Out with the Old - Medium Magazine (Winter 2022)

Out with the Old

Masthead

Editor-in Chief

Elizabeth Provost

Managing Editor

Aia Jaber

Director of Design

Manjot Pabla

Copy Editors

Aidan Thompson Juliana Stacey

Writers

Manjot Pabla Julia Skoczypiec

Aia Jaber

Elizabeth Provost Juliana Stacey

Aidan Thompson Samira Karimova Kareena Kailass Prisha (Maneka) Nuckchady Belicia Chevolleau

Published by Medium II Publications 3359 Mississauga Rd. N., Student Center, Room 200 Mississauga, ON L5L 1C6

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Plasticity

Manjot Pabla

Babcia Julia Skoczypiec

Tangible

Editor's Note

Allthroughout our unique, individual journeys, we seek ever-lasting familiarity—a special person, a long-lived passion, weekly Sunday brunches with the family. But in reality, the only constant is change. The only feature that will always be part of our existence is nature’s need to alter its course—often when we least want it.

Change can be a beautiful element of history, and it can leave us longing for what once was. We cry over our ex-partner for the tender love they gave us, we yearn for the childhood innocence we once had, we crave the awe and compassion felt in a simpler time—sentiments embedded throughout Aidan and Aia’s pieces. We spend somber hours reminiscing about the secret devotion and care our grandparents blessed us with—their ethe real stories immortalized in writing with Julia, Liz, and Juliana’s heartfelt entries. We grow to forget objects— once loved and used every day, as seen in Manjot’s imag inative piece. We miss what we no longer have, and we miss the people we can no longer touch or hear.

At the same time, we may be excited to accept change—purging ourselves of toxicity, unhappiness, and fear. The ability to shed our old skin and become new, prouder versions of ourselves is an example of welcoming change, as written in Kareena and Maneka’s pieces. Innovative progression within the workplace

encourages new perspectives and healthier lifestyles, as seen in Belicia’s article. And the beauty behind ar chitectural and institutional development is evident in Samira’s photo essay.

Welcome to “Out with the Old,” a magazine that can be interpreted in a multitude of ways, and one that pairs with our next Medium Magazine iteration coming in the spring. Many aspects of life are fleeting. By preserving our experiences and history in print, we freeze time. Encouraging and accepting change can be an inner bat tle, filled with the fear of losing touch with the old and enjoying the new. The possibility of forgetting the people and experiences we leave behind can be anxiety-induc ing, but today, we try to remember. And there will al ways be a yearning for crumbs of the past, while embrac ing the new, but there’s excitement in the unexpected, and we can’t wait to experience it with you.

Editor-in-Chief & Managing Editor, Volume

Black and white photographs scattered throughout the first and last pages of this magazine were curated from The Medium’s photo archives.

Plasticity

Manjot

Pabla

Inever

knew the hands that made me. They pour hot liquified plastic into my metal mould. I am one of the millions of malleable bodies solidifying inside the water-cooling tubs that rest on top of the concrete factory floors. We stand next to each other—identical soldiers in formation— waiting until we harden with time. Stuck in boxes, gasping, while we drown in large containers, wait ing eternally.

Time is order—that is what I learn while waiting for a change in the deprivation bath. Beyond the metal walls of the tub, I hear the workers’ system atic rhythm echoing and vibrating. Locked onto those sounds, I count each repeating ring, rattle, and rumble of the machines in the background, and the heavy steps and strikes made by my par ents. I feel time moving in the drag of their hands. I feel it in my body. My semitranslucent, amber-like skin turns into its settled yellow shape, crystalizing under the stress of the cold water surrounding me.

We are almost ready.

An invading bright light captures the water. Fluorescent bulbs replace the ceiling of the tub. A gloved hand comes down from the sky to extract us one by one from our water womb. I am floating, the weight of the water dripping down my form. But the immediate noises and visions attack me as I as cend into the air, overloading my senses. I miss my muffled consciousness bounded in a metal box.

Most workers around us have masks over their faces to protect themselves from the scent of boil ing plastic. Their saggy clothes hang from their small frames. The unmasked labourers carry bags underneath their eyes and wear tight lips on their mouths. Planted down, my feet meet the metal ground beside my fellow soldiers, but the dark wa ter doesn’t welcome us back. We are dragged from one worker to the next on a cart to an unknown des tination. My feet tremble.

The ride over the dull concrete floor is relatively smooth, aside from some faint bumps made from the hastily filled-in cracks in the surface. A few bodies on the cart lose their stability, falling and

tripping others to the bottom of the tray. I barely manage to endure the shaky grounds until we hit an abrupt stop. Unable to carry myself up anymore, all the standing figures and I crash down into each other. We have reached our destination. Leaning against and beneath each other, I anticipate a cou ple of hands will put us back in place.

Rested on the right side of the cart is a masked woman sitting at a newspaper-lined table. She is wearing a white lab coat covered in green and brown stains. Other similarly-dressed workers cramp around her table with figurines in their hands. All types of paint, sprays, and brushes deco rate their table. The woman ignores our fallen con dition and starts selecting bodies from our tray, one at a time, for examination.

Now it is my turn. The two freshly painted toys that went before me disappear from my view. Taking me from the cart, the painter rolls me be tween her stained rubber fingers to check for de formities in my sculpted skin. Satisfied, her finger tips pinch my feet, and she swiftly flips me over.

“My pliable body moulds and develops into the image they desire, a predator ready to attack.”

My face swings over the newspaper articles while she glides a yellowish-green coated brush along my scales. She continues to paint more details onto my body, revealing my fantastical appearance. My pliable body moulds and develops into the image they desire, a predator ready to attack.

She looks me over and then places me on another cart be side the table to dry with the others. I watch as she continues to prod and paint the remaining models—making us into whatev er is profitable. In our row, there are more painters like her hovering over their own paper-covered tables, making all sorts of monsters.

After all the other bodies are dry, an unfamiliar person walks in wearing a wrinkled cotton white shirt and a pair of faded black jeans. Unmasked, her face flinches slightly from the toxic fumes of the spray paint that cling to the air. She resets her face into a smile when she greets the painter near us and takes hold of the cart I am on.

She wheels us out.

I watch as all the toys before me are entrapped and sealed away, wondering where they will go.

It’s my turn. Where will I go?

“ROAWRRRRR,” I shriek so harshly that the hing es of my jaw burst from the force of my mouth ripping itself open. My teeth press against my op ponent’s jaw—he scratches mine while we attempt to overpower each other. The smell of rotting meat between our teeth coats the air. Our bodies cha otically push and slam into each other, both of us looking for an opening to kill. I only bite off a sliv er of his neck. My tongue grazes his open wound, clinging to the metallic taste of blood. Salivating on the promise of meat, I find my opp…

“Navraj, food is ready!” A warm, high-pitched voice yells in the background. A woman emerges from the kitchen at the back of the room wearing her flour-dusted beige apron. She carries an over filled plate in her right hand. The small boy, who clenches me tightly in his grip, uncrosses his legs to stand as his mother walks toward him.

Playtime is over. Reality presses deep into my green, spray-painted, six-inch rubber body—a

pebble to the real Tyrannosaurus rex. But for a mo ment, I was living. The boy drops me onto the hardwood floor alongside my playtime enemy, a Spinosaurus toy that was just resting in his other hand. His familiar hands greedily grasp his dinner plate, leaving me to starve. Some rice and red lentils drop over the side of his tilted glass dish while he dashes to the couch to eat. A few pieces of fallen grains stick to the T-Rex graphic on his grey shirt. His mother sweeps us away from the distract ed boy and tosses us into a bin teem ing with other plastic and mechanical toys. Crashing down, I fall through the cracks between the synthetic bodies and toy vehicles. My life depends on other people’s minds, as I attach to any tiny thread of memories or fantasies to stay alive. I adapt. Still, I am a piece of plastic, meaningless until I am found again.

“My life depends on other people’s minds as I attach to any tiny thread of memories or fantasies to stay alive.”

Thump. The bin tips over, and all the toys drop and scatter across the floor. A not-so-familiar, gi gantic man towers over our tiny frames, plucking me from the rest of the group. My small, rigid body dangles between his squeezing fingers as he carries me away. I am living, but no longer a toy playing in someone’s imagination. He sees me as decoration, to be seen but not touched.

The dense clouds wrap before the moon, leaving only shimmers of light peering through gaps in the sky. The night reveals the boundaries of my physi cality: grounded into the wood and unable to play. I am vulnerable to the abuse of the open skies; I will never feel the warm embrace of hands wrapped around me again. Neglected, I stand alone on the edge. I can never gain autonomy, willingly submit ting to the minds of others any chance I get.

Curiously watching behind the clouds, the moon is complicit in my suffering. I am suffocating in the hollowness of the earth. Its blotted skies and still air capture me in their deep breaths. Silence rings over me. I am aware of the artificial air swallowed inside me, trapping a void within my imperishable cage of plastic flesh.

It has been a few days since being ripped away from my plastic tomb. Reborn again with nails decorating my ankles and tail. I am pinned down onto the handrail of the backyard deck, watching the house in front of me. Static against the world’s fleeting moments buzzing around. One day, the weather’s con stant pressure will slowly chip away at my body until I crack, and then I will breathe for the first time.

Slowly, the clouds drift apart, bright ening the earth’s surface. The wind is more alive than it was a few moments

ago, whistling gently along the delicate contours of the dying plants in the garden. The powerful fra grance of decay travels across the autumn night’s breeze. My pseudo-skin stiffens from the chill as I notice a flash before me. Behind the glass doors, two floating, pensive eyes emerge, silently watch ing me. The eyes glow with the moonlight. Their stare, a cold comfort resting on me like a weighted blanket in the middle of a snowstorm. The icy gaze scorches my body, numbing me. I avert my eyes.

The moon dimly illuminates the inside of the house, revealing the outlines of their body. Their flesh turns grey, like traces of candle smoke linger ing in the dark. I imagine biting into their shadowy skin, my cavity overfilling with their blackened ash. How fitting would that be? To carry life’s crumbs within my polymer jaw and digest a fate I can never taste.

Opposition—in and out. Standing still inside the warm house with their intact skin protected behind glass doors. I look back to their fluttering eyes, glossier now, filling with water. Will their skin crumble if a tear falls out like a tide on a sand castle? With their unshed droplets and midnight skies, it feels like I am drowning in that metal womb all over again. Our eyes meet again, and I do not look away.

Comfort—that is what I bring. All my life, I was a product built upon the image of chil dren’s storybooks and imagined histories, a simple fantasy controlling and taming me. My mass-produced, over-consumed façade made me invisible and devalued. Standing here on the ledge, I will always be a piece of plastic, a cheap dinosaur toy fastened to the wood. I can become something bigger—no longer hidden from the world, remembered—but only if I embrace the limitations of my stiff carcass. Maybe then, I will live.

“To carry life’s crumbs within my polymer jaw and digest a fate I can never taste.”

Babcia

Julia Skoczypiec

Womenare often the man agers of Polish house holds. They raise the children, cook, clean, control the financ es, and create welcoming atmo spheres for all friends and fam ily who visit. With elegance and etiquette, Polish wives tend to act as delicate dictators around their husbands and tough moth ers towards their kids. Their love is often revealed through open conversations on independence, respect, and personal bound aries. They offer intimidating side-eyes that remind their children to spew forced “hellos” and “pleases” and “thank yous” around strangers. “I love you” is not often a phrase that is heard in the house, but it is one that

is felt through family karaoke nights, laughter, and hot soup on hot summer days.

Babcia, my grandmother, was not the type to knit sweaters and chat for hours about her past. She was an elegant woman, her blouses coated in floral perfume, her lips lined with ruby red lip stick, and her nails manicured without a single chip. She had strong opinions and loved to share them with the family— even when nobody listened to her half-hour speeches on the “devilish” influences on modern society. Her name was Kristina.

Babcia’s house smelled of freshly peeled potato skins and clean linens. The hardwood floors squeaked as you entered

through the aged wooden door. Framed portraits of every grand child lined the shelf that led into the living room. A fleece-like mat pillowed my feet when I took off my sneakers. Babcia gave warm hugs with slobbery cheek kisses. I always tried to pull away.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she would say in Polish.

Happy tears flooded her gold en eyes and sometimes made her mascara bleed. She called me her “żabka,” which trans lates to “small frog,” a strange yet affectionate phrase. I grew up to be the same height as her.

We didn’t see Babcia often. She, Dziadek (my Grandpa), and the rest of my aunts, uncles, and cousins stayed in Poland after Mama decided to move to Canada with Tata (my Dad). For years, we visited as frequently as we could—every summer or ev ery other summer. But one year turned to three years and then to four. I learned to appreciate the pixelated Skype versions of Babcia and Dziadek, and they learned to accept that my be hind-the-screen life was only a glitchy retelling amid “can you hear me” and “can you see me.” The real, not-so-graceful me was left for my parents to witness.

Growing up, I wasn’t the “typ ical” girl. I despised wearing nail polish, playing with Barbies, and putting on dresses. When I was nine years old, I taught myself how to skateboard,

wore

“Their love is often revealed through open conversations on independence, respect, and personal boundaries.”

unmatched pairings of snapback caps and chunky DC shoes, and collected fuzzy green caterpillars that I homed in plastic dollar store habitats. My parents supported this version of me—minus the caterpillars. They let me embrace my “tomboy” self as long as I respected their rules, brought home grades above a B+, and went to church ev ery Sunday with brushed hair and rip-less pants. Babcia, on the contrary, never offered a compli ment when I modelled graphic tees and Osiris shoes for her on Skype.

“Why would you wear that?” she’d ask, her lips pursed. “What does Mama say about this look?”

“She likes it!” I’d say, though Mama sat silently in the background.

Mama didn’t want me to stand out for the wrong reasons. But unlike Babcia, Mama knew I refused to change. Slowly, she became less bothered by the not-so-elegant me and even encouraged a few “tomboy” habits. She bought me my first and only pair of Heeleys, got Tata to paint my bedroom blue, and only made one snarky comment—as opposed to a whole spiel—when Tata bought me a BMX bike. Babcia’s opinions often si lenced her own. Still, Mama continued to try and impress her own mother.

“It’s just a time in her life,” Mama would reas sure Babcia. “She will grow out of it.”

I never did. Eventually, Babcia replaced her judgmental words with unsatisfied head shakes and deep sighs. I had a hard time understand ing why physical appearance was so important to Babcia. She wasn’t always the perfect “girly girl,” so why did she expect me to act like I was?

When I visited Babcia and Dziadek in the sum mer of 2013, we took their old hook-on trailer to a local campsite along the Warta River. Babcia brought baggy grey joggers, rubber sandals, and gardening shovels to dig catholes. I never knew she could handle the wilderness until that summer. I watched her skewer sausages on sticks and go two days without brushing her hair. She laughed, smoked, and sang more than she ever had before. Her girly-ness was non-existent. She was beautiful and carefree. The old ladies from church that whis pered crude gossip and spotted every above-theknee skirt in the congregation were far away, in the city. There was not a single beauty standard to up hold. Babcia was naturally herself—a kind-hearted, bulky-toothed little lady with an unapologetic sail or’s mouth.

That camping trip also brought out Babcia’s competitive side. When Dziadek went out to fish in the mornings, Babcia and I sat under the trailer’s

“She wasn’t always the perfect ‘girly girl,’ so why did she expect me to act like I was?”

roll-out awning, ate openfaced tomato and ham sandwiches, and played card games. Our favourite was “ty siąc,” which translates to “one thou sand,” a popular Polish trickster game of sly card placements.

“You can’t fool me,” she would say when I tried to fumble with my deck to put down an extra card. Her cartoon eyes widened before she made her next move.

“And BOOM,” she’d shout. The plastic table wobbled as she slammed down her hand. “One thousand!” Her winning smile made me forget that I’d lost.

“Let’s play again,” I’d say. “There is no way you’ll win again.” If there was a single piece of tomato left on my plate, Babcia made sure I ate it before she reshuffled the deck.

Dziadek returned with live fish in white buckets. He wafted Babcia away as he skinned their scales and chopped their tails in preparation for the campfire.

“Give me those,” she said. “Let me finish.”

She buzzed around him like a mosquito. After some bickering about “who scales fish better,” Babcia finally took hold of the knife. Dziadek sat beside her in a fold-out chair, watched, and occa sionally commented under his breath. Babcia al ways got her way. Her fiery, assertive attitude did not resemble her often elegant appearance.

Those summer days encouraged me to reflect on the binary between masculinity and feminini ty. I have had a hard time understanding its sig nificance in cultures, especially in relation to the physical portrayals of women. I asked Mama about this recently.

“Why do Polish women care so much about what they wear? Everyone looks like a Barbie, even at the supermarket,” I said after noticing the ap parel in Poland.

“They need to fit in,” she said. “Elegance is in grained in us since we are young. Nobody wants to be the talk of the town for wearing something unflattering.”

“So you’d never wear pa jama pants to Walmart?” I said and laughed.

Mama gasped. “Never.”

Babcia never had a glittery wardrobe, nor a pink bedroom. She did not fall into the stereotyp ical “girly girl” category—even though she thought she did. Her Polish roots graced her with strength, decisiveness, and unapologetic humour—qualities that many would call “masculine,” but I call badass. Her physical elegance was only a manifestation of the stereotypical gender norms she was taught.

Though the binary between masculinity and femininity still exists, it is slowly disappearing. The old sayings that “women must be graceful” and “women must appear attractive to their husbands” are gradually replaced with “women are individu als with identities that may not fit the status-quo.” Elegance no longer equates to etiquette—at least, in some cultures. While many Polish women re main classy and typically “feminine,” those that decide to wear pants to Sunday mass are no longer given the side-eye. The little girls that skateboard, cut their hair short, and scab their knuckles are not expected to change, because why should they?

Dziadek now lives alone in the same house that he and Babcia shared. When I last visited in the summer of 2019, the door continued to squeak, and the framed pictures of the family’s grand children continued to shine. Dziadek peeled and boiled potatoes the same way that Babcia did. He didn’t say anything about the dirty sneakers I wore when I entered the house.

“Let me show you something,” he said.

I followed him into the bedroom. Dziadek pulled out a thin gold ring from the back corner of the closet. He placed it in my hand.

“Here,” he said. “Babcia wanted you to have it. Between you and me, you were her favourite grandchild.” He laughed.

“Me?” I asked. “I thought Babcia didn’t like how I looked or acted.”

He paused for a moment and smiled.

“She loved that you were yourself,” he said.

“She loved that you were yourself.”

Tangible Keepsakes of the Past

Aia Jaber

Tangible keepsakes. Pictures, letters, and old mediums, no longer in use. It is an unaltered repetition of history to leave the old in the past and seek what is simpler, newer, and faster. Tech fa natics and social media stars flock to their nearest Apple stores in chilly September weather to buy the latest iPhone. We anxiously throw our phones at the wall after posting a new Instagram picture because we know our followers see our posts as soon as we publish them. For some reason, being perceived by hundreds of people through an on line medium is both exciting and incredibly par alyzing. Almost everything can be accomplished within minutes—sometimes, even seconds.

With the click of a button, we can take a hun dred photos and look at them immediately after. Hitting send allows us to exchange messages back and forth instantly. By pressing play, we can listen to our favourite artists’ new songs as soon as they’re released. It’s not often that you see someone on the street using a Yashica T4 or a Panasonic VZ10 VHS-C—two vintage cameras— or carrying around a Walkman, listening to The Beach Boys. When we do see someone with a relic, we stop and stare, as if these objects are ghosts emerging from the ashes of a forgotten past.

I think technology numbs our brains. And yes, it is incredibly ironic that I say this while writing on my 2019 13’’ MacBook Air, preparing for this to be published online. It is also iron ic because I currently have 24 posts on my Instagram account, six highlights pinned, and 33,581 photos saved in my camera roll. However, I still stand behind my point that excessively con suming media steals the power of the written word. We take a photo and completely forget that it ex ists until one day, we accidentally see it when we’re bored and swiping through our phone. We no lon ger know the magnitude of emotion while holding a physical copy of a photo. To be honest with you, I am much more likely to forget a picture in my cam era roll than a picture printed and hung on my wall.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I think technology has its perks. I can talk with my relatives back in Iraq and check on their well-being faster than I would by sending a letter. And, to be honest, I love being able to photo dump each month on Instagram. There is a beauty to technology: communication, art, and expression. With innovation and media constantly progressing, it is fascinating to see an invention’s origins, and how it compares to its development today. The advancement of technology gives pro found appreciation for the intelligent minds who’ve been able to advance multimedia. You can’t look to the future without acknowledging the past.

At one point, this camera was so loved. It was used to create memories and expand my father's creativity and eye for design, his shots later immortalized on a CD. Now, the device serves as a reminder of expression and familial love.

My hands graze the surface of a 2001 VZ10 VHS-C movie camera, taking in every scratch and button. The camera is old— 2001 being the year I was born—and it no longer works, but I know it would still ap peal to any film fanatic that came across the bulky device. It’s heavy to the touch and no where near as light as my iPhone, which is capable of calling, taking photos, and surf ing Google.

Pictures encapsulate a multitude of dimensions—emotions, time periods, and clothing. My phoneis always in hand, camera app open and ready. Itake pictures of friends, interesting architecture,greenery. I suppose I’m scared that one day, I’llforget about all the good I experience now, becausesometimes I don’t remember what I had for breakfast. I feel like photos are my only connection to thepast—to people from my past. Through pictures,we hear laughter and see joy. Through images, wesee the emergence and disappearance of fashionfads like low-waisted jeans, Adidas Superstars, andbiker shorts. In the most cliché way possible, pictures speak a thousand words. Through them, we

learn about the culture, personality, and details ofan era. They are permanent imprints of history.

In my room, above of my bed, is a photo wall. Ihave around 60 photos beautifully stuck with double-sided tape to the white canvas, serving as a reminder of the people I’ve loved and the happinessI’ve shared. I have to mention that not everyone onmy photo wall is still in my life. In some ways, it canbe painful to see the effects of time, but I know thatremembering the past is what helps me become abetter person. If I forget who I once was, then it’spossible to repeat the same mistakes. My photoskeep me humble and aware of my actions.

My mother has kept all her letters, dating back to when telephones were not easily accessible. Her sisters and friends would confess from the depths of their hearts, discussing their grow ing children, their nosy husbands, and their hopes to see each other again. Each letter is a testament to their love, and an act of defiance against the war raging back home, keeping them apart.

There's an elegance to letters, the fading ink, the browning pages, the secrets they hold, and the handwriting unique to each writer. Before, we would sit at a table, our favourite pen in hand, spending hours perfecting our hand writing and ensuring our words were heartfelt and meaningful so that our reader, whenever they finally received the letter, would per sonify its constituents and make the amulets of love even more real.

When The Weeknd or Adele drop an album at midnight on a random Friday in November, millions of fans are on Spotify or Apple Music refreshing their apps minutes be fore the clock strikes 12. We listen to a song, and put it on repeat, even tually avoiding it by calling it “over played.” We learn all the lyrics, sing out loud whenever it plays on the radio, and attach great emotion al meaning to each song. But with time, we forget the tunes, replacing our favourite tracks with whatever is hot and new, until the old be comes a “classic.”

I hold fond memories of listening to Giveon’s new music when it was released. Each new album re minds me of a time in my life—each song some how perfectly aligning with my experiences, as if Giveon sings to me directly. Yet, I’ve never felt the anticipation of burning a CD, or the excitement in

building a mixtape for a crush. I find beauty in the aesthetic of carrying a Walkman, cassettes stuffed in my pockets, jamming to my favourite playlist. I’ve curated many Spotify playlists for friends, but I’ll never get to hold them in my hands, my fingers grazing a small piece of who I am.

I’m not sitting here writing this on a typewriter, and I most definitely do not address people in letters or through a rotary phone. Still, I take pleasure in writing long and heartfelt birthday cards and curating monthly photo dumps because part of me always hopes to stay in the present before it becomes the past.

Between an Atom and a Star

Elizabeth Provost

I lost my grandfather on July 19, 2022. For the first time, “I’m sorry for your loss” took on a new meaning—and so did the essence of living. As I attend ed the funeral, the wake, the celebration of life—as I looked through his room and read his diaries, I desperately searched for the chapter unwritten.

I carry with me a piece of guilt that will forever be in the thick ness of my skin. Deep regret that I took out the loneliness of feeling small in a big house on the only man that made every room feel full. An insufferable pain has showed me that I was never enough, and yet he loved me all the same.

The way I’ve told his story here has gone through many changes, and part of me has— and does—regret embedding myself within it, because when someone dies, you try your hardest not be selfish with your loss. But although one life is gone, and with it a story un finished, hundreds of broken hearts are left behind.

There’s always more living to do, but we never choose who lives.

Among the stacks of papers he’d written, I found an eightpage essay titled, “How to overcome stage fright.” In blue pen, Dedia (my grandfather) explains how to turn fear into strength. He suggests doing so while smiling. This is my first attempt.

At the wake, we sit to his left, dressed in black as a hundred colleagues, friends, and stu dents say their goodbyes. One by one, they bow their heads, whisper their parting words, and leave flowers at his feet.

I try to calm my trembling hands by digging my nails into my palms. The skin between my forefinger and thumb is marked with deep red crescents.

I wonder if anyone will ever have such perfect words to say about me.

I look at Mama, her expres sion veiled by her dark eyelash es; she stares right through me.

I run my hand down her back and feel the urge to disappear, or to at least be too young for this to leave an impression on me. But I know it will.

It’s my turn to give a speech.

A hundred eyes stare at a stranger. I speak quickly, ach ing to sit back down, to hide be hind the familiar armour of my mother and grandmother.

I remember being told the story of his performance at the “Carrefour Mondial de l’Ac cordéon” festival in Montma gny, Québec in September of 2000. He stepped onto the stage. The audience knew what instrument he played, but they didn’t know how to pronounce his name. He sat on the stool at centre-stage—a thousand eyes staring at a stranger—and began

his set. He received a two-min ute standing ovation after each song.

This will be his final standing ovation.

My grandfather, Viktor Ko niaev, was born on January 17, 1939, in Orichi, a small settle ment in the Kirov region of Rus sia. War was eavesdropping. Viktor lost his father, Sergey, to the war in 1941—an enemy bullet staining his white under shirt. Shortly after, his eightmonth-old brother passed in great tragedy, leaving him an only child to his mother, Clau dia. Claudia was uneducated, but she worked hard in pursuit of a better future for her son.

Kirov was the first train stop on the evacuation route from Moscow to Siberia. Many fled to the region during the war, while others travelled farther, endur ing colder climates to avoid the deafening echoes of the end less bombing. There was little choice. There was little living.

One settler in Kirov was a famous accordionist. Under the grey sky, heavy clouds, and stagnant air, he filled the streets of suffering people with his en ergetic tunes. He performed traditional songs that remind ed war victims of a time before living was a feat of chance. No body sang or danced along, but he kept playing.

This stranger changed Viktor’s life.

Dedia—the nickname I came up with for my grandfather when I was two years old—could have been walking from school or to the grocery store when he first heard the unique sound of the ac cordion. Its tone played over and over in his head, springing to life in infinite combinations. He want ed nothing else.

A few weeks later, Claudia found a stool in be tween Dedia’s small hands. He played with the wood en spindles, imitating the musician he had seen on the street. His eyes were closed, head tilted to the sky; this became his sig nature pose—the one I would observe at the din ner table as something heavenly filled the room.

Dedia graduated from his mimical instrument and self-made sounds when Claudia bought him a garmon for his eighth birthday (the cheaper, smaller alternative to the accordion). The weeks of potato-scrap dinners were forgotten when the instrument fit snugly be tween his hands. Soon, he outgrew it and ad vanced to the larger in strument.

in Kirov. Dedia’s second feat of good fortune came when he met Sakhar, who admired his talent. They played at balls and danced at local city squares, re-imagining a bright Russian future. This was the start of Dedia’s career as a musician: self-educated, ambitious, and playing against all odds.

tone played over and

Dedia spent every minute away from school practising endless scales and playing songs, but when he completed the eighth grade, his confi dence slipped. He didn’t believe he could dedicate his life to an instrument. So, at the age of 15, Dedia travelled to Kirov, the cap ital of the region, to become an electrician. In the two years that followed, Dedia installed and repaired wires, mounted lighting systems, and struck the bass buttons of his accordion every day after work.

After the war, and 27 million lives lost, there was an explosion of dance and music across the country as the spirit of celebration spread. Solomon Sakhar, a Russian Jew who fled Nazi occupation, founded organizations for musicians, orchestras, and dancers

In 1958, Dedia was invited to accompany the Rus sian traditional dance group, Dymka. The ensem ble, founded in 1956 by Sakhar and Boris Kobrinsky, travelled to put on shows around Russia, as well as more than twenty-five countries across Central and Western Europe, Asia, and Africa. In 1980, De dia performed as a solo ist at the Olympic Games in Moscow. He contin ued touring with Dym ka into the 1990s, and in 1992, his dedication to his art, his virtuosi ty, and his achievements were recognized by the Federal Ministry of Cul ture, who awarded him with the Honour Prize— the highest distinction a musician can receive in Russia. He was also equally devoted to edu cation and started teach ing at the Kirov Musical Institute in 1965. He con tinued instructing until

in

the age of 80, raising generations of accor dionists—each boasting about their nationally-re nowned teacher.

In early 1963, Dedia was invited to a birthday party. He was a popular guest at any celebration, but that night, his electri cal training proved to

“Its

over

his head, springing to life in infinite combinations. He wanted nothing else.”

be of more use than his accordi on. The light in the dining room went out, leaving the party in darkness and Dedia unable to see the keys on his instrument. So, he climbed on a small lad der, swiftly screwed in a new bulb, and brought a warm glow back into the room. He danced with all 10 women at the party, but at the end of the night, he walked only one to the tram. Buy ing two tickets, he made sure she got home safely. “I no ticed he had a nice hat and jacket,” is what Lulu, my grandmother, remembers.

Since they had met at the birthday party, Dedia had been taking her out every Sun day to the restaurant at the train station—the best one in town. But that summer, when Lulu travelled from Kirov to Staraya Russa to visit her moth er, she didn’t tell Dedia when she was coming back, she only men tioned that they’d see each oth er upon her return. A few weeks

later, when she arrived back in Kirov, Dedia stood on the train platform in a crisp white shirt, holding a fresh bouquet of flow ers. It was the fifth bouquet he’d bought that week. They were married on Decem ber 24, 1963.

The following year, Sakhar encouraged Ded ia to complete conserva tory training for the accordion at the St. Petersburg Musical Institute. Dedia con tinued to perform, trav elling 24 hours in one direction to complete ex aminations between shows.

He graduated as an orches tral conductor and was quickly gaining popularity.

Dedia dedicated his entire life to his craft. His mind was always filled with hymns and his fingers covered with cal luses. His lungs overflowed with music—not air. Dedia loved what he did; his passion could never be a chore. He loved his instrument and the im

pact it left on those who had the pleasure of hearing him.

In 1999, my mother escaped the crime and chaos of St. Pe tersburg by moving to Québec, Canada. She missed home—the culture, the food, her parents. She wrote to Dedia, asking him and Lulu to move to Canada— for the same “better life.” Dedia wrote in a letter to her: “My big gest concern is that I don’t know if I will be of much use in Cana da as an accordionist.” He was 61 years old. He worked for another 19 years.

From her childhood, Mama re members endless music. In the late hours of the night, or when she was doing her homework, Dedia would press the keys on ei ther side of the instrument, with out expanding and contracting its bellows—imagining the sound as he gave a silent performance.

Dedia would wake at 7 a.m. and cross the city to begin teach ing at 8 a.m. He strapped his 16-kilogram accordion to his body like protec tive armour. Af ter his working day, he would

“Despite the endless hours of work, the time seldom spent with family, and the physical demands of his job, he was happy—eternally happy and satisfied.”

hurry home and quickly eat a dinner prepared by Mama’s grandmother, Babulia. At the kitchen table—eating alone as Mama, Lulu, and Babulia had dinner earlier—he would call Mama over, and whisper “на-ка,” urging his daughter to steal a few dumplings or a piece of buttered bread at his “here you go.”

Despite the endless hours of work, the time sel dom spent with family, and the physical demands of his job, he was happy—eternally happy and sat isfied. He was also praised, appreciated, and loved. Not only for his music, but also for his character.

My blonde hair peeks out from underneath my silky black headscarf. I shove my index finger through the lace and scratch behind my ear. In the car, on our way to the funeral service, I scrape the polish off my nail bed. By the time we arrive, my left ring finger has lost half its colour. “Stop that,” whispers Mama, lightly swatting my hands from the comfort of the other.

The priest asks me to place a cross in Dedia’s left hand and a small icon of Christ at his feet. I lift the white blanket concealing his hands. His fin gers look stale, almost blistered. I carefully posi tion the cross between his thumb and index finger. The priest and the choir begin singing, reciting a prayer unfamiliar to me. I sign the cross upon my chest, remembering to motion from right to left as the porters close the casket and screw nails into its wooden frame.

Late in the day, one of Dymka’s re tired dancers gets up to give a toast. “Once I saw him on my way to rehears al,” she starts in Russian. “He was in his 60s. He was standing in an almost-empty bus. I asked Viktor, ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’” She continues, “I noticed his accordi on on the seat in front of him. He

was standing above, eyes peering at the instrument. He replied to me, ‘No, Tatiana, this seat is for my accordion.’” And so, as he ran to and from work, for 61 years, he didn’t sit—happily standing and afford ing a moment of respite for his precious instrument.

We return home in the afternoon. Mama and I share a few words of regret over our mutual sense of not having known much about him despite lov ing him deeply. “We didn’t protect him enough. We fed him leftovers. We thought that just because he was the man of the family, he would be okay. Look at us now, three women,” she says, walking out of the living room onto the balcony.

I peel the black dress off my skin—the sun has left impressions of its folds on my body. I walk into Dedia’s room. It’s warm.

“I am surrounded by 50 years of memories, and from them I learn more about Dedia than I did in the 21 years of my life.”

“Dedia is the closest we will ever get to a star.”

Over the next few hours, and the following weeks, in an enclosure no larger than two-by-three me tres, I am surrounded by 50 years of memories, and from them I learn more about Dedia than I have in the 21 years of my life. In his fortress of remembrances, I am guided through his most pri vate and vulnerable thoughts, his most memora ble triumphs, and his most precious stacks of mu sical notes. His presence in the room is eminent.

I start at the small shelf to the right of the door. A few sheets of music hang loose, brushing against the rusted hinges. Mama and I go through thousands of notes, scores, and annotated books. I show her passages from newspaper articles he’s copied into a crumpled notebook. Mama calls these faded, well-loved, and probably forgotten scrapbooks “his internet.”

“He told me a few months ago he saved you a stack of special songs he wanted you to learn on the piano,” says Mama. “You should try to find it.” I tirelessly search for those scores, wondering which of the loose sheets are meant for my un skilled fingers.

I get lost in his writing. As the light peers through the dusty window, I sit on his twin bed, cross-legged, my body sinking into his bumpy, uneven mattress. I immerse myself in his cursive writing—in some places it’s neat, in others it’s barely legible. Even Mama can’t make out what he’s written. He writes about how to teach mu sic, how to cook borscht, how to give out scores at competitions; he writes about how to play the accordion—when to exhale, when to inhale—how to be a good musician and a good man. He writes about his marriage, his daughter, his aspirations, and requests to God.

Before our departure home, we visit his grave one last time. Thousands of tombstones, some big, some small, some maintained, others overgrown with tall grass and weeds. His gravesite down the “Alley of Stars” places him close to the entrance. In our two weeks in Kirov, the hundreds of car nations and dozens of roses have dried out under the hot July sun. But, at his head are two fresh flowers and a hope that his legacy, both as a mu sician and a man, lives on.

I recently came across a passage: “The scale of man—spatially—is about midway between the atom and the star.” Dedia is the closest we will ever get to a star. Виктор Сергеевич Коняев

January 17, 1939 – July 19, 2022

Juliana Stacey Back in Style

When I was three years old, my parents bought me a Fisher Price cassette tape player. This was their first mistake.

My radio, as I liked to call it, was white with bright blue speakers. It had a red handle that I decorated with all the best puppy and princess stickers and was small enough that I could carry it in my arms.

My parents made another mistake. They select ed a cassette player that came with its own mi crophone, attached to the side of the speaker by a thickly coiled yellow wire. Five-minute car rides and five-hour road trips—I lugged my radio from room to room with me whenever I spent the day at home.

Since my radio could not, in fact, tune into any actual radio stations, I made it my mission to locate every cassette in my house, resulting in makeshift mixtapes bouncing from Pavarotti to Sesame Street Sing-Along! to AC/DC. I took spe cial interest in listening to the cassettes in small spurts, gleefully replaying the same 60 seconds. I held the microphone up to the speaker whenev er my favourite songs came on, just to make sure that everyone in the house could enjoy my soldout shows featuring screechy feedback and feeble attempts at whistle tones.

Much to my parents’ dismay, I also invested quite a bit of time in using the “record” function on my radio to compose my own songs. These “originals” were immortalized through cassette tapes of their own (thankfully, they have never seen the light of day, nor will they ever—at least, not if I have anything to say about it).

Over time, my radio’s speakers began to hiss. My father did his best to try to fix my radio, and he was successful for the most part—the only portion of it that stopped working completely was the mi crophone (though I’m not sure his intention was to fix that in the first place).

As I grew older, my radio and I parted ways. When I was seven years old, I received a CD play er for Christmas, along with a collection of Taylor

Swift, Miley Cyrus, and Avril Lavigne CDs. My radio was quickly relocated to a drawer in my bedroom, then to a shelf in the basement. A few years later, I was given my first MP3 player, outfitted with a sparkly purple case and a set of matching headphones—my music was now fully portable, and I was ecstatic. My CD player joined my radio in the graveyard of child hood gadgets.

Every time something new came out, whether it was the next generation iPod or the most re cent streaming service, I made the switch to the “latest and greatest” without second thought. This change was always made easier by the fact that everyone seemed to move along with me. Suddenly, the stores in the mall that sold CDs and cassette tapes shifted over to Funko Pops and band t-shirts, making it virtually impossible to find these musical antiquities anywhere but flea markets and garage sales. But who would want to anyway?

My most recent change has been expensive (I’ve learned the hard way that shipping fees can really bump up the total on your receipt), but one that I feel is worth the dents in my chequing account.

I’ve started building my very own record col lection—partly because my father bought a record player, and I didn’t feel like solely listening to 80s music. At first, it was just a few records, albums I loved, or discs I thought were too pretty to pass up. Now, I have more than 50 records, and the habit I thought was a phase during the pandemic has become a bit of an obsession. There is nothing comparable to the crackling of the needle as the record begins to spin; the music carries a richness you simply can’t taste through a Spotify track.

And I’ll admit, collecting record variants is slightly addictive—I’m pretty sure my credit card sobbed the day I found out that Taylor Swift’s folklore was going to be released in eight different editions, each with its own original cover art, in ner sleeve photograph, and marbled vinyl disc (I have two of them, which I’d like to think displays

more self-control than anything else). My new hobby has led me to collect records from multiple genres and eras. My enhanced musical tastes now span from original pressings of Culture Club and Elton John to anni versary editions of My Chemical Romance to Paramore albums.

Part of the allure of collecting vinyl—for me, at least—comes from the experience of shopping at the record store. The smell of mould generally isn’t something I particularly enjoy, but being greeted by familiar musty air when you push open the front door of a record store means you’ve found the jackpot. Other indications include stained car pets, stairs that most definitely do not look safe to walk down, and store owners who dress as though the 60s never ended (bo nus points if they have a horse shoe mustache and their hair falls below their shoulders).

When I was younger, my fa ther and I went to Blockbuster every Thursday—the day that new releases were placed on shelves. I would run down the aisles, hoping to locate copies of my favourite movies, sometimes trying to swindle my way into renting films that no six-yearold had any business watching (despite my best efforts, my

numerous attempts at switching out DVD cases or hiding horror movies under stacks of Barbie films were not successful).

Thursday, for many years, was my favourite day of the week. Then, Blockbuster went out of business, and Thursday night ex cursions were no more; our new equivalent of strolling the “New Releases” was scrolling through what was “New to Netflix.”

A few years ago, my father introduced me to Archtop Café in Port Credit, just a short drive from the University of Toronto Mississauga campus. While the main floor serves as a café, the basement is home to an eclectic collection of used records, hous ing everything from classic rock to stand-up comedy. He watched as I perused through the rows of bins, searching for the coveted The Breakfast Club soundtrack (the original recording from 1985, not the reissue).

“I can’t believe it,” he smiled, thumbing through the stacks of records alongside me. “If I had known you would be collecting records, I would have kept more of them, or at least, kept them in better shape.” Many of the older albums I’ve spent weeks, some times months, tracking down are records my father once owned. His collection was scattered over

the years—some ended up in the trash, others were sold at garage sales or given to family mem bers, but most were scratched and bent from years of use. The records that were left behind ended up in my grandparents’ shed. Some of those albums have recently made their way to our home, where we discovered that years of living through Canadian winters and summer thunder storms were, unsurprisingly, not ideal for records. Thin sheets of mould and mildew enveloped each record sleeve. We salvaged what we could, purchasing new outer slips for the best ones, but had to let go of the rest.

“We owned almost all the orig inal Beatles albums, and nobody really cared,” my father told me recently. An original, mint condition copy of The Beatles’ self-titled album now sells for just under US$12,000. “They were just something that every one had, and it wasn’t a big deal if you scratched it or bent the outer sleeve—it wasn’t like we thought they’d be worth anything. It was the same with hockey cards. Almost every one of my friends had a Wayne Gretzky rookie card, and now one of those just sold for over a million dollars. I wish I had known what I was doing when I stuck that card in

“My CD player joined my radio in the graveyard of childhood gadgets.”

the spokes of my bike because it made a cool sound when I was riding down the street.”

Just like hockey cards and other memorabilia, most vintage records carry a hefty price tag today. Older vinyl records can be worth anything from tens to thousands of dollars, depending on the year of production, the colour of the vinyl, and how many copies were produced. New vinyl record pric es increased by almost 500 per cent between 2007 and 2017, and these prices continue to rise. This price tag is clearly not a deterrence, however. 2021 saw more vinyl record sales than CD sales, a metric last met in 1986.

My father and I now visit local record stores reg ularly, and it has become tradition for us to attend Record Store Day—an annual celebration where indie record stores are given exclusive rights to lim ited-edition pressings of albums, both new and old.

Paramore, outfitted with a new outer sleeve like all the rest of my albums. One day, maybe when the hurt isn’t so fresh, I might give the yodeling track list a try; maybe it’ll end up on my next mixtape.

Just as my father’s records from his teenage years sat accumulating mould in a backyard shed at my grandparents’ house, my radio, and the cassettes that survived their time with three-year-old me, still collect dust somewhere in my parents’ basement. They have survived countless garage sales, spring cleanings, and even moving houses. For some rea son, I haven’t been able to justify letting them go just yet. Who knows, there’s always the possibility that cassette tapes may come back in style.

Recently, my father and I sat in the basement of my grandparents’ house, sifting through my grandfa ther’s record collection. Just before he passed, my grandfather asked me to pick out whatever records I liked, wanting to make sure they ended up in the hands of someone who would spin them, rather than use the sleeves as artsy posters. There was one record, though, that he specifically requested I take home, regardless of whether it would ever leave my shelf again.

The record is a signed copy of Donn Reynolds’ Songs of the West. Donn Reynolds, known as the “King Of The Yodelers,” was a Canadian country musician. In 1976, Reynolds established the world record for the longest consecutive yodelling session, which lasted for almost seven and a half hours. He was also named the world’s fastest yodeler in 1982.

Donn was my grandfather’s close friend. My father remembers him coming over for dinner on several occasions, singing merrily as he slurped down beers at the head of the table. Donn gifted my grandparents a signed copy of his most popu lar record more than 40 years ago. My grandfather cherished this record, evident by the condition of its sleeve. Songs of the West is the only record in his collection with pristine corners and an inner sleeve to protect it from static build-up.

It is common knowledge among my family and friends that I loathe country music—it’s the one genre that will make me switch radio stations. But this record now sits between Taylor Swift and

“One day, maybe when the hurt isn’t so fresh, I might give the yodeling tracklist a try; maybe it’ll end up on my next mixtape.”

MOUNTAIN BROOK, ALBERT BIERSTADT, 1863 THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART

Searching for Awe in a Digital World

Aidan Thompson

unfamiliar experience. The former is destabilizing and the latter generally provokes one towards reli gion as a sort of existential reflex.

Antoine

Hennepin was the first European to witness and recount the commanding magnif icence of Niagara Falls. In today’s age of TripAd visor and Trivago, it is nearly impossible to fath om what this experience could have been like for a Dutch-born missionary in the 17th century—a man who had not only never seen Niagara Falls but didn’t even know it existed. Hennepin spent the first half-century of his life in the Netherlands, a country renowned for its “consistent” geography, before he boarded a 75-foot caravel and sailed for New France. He was—in a manner that can no lon ger be paralleled today—a true explorer.

Hennepin arrived in Québec City in 1675, and three years later embarked to explore the West. He sailed along the Saint Lawrence River and arrived in Niagara on December 6, 1678. He lowered the boat’s anchor off the shore of Lake Ontario, con tinued through the forest, and stepped out onto the Niagara Gorge. From there, Hennepin watched as a river “about a league wide” rushed towards a cliff and tumbled over into a “waterfall which has no equal.” He gazed at the “vast and prodigious” out pouring as it cascaded in “a surprising and aston ishing manner, insomuch [as] the Universe does not afford [a] parallel.” He was, in much simpler words, in awe.

It was not until the mid-18th century that this religious emphasis on awe began to evolve. As the age of enlightenment progressed, philosophers be gan to consider awe as an experience that was ca pable of being inspired by the natural world. With the average person unaware of Niagara Falls exis tence, this was radical thinking. Edmund Burke, an 18th century Irish politician and philosopher, was the first proponent of this belief. He suggested in his 1757 book, A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, that thunder, artwork, and music were all capable of producing feelings of awe.

Today, awe has been almost entirely removed from its earlier spiritual associations. It is instead thought of as a feeling inspired by viewing beau ty or strangeness. In the past 20 years, awe has become a (small) matter of scientific interest. Re search by Dacher Keltner, a professor of Psychol ogy at Berkeley, suggests that awe plays a crucial role in promoting a “state of accommodation,” in which our beliefs “are revised to make sense of the awe-inspiring stimuli.” This “state of accommoda tion” suspends us in uncertainty, which, however terrifying, is crucial for scientific, philosophical, and individual thinking.

Throughout much of history—and up until the 18th century—awe was understood as a spiritual or re ligious experience. The linguistic origins can be traced back to the 13th century Norse word “agi,” which translates to “fear” or “trembling.” This ini tial understanding tied together two components: a presence of something vast and uncanny, and an

“Awe is a destabilizing emotion,” he states. “It is elicited by something vast, either physically or metaphorically,” which creates an uncertainty that is reconciled through this “state of accommoda tion.” Traditionally this process would be resolved through religious answers. And while the historic and dogmatic pressures of religion suggested this reflex to be further evidence of God’s existence or grandeur, researchers from the University of Southern California have revised this, explaining that “when feelings of personal control are low, people turn to supernatural explanations as a means of restoring such control.” In other words, this tendency to turn towards religion in moments

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

— W.B. Yeats

of awe is simply a way to rid oneself of the uncer tainty the experience produces, or to avoid the re sponsibility of seeking tangible explanations.

When was the last time you felt awe? As Hen nepin did watching 3,000 tons of water crash down from Niagara Falls, or a Spanish sailor did seeing the glistening shore of the Caribbean after months at sea. Chances are, if you’re totally honest with yourself, it’s been a while. Or maybe you’ve never felt awe. Perhaps you’ve wondered why you didn’t feel it sitting on the beach in Tulum over spring break or watching the sun set over the Ap palachians. Those are both unfamiliar experienc es, each beautiful in their own uncapturable way. Each is unique, and moving, and likely earns a spot amongst your greatest memories. So, why didn’t it feel like you’d expected it to?

If we round up the earlier definitions of awe, we can isolate one critical component: an unfamiliar ex perience. But how easy is it, in today’s age, to come by some thing unfamiliar?

In a world of blockbusters and budget films; TikToks and Twitter trends; Spotify Premi um, YouTube Shorts, and Instagram Reels; blogs about travel, or food, or health; Netflix and Amazon Prime; Google Maps, Google Earth, Google Search; Red Dead Redemption 1, Red Dead Redemption 2, and Red Dead Redemp tion Online; Fox News, BBC, The Washington Post, The New York Times. In a world with adver tisements on billboards, benches, and the backs of buses, we are relentlessly targeted as consum ers—either directly through commercial advertise ments, or indirectly through media, where our at tention acts as a form of consumption.

In 2007, a market research firm named Yan kelovich revealed that a person living in a typical city is exposed to nearly 5,000 advertisements a day. That number was up from 2,000 in the mid 80s. Today, the average city-dwelling, social-me dia-using person is exposed to almost 10,000 ad vertisements a day. And in addition to a rise in ad vertising, a 2020 survey revealed that 96 per cent of users consumed more online videos than they had the year prior, spending an average of 100 minutes a day watching video content. When we consider that someone who consumes more me dia consumes more advertisements, and someone

who consumes more advertisements is bound to consume more media, these statistics become even more revealing.

What does this have to do with awe? Remem ber that an important component of awe is one’s unfamiliarity with the experience. Through mass media, we are continuously exposed to an array of what I’ve chosen to call “micro-experiences.” A micro-experience is what we get when we watch a 15-second clip of a stand-up comedian, or a 30-sec ond montage of a friend’s summer vacation. They are fundamentally different than the primary expe rience, which is to be in the audience or on summer vacation. It is a momentary glimpse into the life of another that comes without the immediacy neces sary to elicit awe itself, which is why people’s faces are generally blank when they’re scrolling through their phone. When we are consuming micro-experiences, we are consum ing bite-sized portions of the primary experience, which is crucial—otherwise watching a movie about World War 2 would leave us traumatized and take six years to finish. Regardless of how brief and sim plistic these micro-experiences are, they do communicate an idea of what that primary experience would be like. This is why if I asked you to imagine what it would be like to travel to almost any country in the world, you would be able to come up with a vague idea quite quickly. And even if your vague, generalized idea is nothing like the actual experience, your expectations would still affect your trip. While we scroll mindlessly through news articles, advertisements, and social media, each of them influences us in some man ner. The TikTok we watch of a girl in a linen dress eating strawberries on a Greek island informs us in some way about that experience—about what it would be like to travel to Greece, or at the very least, what the island of Santorini looks like. Consequently, through media, social or other wise, we are being continuously informed about a vast array of experiences. We become familiar with different people, see different places, and learn about different cultures. The spectrum of what the average educated person with a smartphone is fa miliar with today is exponentially higher than what it was 50 years ago, let alone 200 years ago. The consequence of this is that one of the criteria of

awe—the demand for an unfamiliar experience—be comes a lot harder to fulfill, because even if we’ve never seen the Pyramids in Giza or heard Beetho ven’s “Piano Concerto No. 5” in Carnegie Hall, we’ve seen photos or heard recordings. And so, the expe rience, in all its primary magnificence, is still not entirely unfamiliar, at least not in the way seeing Niagara Falls was for Hennepin.

To illustrate this point a little further, let’s take a quick look at some Yelp reviews for Niagara Falls and compare them with Hennepin’s earlier account where he used words like “vast,” “prodigious,” and “astonishing.” Adalia remarked on August 25 of the 21st century that Niagara Falls was “a nice family getaway.” By no means is that a negative review, but this is one of the seven natural wonders of the world—I believe it deserves a little more than just “a nice distraction” for your kids. Joern, quite poi gnantly, stated that the Falls were “not a surprise, but another must do.” And Guarang, always a stick ler for safety, warned that “[Niagara Falls] could be better if more sign indicators and utilities were avail able.” Now before you stop reading and rush over to Yelp to prove me wrong, I’ll acknowledge that these were picked with some agenda, but regardless, “an other must do?” The fact that someone could have anything less than positive to say about the Falls re veals that something is having a profound effect on the way we experience the natural world.

I don’t wish to suggest that this is an inherent issue with media, as though any representation de values the original, but I wish to suggest that mass media, and our continuous and relentless exposure to micro-experiences, dramatically hinders our abil ity to be awed. And if you’re questioning what the importance of awe is, consider its ability to destabi lize our beliefs. No matter what side of the political spectrum you may situate yourself upon, I believe you can recognize the importance of people adjust ing their perspective.

So where does this leave us? Unable to be moved by the beautiful world that surrounds us? Well sort of, but not entirely. It is true that digital media has overly familiarized us with the world, making it harder for us to encounter unfamiliar experienc es, and thus harder to be awed. However, it is im portant to note that media, and especially social media, is only able to satiate certain senses. We can’t taste a TikTok or feel the Caribbean sun in an ex-girlfriend’s thirst trap, and consequently this

over-familiarization is largely limited to our visual and auditory experiences. In other words, seeing Ni agara Falls on a field trip is not going to be the same as it was for Hennepin, but feeling the mist on your face certainly will be.

It is also important to note that I do not wish to suggest that, at large, our emotional experiences are softening—rather our emotional experiences to stimuli that can be reproduced through digital me dia are. Watching a romantic comedy isn’t going to shrink the grandeur of falling in love, just as watch ing 15 episodes of Hot Ones won’t mean you can eat a Carolina Reaper without being rushed to the hos pital. So, while digital media has certainly affected our real-world experiences in many profound ways, there are aspects of our life that are unable to be re produced through media, and thus, remain entirely our own. Since Meta and Elon Musk have yet to in vent a way to stimulate the nerves of a first date or the excitement of a first kiss, we can hold onto those experiences as entirely authentic (for now).

But for the time being, try to appreciate the beau ty of the familiar as though it were entirely unknown to you. In the next week, stop for a moment—wheth er you’re on the streetcar or in the office or sipping champagne on the Amalfi Coast—and watch in modest appreciation as life unfolds around you. And maybe, the stillness of your ex pectations will let the world move you.

“Maybe, the stillness of your expectations will let the world move you.”

EATON’S NECK, LONG ISLAND, 1872, JOHN FREDERICK KENSETT

ART

Brushstrokes of the Past

The University of Toronto Mississauga (UTM), once Er indale College, began its history in the early 1960s when a timid building, set upon the valley of the Credit River, was construct ed. The story commenced on the lands of the Huron-Wendat, and most recently the Mississaugas of the Credit River. From new seeds to large oaks, an ecosystem of innovation, sustainability, and inclusivity was born.

The monuments and architec tural works across campus act as tangible reminders of UTM’s his tory. Within our campus walls, our spirits will continue to exist well into the future as we cele brate culture, develop research, and expand the creative limits of student journalism.

The Erindalian (1968–1973), Erindale College’s first stu dent-run newspaper was found ed by Robert Rudolph and Doug Leeies. The proceeding name

of Medium II (1974–1994), and now The Medium (1995–pres ent), followed in the footsteps of The Erindalian as the confident and unapologetic voice of the students at the university. Leeies said, “It all started on a shoe string budget upstairs at Colman House. Erindale was a blank can vas for us. Nobody else was do ing what we were doing; we were cutting our own trail.”

In time, students and staff painted the legacy of UTM in bold hues, bright tones, and vibrant dyes on the once blank canvas. Every decision was a brushstroke across the purposeful history of UTM. Today, the picture of UTM is celebrated; our colours of the past are well blended into our present and future.

The painted canvas, or in other words, our life, can be compared to a picture book. As our fingers flip through the colourful pag es, the images gradually reveal

a story. And despite each page appearing separately, all parts of the story exist simultaneous ly. Hence, if we only focus on the present, we will fail to un derstand how the present came to be. A story will never be fully understood if the beginning is forgotten. Therefore, we require collec tions of our memories to last. To me, photography is the me dium that allows us to capture every moment eternally. We can remember our ancestors, create traditions, and reflect on victories and failures alike. Photography allows us to find wisdom in difficult moments and share our emotional triumphs. It grants us the entire perspective. I hope that as we take time to look at the images of UTM, we recog nize the legacy of our modest be ginning and the ambitions of our present and future.

Samira Karimova

Fallen Leaves

Kareena Kailass

It’s that dreaded time again—summer cleaning.

I sit at my desk and slide open the top draw er, exposing its faux-velvet-lined wooden interior. Amongst the numerous pens and paperclips, my hand-crafted acrostic poem from the third-grade peeks out from the colourful mess. I smile as I run my hand over the cranberry-red ribbon stapled to it. “First place,” reads the tightly-embroidered golden threads.

I stop, inhale deeply, and reflect. I think back to who I was. Who I am. How far I’ve come. All the things I left in the past as I climbed the unpredict able ladder I always envisioned as linear. I think of all the growth that has led me to this moment.

On top of my cherry-wooden desk lies a sheet of loose-leaf paper and a pen. Memories and realiza tions of my growth over the years rush through my head as I remember the version of me I used to be. Back then, I was a lot younger, a lot different than I am now.

The rushing wave of thoughts pauses for a mo ment. Reaching out, I grab hold of the metallic blue pen with my name inscribed on it—a parting gift from my best friend before she left for univer sity. I scribble on the corner of the sheet with the pen I’ve preserved for so many years, exposing its fresh, jet-black ink for the first time.

Dear younger me, Thank you for shaping me into who I am today. Because of the lessons you learned, I now stand strong on my feet, ambitious, and determined.

I often ponder over the purpose of the lessons and paths in life you showed me. The unexpected events and obstacles you put in my way and how they all helped me grow. How they helped me see that we reached our potential and that it was time to let go and move out of our comfort zone.

To learn more. To be more.

From the beginning, you were always de termined, undeterred by a challenge. After every fall, you dusted yourself off and kept going. You grew into your space and sur roundings, but knew you had to step out of now-familiar landscapes to mature. It was frightening to let go of your comfort zone and make the unfamiliar, familiar.

What was the purpose?

Every new stage of life invited new faces, routines, ideas, and thoughts. What was the importance?

It taught you the principles and practic es you live by today. It gave you memories you’ll always cherish.

It took experience to get to where we are today. Trying to figure out life a little more each day. Learning that plans should be written in pencil instead of pen. That being authentic and true to yourself is what will take you where you want to be in life—to your first job, your best friendships, and the most confident and strong version of you. That the ones close to you and the things you love will always be dearest to you. To guide you with their wisdom and uncondi tional support. To always be a part of your life, wherever it decides to take you.

“I think of all the growth that has led me to this moment.”

Does anyone see this differently?

It’s inevitable. We are all different. We grow and learn through unique experienc es. We evolve. We change.

find yourself thinking back to these mo ments every now and then, reflecting, to avoid repeating the same patterns again.

The browning tips.

But sometimes, when you didn’t like the direction things were headed in, you were successful in changing your destination. You constantly pushed yourself to put your best self out there and never gave up when things didn’t work in your favour. You were determined to get to where you wanted to be. To progress, to amend things, to grow. Despite the everlasting footprint that you often ponder over, you always bounced back and became far more capable than you once were. And for this, you often forget to give yourself enough credit for how resil ient and strong you are.

The sun-bleached leaves.

As I write this letter, my eyes wander to the soft ly-arched leaves of the dracaena tree on the cor ner of my desk. It’s hardly over a foot tall, but it has a lot more growing to do until it’s a full tree. It is thriving, luscious, and emerald green from its stem, despite some of its sun-bleached leaves and browning tips.

Why does this resonate with me?

Why does this matter?

I can’t shake it. I think I see life’s journey in this tree.

I think of you as the bulb—the roots. Taken care of by our loved ones. Those who nourished and loved you. Surrounded you. Kept you safe. You blossomed with their care and love. Growing as you experienced highs and lows.

The leaves.

You learned from these experiences. Made mistakes you couldn’t always take back or change. These hurdles didn’t stop you from growing, but they left an impact on you. Like a tattoo, your actions and de cisions engraved a new mark of remem brance on you with each experience. You

Despite all of the experiences, good and bad, you persevered. Even when you were at your lowest, you picked yourself up and refused to surrender. The battle was not over until you said it was. You pushed your self and kept going. And from this, every day, you grow a little more. Stronger. More confident. Bolder.

The new leaves.

I look at the tree in a new light. Some older leaves on the bottom look frail and tired— judging by the leaves’ slumped stupor, they look like they are about to fall off. I reach out and gently touch a dry edge peeking out from the green foliage. The emerging leaf gracefully parachutes to its roots, like a weightless feather. It lays delicately over the moist mud, hugging it, reminiscent of a barrette enveloping soft locks of hair.

What does this mean? Growth?

Letting go?

I look back to the top of the tree, a knot now present where the leaf once hung. This new, bare part of the tree is a solved mys tery. I run my fingers over it. It’s smooth. Adds a new shape to the tree. More charac ter, I think to myself. Uniqueness.

What is this reminiscent of?

The lasting impact of our experiences?

“We grow and learn through unique experiences. We evolve. We change.”

Footprints of memories on our lives?

Is this what makes us who we are?

Who we identify ourselves as?

I am pondering, again.

I think back to how much I’ve changed. From little things to big things—from how I part my hair, to my newfound willingness to try new things, and my constantly changing favourite colour. Physically and mentally. Waves of memo ries surf through my mind, like the endless tides stretching up the beach’s shore in Florida during our family vacation in 2008. I vividly recall many defining aspects of myself from my past that I let go of. Parts of me that I once felt were essential to my identity faded with time, and I hardly ever thought twice about it.

Images of a younger me in knitting club come to mind, stitching memories together like patchwork. I haven’t knit ted in ages. I look down at my hands and feel my silky skin. I think back to the days in elementary school when my hands used to be blistered from monkey bars, spending hours hanging loosely during recess. I realize how much I have let go of and how much I have gained. How much I changed.

Is this how it always is?

Letting go as you grow?

Is it causal? Did you grow because you let go?

Maybe this is why they always say to live in the moment. No two moments are the same.

You aren’t the same person you were yesterday. Or the person you will be tomorrow.

It’s strange how we let go of so much and don’t even re alize it. We let go of parts of us that define us and replace them, hardly even realizing that we are missing them. Like my new gravitation to adventure and science fiction novels instead of mystery books. It changed the way I defined my self, and how others knew me.

I stop in my tracks as my cramped hand reaches the end of the warm, gently crinkled paper. Words fill the page from top to bot tom, spilling over the sheet like ants swarming around a crumb on a picnic day. Each scribble filled with emotion, unveiling my thoughts for the first time. I reach around for more paper but can’t find any in its usual spot. I must’ve already moved the stack off the desk for cleaning.

I smile.

I am content with my letter. With my growth. Maybe I don’t need another sheet.

I pen the last few words I have in my mind.

wait to see how much more you grow, Me.

Can’t

“It’s strange how we let go of so much and don’t even realize it. We let go of parts of us that define us and replace them, hardly even realizing that we are missing them.”

The Open Casket

Prisha

(Maneka) Nuckchady

Seated

on a taupe couch, I search the room for imperfections. I find none—not even a crack in the off-white enclosed space. Blooming greenery and vibrant artwork cover the walls and fill the corners of the room. The smell of honey wafts from a lit candle on the coffee table.

“What brings you here today?” A calm voice echoes through the room.

It’s 2 a.m. and I haven’t slept. The phrase “Are you currently experiencing any overwhelming signs…’’ appears on my screen. I tense up, forcing myself to read the rest of the sentence. My eyes shift between the words “depression, trauma, grief, or anxiety.” They stare at me, begging for my attention.

I’ve got no reason to feel this way, I convince myself. The words “grief” and “depression” feel too strong. I’ve heard these words before—in TV shows, at school, and when my mother told me of my aunt’s battle with depression.

Others have it worse. I’m not the victim here.

I close my laptop, hoping to clear my mind.

Not bothering to clean up my desk, my legs stroll toward my undone bed. I put my phone on my bedside table and curl up under my grey duvet. The clock ticks distinctly—an annoying reminder than tomorrow is soon to come.

Many hours pass before my surroundings finally turn black.

After less than three hours of sleep, the deaf ening sound of my phone’s alarm forces my eyes open. My lifeless arms fumble to turn it off, ac cidently knocking over my brown, vintage alarm clock. It’s been months since I’ve used it, but I can’t seem to let it go.

I sit up, stretch my arms, look at my slippers, and think about the day that awaits me. The idea of being surrounded by faces that I have long avoided makes my mouth dry.

Choking on my thoughts, I finally get out of bed. My surroundings become blurry, slowly shifting

back to normal as my legs make their way to the bathroom. I gargle some mouthwash and hope that it can mask my morning breath without need ing to brush my teeth. Showering is also a foreign practice. This routine is far too familiar to me. Constantly running on low sleep has made hygiene a low priority—getting out of bed is hard enough.

I pick out a navy blue shirt. The sleeves cut off my circulation, and two buttons burst open as soon as I do them up. Unbothered, I change into a larger grey button-up polo, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I notice the way my left eyebrow is thicker than the right, how my eyes are different in size and shape, and how my under eye bags are darker than I remember them being. Eyeing myself up and down, I notice every detail— every imperfection.

I know that it’s me, but I don’t recognize the image.

“It’s time for us to leave,” shouts my mother for the third time.

I rush to the garage and sit in the backseat of my parents’ grey Toyota. We drive past cars in the opposite lane, losing their sight as new vehicles re place them. It hypnotizes me—regardless of how much I chase after the cheerful person I used to be, that version of myself is driving in the opposite lane. I’ll never catch up.

After an hour-long journey, we arrive, and I step out of the car. The house resurrects memories of sleepovers filled with movie marathons and video games. It’s been two years since I last honked my car’s horn, pulling out of the driveway at 2 a.m., too caught up in the moment to think of the neigh bours. I close the car door, trembling.

“Hi Mike, thanks for coming. It’s great seeing you,” says Taylor’s father. His right hand stretches towards me.

As his unpleasantly sweaty palm meets mine, I remember what today is about: honouring Taylor.

“I couldn’t have missed this. It’s great see ing you,” I say with a small, forced smile. I give Taylor’s dad a proper handshake.

“Why did you feel guilty meeting Taylor’s dad?” she asks.

“I feel like Taylor’s….” I strug gle to finish my sentence, closing my eyes and inhaling sharply. “His death was partly my fault.”

“Why do you feel that way, wasn’t Taylor your best friend?” she asks.

When my childhood dog, Cook ie, passed, Taylor slept over on a mattress beside my bed for five days, making no comment on my silent sobs. I counted on him.

Ever since, our families spent Christmas Eve together. We’d al ways spare some time to sit on the balcony of my room with a can of beer stolen from my dad’s cooler. We would talk about things we were grateful for, and things we wished we could change. Though we hated New Year’s resolutions, this was the unexpected warmth of the sun we found in winter.

One year, Taylor surprised me with a small present wrapped in red paper adorned with little black Santa boots. It was a vin tage alarm clock with a picture of Cookie behind the glass.

“I know you’ve always want ed a clock like your grandpa’s,” said Taylor. Frozen, I stared at him, eyes gaping. It was the most thoughtful gift I had ever received. Every night, I’d look forward to setting up my alarm. I didn’t dread being woken up by it the next day. Instead, still halfasleep, I’d turn it off, a smile on my face. But the last morning I had squinted to find its off button was over 10 months ago.

While dealing with my parents’ divorce, Taylor fell victim to my torment. He carried all my frus trations, struggling not to trip. It

wasn’t until Taylor left mid-argu ment, rolling his eyes, that I un derstood I was hurting him.

“I’m going to control myself,” I’d say to myself every morning, breaking my promise by the time I got home for dinner.

Every secret and every inse curity, I twisted them all against Taylor. I had no reason to hurt him—I just did. It took my mind off my troubles by shifting my attention away from my parents’ divorce.

But Taylor was struggling himself.

“Mike, I need to talk to you, I’m not feeling well,” he’d say.

“It’ll be fine, let’s talk about it later,” I’d respond. That day never came. Voicemails were left unheard, messages read but unanswered.

Slowly, Taylor realized that he needed to get away from me.

As I got ready for my fight scene in an empty parking lot, Taylor uttered the words he’d held back.

“You need to stop this; you’re destroying me. You’ve already killed our friendship,” he told me sternly, without yelling, eyes open wide. My weapons van ished; the truth was unveiled.

White flags in hand, I prayed

to rescue our friendship. I fought the urge to pester him, giving him the time and space he need ed. “One, two, three, … ten,” I’d count slowly whenever aggres sive thoughts sprouted in my mind, instead trying to remem ber happy memories of Cookie. When that was not enough, I was a regular at Red Owl’s box ing classes. My frustrations were now directed towards an appro priate punching bag.

But I couldn’t rid myself of the guilt. All I could hope for was for our friendship to be reignited.

Twelve months ago, my hopes were buried when I stood next to a dark brown oak casket. Taylor had taken his own life. Memories of all the unanswered texts he’d sent me resurfaced.

“Mike, Taylor’s decision was his own, it does not rest on you,” she says.

“It feels like it’s my fault. I made everything worse,” I explain.

“There’s only so much you can do. Have you talked to your friends about how you’re feel ing?” she inquires.

“No...”

“Why not?” she asks.

“I know that it’s me, but I don’t recognize the image.”

“The fact that none of my friends know the truth makes me feel like an imposter.”

A violent pain pierces my chest. “I was treated like a victim when for all I knew, I was the culprit. I was living a lie and got rewarded for it instead of having to pay the price,” I explain.

really hated traveling, didn’t he?” chuckles Jake.

While everyone shares touch ing stories in the living room, I can’t help but feel like a fraud. I unknowingly nod along, my body desynchronized with my mind.

“What’s going on Mike? Is everything…” I collapse into his arms, dismantling my armor.

“Hi Mike, how are you doing?” asks Jake, a friend I haven’t seen in months—I always confidently dial his number, yet consistently fail to press “call.” “We’ve got to hang out more often, we haven’t seen each other in ages—you’re always busy!” he continues.

“All things considered, I’m pretty good. Yeah, you’re right, I’ll let you know when I’m free,” I say, knowing I’ll come up with an excuse later.

People gather and the outdoor seats fill. I find a quiet seat in the back of the garden and look around to see who’s near me, avoiding any form of eye contact. Luckily, I sit next to a stranger.

An hour or two passes and the formal proceedings end. I can barely remember what’s been said. The entire ceremony es capes without my participation— like a ghost, unnoticed, I merely watch.

“I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. It feels like just yes terday we all went to Disney Land. I remember Tay lor being so annoying on the plane, even though going was his idea. He

My thoughts and memories trip over each other. I close my eyes, hoping to escape into an alternate reality. I just wish none of this had ever happened.

The drive home is unremark able. I gaze at the dark sky dotted with a few glimmering stars—a simultaneously majestic and lonely view.

Home past midnight, I col lapse on my bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

“After that, I just could not keep lying to myself. I need help,” I ex plain, looking into the therapist’s eyes.

I pray to feel like myself again, looking up to the ceiling and holding back my tears.

I just want this scar to be less painful.

“He’s gone, but I want to be his friend again,” I say, tears rolling down my cheeks.

I book a follow-up appoint ment and head back home.

Abruptly awoken by a buzzing sound, my eyes squint and I reach for my phone to turn it off. My eyes blast open as I realize that the alarm clock is ringing— Taylor’s alarm. I lay in bed, star ing at the ceiling, unable to think of anything else—it is one of the few things that remain of our friendship.

I bang the alarm clock, instant ly regretting it, afraid I’ve broken it. Concerned by the noise, my father runs into my room.

Parked in the garage, I lock my car and head toward the door. My legs freeze. I spot an old black box labelled “Taylor.” My body can’t fight the urge to open it. I lift its lid to reveal a collection of folders and clothes. A grey Dis ney Land hoodie catches my eye.

That was so fun, I recall. Per haps I’ve got more left of our friendship than I thought.

“Perhaps I’ve got more left of our friendship than I thought.”

Reimagining the 9-to-5

Belicia Chevolleau

The 9-to-5 workday is a relic. For decades, people hailed the 9-to-5 as an ideal—satisfied to work 40-hour weeks with only two days off. So did I. However, the world is changing, and workers are demanding more.

Although I shied away from questions related to my future post-graduation, I always envisioned my self clocking in at nine and leaving the office at five. The greatest appeal was the financial stability that came with consistent hours and pay. The thought of venturing into entrepreneurship and starting a business had never crossed my mind.

With my impending 2020 graduation, I fre quently received the question: “What are you doing after?” Either pursue a master’s degree or join the workforce—those were the only two acceptable an swers. I remained undecided.

As children, teachers, lawyers, doctors, and en gineers were revered as top professions. Although I

was never pressured to pursue a specific career by my parents, I always knew people expected great ness from me, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

For many of us, there is so much pressure to de cide what we want to do with the rest of our lives from a young age. My earliest memory of being asked what I wanted to be was in kindergarten. Although I answered “teacher,” and stuck to that answer for many years, the older I became, the more certain I felt that teaching was not for me.

I was unaware of how much the workplace struc ture would change in the years to come.

The Old Way of Working

The 9-to-5 has become a commonly accepted work model within a variety of industries and positions, but what are its origins?

Led by workers who dedicated the majority of their waking hours to work, employees fought and rallied for shorter workdays. The average worker laboured for 10 to 16 hours per day over six days, which increased the risk of exhaustion and injury. After a century of pleading, a few countries began to adopt the eight-hour workday

In 1926, to curb the exploitation of factory workers, Henry Ford, the founder of Ford Motor Company, invented the concept of a “five-day, 40-hour work week.” He claimed this schedule in creased worker productivity by giving them another day to rest. In truth, Ford had ulterior motives: he wanted to increase car sales. By introducing a lon ger weekend, he knew his employees would yearn to go somewhere and they needed vehicles to do it. It worked.

In 1940, the United States mandated the fiveday work week nationwide. Soon after, Canada fol lowed. While this adjustment decreased the num ber of hours labourers worked, it created additional problems.

The 40-hour work week purports to be a system of balance—eight hours of work, eight hours of sleep, eight hours of play—but the workload often

“I always knew people expected greatness from me, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.”

seeps into the non-working 16 hours, aggravating dissatisfaction and causing burnout.

Another result that arose from this model of work was the appraisal of success by quantity ver sus quality. Workers were judged based on the tasks they completed within each hour and day, as opposed to their skills and value.

Nowadays, we live in a service economy, where we need fewer physical labourers and more skilled labourers and service providers. But we also need more than just an eight-hour shift; we need flexi bility so we can work at our own pace and enjoy life outside the workplace too.

In the 1980s, there was a greater desire for worklife balance, resulting in the creation of corporate wellness programs. Wellness programs provid ed employees with fitness classes, well-being re sources, and support to improve their physical and mental health. Employees began to value their own needs and interests above their employers.

Current 9-to-5 workers are exhausted. Chronic stress, financial insecurity, and burnout are collec tive experiences. With the added pressure of the Covid-19 pandemic, employees often find them selves working harder and longer for the same goals. In addition, remote work has caused an un necessary spike in time spent collaborating, with more virtual meetings, emails, chatting, and (often unpaid) after-hour labour.

The Harvard Business Review attributes this new worker perspective to the pandemic. With thousands fatally impacted by the virus, the dead ly virus magnified the ephemeral nature of time and reminded us to live fully.

The time that workers spent at home encour aged them to prioritize a work-life balance and their mental health, and it also allowed for more flexibility. Finally, workers were given power; their shared experience prompted more empathy and listening from employers, along with more benefits that increased productivity.

The Great Shift

The Gig Economy

Even before the Covid-19 pandemic forced mil lions of people to work from home and spawned an uptick in “entrepreneurial activity,” our under standing of “work” was changing. Throughout his tory, the workplace has gone through many shifts, but one of the most notable changes was the rise of freelancing, or what some call the “Gig Economy.”

The Gig Economy is a labour market structure based on short-term contracts and freelance work, allowing labourers to work with multiple compa nies temporarily as opposed to holding perma nent jobs. Previously limited to jobs like delivery

“The time that workers spent at home encouraged them to prioritize a work-life balance and their mental health, and it also allowed for more flexibility.”

drivers and musicians, more industries are reinventing the traditional model of work. We now see dietitians running on line programs and courses to cut down on hours in the office, or copywriters working on a proj ect-by-project basis.

When did it start?

Pivotal shifts in work habits and customs tend to coincide with global recessions. During the 2007 Great Recession, there was a growth in non-employer establishments—working with out bosses. With a rising unem ployment rate and limited em ployment opportunities, people decided to create their own jobs by starting businesses. While the term “Gig Economy” is new, the existence of gig jobs predates this modern phrase. Perhaps one of the most prominent uses of “gig” was by jazz musicians who referred to their short-term paid performances as “gigs.”

“Gig” referred to an alterna tive form of employment that was temporary, contracted, or on-call. Lately, the meaning has been redefined by independent contractors and freelancers who select which jobs they take and decide their own hours. Stephane Kasriel, the CEO of Upwork, a massive gig marketplace for indi viduals to find work, predicts that “the majority of the U.S. work force will freelance by 2027.”

But what inspired the shift? Salesforce reported a 24.3 per cent increase in the number of businesses created in 2020. Starting a business became eas ier because of the small barrier to entry and the accessibility of online businesses. Many pur sued entrepreneurship as a way to generate additional income to fund their lifestyle. Businesses did not need big investments or brick-and-mortar stores to start, and soon, many business duties could be performed at home.

Microsoft’s Work Trend Index

2022 reported that 17 per cent of workers left their jobs in 2020. Dubbed the “Mass Resignation,” this phenomenon was triggered by individuals’ desire to no longer settle for complacency. The majority quit their jobs for personal well-being or mental health, work-life balance, job location, or lack of flexible work hours. Based on Microsoft’s data, it is clear that this generation won’t tolerate policies that de tract from their ability to enjoy life outside of work. If workers do not feel valued, they are willing to leave. Since the pandemic, “53 per cent of employees are more likely to prioritize health and wellbeing over work than before the pandemic.”

A New Model: The Four-Day Work Week

Remote and hybrid work can offer flexibility to employees;

“Businesses did not need big investments or brick-and-mortar stores to start, and soon, many business duties could be performed at home.”

however, some larger companies are implementing a different model: the four-day work week.

The four-day work week aims to reduce stress and improve work quality. To many, this model may sound contradictory in theory: how can we improve work quality by working fewer hours? Many pilot programs for companies such as Buffer and Microsoft show that productivity can increase with this model.

Although several employers have embraced this model, some have reported lower levels of employ ee satisfaction. One unsatisfied corporation is Los Angeles-based marketing research firm Alter Agents. Alter Agents trialed the four-day work week for 10 weeks, but due to their client’s varying schedules, they were unable to give employees the same day off. Instead, each employee chose a different day of the week to take off.

So, albeit well-intentioned, the four-day work week only promoted more stress and dissatisfaction in Alter Agents’ employees, with some employees feel ing pressured to perform tasks on their days off or struggling to catch up.

Escaping the 9-to-5

“Leave your 9-to-5 and start a business” was the key message of the Facebook ads that filled my feed during the start of the pandemic. They pushed the rhetoric that starting a business was the gateway to financial freedom and flexibility. Run by business coaches and service providers, these ads emphasized how burnt out and underpaid 9-to-5 workers were.

These announcements encouraged social media users to know their value and worth, asserting that quitting the 9-to-5 would give them the satisfaction they needed. This theme really resonated with me, and, for a while, I rode the free webinar bus, signing up for every training I saw on the topic of starting your own business and marketing.

But soon I realized that the coaches did not share the whole truth. Owning a business meant chasing clients, managing your own time, and paying taxes (lots of them).

As a freelancer and owner of my own business, I set my own schedule. Some days I work 15 hours, other days I work only a few. Even without an employer, I face some of the same challenges of my traditional ly-employed peers: a poor work-life balance, a lack of boundaries, and burnout.

It is a lie. Freelancing, despite the name, isn’t com plete freedom.

“Even without an employer, I face some of the same challenges of my traditionallyemployed peers: a poor work-life balance, a lack of boundaries, and burnout.”

The Future of Work

So, which is better? We may be quick to institute this modern method of working based on the nu merous benefits outlined by individuals who’ve switched over. However, one method isn’t truly better than another. Although many of us have been whisked away by the fantastical ideas de scribed in the flexible model of work, the truth is that it’s up to us and our needs.

A 9-to-5 can be just as unstable as entrepre neurship with the frequency of layoffs and busi ness owners reassessing the value of employees continually. Work contracts can offer some pro tection and compensation to ease the worry, but retaining a job is never guaranteed.

Additionally, although many business coach es and other service providers will regal ambi tious individuals with tales of financial freedom and vacations, running a business often requires more work than a 9-to-5, especially in the begin ning. A business owner is likely to fulfill the roles of the marketing, administration, sales, and ac counts teams on their own until they grow to be big enough to hire employees to take over these time-consuming tasks.

Regardless, one thing is clear: this new genera tion wants flexibility and control.

“The future of work is Open,” predicts Atlassian, an Australian software company that helps teams collaborate. They state, “Open work practices al low for unhindered access to the right context, the bigger picture, and important informa tion when it’s needed most.” Too much dis course occurs behind closed doors, leaving employees affected by poor leadership decisions. Through transparent de cision-making, and the opportuni ty to showcase diverse perspec tives, employees can help lead the company into success. It is only once companies start viewing their employees as people that transformation can take place.

Perhaps it is time companies work around the schedules of their employees, as people work best when they can control their time. The individu al’s needs and wants have changed, and so should their work life.

It is time to get rid of the old ways of work ing and incorporate new ideas that focus on the health and wellness of employees. Whether you work under a company or for yourself, rest should be a central part of any job.

Efficiency is not determined by how many hours you work in a day or where you work, but rather by how you maximize your time while pri oritizing rest.

The world has changed. Businesses are glob al and online, allowing people to work with others in different time zones across the world. Realistically, we cannot be con stricted to a 9-to-5. A flexible lifestyle allows individuals to escape the constant grind and expand their world of possibilities.

Now, a good work culture is more than a nice office and great employee perks; it’s find ing arrangements that help everyone win.

“It is a lie. Freelancing, despite the name, isn’t complete freedom.”

References

Back in Style

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Searching for Awe in a Digital World

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Sussex Publishers. (n.d.). A brief history of awe. Psychology Today. https://www.psychologytoday.com/ca/blog/the-pursuit-peace/201510/brief-history-awe

Valdesolo, P., & Graham, J. (2013). Awe, uncer tainty, and agency detection. Psycholog ical Science, 25(1), 170–178. https://doi. org/10.1177/0956797613501884

Western New York Public Broadcasting Associa tion (2016). Heritage Moments: ‘This Horri ble Precipice’ — Father Hennepin bears wit ness to Niagara Falls. WBFO. https://www. wbfo.org/heritage-moments/2016-03-14/ heritage-moments-this-horrible-preci pice-father-hennepin-bears-witness-to-niag ara-falls

Wikimedia Foundation. (2022). Louis Hennepin. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Hennepin

Reimagining the 9-to-5

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A LETTER RACK, EDWARD COLLIER, 1695 YALE CENTER FOR BRITISH ART, PAUL MELLON FUND