too bad! Me, you cannot drown. Let go. I hear your cries, but I know you can rise. You tell me, “I want to be free.” I reply, “You and this place are not bound. You will be found.” The silence drowns us out but we stand still. All I know is you still have the will. I say I’m sorry, but you need more time. You tell me it’s fine. Both of us will get out I know it.

What Am I by Flora Situ, second-year ALC student & editor

I think therefore I am. But what am I, exactly? I am the house of bones and shadows, In which my soul is but a wilting winter rose. I am a piece of literature, A short story written in prose. I am continuously falling, One after the other, little dominoes. I think therefore I am. Do you know what I am, exactly? I am a poor little dandelion, Struggling to sit upright. I am the dancing rain, Of a cold autumn night. I am the golden apple, Hiding in plain sight. I am the consequence of change, A small piece of moldavite.

I think therefore I am. I know who I am exactly. I am a Red Shirt, Waiting to become the main character. I am Holden’s red hunting hat, The result of hard labour. I am daisies, vervain, and rye, A bouquet, open in nature. Now, I observe my own story, I became my own narrator.

A Heart's Struggle by Eva Levin, first-year Health Science student & editor

Au Naturel by Charl Margaux Elcano, first-year Health Science student

There's nothing I want more in this world Than somebody who loves me naked Someone who never asks for love But knows how to take it Are you that somebody Who sees a wall and breaks it Are you ready to fight just to see what's lost behind my flaws Can you love me naked?

Toxic Identity by Sofia Watt Sjöström, second-year Liberal Arts student & Chief Editor We left the hospital through the front, through the rotating doors. She kept glancing over at me, her face all crinkled and full of emotion, eyes yearning to speak. I kept my eyes on the ground until we had walked a block down the street. Cold air plucked my skin, but the sky was perfect: pale blue, the sun a white, consuming blot. When I finally couldn’t help myself but briefly meet her eye, she launched into the words she had been holding back: “Well, that was fruitful, wasn’t it?” She rubbed my shoulder, but I pulled away slightly. Although a tinge of hurt reached her eye, she persevered: “The doctor said nothing’s to worry about. He said the solution’s simple. All you have to do is gain some weight.” “Uh huh,” I said, sensing she needed my approval. “Gain some weight! 15 pounds! I mean, can you imagine? If only all of us had that problem.” “Mm.” “We’ll do that in no time, won’t we?” she said. “I mean, it can’t be that hard!” We had reached the bus stop, so we stopped to wait outside the booth. There was no wind. Although the temperature was still biting, I removed my gloves. My fingers were pink and translucent, with rosy, red tips, like stained glass. Blue veins snaked limpidly underneath the blotchy flesh. When I didn’t answer, she said again, “We’ll do that in no time, right, honey?” I stared at my hands. They were red and blue, cracked and flimsy. I found it hard to answer truthfully. “Honey?” I hated those hands, those red stains, those blue-tendrilled veins. They were strange and grotesque. “Honey?” she said again, her voice going shrill.

I raised an eyebrow. “Yes, mum. Don’t freak out, I’m just a bit distracted. I’ll do it –” my voice cracked imperceptibly – “I’ll do it in no time.” It turned out, of course, that I wouldn’t do it in no time. It felt like I couldn’t do it in no time, for a variety of reasons. I wasn’t hungry in the mornings. The cafeteria food at school was gross. I didn’t like over-eating; I hated feeling bloated. Being hungry helped me work. On some level, of course, I knew that these were excuses. I knew that these excuses were there to cover up a much more sombre truth – a truth that flickered like a moving candleflame, now visible, now obscured by some furniture; a truth that even I was only aware of half the time. The truth was that I didn’t want to get better. I didn’t want to gain weight. I didn’t want to lose the one thing I could control. In those days, I didn’t have much to hold onto. I mean, I was a good student, I guess, but I could also be better. I could certainly be nicer. Less of a bitch. Prettier. More attractive. As such, I wasn’t sure anyone wanted to be around me. I hardly wanted to be around myself. But I obviously didn’t have any choice. Without my self-control, what did I have left? There would be no way for me to tolerate myself. There would be no way to express my own self-hatred, and move on. I’d just be an ordinary, disliked, unattractive lump. Flesh and blood and bones. Deep down, I already believed that that was what I was. I hated myself; I hated my puniness, my ugliness, my insignificance. Yet at least this self-hatred could be mitigated, by channelling it into something else – by controlling my food intake, I regained control over my life. It didn’t help that everyone else acted like this was just who I was. My friends admired my healthy diet and self-control. They thought I was “healthy” because I preferred salad to fries. Even my mum, who did her best to force-

feed me chips, wondered at my ability to withstand ‘temptation’. She didn’t understand that food didn’t tempt me anymore – the situation was quite the opposite, in fact. The temptation was to starve myself until I was so lightheaded and wobbly that everything felt like a dream. I felt trapped. My weight wavered around a constant, up and down, up and down, a violent see-saw in my life. When I felt feeble, and saw my weight dwindling, I began to freak out. I stared at my thin body in the mirror and realized that something had to change. I dutifully ate ice cream, chips and avocado. I filled myself up like a pig for the slaughter, taking no pleasure in food, but knowing what had to be done. After a few days of this, it was time for me to weigh myself again. I looked at the number on the scale – I’d gone up several pounds in a few days. Above the scale, in my peripheral vision, my thighs wobbled like two purple-streaked tubes of dough. I felt bloated and sick. Surely, I was eating too much these days – surely, I was over-doing it – it wasn’t healthy to gain weight this fast – it wasn’t healthy to eat this much junk. I didn’t want to get diabetes or heart disease. In no time, these anxious thoughts took over my brain. I decided to take a break – just a few days of eating a bit less. Maybe tomorrow, I wouldn’t be hungry for breakfast. It was no fun just to shove in food. Whatever weight I gained, I lost. My weight fluctuated, but stayed the same. The progress I made had more to do with my body than my brain – and even that progress was fleeting; it never stayed. Months went by. I endured a violent see-saw of self-loathing and self-control. A battle took place ceaselessly, hidden on the inside of my flesh. On the outside, nothing changed. Six months later, it was back to the hospital. The doctor said there was no point doing more blood tests, when we already knew the answer. He asked me why I hadn’t gained any weight. I told him that I was stressed and busy. And when I was stressed, I didn’t eat.

“Are you scared to gain weight?” “Not really,” I said uncomfortably. “I mean…” “Do you eat three meals per day?” “Yes – I mean, almost all of the time.” “Hm. What about afterwards? Do you ever make yourself throw up food?” I frowned. “No!” I said. “I’m really – it’s not like that. I’m normal. Maybe I don’t always eat enough, but… I don’t have an eating disorder. My relationship with food has actually improved a lot.” “But you haven’t gained weight.” “No.” “Well, all I can do is say: keep taking your meds.” “So?” my mum asked. I stared at my hands. They were rough and splotchy against the smooth table. Beneath the translucent redness of the skin, white bones shifted like piano strings. “Honey,” she said. “You’ve got to deal with this. We’ve been eating and eating food, for your sake… but you’re not. You’re not gaining weight… and you’re not eating enough. I… I just don’t know what to do.” “It’s just who I am,” I sighed. “I’m sorry.” She looked horrified. “Who you are?” “Yes. I…” I don’t like eating crazy amounts of food. I don’t like feeling fat. I don’t want to gain weight. I want to be in control. I didn’t say any of this. I didn’t say anything. “Well…” she was at a loss. “You mean, this is who you want to be? Don’t you see…” I sighed. “What? What don’t I see?” She winced. “Don’t you see how much pain you’re causing – not just to your family, but to yourself… And for what? Why?” “You don’t get it,” I mumbled. “No, you’re right, I don’t,” she confessed. “Maybe… Maybe you need to see someone else.”

I felt myself roll my eyes. Even my mum couldn’t deal with me anymore. Of course, maybe she was right. Maybe she couldn’t help me now; maybe all she could do was ask me to help myself. And I wasn’t helping myself, was I? Everything had gotten so messed up and blurry in my head. On some level, this wasn’t who I wanted to be. All I did was think about food, all the time. So much of my time was consumed. And to what end? Absolutely nothing. I hovered around the same weight. Nobody noticed anything. I was just terribly unhappy. And had a tendency to take that out on the people I loved the most – snapping at them, fighting with them, pushing them away… I hated it. I felt like a fuckup, and I didn’t know how to fix it. And yet, at the same time, I relished it. I didn’t want to fix it; I didn’t want to get better. I didn’t believe that anything was wrong. This was who I was – this was right for me. Being this way made me resilient. It gave me power over my life. Controlling my food intake made me feel good. In a sick, twisted way. “Okay,” I said, after these thoughts whizzed by in my head. Maybe I wasn’t willing to give everything up, just yet, but I could at least talk to a therapist. “Okay, I’ll do it.” My mum smiled. It pained me to see the tiredness mixed with relief in her eyes. “Thank you, honey.” “Sorry,” I added. “Sorry for all the suffering I’ve caused you.” She shrugged. “I’m your mum. I’m here for you. I’m just sorry for all the suffering you’ve caused yourself.” I bit my lip. “Thanks…” And if this really was a part of who I was? My identity? Maybe that didn’t matter. No matter what I called it, this thing was causing me constant pain. It was a decidedly negative force in my life. Whether it was part of me or not, it was toxic. It was smothering me. I needed to push it off, to get up from underneath it.

It would take another year before I was able to extricate this thing from my identity, and call it for what it was: anorexia. It would take even longer before I could exist without its toxicity perpetually pulling at me from the edges. Even now, it sometimes comes back: creeping like a mould, settling into the walls of my life, making itself at home before I have even the slightest inkling that it’s there. And perhaps it is inextricable from who I am. After all, I still pride myself on my capacity for self-control. But at least today, I know that I can – and should – live without it. My ability to control my life may help me in other ways, but when it comes to food, it’s a waste of time, at best – and more realistically, it’s a mental illness that makes me depressed, anxious, isolated and mean. It’s not just a personality trait. It’s a sickness. It’s part of me, but it’s not who I am.

Hollow Respite by Ana Tue, first-year Health Science student

Time had lost all consistency. Floating from one day to another through a vibrant haze of dullness was her new ordinary. The hours merged together into a confused jumble of numbed emotions. Although she knew that even these days would have to end, her newfound respite wasn’t making her any happier. There was a sense of guilt that came with her apathy, as if she owed good humor to those around her. She didn’t have anything against her friends; they were all pleasant to be around and the hours spent with them felt meaningful as they occurred. But of course, this only lasted until she was alone again. When she was forced to dwell with herself only, loneliness and helplessness engulfed her anew. She tried to avoid those feelings, but she could not flee what gnawed at her from inside. She felt drawn to other people, for their presence felt like torchlight, in that it promised her spare heat. But it was all for naught, as with one moment alone, the warmth would fade. It was as if she were pressing her hand against a window in an attempt to feel the person on the other side, only to realize that all she was touching was cold glass. Why did she feel emptier than ever? After all, she had no particular reason to do so. Like a glass bottle on a nicely crafted shelf, she was teetering on the edge, catching the light and shimmering from every angle, while the thin wall barely concealed the hollowness inhabiting her. An eventual fall seemed inevitable. Even the books she loved so much didn’t help. Laying in her bed, volumes strewn carelessly around her, she gave up on them after rereading the same

sentence one too many times. They conjured no images in her mind, the words remaining just that: symbols on a page. Instead of escapism, all she got was frustration and a mild headache. And sleep refused to take her when she willed it to. Faces danced behind her eyelids, her restless mind jeering at her uselessness. The guilt was back too, stronger than before. She twisted in the tangled sheets. A droplet pooled beneath her lashes, a single tear heavy with worries that should not have been. She aggressively wiped it away. Heavy-lidded eyes pointed upwards, she looked at the stars adorning the wooden ceiling, finally adrift between the realm of day and that of dreams. She missed the real stars, and the sense of being alive. As the dull window panes of her room held only the unmarred darkness of a cloudy night sky, she convinced herself for a fleeting moment that the painted jewels above her head were the real deal.

Cover by Ephrathah Hagdu, second-year A&S Student & MBSU exec Check out @ephihadguxart for more of her work!

Descriptions on p. 23

In Celebration of Black History Month: CONTENTS Cover with Black Icons / art & description by Ephrathah Hagdu

Introduction by Yu Zheng Lu, Cultural Affairs

Significance of BHM / by Marianopolis Black Student Union

Néant / art by Nirujah Muthukumaru

Blueprint / art by Ephrathah Hagdu

Who's on the cover? Read to find out!!! Cover by Ephrathah Hagdu, second-year A&S Student & MBSU exec Descriptions by Ephrathah Hagdu & Sofia Watt Sjöström

1. Shirley Chisholm: First Black Congresswoman Although you may never have heard her name, Chisholm was a trailblazer for Black Women in politics. Elected to represent New York’s 12th District in Congress in 1969, this made her the first Black Congresswoman in the US. She also ran in the Democratic primaries in 1972, under the poignant slogan “Unbought and Unbossed”. Although she did not win the primaries, she remained Congresswoman for more than a decade. 50 years ago, Chisholm was setting precedents that we should not forget now. Drawn from Darrisaw, Michelle. “26 Black Americans You Don’t Know but Should.” The Oprah Magazine, 8 Jan 2021, https://www.oprahmag.com/life/g25954127/african-american-historical-figures/?fbclid=IwAR17h3Et6D2tXIqXb5rJ2V1_yfXRUjeEhk_GCkhcATjBiOKfNJr2N_d_2s.

2. Robert Sengstacke Abbott: Lawyer, Publisher, Newspaper editor This man founded the Chicago Defender in 1905! Apart from being an important publication in its own right, this newspaper is famous for helping to instigate the Great Migration of African Americans from the South during the Jim Crowe period. Abbott was also integral to the creation of several other important Black publications, some of which still exist today. Drawn from Darrisaw, Michelle. “26 Black Americans You Don’t Know but Should.” The Oprah Magazine, 8 Jan 2021, https://www.oprahmag.com/life/g25954127/african-american-historical-figures/?fbclid=IwAR17h3Et6D2tXIqXb5rJ2V1_yfXRUjeEhk_GCkhcATjBiOKfNJr2N_d_2s.

3. Ethel Waters: Blues Singer and TV Star A Blues singer during the 1920s, Ethel Waters went on to star in The Ethel Waters show in 1939. This made her the first African American to star in their own TV show! Considering the hurdles she must have faced at the time, this is just phenomenal. Drawn from Darrisaw, Michelle. “26 Black Americans You Don’t Know but Should.” The Oprah Magazine, 8 Jan 2021, https://www.oprahmag.com/life/g25954127/african-american-historical-figures/?fbclid=IwAR17h3Et6D2tXIqXb5rJ2V1_yfXRUjeEhk_GCkhcATjBiOKfNJr2N_d_2s.

4. Dudley Laws: Canadian Civil Rights Activist Dudley Laws fought for justice on many fronts, although he is most famous for his activism against police brutality, and the problems with jails. Although he was first and foremost a spokesperson for the Black community, he also had a huge impact on other marginalized groups. His significance is amplified by his proximity in time and space: Laws was active predominantly in Toronto, and only passed away recently, in 2011. Drawn from “Dudley Laws.” Black in Canada: The New Narrative, 2011, http://www.blackincanada.com/2011/03/25/dudley-laws/.

5. Keisha Ferdinand: Québécois Activist Keisha Ferdinand exists the closest to home possible: she is, presumably like many readers, a recent High School graduate in Quebec! In fact, it was in High School that she realized the problems with the history curriculum: Black History was hardly present at all. Incredibly, Ferdinand decided to take a stance, and wrote to the Education Minister himself. As a matter of fact, he replied, and they were able to meet. This happened just last year, in 2020. Some time later, this Education Minister and Anti-Racism Task Force actually implemented some of the policies Ferdinand had proposed: in brief, antiracism training for future teachers, and anti-racist curricula in school. To think that this has all happened so recently, and so nearby, is inspirational, and reminds us that Black History encapsulates a lot. Drawn from Spector, Dan. “West Island Teen Influenced Quebec Government Anti-Racism Policy.” Global News: Politics, 15 Dec 2020, https://globalnews.ca/news/7524417/west-island-teen-quebec-anti-racism-policy/.

6. Carrie Best: Canadian Journalist Although she was formidably accomplished, her crowning achievements were in the domain of media. Firstly, she founded the first Black-owned newspaper in Nova Scotia in 1946! Then, only 6 years later, she also founded a radio show, The Quiet Corner, which was quite successful. Best’s accomplishments stand out even more impressively when considered in context: this was a time of terrible discrimination and segregation; Best

herself was actually fined in 1940 for sitting in a white-only seat. Best must have faced many obstacles in order to accomplish what she did in this deeply racist society. Drawn from “Noteworthy Historical Figures.” Canada.ca: Canadian Heritage: Black History Month, Government of Canada, 24 Feb. 2021, https://www.canada.ca/en/canadian-heritage/campaigns/black-history-month/blackcanadians.html.

7. Jean Augustine: Canadian Politician “Born September 9th 1937, Jean Augustine was the first Black woman elected to the house of Parliament [in Canada]”! “Jean Augustine brought a bill to recognize February as Black History Month in Canada countrywide. We may take this for granted now, but bear in mind that she was the only deputy to present the bill to the floor, and the fact that this bill was only passed in 1995, 25 years ago. This was a key first step towards the recognition of Black History in Canadian History”. Drawn from @bsu.mari

8. Kimberlé Crenshaw: Mother of Intersectionality In 1989, Crenshaw wrote a seminal essay outlining Intersectionality, a theory that has revolutionized feminism during its so-called “Third Wave”. Intersectionality acknowledges the interconnectedness of different forms of oppression: between gender, race, and class, for example. It does so in an attempt to be more inclusive of particularly marginalized groups, recognizing the unique experience of for instance, Black trans women, compared to their white and cis peers. In the words of Crenshaw herself, Intersectionality is “basically a lens, a prism, for seeing the way in which various forms of inequality often operate together and exacerbate each other. We tend to talk about race inequality as separate from inequality based on gender, class, sexuality or immigrant status. What’s often missing is how some people are subject to all of these, and the experience is not just the sum of its parts.” Drawn from @bsu.mari in collaboration with Crossroads Marianopolis

9. Gil Scott-Heron: Poet, Musician and Author “Gil Scott-Heron was the voice of the 1970s, the spoken word lyricist that highlighted racial injustice, [...] writing the soundtracks to the social movements of his time”. He is perhaps most well-known for his damning critique of performative activism, in the powerful spoken word piece called “The Revolution Will not Be Televised”. Drawn from @bsu.mari

Introduction to Black History Month Section by Yu Zheng Lu, first-year A&S Student & Coordinator of Cultural Affairs As the inspiring Jean Augustine once said, "Black history is not just for Black people -- Black history is Canadian history." The first Black woman to be elected to Canada’s parliament, Augustine was key to the recognition of Black History Month in Canada. Augustine’s words should remind us how much learning we have yet to do. Although Black History Month has been recognized since Augustine’s bill was passed in 1995, Canada’s rich Black History is still painfully erased. The standard Canadian history curriculum is, simply put, white history. Thus, while white history is taught almost every day, Black history is often forgotten and ignored. During Black History month, we come together in order to recognize this history. We strive to celebrate the significant roles and achievements of Black people in this country. The first free Black man in the Canadian historical record was Mathieu Da Costa, a 17th century navigator and interpreter. Since then, Black people have played a key role in shaping this country’s heritage. Notably, Montreal’s growth, vitality and identity is inextricable from the roles of Black Montrealers. Their contributions range from the creation and maintenance of crucial transportation infrastructure, to the enhancement of culture by making Montreal a North American centre for Jazz, to developments and discoveries in the medical and scientific fields. This is just a brief overview of Black History in proximity to Marianopolis. It is intended as a starting point to learn more. It is vital that everyone, and

perhaps especially those of us who are not part of the Black community, but aspire towards allyship, continue educating ourselves. In this section of the Literary Magazine, we have attempted to compile a variety of works with this in mind: some personal, some historical, and some, a mixture of both. Yet again, however, this collection is by no means exhaustive. We encourage you to keep seeking out Black authors, artists and history! As Coordinator of Cultural Affairs, I am grateful for the stories and learning I gained this month. However, I am also conscient that allyship and Black history do not end as February becomes March. We must persist in learning and cultivating respect every other month as well. Happy Black History Month! Info drawn from sources indicated on @msu_culturalaffairs

Significance of Black History Month by Marianopolis Black Student Union execs & students Black History Month. What a mixed bag of emotions. Every year, we get these 28 days to celebrate Black culture, Black history and Black lives. And even though it is the shortest month, it is a month nevertheless. To us, Black History Month is an opportunity to speak out and learn and teach about Black historical figures with friends, family and other people we care about. To us, Black History Month is a reminder never to forget the atrocities committed to our parents, grandparents and ancestors before them. It also reminds us that the battle for equality isn't over yet. We must keep striving for equality, because we cannot let all the sacrifices that were made along the way be in vain. You can find Marianopolis' Black Student Union on social media: @bsu.mari.

Néant by Nirujah Muthukumaru, second-year Health Science student

Feeling small in this big world. Shadows lie. Your inner heart knows that you are still a kid. After all, tu es dans le néant. Acrylic on canvas, observation of lights and shadows. Painting accomplished in High School, inspired by a combination of internet images.

Blueprint by Ephrathah Hagdu, second-year A&S Student & MBSU exec Check out @ephihadguxart for more of her work!

/ˈblo͞oˌprint/: plan or design; the origins of any work Inspired by the idea of ancestors paving the way for future generations, starting a path that leads to greatness. This path is essentially a blueprint.

Les deux Salvador by Anne Lin Arghirescu, first-year Social Science student & editor ‘Les Deux Salvador’ is a fictionalized interpretation of Salvador Dali’s childhood. Salvador Dali was a twentieth century Spanish surrealist painter. He is known for his extravagant and bizarre—sometimes even unnerving—oil paintings (notably his melting watches). Salvador Dali was actually the brother of his parents’ first deceased child… Whose name was also Salvador Dali. In fact, Salvador Dali the artist was born nine months after the death of his brother, which means that, taking into account the time of pregnancy, he must have been conceived around the time of his brother’s death. This is a disturbing realization, which could have led Salvador Dali to feel he was a mere ‘replacement’ for his parents’ first son, whom they had loved dearly, and kept talking to him about. In my short story, I imagine how it must have felt for the young Salvador to live in the shadow of a dead brother, and how difficult it must have been for him to forge his own distinct identity, to affirm his own existence. Without a doubt, he achieved this through his spectacular and unique art.

Salvador se réveilla en sursaut. Le petit enfant chétif se recroquevilla sous sa couverture, sanglotant. Il se berça doucement pour se réconforter et oublier son cauchemar. L’image de l’Autre le hantait. Il ne pouvait s’en défaire. Au commencement, il s’en souvient, il avait été heureux. Il avait été Salvador Dali, le seul Salvador Dali. Dans les bras de sa mère, il avait été bercé, choyé, adoré. Mais voilà qu’il apprenait que ce n’était pas lui qu’on embrassait avec tant d’effusion mais le souvenir d’un autre. Salvador premier. Il n’était qu’un misérable remplacement. Il se souvient de ce jour où ses parents l’avaient amené visiter la tombe de son frère défunt. Avec quelle horreur avait-il découvert que son frère et lui partageaient le même nom!

À partir de ce jour-là, il ne put jamais entendre sa mère l’appeler sans se demander à quel Salvador elle se référait, si c’était bien sa compagnie qu’elle désirait. Comme il se sentait triste quand il passait dans la chambre de ses parents et qu’il apercevait, encadré dans du bois de cerisier au-dessus du lit de ses parents, le portrait de l’Autre! Avec un dernier reniflement, il se ressaisit, émergea de sous l’oreiller humide de larmes. À travers la fenêtre de sa chambre, il pouvait entrevoir au loin le soleil qui commençait à étirer ses bras brûlants de lumière entre deux sommets des Pyrénées. Il songea en se frottant les yeux que le village côtier de Cadaques où ses parents avaient une résidence d’été était véritablement le plus beau village du monde. Elle était si belle sous les premiers rayons blancs du jour naissant, la Méditerranée dans sa robe de tulle bleue et sa ceinture argentée! Quelques mouettes s’égaraient entre les mèches de ses cheveux agités par la tramontane. Au pied du mur peint à la chaux de la maison s’alignaient des barques de toutes les couleurs. Enfant capricieux et gâté, il se dit qu’il voudrait bien faire un tour en pirogue là, tout de suite. Ses parents dormaient encore, il emprunterait le bateau de son père. À pas feutrés, il quitta la maison. Un sourire espiègle éclairait son visage. La tête toute pleine des images du voyage qu’il allait faire, il entreprit de détacher la pirogue striée de blanc, de bleu et de vert. Une fois la corde qui la retenait à la berge dénouée, il s’empara d’une rame et sauta à l’intérieur de l’embarcation. L’air frais était plein de la promesse d’un jour heureux. De sa petite main potelée, il peinait à manier la rame de bois. Mais qu’importe! Il faisait confiance aux vagues qui le portaient et le guidaient. Il décida qu’il voulait bien se rendre jusqu’au Cap de Creus où son père l’avait amené une fois. Il avait été enchanté par la vue des rochers sculptés par l’érosion en des animaux fabuleux et mythiques. La structure feuilletée du schiste prenait l’apparence tantôt d’un aigle, les ailes déployées, tantôt d’un cheval, la crinière au vent. Son père et lui s’étaient glissés par de petits sentiers qui se

faufilaient le long de précipices abrupts et de calanques profondes aux parois escarpés. La beauté sauvage de ce paysage avait profondément bouleversé son âme sensible et depuis, il n’avait cessé d’espérer y retourner. Porté par la brise, son bateau avançait paisiblement. Il eut alors l’idée de se pencher par-dessus bord pour voir s’il y avait quelque joli poisson dans l’eau. Mais oh! Ce ne fut point une bogue aux reflets dorés qui le regardait, mais un visage d’enfant, qui ressemblait étrangement au sien. Là, sous la surface de l’eau, se terrait son frère ressuscité! Il y avait quelque chose de pernicieux et de profondément maléfique dans son regard. Il s’agrippa au rebord de la barque et se hissa à ses côtés. Sans mot dire, il prit le contrôle de la barque. Salvador constata avec amertume que l’Autre était plus fort : ses épaules étaient larges, sa carrure puissante, sa poigne sur la rame ferme. Sans difficulté, il fit tourner la barque en direction de la maison. Ils faisaient demi-tour et Salvador s’en désolait en silence, sans toutefois oser s’opposer à l’Autre, car il craignait sa colère et son mépris. Revenus au rivage, l’Autre sauta à terre, amarra la pirogue et se dirigea d’un pas assuré vers la porte. Salvador, de plus en plus malheureux, le suivit à distance. Qu’allait dire sa mère si elle les voyait tous les deux? Ce fut une question vite résolue puisqu’au moment où il franchit l’entrée, elle arriva en courant. Il vit que son chignon était défait et que, d’habitude si soignée dans ses apparences, elle venait à eux pieds nus et en robe de chambre. Son visage était plein d’angoisse et il sentit ses joues brûler de remords. Il aurait voulu l’embrasser pour la consoler, mais c’est l’Autre qu’elle prit contre sa poitrine et qu’elle couvrit de caresses. « J’étais si inquiète si tu savais! Je t’ai cherché partout dans la maison sans oser réveiller ton père de peur qu’il ne te batte à ton retour. Il est là, dans la chambre, il dort encore. Oh, Salvador, mon petit Salvador, où étais-tu? —Je voulais voir le Cap de Creus que j’avais visité l’autre jour avec papa. J’ai

pris sa pirogue. Il faisait tellement beau! —Cap Creus? Pourquoi ne pas m’avoir demandé? Je t’y emmène cet aprèsmidi si tu le souhaites! » Il regardait avec épouvante le sourire victorieux de l’Autre levé vers celui plein de tendresse de sa mère. C’était une erreur, un malentendu, sa mère se trompait, elle croyait que c’était lui. Mais il s’arrêta au milieu de sa pensée et devint blanc comme une feuille. Comment être sûr qu’elle se trompait vraiment? Comment savoir que ce n’était pas la sincère joie de retrouver l’Autre, perdu pendant tant d’années, qui illuminait son regard? Soudain, il en fut certain. Ce n’était pas lui que ça mère aimait. Il n’avait été qu’une consolation, une reproduction de l’Autre pour occuper sa place jusqu’à son retour. Salvador se sentait trahi. Il courut s’enfermer dans sa chambre, mais ni sa mère, ni l’Autre n’y fit attention. Lorsqu’il descendit de sa chambre pour le déjeuner à midi, il vit que sa place était occupée par l’Autre, bien installé entre sa mère et son père. Ce fut comme si l’on lui arrachait son cœur. Le désespoir qu’il ressentit à ce moment-là fut si absolu, si violent que, n’y tenant plus, il éclata en sanglots, se roula à terre, se mit à hurler, à taper des pieds. Rien n’y fit. Sa mère ne le vit point, son père resta de marbre devant sa détresse. Il semblait être devenu invisible. Seul l’Autre lui fit un clin d’œil cruel. Aucun couvert ne fut ajouté à la table, et à sa souffrance s’ajouta celle du jeûne. Piteux, vaincu, brisé, il baissa la tête, recula. Après avoir attrapé sur le comptoir de cuisine le reste d’un fromage et le couteau pour le couper, il se retourna et remonta lentement les escaliers pour rejoindre son refuge. Il s’y enferma et, pour calmer sa douleur, s’empara d’une feuille de papier et de sa boîte de pastels. Des profondeurs obscures de son esprit tourmenté émergèrent les monstres les plus terrifiants. Ce jour-là, il se fit mourir cent fois, de cent différentes manières : par des cachalots géants aux têtes de

lions, par une armée de tigres aux tentacules innombrables, par des requins au corps de cheval. Et pourtant, jamais ne lui vint à l’esprit l’idée d’affronter l’Autre. Jamais autre ne mourut sur ses feuilles de dessins que lui-même. Il ne faisait que s’apitoyer sur son propre sort, jusqu’au moment où il vit l’Autre entrer dans sa chambre, le visage rougeaud et satisfait, le ventre plein et rond. Alors, une colère, une haine telle qu’il n’en avait jamais éprouvé s’empara de lui. Il se jeta à la gorge de son adversaire. Mais, chose étrange, il ne semblait pas pouvoir l’atteindre. Comme si l’Autre n’était pas réellement de chaire, il s’évaporait chaque fois qu’il s’en approchait. Salvador se retourna, et là, dans le miroir, il l’aperçut. Il constata encore à quel point ils étaient semblables, à quel point ils étaient identiques, et cela ne fit qu’accroître sa hargne et son désir de vengeance. Lentement, évaluant son opposant, il s’approcha de la glace. Arrivés face à face, ils se dévisagèrent. Le cœur de Salvador battait comme un tambour qui sonne la guerre. Regards féroces, mâchoires serrées. Pendant quelques secondes, ils restèrent immobiles, et seul le bruit haletant de leur respiration se fit entendre. Soudain, Salvador, d’un mouvement brusque, s’empara du couteau de fromage qu’il avait laissé sur son pupitre. Il le leva haut dans l’air et l’abattit avec une rage folle, de toute sa force, sur le miroir. Le verre se fissura, se brisa avec fracas, et des morceaux coupants se détachèrent et tombèrent. Mais Salvador n’avait pas réussi à anéantir son ennemi : le visage de l’Autre le regardait toujours. Épouvanté, Salvador se rendit compte qu’il poursuivait un adversaire inatteignable. L’Autre ne pouvait mourir une seconde fois. Il avait su, dès sa rencontre avec son frère, que le début de la fin approchait. Alors, d’un geste tragique, il leva le couteau et tourna la lame vers son cœur.

Facelift by Denise Economides, first-year Liberal Arts student & editor You couldn’t get him out of your head. And it was ridiculous, really, that you were able to remember him at all. You’d only ever seen him once, after all, and that had been well over a year ago. He was just a bad dream, or some misplaced memory, or simply a stress-induced hallucination. And God knows you were anxious that night. And yet… Every time you thought back to it, the scene was always nauseatingly clear. As if you were there again. At that small, almost quaint diner you had come across on your way to Jane’s wedding. You had been on the road for hours, and desperately needed somewhere to rest and have a quick coffee. You also needed John, but he had already made plans to go on a golfing trip with his college friends. And it was fine, really. He worked so hard, and it was only fair to allow him time to unwind. It was only Jane. So you dropped in on this diner you had noticed on the side of the road. And when you got in, it was… well, you couldn’t quite describe it. It seemed charming enough on the outside, but there was something undeniably wrong upon entering; a suffocating presence, like a spectre, had sucked its life of all it was worth, and now loomed over it, waiting for another opportunity to strike… You had to stop thinking about this supernatural stuff. It had been a diner. A normal, unsanitary, grease-riddled, run-of-the-mill diner. And you were being ridiculous. You could recall being quickly guided to a booth at the far end of the diner:

some dark, foul-smelling and relatively abandoned corner whose cushions had seen better days. You couldn’t care less at the time. Your mind was on other things. Like how you needed to fill up on gas before hitting the road again. Or how to act when Jane saw you without John. Or… how to talk to everyone without John, without his quick-thinking, his workplace stories, his answers to pretty much any question… And that’s when you saw him. Well, heard him, actually. This loud, obnoxious guy sitting in the booth next to yours, slurping up his coffee like he was the only person in the room. Which wasn’t that far from the truth, with you being the only other person there, besides the staff. At least before… Anyway, this guy was yammering on his phone about the new car he had just bought. You had seen it parked outside the diner, actually. Some shiny, red toy. You had made sure to park right next to it, hoping that whoever owned it would be pissed, upset that someone dared to approach their precious little trophy. You didn’t know when you had become so petty. You didn’t know much about anything, anymore. You tried your best to ignore him, so you focussed on finishing your coffee and escaping this sad excuse of an eating establishment. But as you gazed at your reflection on the liquid’s surface, ready to bring it to your lips, you noticed the shape of another person slowly approaching the neighbouring booth. You couldn’t properly make out their face on the small, unsteady imitation of a mirror that was your cup, but you could tell that they were dressed in a milky white. They were probably there to tell the man to shut up. That’s what you figured. However, nothing could prepare you for the sudden, hollow silence that

invaded the place, as soon as the stranger sat down next to him. It had been such an off-putting, peculiar moment. Where the man’s annoying self-congratulation had been grating before, you would have much preferred it to the chilling dread of stillness that followed the stranger’s arrival. It was weird. Too weird, in your opinion, and you began to fear the worst. Was the stranger threatening the man with a gun underneath the table? Had they slipped something into his coffee before sitting down? Was the man dead? You willed yourself not to panic. As long as you pretended nothing was wrong, you would be fine, surely. Hopefully. You just needed a plan, a way out… John. You quietly reached into your purse to grab your phone and dialled him. Your hands were shaking. After three rings, he picked up. “John, what’s wrong? You want me to — your mother is dying? I’ll be right there.” Anything, any excuse to get out of the diner, to play into the stranger’s compassion and convince them to let you leave — “What is it? You know I’m busy right now. You said you would give me the weekend.” You were just about to make it out. If you had rushed to leave then, maybe you would have avoided it. Maybe now, you would actually be free from this… thing that was constantly eating at you from the inside. But you didn’t rush out. You turned around. You turned, as you heard John’s voice, coming from the far end of the diner. You wanted to forget. So, so badly. But now, once again, it played in your

mind, in all its haunting, blank glory: A faceless figure, which you could only describe as a cloudy, white silhouette of John, now stood in front of you, with a phone close to its… ear? The man at the booth was gone. The only sign that he had even been there was his unfinished coffee, which had tumbled to its side. Its contents were now pooling onto the diner’s tiled floor. You clenched your phone, fighting back the fear that threatened to overtake you and leave you for dead. “What are you?” The figure, while quiet before, now let out an ear-piercing, almost staticky screech. Yet you remained unaffected, standing your ground like you were possessed. Your good sense seemed to have completely abandoned you. You were lost to the invisible pull of its voice. It moved close to you, its “hand” cupping your cheek as it gently whispered: “What are you?” You stared at it, unflinching, but couldn’t find it in yourself to muster up an answer. And deep down, you knew it was because you didn’t have one. You never did. That was all John. It passed through you. And now, it refused to leave you. It wasn’t like John. You could feel it. It would never leave you. And maybe that was a good thing. Maybe it was time for you to accept it. After all, you did make quite the pair: A being of stolen faces, And a woman robbed of hers. And in the end, could it really be so bad? I mean, you had been considering a facelift, anyway.

Masks Down by Chen Song Ling, first-year Health Science student & editor

today and all the days after tomorrow by Makéda Ékoué, second-year A&S student & editor rise there is only so much time before dusk before dark before you get swallowed before you give the mirror a good punch in the throat now there’s a patch of grass full of shards on the side of the road and the sea on the other there goes the smell of a perfume you recognize the face of someone you know the fingers of your own hand and the fire of your own heart you know the way like you know your name one step left towards heartbreak, two to the left on the path to sorrow three up to find pain and just one down to fall back in love

rest a couple more minutes till dawn till light till you lay eyes on yourself till your voice becomes so much louder than a whisper

you know their faces like you know your own there’s paint on the wrong hand and charcoal on the other the wind blew through the night and you heard nothing here come sand and fire games you don’t understand the comfort you never got and all the hurt you could imagine weakness and a flower on the side, for good measure

Note for clarity: This poem is about getting to know yourself, and becoming comfortable with the eternal solitude that comes with being human. That being said, people may take from it what they need, given their own circumstances and points of view.

Mama by Clara Prendergast, second-year ALC student Hi Mama, I don’t ever call you Mama. I am too shy. I feel like a child next to you sometimes. I know you don’t want me to be a child, so I call you Mom. Before, it was Mommy. Why can’t I call you Mama? Why am I incapable of telling you the words “I love you”? I feel strong next to you, but I also feel so little. Weird. I am bigger than you, but your shoulders are broader. Like a soft, enveloping cage. When I hold you. Which I don’t anymore. Why don’t I? Shouldn’t I?

Is it because we disagree on important things? Like, who I love. Like, who I admire. Like, who I want to be. Like, how I want to live. Because of this, why do I feel I cannot fold myself onto you anymore? Why can I not get myself to be vulnerable with you as I used to be as a child? I was the most vulnerable, soft child. A fluffy yellow. A smiling baby, you tell me. I see it in the photos.

I wonder, do I keep too many secrets Mom? So I don’t hurt you. That’s why I keep them silent. I cannot stand the thought of you seeing me cry. What is wrong with me? Or should I say us? Sometimes I miss you, Mama.

Often, I want to tell you the words “I love her, Mom” As an argument, a scream, a cry of despair. But I wish I could say them to you as a prayer. Or as a desire. Should you decide to tense up, I would too. But should you soften and envelop me, maybe this storm in me would shrink to wind. And maybe then, I could bring you on a sailboat. Tell you about the lightness living in me.

I wish I could tell you about how much I love grandma, still. I know you miss her too. Every time you mention her, it’s a punch in the gut. I saw you cry silently those days. Did you know grandma is who I write about the most? I cry the most when I remember her. I miss her so much too, Mom.

Why can’t we cry together about that?

Mama, what’s wrong. It’s like a kind of wall has risen between us. Grandma had a wall too, but it was clear and sometimes penetrable. Yours... it’s horrible. It never comes down.

I see a wall building in me, too. I want it to come down. Please help me bring it down. I just want to talk to you, to know you before… you know. Before I pronounce the same words you said about your mother. “I don’t think I ever knew her, your grandmother.”

Photo from Saguenay, Summer 2020 by Emma Westenberg, second-year Commerce student

a breakup with individualism (gifted kid burnout) by Maria Azadian, second-year Liberal Arts student & editor when i was 6, you promised you would take me to space you told me i was destined to be with you you would show me the stars and the moon and all the planets and together, we would make a home among them when i was 14, you said i could be anything when i grew up you were the only one who could fuel my fire you doused me in gasoline and lit me up and i think that’s when i fell in love with you when i was 17, you told me i could make it i could be the greatest of all if only i followed your rules and i fell for every last one now, i'm 18 and i'm just another corporate-tool-in-training training to spend my days in a pointless harshly lit office doing some pointless middleman job living some pointless little life you lied to me you cheated me of my destiny just like you did everybody else just like you intended

Grandma's Smile by Clara Prendergast, second-year ALC student It is one of those September days when the wind blows through the leaves, the sound echoes off the buildings, and the heat slowly starts to dissipate. Fall is coming. My father is starting to bring leaves home. He does this. Nature fascinates him. He doesn’t talk about it much, but in the fall, he brings home red, orange, and yellow leaves to show us that the season is changing. He takes the time to examine each leaf's spots of colour. Then, when the snow arrives in November, he stands still for minutes in front of the windows, looking onto the street, and repeats to us: “It’s brighter outside now. It isn’t so dark. The snow does that; the white reflects the light. You see?” My father’s love is a still, constant, tender thing. He isn’t filled with rigidity and pain like my grandmother was. Perhaps that is why they never got along. My mother’s mother, my only grandma, was a hard person to love -- but, at the same time, that cannot be true, because it is so easy to love. My grandmother rarely smiled. All her smiles were little treasures. I caught them, and stored them in my treasure box of memories. My favourite of her smiles was on that September day. My grandma was a lover of the arts, and that included classical music. She was a decades-long attendee of the Montreal Symphony Orchestra, even though she had to come into town for concerts. It took her a long time to arrive at our house, which was a little way up a hill. She was asthmatic and walked very slowly. I didn’t mind. I wanted to be with her, so I walked slowly, too. I resisted the temptation to go running in zig zags all over the sidewalk.

That day, she had come in the morning while I was asleep, then gone to her concert in the early afternoon. She walked into the kitchen at around four o’clock. She was just on time, for I wanted to go to the park. The park wasn’t even a block away. We only had to cross the street, then walk down the next for a minute. Prince Albert park was my childhood park. It was shaped in a long rectangle with a soccer field in the center, two playgrounds on each end, and a building with washrooms. I preferred the playground nearest to the street, because it had a sand pit, and, most importantly, monkey bars! The nicest tree was also there, with a pair of benches at its base. My grandmother and my mother sat there, chatting, and watched me as I ran off to go play on the structure. But really, I only went for the monkey bars. I paid attention to my family. I made sure they were there. I was terrified they would leave me alone, so I watched them talk and glance at me from time to time. Sometimes, I would scream at them to look at me as I sat on top of the monkey bars, proud of my accomplishment. My mother would smile, and my grandma would simply watch. She was happy, but she didn’t smile. At some point, my mother went into the building to use the washroom. I paused to watch her go in, to make sure she wasn’t leaving. My grandma remained on the bench, half in the sunlight, half in the shade. She wore her long, jean skirt, into which she had tucked a beige t-shirt. Her long, white hair sat in a bun on top of her head, as it always did. She wore something like this almost every day I saw her. I returned to my monkey bars, swinging, falling, and trying again. I watched her though and, as I fell off a bar, I caught her smiling at me. Her face was round, and her smile made it seem even rounder. Her eyes almost disappeared into the folds of her face.

She was laughing. My grandmother was laughing! I landed on the ground, in a sea of wood chips, and flashed a smile back. I got up, brushing the dirt off my clothes, and returned to jumping on the purple mushroom structures. I was on the ledge, about to grab the monkey bars, and she was still smiling. I was perplexed. Good thing my mom came back at that moment, so I could continue playing. To this day, that is one of the sweetest moments I have shared with my grandmother. Other happy moments include the discussions we had about drinking ginger ale as children; her delighted, sparkly eyes when I wore the sweaters she’d knit me to the opera; all the beautiful, warm holidays we spent at her house. However, my grandmother was a difficult person, with a difficult past. She told me about the racism her Chinese father faced in Saskatchewan; the difficult relationship he had with her Ukrainian-Canadian mother, who also faced discrimination; her difficult marriage and subsequent divorce with my grandfather, the man she loved, who hadn’t always loved her back; the strained relationship she had with her oldest daughter, my aunt Karen; the harsh challenges of raising six children alone, with little money. I know my grandmother disliked the light, golden brown colour of her skin, the Asian shape of her dark eyes and her round face. That pains me deeply, because I know it broke something in her. I also know it hurt her that she wasn’t taught about her Chinese and Ukrainian cultures. Her parents wanted her to fit into Canadian society, but in some ways, that made her feel like an orphan. My grandma never hugged me. She expected us to do things for her. She wasn’t a warm person, and that deeply bothered me. When she died in 2017, I wondered if she loved me and if I, in turn, loved her. I had trouble

accepting that I barely cried when she died. I realize now that I loved and still love my grandmother more than I can bear. Writing and thinking about her is still very difficult, because my memories of her carry so much pain. Yet they also carry so much beauty, and so much love. Over the years, I have come to accept that my relationship with her was cut short. It saddens me that we never got to have intellectual discussions about King Lear. On the other hand, we did get to discuss Oscar Wilde, play dozens of scrabble games which she always won, and spend fourteen Christmases together. I have inherited her mahogany wardrobe, her reproduction of The Scream, her Chinese guardian lions, and her passion for knowledge and the arts. Most importantly, I still have her poems upstairs, which I visit when I miss her the most.

Between Two Lines by Charl Margaux Elcano, first-year Health Science student When a boy holds a girl down and cleaves her in half, like an unripe amla, yet to be plucked by soiled hands, yet to be deemed worthy for the first sinking of teeth, the girl learns to fall to the dirt and stay, still she looks to the sky and sees that singular light blocked out by the boy who learns how to fell a body, his kneecaps a fulcrum, hardened by the milk from his mother's breasts, mouth cleaving to nipple, swollen and bruised, the girl learns how to hold a boy inside her, even as she desires to snap off that unwanted gift between her legs

with a thunderous clap across her cheek, this is how her father will receive her when she later stumbles home and he sees his unwanted gift who first emerged between the legs of his wife, and now, the girl will learn from her father what the boy learnt from his father: that once an amla has fallen, hitting the floor with a single, resonating clap, repeating over and over, it cannot blame the natural force which pulled it down, and kept it there, it cannot blame the wandering feet, it cannot blame the ants for being drawn to its sweetness, leaking, as it is left to rot.

The Art of Patience Interview with Maryam Nadami, Persian Illumination Artist by Artists for Society : first-years Daniel Khryktin, Health Science student & Anne Lin Arghirescu, Social Science student & editor You can never predict what kind of twist life has in store for you. This rings especially true for Maryam, a Persian Illumination artist whose roots are in calligraphy and biology. Artists for Society had the privilege to do both a workshop with her and an interview on her life experiences. We’d like to share the inspiring story of how she came to be the artist that she is today. At the age of 12, Maryam was drawn to the world of Persian calligraphy. Because her father was a professor of architecture as well as a calligrapher, there were artistic drafts and sketches lying all over her house. These spurred her artistic inclination, tempting Maryam to immerse herself in art from a very young age. In her early years, she also enjoyed detailed crafts and painting. All of this led her to become a calligraphy student. Calligraphy and Persian Illumination art go hand in hand, since the latter was created to enhance and decorate the former. As such, it seems unsurprising that Maryam subsequently discovered her natural pull towards Illumination: she wanted to make her writing more visually appealing. Maryam realised that our contemporary societies praise an unhealthy form of constant productivity. Some say: “If you want to hang on, you better speed up”, meaning that if you don’t want to be left behind, you must live at a breaknecking speed: working, teaching, painting, and overachieving all your goals. Persian art forms, such as Persian Illumination, as well as carpet weaving,

architecture and calligraphy, oppose this movement as they require an incredible amount of patience and time. They are composed of minute patterns created through attention to detail. Tazhib, in particular, is an art that requires the artist to be in a headspace of peace and contentment, and thus, to enjoy the process of creation. Like a form of therapy or meditation, the practice of Persian Illumination helps us to recover and regenerate. It provides an important escape from our bustling world. This is primarily what drew Maryam to it. Maryam had good masters in both calligraphy and Persian Illumination. In addition to teaching their students the art itself, they encouraged them to cultivate ideal behaviour and integrity: in other words, to make the students become their own best selves. In this regard, Tazhib art is meant to have a great influence on the artist’s lifestyle, and even their thoughts. When asked to share her memories of living in Iran, Maryam told us that it was like living in a huge art gallery. She fell in love with the many museums and remarkable tourist sights. Iran has a rich history in different realms: art, architecture, poetry, philosophy and medicine, which can be admired in historic sites all over the country. Visiting these represents some of Maryam’s most cherished Iranian recollections. In addition to her love of art, Maryam always enjoyed biology, especially the observation of plants and nature. There was a point in her life where she had to make a choice between arts and sciences, but in some ways, she ended up keeping both passions intact. Her love of nature probably also influenced her Illumination, as it is an art that often represents flowers and plants in a more abstract and stylized form. As an accomplished artist who also possesses a major in botany, Maryam feels that she has attained harmony between her artistic career and academic field of choice. Maryam’s main life’s goal is to become the best version of herself, just like

her masters taught. To achieve this state, she decided to move slowly, in order to enjoy both the process of art-making and that of art-teaching. Her greatest desire is to transfer the meaning and beauty of her art to other people, and thereby teach them to cherish their lives. Tazhib is an art full of love and peace, something that we need to share more of. Her best advice for anyone who would like to try Persian Illumination art is to be patient, so as to paint with accuracy, focus and love. Maryam points out that if you do not already master these qualities and skills, the art of Tazhib will allow you to acquire them. Moreover, if you already possess them, Tazhib will only amplify them. Persian Illumination is more than just an art form; it is a way of life. It is an opportunity to meditate, to ponder life, and to marvel at the beauties of its traditional patterns. In a world where everyone is in a rush to get it over with, Illumination allows us to take a break from the anxiety of success, and be content with simpler joys.

Persian Illumination Workshop by Maryam Nadimi Artists for Society club by Anne Lin Arghirescu

by Mia Moghrabi

by Ana Tue

by Anne Lin Arghirescu

by Gabriel Fontana

The Great Zodiac Race by Flora Situ, second-year ALC student & editor One day, all of the animals of the world were summoned in the middle of their village to meet with one of the mightiest gods of the Chinese pantheon, the Jade Emperor. The Jade Emperor suddenly appeared before them. The animals bowed in front of their god to show their respect. “Animals,” the god said in a deep and mesmerizing voice, “I have gathered you here today to tell you that I have organized a race.” Murmurs erupted amongst the animals. “I invite all of you to participate,” the Jade Emperor went on, “The first 12 animals to reach the final destination will have a year named after them in the Zodiac.” A collective gasp was heard. Pleased by this reaction, the Jade Emperor continued: “Tomorrow, you will have to cross a mighty river in order to get to my Heavenly Gate. The race starts at sunrise. I shall be there, waiting for you.” With that, he disappeared into the clouds. Niu (the ox), Lao Hu (the tiger) and Ma (the horse) gathered together to talk about how grateful they were for this opportunity. Long (the dragon) and Tu Zi (the rabbit) were already planning on their strategy for the next day. All seemed over the moon about this once-ina-lifetime chance. All, except for Lao Shu (the rat) and Mao (the cat). They looked at each other with worried eyes. “What are we going to do?” Mao whined, “We are the worst swimmers in the whole Animal Kingdom! How will we ever make it?”

“Do not worry, old friend,” Lao Shu replied, “I have a plan. All you need to do is trust me.” Mao sighed in relief. “I can always count on you, Lao Shu,” she purred, “Could you wake me up at sunrise so we can race together? You know I tend to oversleep.” Lao Shu hesitated for a second before agreeing. The next day, at sunrise, all of the animals got up to participate in the Great Race. Lao Shu prepared himself to knock on Mao’s front door to wake her up as promised, but he stopped himself at the last minute. If I do not wake her up, he thought to himself, I will have less competition for the race. With that in mind, he left for the Heavenly Gate, leaving Mao to snore peacefully inside her home. It was a tough road, but eventually, most of the animals made it to the border of the river. Niu immediately dove in the water, prepared to walk across the river with the help of his powerful muscles. Lao Shu was behind him and watched as he did so. He smirked and prepared to initiate his master plan. “Brother Niu!” Lao Shu cried, “Please, I need some help!” Niu turned around, lifting an eyebrow. Lao Shu begged: “As you know, I am the worst swimmer of all the animals. Please, Brother Niu, could you carry me on your back so we can cross the river together?” “Of course, Brother Lao Shu,” Niu smiled kindly, “I would be honored to help you.” Niu turned around and lowered himself in the water so that Lao Shu could climb on him. Together, they crossed the river together. Eventually, they could see the Jade Emperor’s shadow waiting for them on the other side. As Niu approached land, Lao Shu suddenly jumped ahead and reached shore first.

"Congratulations, Little Mouse,” said the Jade Emperor, “You will be the first animal in the Zodiac.” Following closely behind, the muscular Niu was named the second animal in the Zodiac. Then came Lao Hu, panting, who laid down immediately after arriving on land. “The heavy currents of the river kept pushing me back,” Lao Hu managed to breathe out, “It was difficult, but I pushed through.” “I will reward your resilience by naming you the third animal of the Zodiac,” the Jade Emperor replied. Next up, to everyone’s surprise, was the adorable Tu Zi, who was named the fourth animal of the Zodiac. “I jumped from rock to rock across the river to arrive here!” she squealed, “I almost lost the race because I almost fell into the water. Luckily, I hopped on a log in the water and the current led me here!” In fifth place, Long arrived, gracefully flying above the river. “Long,” said the Jade Emperor, “I do wonder why you came in fifth place. You can fly after all.” “Yes, my Lord, I can. However, there was a village in a drought, and I stopped on the way here to give them rain,” Long explained softly, “I also saw poor Tu Zi on a log in the river and decided to blow on the water to allow the current to bring her safely to land.” “What good deeds! I am proud to have you as my fifth Zodiac animal.” Suddenly, a loud voice interrupted them: “I’m almost there!” It was Ma, galloping towards the Jade Emperor. However, he did not notice that Shé (the snake) was wrapped around his left hoof. She took that opportunity to hiss at Ma. Startled by the sudden noise, Ma stopped galloping and Shé quickly slithered towards the god’s foot, making her the

sixth animal of the Zodiac. Ma thus came in seventh. After that, the Jade Emperor saw Ho Zi (the monkey), Ji (the rooster), and Yang (the sheep) arriving to shore together. Thanks to their cooperation, the three animals managed to build a raft and travel safely across the river. The god was pleased by their friendship and put Yang in 8th place, Ho Zi in 9th place and Ji in 10th place. Then came Go (the dog), the 11th animal of the Zodiac, who lost track of time by playing in the water too much. Lastly, Zhu (the pig), who, against all odds, was named the final animal of the Zodiac. “I won?” he asked the god. “Yes,” the Jade Emperor replied, perplexed, “Somehow, even after all your midrace naps, you won.” The animals all celebrated together until they heard a yowl coming from the river. It was Mao! “I’m sorry, little Cat,” said the Jade Emperor, “There are no more places left for you in the Zodiac.” Filled with rage, she turned towards her old friend, the rat. “Lao Shu!” she screeched, “I will never forgive you for what you did! Mark my words, I will not rest until I take my revenge on you!” Even today, the Chinese Zodiac cycle corresponds to the twelve winning animals. Also, after the race, Mao kept her promise and never stopped chasing Lao Shu.

and then they became friends by Chen Song Ling, first year Health Science student

THE END.