The Growing Issue - Magazine (Winter 2021)

MEDIUM MAGAZINE

The Growing Issue

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MEDIUM MAGAZINE

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MEDIUM MAGAZINE

CO-EDITORS-IN-CHIEF PAULA CHO ALI TAHA DIRECTOR OF DESIGN TEGWEN MCKENZIE HEAD OF PHOTOGRAPHY JULIA HEALY SENIOR COPYEDITOR MELISSA BARRIENTOS WRITERS MELISSA BARRIENTOS CHRIS BERBERIAN PAULA CHO SONIA ROMERO JOHNSON SARAH-MAY OLDFIELD ELIZABETH PROVOST ISIK VERA SENEL JUSTIN SINGH ALI TAHA

PUBLISHED BY MEDIUM II PUBLICATIONS 3359 MISSISSAUGA RD. N., STUDENT CENTRE, RM 200 MISSISSAUGA, ON L5L 1C6 WWW.THEMEDIUM.CA EDITOR@THEMEDIUM.CA

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TABLE of CONTENTS ROOTS Homecoming / Melissa Barrientos Finding Home / Elizabeth Provost Growing Through Expectations / Sarah-May Oldfield if you’re not growing, you’re dying (1/4) / Tegwen McKenzie

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TRUNK Trapped in an Unrelenting Mind / Chris Berberian Puppy Parenting: The Joys and the Sorrows / Sonia Romero Johnson if you’re not growing, you’re dying (2/4) / Tegwen McKenzie

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The Promise of Spring / Julia Healy

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BRANCHES The Oxymoron of Unsustainable Growth / Isik Vera Senel ‘Going Abroad Really Changed Me’:The Year I Chased a Cliché / Justin Singh if you’re not growing, you’re dying (3/4) / Tegwen McKenzie

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LEAVES Preparing for the Front Lines / Paula Cho I Have This Thought About a Mountain... / Ali Taha

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TEGWEN MCKENZIE

a day of life so still the rising morning as I gaze into the glorious green; an orb of warmth climbs the horizon, a day unfolding in its own shapeless way. the whisper of autumn is in the wind; it speaks of bright colour. by noon the world will hum in shades of flame and by dusk all will be baked brown. leaves will tumble to the earth and decay senseless to the white water that weighs upon them until morning springs.

KEITH JONSON/UNSPLASH

an endless cycle of growth, decline, and fall.

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Letter from the Editors Windows are a staple of The Medium office. There’s some meaning to be derived from them about transparency and the search for truth. But really, they’re just nice to look out of.

On a regular weekday a year ago, we could have looked down at the first floor of the Student Centre to see students visiting the CFRE Radio, heading to a club’s office, or just hanging out with friends. A year ago, the windows facing the CCT building or Oscar Peterson Hall would have shown a much livelier scene, one with students, professors, and staff coming and going, weaving around each other as they headed to classrooms, offices, the library, or home.

ment, evolution, and change in an attempt to understand the different layers of growth: internal or external growth, a lack of growth, communal growth, or a resistance to growth. Progress is inherent to self-development, but so is circling back around to find yourself where you started, changed in one way or another.

The conceptual image of The Growing Issue is a tree, split into its composite parts: roots, trunk, branches, and leaves. Roots are a starting point. They lay the foundation for what’s to come and anchor the tree firmly in place. The trunk represents strength, cultivating resilience to the harshness of the external world. Branches invoke thoughts of community and the interconnectedness of humanity. Leaves simultaneously signal an end and a new beginning. They symbolize self-renewal, change, and cycles—of seasons, of time, and of life.

Today, the campus is mostly empty, visited regularly by only caretakers and the casual passerby. Students still live in residence, but there are few of them. The echo in the Student Centre is more noticeable now. If we lived on campus with no connection to the outside world, one would think life had ceased to exist. The physical space of the campus feels frozen—stagnant. In their respective pieces, Elizabeth Provost writes about her complicated relationship with her home in Russia, while SarBut we know that’s not really the case. Across the country and ah-May Oldfield speaks to the act of achieving success despite around the world, UTM students are still pursuing higher ed- the expectations of our friends, family, and society. Chris Berucation, cultivating their skills, and making the best of a tough berian provides an intimate portrayal of obsessive-compulsive disorder, and Sonia Romero Johnson details the lessons she’s year. They’re still growing. learned about love while raising her puppy, Tuco. Vera Senel In our first magazine, The Essential Issue, we went back to the presents a thorough account of the effects of unsustainable inbasics and fleshed out our ideas of what we believed were the dustrialization in Turkey, and Justin Singh shows us how life most essential parts of everyday life—the things we need to feel after graduation isn’t always as clear-cut as we’d like it to be. joy, security, and agency. This second magazine, The Growing Finally, in our pieces, we explore the divergent paths to health Issue, came from a desire to look at where we can go from here. equity and the search for meaning in a meaningless world.

During a time that feels like we’re waiting for something to happen, where our lives don’t feel like they’re in our control, and We offer no answers here, only experiences to be explored and built upon. As you’ll find throughout this magazine, there’s no where our futures seem blurry, it is still essential to grow. one way to grow. It’s all just an attempt at something better.

In her novel Wintering, Katherine May writes, “Life meanders like a path through the woods. We have seasons when we flour- Here’s to our attempt. ish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.” Life is not linear, but stochastic and unpredictable.

The Growing Issue is focused on that journey, from point A to point B and back again; from adolescence to adulthood, from the first day of school to the last, from one relationship to the next. The pieces in this magazine explore themes of develop-

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PART 1: ROOTS

Homecoming Melissa Barrientos

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on’t worry if you can’t recognize them,” my dad says to my sisters and me as we push our luggage carts around the masses of people gathered by baggage claim. “We left when you were all young, so you might not remember.” Dad starts listing the names of aunts and uncles we’ll meet on this trip again, as if the repetition will somehow spark a memory after all these years.

I hear a cry to my right. A little boy pulls at his mother’s hands as he slides down to the linoleum floor. His blotchy red face matches that of his mother’s. I push my cart harder toward the double doors and the neon green “Salida” sign.

Ever since I stepped off the plane, I had followed my older sister, Stephanie, in a daze, almost half asleep from the eighthour flight. But now, as we walk side by side and I see the exit drawing near, I can’t help but want to stare numbly at her back again. Perhaps her broad shoulders would block the stifling humidity in the air. It’s getting more difficult to breathe. It feels like my asthma attacks but wetter, like I’m swallowing large gulps of water. I know I won’t recognize them, my dad’s family.

The photos from our early photo albums are the only evidence I have of their existence.

I had flipped through them weeks ago, wanting to recognize the people with their arms around my small shoulders, wanting to place those unfamiliar smiles through the photos’ sheer gleam. But no memories ever surfaced.

Flipping through the albums, I could sometimes faintly recall the sharp tang of lemon or the muffled crow of a rooster, but I could

never see them. It never quite fit in my mind or in the photos taken.

Whenever I would bring this up, my dad would just say we were all close. “Having six families living under the same roof will do that,” he would say, always with a chuckle and always with that glazed look in his eye.

We were all happy, the photographs tell me.

I was loved, my frozen smile says.

My little sister, Nicole, elbows my side before running ahead of me to where a crowd is gathering by the double doors.

They must be in a rush to go home. Nicole turns back and says something to me, but I can’t hear her over the roar of cheers.

The shouts sound rushed and heavy in my ear—the Spanish voices almost foreign to me in their excitement.

“Slow down,” my dad says with a laugh as Nicole jumps, trying to look over the crowd to the other side.

Does she remember them, I wonder. Would she be able to recognize them in a packed airport? Would she care? Stephanie clears her throat beside me. My dad has already gone ahead. Stephanie hurries to catch up. I follow.

It’s louder out here. The colourful clothing, the animated expressions, the warm welcomes to loved ones. It’s too loud. The crying boy wasn’t even this loud.

A young woman with thick, long hair suddenly pops up from behind a hugging couple. She waves her arms wildly, screaming, “Ricardo, aqui! Aqui!” Further up ahead, my dad waves back. “Your tia, Sarita,” I hear him say to Nicole.

In between the bodies rushing past, I see my aunt Sarita turn to an older woman in a pale blue dress. I remember that dress from the photos. It had once been a nice azure blue.

Sarita points to my dad and the old woman’s eyes follow. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen as she squints at the crowd. When her eyes finally catch my dad’s, they linger on him until they redden and swell. Tears roll down her spotted cheeks before Sarita wipes them away. A wet gasp suddenly reaches my ear and I turn just in time to see my dad wipe

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We were all happy, the photographs tell me. away his own telling tears. Nicole tugs his shirt. Her wide eyes seem to ask questions she isn’t able to say. My dad smooths down her hair as he shakes his head. His cheeks are still wet. Feeling the humidity closing in again, I look away. The arrival board sign flashes “Toronto, Canada a Lima, Peru” one last time before it flickers out. “Vancouver, Canada a Lima, Peru” replaces its spot.

I don’t remember how I got in the back seat of the rented van between Nicole and my aunt Rafita and her husband Oberto, but when I come to, my aunt Rafita is just staring at me with a grin. The walk over to the van was a blur: I was hugged, kissed, and cried on. Buried under cousins, aunts, and uncles, I learned new names and matched the once-muttered names to once-frozen faces. I heard my family tell me “how much I’ve grown” in awed tones. I just nodded, thinking, well, what else would time do?

Rafita stares at me, her smile almost as frozen as it was in the photos, and I stare right back. Nicole nudges my side. I nod. I know her Spanish is poor. I know I should talk.

I know I’m the older sister. But the rest of the van is loud and brimming with a strange warm energy. Dad’s clear voice demands attention, the hesitant drawl of his English now gone. He’s in his element. Stephanie’s voice, pitched high with her accent, is animated. She remembers them. Nicole’s elbow jabs my side.

“Where are we going?” I ask loudly in English, abruptly cutting off the excited chatter.

Dad says we’re going to Rafita’s house, his lisp returning with his English. Not knowing what else to say, I nod. The cheerful conversation springs back up.

“Your English sounds so good, dear,” Rafita says in Spanish. Turning to her, I notice

her cheeks are still damp. Her eyes glisten under the car’s overhead lights. I nod.

Oberto rumbles out a laugh, “You guys like Canada? How is it? Is it cold? Do you remember your aunt and me? How are you?”

I nod. Nicole mumbles out a reply.

“You guys grew up so fast! I remember when you guys used to run all over the house, squealing about this or that,” says my aunt Sarita from the front of the van.

“We remember a bit,” Stephanie answers for us. “I remember one time Uncle Pedro showed up with a big plastic ice cream cone.

He said he had a gift for us,” her accent tilts up the end of her laugh, “but when he opened the ice cream cone, a puppy came out!” The fading image of a chocolate-brown puppy tumbling out of a large blue ice cream cone passes through my mind.

The conversation turns nostalgic and without knowing it, I get sucked into the hazy memories of my childhood. Behind closed eyelids, I see photo frames against melon-orange walls. I smell sun-burnt grass and sweet lucuma ice cream. I hear light humming from the kitchen and a fast-talking news reporter from the family room. I remember sneaking into the nice dining room at my grandparents’ house when the adults weren’t around. I remember opening the glass cabinet like I saw Grandma Mamama do and flipping through her collection until I found Olga Tañón’s record. I remember setting the record as carefully as I could on the record player and feeling a thrilling wave rush through me as I pushed the needle down.

Tañón’s hit song, “Es Mentiroso,” played through the grand room. Standing high on my toes, I looked over the dinnerware cabinet

to see my reflection in the decorated mirror.

I watched my plum cheeks turn pink as I shouted the lyrics without a care for rhythm or tune. My legs trembled to hold my new height, but I never let up. I didn’t feel any pain or embarrassment. At that moment, I was Olga Tañón. I felt her remorse, her joy, her conviction. I thrived in the passion of her words. I hadn’t experienced her heartache, but through her words, I understood it.

In the lull of my recollections, the weariness of the long flight catches up to me, and I feel my head drop against small, warm shoulders.

As I groggily blink my eyes, traffic lights flash by the car window. A big church with grey pillars passes by. My aunts and uncle make the sign of the cross. Stephanie follows suit a second later. Tall apartment buildings turn to one-level houses, and the bright streetlights fade to a dark yellow as the van drives further away from the airport. The steady drum of the wheels and my makeshift pillow eventually sooth me to sleep.

“Wake up, dear,” a soft voice whispers.

The once sharp Spanish feels smooth and graceful in my ear. I open my eyes to see a group of people standing outside a small orange house. Among them, I see my dad laugh tenderly as two of my older aunts begin to cry on his shoulders. On the side, Stephanie stares at our six young cousins as they race over from the house next door. By the van, Nicole looks flustered as our aunts kiss her cheeks in greeting. I blink my eyes twice; the scene feels strangely familiar. Only the suitcases by the door stick out oddly. “Wake up, dear,” Rafita says beside me as she gently tugs on my arm. “You’re home.” MM

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MEDIUM MAGAZINE

Finding Home Elizabeth Provost

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t takes me a while to acclimate to Russia’s white nights. As light peers through the windows and drapes across my face, my eyes stay wide open. I breathe in the air redolent of home.

I can’t pinpoint the smell, but it gives me comfort. The ceiling is coloured with kaleidoscopic glares reflecting off the crystal vases carefully arranged in the glass cabinet.

It’s two in the morning.

The pull-out couch caves to my body’s rotation as I turn to face the wall. My mother and I’s bodies meet in the middle, sandwiched between the two stiff couch panels. I push her aside. She groans through her slumber.

I shift my attention to the peeling wallpaper. With my left index finger, I trace the floral patterns. I close my eyes and follow the outline of the large pink flowers like I’ve done so many times before.

I examine where the flowers don’t line up. I fall asleep counting the number of flower arrangements in each row.

I wake to the smell of coffee. I can hear my family

whispering in the kitchen two metres away. I attempt to rise from the pull-out couch.

It launches me forward as it folds back to its daytime position. Body folded in half, I carefully get up and turn to face the monster that tried to swallow me whole. I pull the sheets out of the couch crevice and fold them neatly.

Four steps to the bathroom.

Three to the kitchen.

My mother makes Russian pancakes. My grandmother cuts beets for her borsht. My grandfather toggles through the four radio channels on his soviet-time radio player. It blares at an ungodly volume.

I steal a pancake and leave the four-by-four-metres kitchen enclosure. Four steps to my grandmother’s room to change into a fresh tee-shirt and my dirt-covered running shoes. Six steps to reach the double bolted front doors.

I jog down 10 f lights of stairs. Every apartment complex in Kirov, Russia, has the same graff itied and dust-covered stairwells, with their rusty stairs and moist musk.

To me, Kirov, wit domed churches sidewalks, and L roads, is home. H what I see; it is w I feel whole.

But home is mes

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th its goldens, broken Lada-infested Home is not what I feel.

ssy.

I exit into the courtyard.

I am greeted by the glaring summer sun and the blossoming weeds. The air smells of car exhaust and a hint of summer bloom. I walk out of the broken gravel driveway into the neighbouring park. As I walk along the dirt paths, watching my every step, I admire the landscape.

To most, it is a direct cry for help at the hands of Russia’s failed urban economic system. To me, Kirov, with its faded golden-domed churches, broken sidewalks, and Lada-infested roads, is home. Home is not what I see; it is what I feel. I feel whole.

But home is messy.

So, what is Home? What does it mean to f ind Home? Is Home one thing, or many? And once you’ve found Home, can you f ind it again?

To me, f inding Home means f inding a space that allows for boundless growth. It is a space where belonging is not def ined but implied. Yet, the hard truth is that Home is a double-edged sword. At one end, you have this safe, comforting, and heartening space, but at the other

end, it carries history, ancestry, and a broken past or present.

Home is not perfect. It’s perfect in its imperfections and its messiness. I love Russia for making me who I am.

I love Russia for making my mother who she is—an independent, strong, and resilient woman. I love Russia for its beauty, grace, strength, and rich history. But I hate Russia for its broken political system, for its deeply felt oppression, and for its inability to acknowledge its own corruption. Russia is populated with beautiful white birch trees yet infested with corruption and environmental carelessness. But if Russia was a person, I’d take a bullet for her.

I realize that all homes stand on this very f ine line.

As humans, we all long to f ind belonging. Home is like a garden—our personal magical garden where we bloom with the f lower buds and feel safe within its enclosure.

There’s so much beauty and serenity in our garden, even when weeds burst forth from beneath the blossoming sunf lowers and budding roses.

There are some weeds that we can easily pull out or look past, but there are others whose roots have grown so deep that there is not much to be done. We learn to manage these growing beasts. We take care of them and accept their monstrous appearances.

There’s something beautiful in accepting our garden’s f laws.

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My home is 7,000 kilometres away, and I seldom get to feel its full power. Each summer, I pick my bouquet, and I take it back with me to Canada. Home can be like this. Home can be a faraway place, physically or emotionally. Home can be un-reachable or at the tips of your f ingers. When working on this piece, I chose to ref lect on the land. Both the land of my garden and the land I return to at the end of each summer.

Ontario, Canada, is steeped in rich Indigenous history. The history of this land bleeds deep cuts. Nonetheless, this land has welcomed me and allowed my mother to relocate from the depths of Russia and create a home where she can nurture me and develop her own career. I wish to acknowledge and pay my respects to the Mississaugas of the C ​ redit First Nation for sharing their home with me. I thank them for nurturing this Earth and for allowing me to share their space.

Dr. Debby Danard, an Anishnaabe-kwe (Ojibway) from Rainy River First Nation in northwestern Ontario, is a professor in UTM’s Department of Historical Studies. As part of her teaching, she encourages her students to perform their own land acknowledgement. This practise allows us to determine our relationship to the land, and with this understanding, we can make connections to its deep, yet

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I’ve chosen to accept every single part of Russia, the beautiful and the complicated and the corrupt— broken, history. Dr. Danard explains, “Once you make that connection, that becomes how [Indigenous Peoples], and all my Anishinaabe ancestors, think about this land.”

Acknowledging the footprints that we will someday leave on this earth, especially on land that is not ours, is the first step in creating a space that can honour and respect the paths that have come before ours. In Russia, I acknowledge my grandparents’ childhoods. Their unbearable upbringing in a country ravaged with war. Their childhoods spent eating potato peels and avoiding bullets. I acknowledge the small apartment in Kirov where my mother became who she is.

Dr. Danard notes the importance of acknowledging our roots, those far below the surface of the Earth. She says, “If you look at our creation story, women were gifted with the responsibility to continue creating on Earth and to carry that vessel.

Where your mother ate food and drank water, that is where you come from. This is science, a natural law of the universe.”

As humans, we are innately drawn back to our “roots” in search of our true selves. As Madan Sarup argues, learning about our roots or origins can be a way to “gain a renewed pride in [our] identity.”

This is in part what transpires when I go back to Russia each summer. I go back to my roots. Russian blood runs deep in my veins. Russia is in my every breath. When I am in my country, one in which I wasn’t even born in, I am at home. Everything falls into place. Whether I walk the shining streets of Moscow or I stumble over the broken sidewalks in Kirov, I see myself in every other face.

Every single Russian person I’ve ever met has become a family member to me.

Russian pride is beautiful. We all face the same hardships and the same personal adversities. Every Russian child is raised the same way, told the same stories, and fed the same foods—even the children of Russian immigrants. For this reason, I feel rooted in my Russian community. These are people like me, people that feel and breathe the same way. We have a type of silent understanding and comradeship.

Indigenous communities have the same connection to their land and people.

The Indigenous practice of the Berry Fast exemplifies the importance of Indigenous tradition. “The Berry Fast teachings are a one-year berry fast that young women that first come onto their moon-time take,” explains Dr. Danard.

“Young girls that are becoming women have responsibilities for 13 moons to understand their role as women, especially when carrying life.”

At the end of the Berry Fast, the young girl becomes a woman, ready to undertake the responsibility to create life. Dr. Danard’s daughter, Akeesha Footman, conceded this practice in her early adolescence. In Muskrat Magazine, an online

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Indigenous arts and culture magazine, Footman writes, “I was told my body was getting ready so that if I chose to create life, I could. I learned that during my moon time I was a powerful and sacred vessel—that I needed to be careful how I walked and acted around others.”

The Berry Fast teaches young Indigenous women to say “no” and to be patient, strong, and self-disciplined. These qualities are crucial for a mother but also for a woman in society. For the young woman, abstaining from berries is a commitment to her family, to her community, and to herself.

Indigenous Peoples practise many other traditions, all of which induce the shaping of their identities. Dr. Ken Derry of UTM’s History Studies department says that by “thinking through the lens of Indigenous writers and filmmakers, home ends up being a place they must construct or recover because [their] physical home has been taken. And home, in [the] sense of culture and tradition, has also been taken.”

Indigenous traditions are connected to their past and to their land. In many cases, land can’t be recovered. For this reason, Indigenous Peoples struggle at times to live their true, deep-set traditions. As such, they must construct their own space and community in which they can re-create traditions or blend them with colonial practises. With Indigenous voices oppressed, Indigenous filmmakers must use a colonial art-form to tell Indigenous stories.

Dr. Derry notes that “in some ways, home is connected to this notion of healing.” He explains that discovering or rediscovering Home can provide one with the tools to recover from trauma. The truth is that the Anishinaabe never left their land and, to this day, there is not a single place on Earth that sustains an Anishinaabe community. For this reason, Dr. Danard emphasizes the importance

of taking on a global mindset to understand Home. “No matter where you’re from, you need to take care of home and leave your footprint, as if this were your only home.”

Settler nations, often escaping their adverse conditions, sometimes lack this practise. Dr. Danard explains that, from an Indigenous perspective, settler nations must “take on the responsibility and see how they’ve benefitted from the genocide; even though they’re leaving their own.” She adds, “If that awareness is there, I can say, ‘welcome.’”

But a welcome implies a partnership that accounts for the honouring of the land and its history. The Canadian national anthem says, “Our home and native land,” and yet, the meaning behind those words is often disregarded or even justified and forgotten. We are on stolen native land.

“I think about home, in this complicated sense, as a space—just like I think about religion and actual homes with family,” Dr. Derry explains. Family and religion alike can be wondering and nurturing but can also be “sources of terror.”

Unfortunately, home, family, and religion can become a space of muzzling, one in which no critique is accepted.

Conflict is inherent to any space, family, country, or religion. Learning to accept that is uncomfortable.

I’ve chosen to accept every single part of Russia, the beautiful and the complicated and the corrupt—albeit from a distance.

However, I refuse to make excuses. Russia is in severe political distress, plagued with corruption and organized political crime.

I find it hard to accept the current state of the hierarchal government, but I have to because I would not be who I am without it. My Russian brothers and sisters are fighting in the streets, at times with the cost of their lives, for political reform and a brighter future. I hope one day I can take my children to Russia and watch them

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blossom in a country that respects every voice (and vote).

Just as I accept the corruption of my country, there is a vital need for us, as inhabitants of Turtle Island, to accept the beauty of the land along with the exploitation being enacted on Indigenous Peoples. We tend to forgo the fact that oppression and assimilation of Indigenous Peoples are still taking place in the present day. Being unaware, complacent, or forgiving of the genocide that occurred on this land at the hands of capitalism and settler policies and legislatures means contributing to the stripping of Indigenous Peoples’ history, homes, and lives.

Today, Indigenous Peoples are forced to assimilate or inhabit isolated reserves, despite their continued efforts to create treaties for a protected future.

Dr. Derry notes that “any kind of relationship will have difficult parts to it.”

As creatures of habit, humans are terrified of change, and even more so of loneliness.

So, we look for relationships that can give us a sense of security. I am thankful I can call Russia home. I wish I could be there, but I feel like that could destroy me.

Dr. Derry notes that in many films, “The key theme that runs through them is the notion of finding Home. Constantly, characters go through some kind of journey to get there.” As much as I hate giving credit to popular media, we really are each on our own unique journey. We change and evolve as we search far and wide for a space where we can be ourselves.

A space where growth is boundless.

Finding Home is a unique experience.

One that yields to growth of the self.

Finding Home can be one huge leap forward. But it can also be one step forward, six back, and then five forward to find yourself right where you started. Maybe Home is hundreds of miles away on the other side of the world, or maybe Home has been here all along, and we’ve just failed to acknowledge it. MM

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Growing Through Expectations: Taking Back Ownership of Our Own Life, Success, and Challenges Sarah-May Edwardo-Oldfield

The names in this piece have been changed to protect individual privacy.

o you want to prove them right?”

When I was in high school, struggling to get out of bed in the morning, mental health issues aside, I asked myself almost every morning some version of the question above.

“Do you want to disappoint your mother?”

“Do you want them to laugh that you failed?”

“Do you want them to be right, that you cannot succeed?”

It seemed society had its own preconceived expectation of what I could achieve in life given the circumstances I was born in. Raised by a single mother, an inconsistent father, and being a woman of colour, the statistics said I would face many challenges and be limited in what I could pursue and where I could succeed.

According to a 2010 study published in Future Child by Jane Waldfogel and her colleagues at Columbia University, I would have a 37 per cent chance of both dropping out of high school and facing teenage pregnancy. I was also expected to have behavioural, emotional, and social

issues. I wasn’t expected to “succeed” in any of the aforementioned areas.

What does it mean to succeed? What are the necessary components of a successful life? You can look up the word “success” in any dictionary, and you’ll be given a concise and simple definition. But some people might say that the definition of success is more complicated. How do we determine whether someone has succeeded? How would you know if you achieved said success? Does success mean doing well in school? Does success mean having a high-income career?

Tessa’s high-school teachers and guidance councillors told her she didn’t have a chance of getting into university. She didn’t have the grades; she didn’t have the work ethic. She wasn’t expected to succeed and was told she shouldn’t pursue a university education.

Tessa, now a 27-year-old university student, defines success as reaching her goals, no matter how small. That could be “getting a promotion, reaching a weight loss goal, or waking up in the morning and going for a run because you promised yourself the night before you would do it.”

Tessa grew up in an Asian immigrant family. A lot was expected of her. “I was constantly reminded that I had many more opportunities than my parents did growing up and that if they could be successful with half of the resources I grew up with then I should be twice as successful as they are.” These expectations hindered Tessa’s growth, pressuring her to seek out perfection. If she couldn’t succeed at that, she believed her parents wouldn’t be proud of her.

Tessa explains, “Growing up with immigrant parents, I was constantly reminded of the opportunities I have here in Canada that they didn’t have back home […] I was always comparing myself to them, and instead of treating failure as a lesson I would feel ashamed, as though

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I had failed because I didn’t try hard enough. This was tough because I grew up believing that I had to be perfect, and if I wasn’t perfect my parents would never be proud of me.”

On the other hand, Wendy, a 24-yearold recent university graduate, never felt pressured by her family to be successful in school or in her career. They only wanted her to be happy. However, Wendy struggled with the pressures of society, of society’s definition of success: having a great job, great skills, and a reasonably happy life. She wasn’t sure how someone like her could be successful, or what that success should and would look like.

Her family has never pressured her to be successful, but Wendy used to view success as having a good career and being able to support her family. She has come to define success as finding happiness through human connections, positive relationships with others, and learning from failure. “As cliche as it sounds, my happiness extends to my success.” It’s her family’s happiness that drives her to improve herself, and to set and meet her goals that allow her to add to that success.

Wendy doubted her abilities upon graduating from university and trying to join the workforce. “Like many new graduates, I struggled with impostor syndrome and felt like no one would hire me because my skill set wasn’t good enough.”

Alex, a 30-year-old student, was told by his teachers that he was lazy, not hard-working enough, and unable to take life seriously. He was considered intelligent, but ADHD limited his ability to stay on task, be organized, and not be a distraction to others. People had little faith he would make anything of himself.

Unlike Tessa and Wendy, Alex defines success as being able to manage his ADHD. Simple things like being able to set a goal—for example, sitting down for an hour to work on an assignment—is challenging for those with ADHD. He

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We would accomplish very little if we took others’ expectations and conclusions about our lives as fact.

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further defines success as “overcoming, coping, and managing any obstacles that may interfere with that goal.”

That could be his medication, removing distractions from his environment, or moving himself to a location that will help keep him focused.

As for me, I have a difficult time defining success for myself. As I grew older, my definition of success morphed from being good at everything to challenging other’s perceptions or preconceived notions about me. It became a game of doing and achieving what others thought I couldn’t. My grade twelve biology teacher thought I was aiming too high by wanting to study Psychology at the University of Toronto. As a U of T alumni herself, she was stunned into an awkward silence when she learned of my early acceptance.

“You don’t have the experience to play basketball at a University level.” “Your writing isn’t good enough for you to consider doing it as a profession.” “You can’t be an athlete and play the piano.”

How different my life would have been if I’d believed what other people said about what I couldn’t do and how I could live my life.

Just as people are individually unique, that uniqueness extends to our individual definitions of what success can look like.

But, more often than not, we allow definitions of success by external voices such as family, culture, and society to dictate what we can and cannot pursue—what we can or cannot achieve—and that tends to start with the circumstances and abilities we have at the start of our journeys.

For decades, the various schools of psychology have debated the role of genetics and the environment in the development and behaviours of people. Discussed to death, the nature versus nurture debate has concluded that there cannot be any one answer. Therein lies some participation of both your genetics, the specific traits and attributes forever entangled with your

DNA, and nurture, the quality and condition of your environment.

While the debate concluded with “there’s no way to really prove it’s one or the other,” the same concepts of nature versus nurture live on in the perceptions and expectations of our families, communities, and society. It remains today, to many people, that what you’re born with can’t be changed. This belief holds so fast that you are limited in this “stock configuration,” and there is nothing you can do.

Similar to the previous experiences, Alex would beat himself for not being able to finish tasks within the allotted time frame, or how others expected said tasks to be completed.

Statistically speaking, I was expected to be worse off in school, have poor social and emotional development, and low job prospects. I was more likely to become a teen parent, to drop out of school, and to get into trouble with the law. Even in my own extended family, it was a shock that my sister and I did well in school. It was a shock that we got good grades, got into university, as well as play and teach piano at a music school. Children from broken families like ours don’t usually achieve any of the aforementioned. We aren’t even expected to come close.

Tessa was born into a family whose culture demands excellence in everything that they do. Wendy felt burdened by the demands of the professional world.

Alex struggled to meet the most basic of expectations. As for me, I saw the world as always being against me. I always second guessed who or what I could be, and I often felt pressured to not end up being another statistic.

We would accomplish very little if we took others’ expectations and conclusions about our lives as fact—as an inevitable reality we can’t hope to change.

How very little strides we could make if we allowed others to place limitations on us, on the type of dreams and ambitions

The majority of people either forget or don’t consider that there is only one person who has to live in your skin.

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we have for ourselves. How very little of life we would enjoy if we constantly let ourselves believe what others tell us: how we’re supposed to be, act, and succeed.

How very little happiness we could allow ourselves to have if we allowed others to tell us how we should be happy. How very little we could grow if we just accepted we can’t change our circumstances.

I believe the first step to growing through—and in spite of—our own expectations and that of others is to accept that that is all they are: expectations.

What’s expected isn’t fact. It’s not carved in stone. It is merely a possibility. It can be changed. It’s possible to grow past them.

You have to be willing to fight for your dreams. You cannot allow others to tell you what isn’t possible.

Tessa had dreams of becoming a dentist but following the dismissal of her teachers and guidance councillors, she threw the dream away because they told her she couldn’t go to university. She attended culinary school, much to the disapproval of her Asian immigrant parents whose friends were able to brag about how their children were doctors or engineers.

Following culinary school, and a brief career as a chef, Tessa made the decision to renew her pursuit of becoming a dentist.

It took some time, but Tessa began to un-

derstand how much more important the journey is than the destination. She understands now that “success isn’t the only option.” She graduated with distinction and a biology degree from the University of Toronto and is currently half-way through a master’s program at Western University.

Wendy has established herself as an exceptional writer and editor. And she doesn’t think she could have gotten there without the hiccups and setbacks. “It might seem counter-intuitive to say success is made up of a series of failures, but I believe that life’s greatest lessons are learned through failures.” Wendy believes it’s fear that keeps so many from pursuing the goals and happiness they desire. Fear leads to missed opportunities and branching out to different things. “Success should not be measured by money, but by feeling satisfied with your accomplishments and the people around you.”

We learn by following the examples of what others have set, and we often forget that they’re just guidelines, frameworks for how to do things. There are many different ways to approach our goals, just as there are many different types of people with different skills and challenges.

Alex has learned that there are two aspects you need to consider: First, if

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you want to succeed, f ind a system that works for you. And second, don’t let others who don’t experience what you do tell you that you’re doing it wrong.

“For all the obvious negatives of ADHD, it gives us the ability to think in ways other people cannot. Always try to find a new or creative way to accomplish a task. I learned I can actually do any task I want to; I just need to find a way specific to me to accomplish it,” says Alex. Alex completed an undergraduate degree in political science and public policy. Today he’s in his final semester of a paralegal program, and he’s landed a job at a corporate law firm.

More often than not, the discourse around success and limitations includes words like “despite” or “overcome,” especially when regarding challenges, actual or perceived. Rarely do I see or hear people using these expectations to their advantage. Rarely do I see or hear people citing their challenges and limitations as the reason for their achievements.

I feel like I wouldn’t have accomplished what I have or made it this far in my life if not for my drive to surpass others’ expectations. I was expected to become another statistic, and with those low expectations, some of the pressure to succeed was kept off my shoulders. Those low expectations also made me more determined to prove that I was more than what others thought I could be. Single parent children fair worse in school, are less likely to finish school, and have poor job stability. I was an honour student, attended UTM, worked at a music school for nearly a decade, and ran the sports section of an independent newspaper.

The majority of people either forget or don’t consider that there is only one person who has to live in your skin. There is only one person who can walk in your shoes, feel and experience what you do every day and for the rest of your life.

And that person is you. MM

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a

b

1 2 3 if you’re not growing, you’re dying (1/4)

4

oh weeping willow the weight of your worries ground you in this world;

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why did mine release me from it?

7 8 9 10 11 12 13

words by tegwen mckenzie

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together we lay in the same soft soil but that which aerates your strength, suffocates my breath.

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d

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PART 2: TRUNK

Chris Berberian

Trapped in an Unrelenting Mind

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t’s 9:22 a.m. A frail adolescent boy sits crossed-legged on his bed. His polo shirt, once soft and bright red, is ripped and stained grey, draping over his limbs. His hair hangs over his eyes, clumped with sweat, shielding his hollowed, acne-ridden cheeks.

The open doorway is just a few feet away from his bed. If he stretched his arm far enough, he could touch that empty space between him and the outside world.

There are twenty-two scars on his left arm, some deeper than others. There are fourteen specks of dirt on the wooden floor.

His jeans are frayed and mouldy from the urine. Before he can reach the bathroom, he must pull off the blankets. He must tap the blanket over and over and move it back and forth, four-hundred and ninety-six times. His fingers must not touch each other. Tap. Tap. Tap. Repeat.

Sometimes, if it feels just right after two-hundred and sixteen times, he stops.

Usually, his fingers touch, or he fears they did, and he has to start over.

Did they touch? No, they couldn’t have. I didn’t feel it—But did you see it? I mean— then can you really be sure? What if they

did touch, and you just missed it? What if?

What if?

It’s an ongoing battle against vivid, often violent, images in his head. A car crash. A knife slash. A fall down the stairs.

All gnawing at his mind. He knows—just somehow knows—that if he doesn’t start over, these things will happen.

It’s 11:43 p.m. when he finishes the blanket rituals. He now stands on the floor, each toe stretched to avoid touching each other or any of the fourteen specks of dirt around him. If one speck gets moved from its place, he must begin again.

Outside his room, a few feet down the hallway and past the two holes in the wall, the bathroom door is ajar. His right pant leg, ripped open at his calf, is held together by a small, metallic safety pin.

No one knows this but him, but he must protect this safety pin. If I don’t, my family will die.

These are the troubling thoughts of Steven Miller, a 16-year-old from Toronto who, in the sweltering summer of 2012,

nearly killed himself. For the past five years, Steven has wrestled with his mind.

It’s been a tug of war of thoughts, emotions, and behaviours. And, so far, the illness has won.

Steven has obsessive-compulsive disorder. OCD. A chronic and debilitating neuropsychiatric condition that afflicts about two per cent of people worldwide.

Like Steven, people with OCD endure “serious impairments” in their daily life. They lose their abilities to work, get dressed, maintain bodily hygiene, attend school, meet up with friends, or in some cases, hug their parents.

OCD has two components. Obsessions are any recurrent, unwanted—or intrusive—thoughts or images that arise from fear and cause distress. There is an infinite number of obsessions, which vary specifically between each individual’s fears.

However, the majority fall within four subtypes: contamination, checking, symmetry, and ruminations.

Compulsions are all the repetitive, irrational, and avoidant behaviours—or “rituals”—a person performs to ease the distress caused by their fears. People with

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OCD have a lower perceived sense of control and an elevated desire for control compared to neurotypical people and even those with anxiety disorders. And so, rituals, however irrational, feign control amid a world marred by uncertainty.

While the novel coronavirus spreads across the globe—and anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation rise worldwide—people everywhere are seeing their lives upended. The pandemic is particular-

ly challenging for some OCD sufferers, who now face the seemingly rational fear of contamination, illness, and death.

But those who’ve battled OCD their whole life, and who’ve undergone treatment, may be the most equipped and mentally prepared to weather the pandemic.

People like Steven, and their stories, can impart valuable lessons for others during these uncertain times. His story is about one hellish year in 2012 and the journey to break

through his unrelenting mind, reclaim his identity, and re-discover happiness.

September 2012.

While his friends return to school in Toronto, recounting the fun experiences they had over the summer, Steven sits on a wellworn green leather sofa, miles away. He’s

MM in a residential treatment centre in the American Midwest, legs jittering, eyes to the carpet floor, as a team of psychiatrists, behavioural specialists, nurses, and therapists sit opposite him, telling him he’ll get better.

“Getting better” seems like an abstract idea. He can comprehend the words in his mind, flip them over and massage them how he wishes. He can also imagine it: a healthy adolescent guy with clean clothes that fit him, a short haircut, hanging out with his friends, and smiling. He can picture this guy; see his face. But it isn’t him.

Steven seldom smiles anymore. He hasn’t played hockey in over nine months, something he’d do almost every week. This September afternoon, in this cramped office room, seated beside his parents, is the first time he hears the word “ERP.”

every twenty minutes to ensure their house won’t burn down.

To tailor ERP to each individual, clinicians use “fear hierarchies.” Fear hierarchies work by taking all of someone’s obsessions and compulsions and ranking them by how much distress they cause. Hierarchies are like ladders.

It’s easy for most people to raise one foot and reach that f irst rung. But it’s a lot harder to step up to the 10th rung if you haven’t reached the ninth one already, let alone taken your foot off the ground.

Trivial to the average person, two things top Steven’s ladder: changing his underwear and getting rid of the safety pin that holds his ripped pant leg together. Taking a shower ranks somewhere in the middle.

As Steven will soon learn, the road to recovery isn’t linear—it’s circuitous, winding, dipping to dead ends, and risExposure-response prevention, or ERP, ing to momentary relief. is a specific type of cognitive-behavioural therapy in which a person challenges his or her irrational obsessions and compulsions. As acronyms f ly around freely in A loud thump sounds against Steven’s therapeutic circles, it’s easy to get con- bedroom door. fused. Part of the appeal of ERP is just “You have to get up now. The unit is how basic, yet effective, it can be. waiting to get breakfast,” says his therThe therapy follows a two-step process. apist.

First, a person must consciously expose She doesn’t know that, on the other oneself to their obsessions—the internal side of the door, Steven has been trying or external things they find distressing. to get dressed for the past four hours.

Second, they must willingly refrain from He’s gotten through his shirt ritual. He’s any ritualistic behaviour meant to damp- brushed his teeth. Now, he’s working on en the ensuing distress. putting on his socks, taking them off, Time is the key in all of this. Our and putting them back on again until it bodies cannot sustain elevated stress for- feels “just right.” ever, so the scary feelings naturally disIt was done right, why do you keep dosipate over time. ERP trains people to ing it over? You know it wasn’t right, don’t ignore their obsessions and compulsions even pretend—then what if I go without through habituation and confirma- socks? I can’t do it wrong if I don’t wear tion that their rituals are irrational and socks. Yes but you have to wear socks, if meaningless. you don’t the blood will drain from your While effective, ERP isn’t a one- dad’s— size-f its-all treatment. Instead, it’s tai“I can’t fucking do this anymore,” lored to each person and their harmful Stephen punches the metal frame at the thought patterns and idiosyncratic be- bottom of his bed. He keeps punching haviours. This is because OCD is spe- and punching until he realizes where he cif ic to the person—not everyone will is, what he’s doing, and the blood trickfeel compelled to scrub their hands over ling down his wrist. and over at the sight of someone yawnAbove him, the yellow light has gone ing, nor feel the need to check the oven stale, like he’s been trapped in some

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Skinner box for his OCD to probe and pick him apart. The sky outside his window has slowly dimmed, desaturating into purple, and then black.

Steven opens his bedroom door.

The night counsellor leads him off the residential unit. The two descend the crimson-carpeted steps and through the narrow hallway. They pass the communal garbage bins, then turn the corner until they’re in front of the cafeteria door.

With her lanyard, the counsellor taps the keypad to open it. Steven peers inside.

Emptiness. Tables packed in fours; chairs tucked in under dry, spotless tabletops.

The kitchen staff has packed up, and the buffet centrepiece is empty. All that’s left is a wicker basket of granola bars and brown-spotted bananas. The counsellor holds the door open for Steven. Acid sears his stomach. He takes two steps forward until he’s on the threshold, then remembers everything. He takes two steps back. Steps forward. Steps back. Forward… back...

It takes Steven one-thousand and forty-two tries before he enters the cafeteria.

One of the primary goals of ERP is to build resilience. Resilience is the ability to adapt in the face of adversity, threats, and stress. For people with OCD, this means inhibiting their compulsions in response to intrusive thoughts.

When OCD sufferers engage in ERP, exposing themselves to that which threatens them, they’re inevitably elevating their stress levels in the short term. After repeated exposures and the therapeutic effects of elapsed time, they can better adapt to and overcome their intrusive thoughts in the future. The obsessions don’t go away completely, but their impact lessens over time, and people strengthen their ability to overcome such stress and foster resilience.

Overcoming OCD is an arduous, lengthy, and continuous process. To build resilience, clinicians encourage people to recall their experiences and reflect on past moments of success. Whether they have OCD or not, people often focus too much on what goals they still need

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to accomplish and forget to acknowledge how far they’ve already come.

Today, the pandemic rages on across the globe.

The world appears gloomy, the winter months are in full force, and schools and companies are ramping up demands.

These all easily contribute to anxiety and depression, as people cannot accomplish what they normally would.

As the calendar f lips from September to October, the leaves slowly turn yellow and red and orange on the cedars and birches in the American Midwest.

In the residential centre, Steven sits at his desk, combing through his sketchbook.

Most pages are blank; some have black-and-white sketches of hockey players; others feature inspirational quotes. You get better before you feel better. This one, his therapist told him, the morning he broke down in front of her.

Steven closes his sketchbook and slides open the desk drawer. The safety pin rests in the back right corner—it’s usual spot. He picks it up, gently, two inches above the drawer and places it back down. He does this again. Once more. Exactly three dozen more times.

On October 20, 2012, Steven trudges on in the narrow old-carpeted halls of the residential treatment centre, a towel tucked under his arm, a bottle of shampoo in one hand, and an empty black garbage bag in the other. He thinks about the last time he show-

ered. New Year’s Eve, 2011. Two-hundred and ninety-four days ago.

I can’t do this. What if I get stuck?

What if it’s never right?

Steven locks the door to the sky-blue bathroom. Unlocks it. Locks it again.

And then taps it one-hundred and twenty-eight times—and exhales.

There’s a rusty mirror that he must align without his f ingers touching the wall behind it. But before he reaches for the mirror, he catches a face in it.

Peach fuzz lines his upper lip, an unrecognizable stubble on his chin.

The next part happens quickly.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it. But what if? No, you can’t get stuck now.

He rips the sweater over his head, removes the shirt underneath, and drops his jeans, placing them all within one tile on the floor. He’s naked, safe for a pair of underwear and a black garbage bag wrapped around his waist. Steven reaches behind the shower curtains, carefully avoiding the grimy wall above the tub.

He turns the lever to the middle and steps under the falling water.

Back in his room, Steven plods to his desk, clutching the wet garbage bag at the waist. He slides open the desk drawer. He pauses. A disorienting buzz grates in his mind, pricking underneath his scalp. He collapses on the carpeted floor, clenching his fists until they tremble.

Hot tears sting his eyes. The day that he feared had come. The safety pin was gone.

Because of the consuming nature of OCD, sufferers lose chances to engage in joyful and fulfilling activities. Over time, being away from these activities produces hopelessness. People forget about their interests and stop trying to seek them out, which can spiral into depression and stunt ERP treatment. OCD seeps through the cracks of the brain and erodes one’s identity, or sense of self.

In social psychology, the self is subjective knowledge about one’s own beliefs, personality traits, abilities, values, and

agency. People with OCD often have a reduced sense of self, which leads many sufferers to become “emotionally numb” and “lost,” disconnected from the self, the people, and the world around them.

Realizing one’s loss of self is difficult for people with OCD as many conflate illness with their identity. Since the illness sounds the same as their conscious voice, sufferers often struggle to separate their rational self from the irrational symptoms.

To help disentangle these voices, clinicians encourage people to strengthen their sense of self. Research shows that the most effective ways to do this include setting goals and re-engaging with one’s interests. By fulfilling one’s sense of self, through interests or elsewhere, people not only minimize anxiety and depression but become happier and more resilient.

No Thanksgiving celebration. Leaves, shrivelled and colourless, cling to the frozen earth. Newly fallen leaves flutter in the breeze while soft-falling snow blankets the cornfields and the flat plains of the Midwest and the parking lot outside Steven’s foggy bedroom window.

All the geese have gone south, leaving the forest outside his room quaint, save for the sounds of a few woodpeckers rattling at the trees, and a few light taps of snow on the windowpane. Soon, Christmas will be here. Steven can’t help but think that he’ll experience it just like Thanksgiving: alone.

Steven changes his shirt every day and his pants every three days. He showers once a week, and no longer performs his blanket rituals nor tiptoes over specks of dirt on the floor.

Outside his bedroom door, his therapist holds a big cardboard box against her stomach. She knocks gently. Steven doesn’t know it yet, but December 5, 2012 is a special day.

Inside the box is a pair of Steven’s hockey skates. His cheeks tingle. He hasn’t seen or touched or smelt his skates

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since the hazy winter of last year when he stopped going to games, and friends started wondering why.

Ten minutes later, Steven and his therapist are in a green sedan, driving through the cedar-rich forest, along the winding road that dips and rises between the residential centre and nearby houses. Kids in toques and puffy winter coats chase after one another in the snow, their backpacks swinging behind them.

Eventually, the sedan veers left and continues onto the flat country road.

Up ahead, nestled beside a gas station and a donut shop, is a small wooden arena. It looks just like the arenas Steven would see during his hockey road trips with his friends. How they’d stay up late in the hotel, sneaking out at midnight to walk around the town. The laughing and ribbing the boys would give each other.

Inside the arena, the Zamboni tours the rink. A deep, comforting hum envelopes Steven. The sharp smell of fresh ice and the velvety aroma of warm coffee swirl around him. Frissons tickle his arms.

At one end, beneath the scoreboard, the American and Canadian flags hang still. Silence. Nothing but him and two-hundred feet of glistening ice.

Steven lines up at the blue line and skates as fast as he can, the wind ripping through his short hair and billowing out his black sweater. He can’t help himself.

His mind is still now, easing like mist on a hot spring. He smiles.

If the pandemic has given people anything, it’s a heavy dose of uncertainty.

Every single person faces uncertainty each day to varying degrees. But take these uncertainties, magnify them, add a host of new ones, and it’s enough to make even the most resilient of people stumble.

Steven Miller’s story, and the recovery of other OCD sufferers, leaves us with valuable lessons—why we should engage with our interests and em-

brace uncertainty as a way to overcome the obstacles, tragedies, or intrusive thoughts that life whirls our direction.

February 2013.

Steven walks alongside his therapist through the narrow halls of the residential centre. They descend the rickety steps to the basement. He holds a thin white envelope in his right hand.

Along the way, they chat about the college hockey game from last night. His therapist brings up the next steps in his treatment and what needs to be done before he can head back home.

Steven hops down the last step and turns the corner to face the communal garbage bins. He opens the flap of the envelope and digs inside, pulling out a tiny, rusted safety pin. He eyes it, just for a moment, and throws it into the trash. Then, Steven walks further down the bright hallway until he reaches the cafeteria’s thr seshold.

He peeks inside, breathes in, and steps through the open doorway. MM

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Sonia Romero Johnson

Puppy Parenting: The Joys and the Sorrows

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n a cool October morning, I repeat today’s plan to my mom as we drive to pick up Tuco.

“The book said I need to bring back something with the mother’s scent. This will make the puppy’s transition from his den to our home a lot smoother.”

Over the summer, in preparation for the puppy, I read Cesar Millan’s book How to Raise the Perfect Dog and watched dog training videos on YouTube. I have a sample puppy schedule and a potty-training chart taped to the inside of my notebook with the rest of my puppy research.

“Then,” I continue, “I’ll put his new collar on, attach the leash and walk him to the car. Cesar said puppies shouldn’t be carried like human babies.”

We ascend the dirt road that leads to Ellis Labrador Farm, Tuco’s home, for the last time. I think about the first time I drove up here with my boyfriend Tristen, a week after Tuco was born. His tiny body fit perfectly in Tristen’s hand. The breeder, Patti, told Tristen and me that

Tuco was born with fluid in his lungs and was given mouth to mouth by her daughter, Katie.

I pull up into the long, wet driveway covered in yellow leaves. My breath flutters. “The book said a leader must have a calm-assertive energy. Gentle but firm discipline.” I put on my face mask. “As long as I mimic the behaviour of a mother dog, Tuco will follow,” I tell my mom before knocking on the door.

Tuco is the last puppy to go. He whines and howls for Sam, his mom. We sit with Pattie, the breeder, and discuss puppy training dos and don’ts, most of which was all review for me. I’m ready. I’m confident I can apply everything I learned about puppy training, from boundaries and limitations to affection and positive reinforcement. The idea is simple: correct unwanted behaviour and encourage good behaviour. While Pattie wraps up our conversation, I rub a towel over Sam. We finally arrive at the handoff I had imagined all summer, leash ready

in hand. Katie holds Tuco as I hold the leash. She stares at me as I stand there, wondering why she’s ignoring my leash that’s right in front of her. I inch towards her.

“He won’t walk on a leash for a while.”

“Oh! Sorry!” I reply and scoop Tuco into my arms.

On the walk back to the car, I think about what kind of psychological impact holding Tuco in my arms would have.

Cesar said not to hold puppies like humans, that puppies need to physically feel that they’re moving. If they are carried, they will be disoriented.

I place Tuco inside the basket we prepared for him with a blanket, treats, and a rubber bone for him to chew on. The second Tuco’s paws touch the blanket, he tries to climb out. My mom drives while I sit in the back with Tuco.

I repeat the rest of the plan to her.

“The book said when we get home, we have to walk the puppy straight to the yard. Cesar said not to let the puppy ex-

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plore the entire house because they have to learn the house has boundaries.”

Tuco is asleep in my arms when we arrive back at the house. I place him gently on the driveway so he can explore his new environment. Tuco’s bum hits the gravel and he looks up at me. I pick him back up and head for the door when my mom stops me for a picture.

“The book said to restrict the puppy to a specific part of the backyard, so I’m going to take him along the back fence,” I tell my mom as I bring Tuco into the yard. As soon as I put him down, Tuco sniffs around and makes a left toward the garden. I watch him as he sniffs and digs in the grass. He picks up a leaf and I dash toward him to pry it out. I bring Tuco back inside and google “are leaves bad for dogs.” According to labradorsite. com, leaves are not harmful but provide few nutrients.

Growing up, I was rarely given a leadership role within my family. As the youngest of four siblings, I could always look up at one of them and copy their behaviour. Being a puppy parent is a first in my family, and I promised my parents Tuco would be a calm, submissive dog. I approach every new project in my life the same way: I do my research, I take notes, and I plan. If I’m going to do something, I will do my absolute best.

It’s 3:00 a.m. when the crying finally stops.

The first week with Tuco is all laid out for me in my puppy schedule. This week, my training goal is to teach Tuco his name by saying it aloud, then hand feeding him.

I kneel to Tuco’s level with kibble in my hand. Right away, Tuco lunges at my hand, nibbling and licking my fingers. I try to keep him in a “sit position,” but he finds the bowl with the rest of his kibble At 10:00 p.m., I place Tuco into his crate and and lunges toward it. I grab it just in time tuck a Winnie the Pooh plushie next to him. and start over.

I think back to the puppies on YouTube Curled into a ball, Tuco falls asleep; I hop into that are calm and well-behaved. bed, ready to do the same.

A soft whine wakes me up. It’s midnight.

I take Tuco out to potty and place him back into his crate. He begins to whine, staring at me with his paws gripping the cage. I try my Week two on the puppy schedule is focused best to ignore him. The book said the first on luring with a treat in hand. The idea is night would be the hardest. When puppies that Tuco will follow my hand into a “sit are away from their mom and littermates position” and eventually a “down.” I lure for the first time, they will cry and howl for Tuco’s head back, and as his bottom hits them. The crying is piercing, so aggravating the floor, I say “sit.” Timing is crucial in that our instinct is to comfort the puppy and dog training since dogs only live in the present; they are masters of association. stop the crying.

But Cesar said not to. Cesar said I must let Tuco overcome his fear of sleeping alone and teach him that crying out for me is not a means of control. Part of being a strong lead- Every training session starts with a clear er means I must ignore Tuco. I leave the room image of what I want Tuco to accomplish.

Today, I try to teach Tuco to take a treat and sleep in my sister’s childhood bedroom.

Every shriek cracks my heart open. I plug my out of my hand without biting too hard.

Tuco’s sharp canines dig into my knuckears and hide my head under the pillow.

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les, and I pull my hand away and feel my jaw tighten. I try again, and Tuco nips my hand again. Anger turns to rage, and I feel my chimp energy coming to life.

I give up.

It’s week three. I’m sleep deprived. It’s the potty breaks every two hours. I always thought my maternal instincts would kick in when raising a puppy, and I would magically turn into Mother Teresa, but instead, I’m a tyrant. Is this the kind of mother I would be to my future children?

My dad comes home from work and Tuco hops to the front door, his tail whipping side to side. I take this as a training opportunity to teach Tuco door manners.

“Tuco, come!” My dad says as he shuts the door behind him. Tuco jumps onto my dad’s legs and lunges at his face—everything I don’t want Tuco to do. I sigh in frustration as I watch my dad scratch Tuco on the head.

Puppies repeat behaviour that gets them attention and affection. The book said to ignore puppies when you come home and only greet them when they are sitting and calm.

After 10 minutes of playing tug with my dad, Tuco gets the zoomies. He sprints around the kitchen and through the living room. Every corner he turns, I worry he will slip and break a bone or crush his skull against a wall.

I pull out a treat and get him to stop. I pick him up and he starts to squirm in my arms. He growls and jams his teeth into my arms. I start to cry as I place him into the crate for nap time. Plopped on the floor, I drop my head between my legs, defeated. I feel like a failure. I don’t have the calm-assertive energy required to be a good pack leader.

My dad walks into my room, still chewing on his dinner.

“Don’t cry, Sonia. He’s fine.”

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TUCO / 3 MONTHS

“Yeah, but the book said not to associate the crate with negativity because—” “He’s a dog,” My dad interrupts. “Dogs have survived for thousands of years in the wild. He’s inside. He’s got a bed. If he cries, just ignore him. He’ll stop eventually. That’s what we did to you guys when you were babies.” He chuckles.

“I’m scared I’m going to turn him into an aggressive dog.”

“You won’t. In El Salvador, dogs would be outside day and night. We fed them tortillas and milk, and they lived for 15 years and never attacked us. Just walk away when he’s crying. He’s not going to die.”

It’s been a month since Tuco came home, and we have finally settled into a routine.

During his nap times, I can tend to myself. I can exercise, meditate, clean up, eat—anything to maintain my physical and mental well-being.

Today, as I wash dishes, I listen to Jack Kornfield’s podcast on Spotify, Heart Wisdom Hour. As plates and forks clank together, Jack’s soothing voice shines through the sound of running water.

So, forget the tyranny of perfection.

The point is not to perfect yourself. It is to

perfect your love. Let your imperfections be an invitation to care.

I lift my gaze from the soapy water and shut the tap off. The beauty of mindfulness is that it brings about these moments of insight. Raising a puppy is a great privilege that should be fulfilling. Up until today, I’ve resented my role as Tuco’s leader.

Resentment is a state of being I often encounter. As I stand here and reflect, I think about what led to this moment— why it’s so familiar. When I began my first year at UTM, I coped with feelings of unworthiness by boosting my ego with good grades. I believed that if I could aim for perfection, I could avoid failure, but the problem with perfectionism is that everything below perfect is registered in the brain as a failure. To fear failure is to fear imperfection, and to be imperfect is too shameful to endure.

I thought I was past that stage in my life. I thought I had learned that lesson, but here I am repeating the same perfectionist cycle—only this time, my behaviour is affecting an innocent being.

Every stumble in Tuco’s progress felt like a direct reflection of my own failure as a dog owner.

I dry my hands and walk over to the crate to wake up Tuco. I uncover the

blanket that drapes the crate, and I see Tuco rolled on his back, exposing his pink belly with pride. I stroke his soft fur and whisper a phrase from Jack Kornfield’s podcast.

“The goal is to perfect my love.”

I dice an apple and hide some pieces around the living room, some under a towel, a couple behind a toy, and I watch Tuco circle as he sniffs for sweetness. I love to watch Tuco’s primal instincts at work.

To perfect my love is to accept Tuco for what he can do today and not focus on my expectations of how he should be or his future potential. How he arrives today is good enough.

I pull out some training treats. Tuco dives in front of me and plops into a “sit.” I take a deep breath. I lure Tuco into a down command and give him praise. One “down” is good enough. This way, I not only honour Tuco’s progress but my own progress as a dog trainer.

Dog training is not about perfecting commands but about cultivating a relationship. Every mistake I make as a puppy parent is an opportunity to practice self-compassion. Every challenge with Tuco is a chance to bond, to grow trust and respect, loyalty and love. MM

MM

if you’re not growing, you’re dying (2/4) weeping willow, etched on your skin are shapes of love. do you grieve because they warp with time?

No— you grieve in thought of skin scarred strengthless; skin that can’t grow anew to tell any tale again; skin like mine.

zie words by tegwen mcken

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a dog’s life

the promise of spring

A dog’s life is simple. My dog has little to worry about. He teaches me patience, and that it’s okay to enjoy lazy days. He finds comfort in my company. I strive to enjoy the little things more.

As the sunshine trickles through my window, I can feel the cold of winter washing away. The promise of spring, of new life, and of light after darkness. I long to step out into a new world and breathe in the smell of change.

MM

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turning pages

memories

Write down the names of everyone who disappointed you and set the page on fire. It may not give you anything, just ash, but it can be the moment you ignite. Every day you spend dwelling is another day wasted. I know, because I’ve thrown many of those days away. It isn’t always easy, and it will take time, but if tomorrow was the last day, how many blank pages are in your story?

I’m haunted by those who have been left behind. I pay vigil by living in the past because I don’t want to bear a future without them. I worry that moving forward could mean forgetting and oh, how I wish to remember every moment. To live in my memories may be no life at all, but at least that’s where we’re together. At least that’s where we’re happy. MM

Photo essay by Julia Healy

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The Oxymoron of Unsustainable Growth Isik Vera Senel

PART 3: BRANCHES

G

rowth is a part of the human condition. We must grow to survive in an ever-changing world where new technological innovations are conceived almost every day, simplifying our daily lives. However, if growth is unrestricted and executed through unsustainable measures, we might not have a future to grow into.

Nonetheless, we are not without hope.

There are many alternatives to our current approaches to industrial growth, such as sustainable urban infrastructure and environmentally friendly energy production.

In 2018, toward the end of my senior year of high school in Turkey, my classmates and I prepared group presentations for our Environmental Systems and Societies class.

Every group presented a project they believed would contribute to environmental advocacy and sustainable infrastructure.

While I remember very little about my own project, another group’s presentation on the ecological impacts of nuclear energy has stuck with me to this day.

Around the same time, one of the most significant topics of debate in environmental circles was the construction of the Akkuyu Nuclear Power Plant, which was in the process of being built in the Mersin province of Turkey. The group covering the nuclear energy presentation briefly discussed the establishment of the power plant and its potential impacts on the environment and the Turkish economy.

The foundation-laying ceremony for the power plant was held on April 3, 2018,

“we we must grow to survive—

in Ankara, the nation’s capital. Both the Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan and Russian President Vladimir Putin were in attendance, speaking to the project’s significance on an international scale. The power plant was said to begin operations in its first reactor in 2023 and eventually generate enough power to provide energy to 10 per cent of Turkey’s population. This would be just in time for Turkey’s 100th anniversary of becoming a sovereign republic, which many believed was not coincidental.

The calculated deadline allowed the nuclear power plant to become a part of Turkey’s history, even before the first cement was poured into the pit.

Announcements were made in celebration of the power plant’s construction in both Russian and Turkish. A live stream video was presented from Mersin, showing the construction site located next to a beautiful shoreline with a tree-laden mountain just across the cove. Large Turkish and Russian flags were hanging above the empty lot as concrete was poured in for the very first time. Red, white, and blue balloons were released into the air, combining the colours of both nations’ flags.

Mersin is a beautiful coastal city by the Mediterranean Sea known for its picturesque mountain ranges and historical ruins. My family and I would visit the southern city during the summer months for its warm and clear waters. So, the blue water surrounding the small green islands in the background of the construction site’s live stream video were all too familiar. It

—in an everchanging world” MM

looked as if they had taken away the beautiful wooden boutique hotel my family and I had celebrated many birthdays in and replaced it with a large barren lot.

This power plant was a big deal for Turkey. Many people thought it would boost not only the nation’s economy but also create much-needed job opportunities. This is likely why so many people were wholeheartedly supporting its establishment.

People believed that this plant would be the next step for Turkey in its development as a nation. However, this sentiment wasn’t shared by everyone, especially environmentalists who believed the plant would be a source of pollution and nuclear waste.

At the time, Duygu Kutluay, the climate and energy campaigner for Greenpeace Mediterranean, told Deutsche Welle News, a state-owned German media company, that nuclear energy wasn’t necessary for a strong and independent Turkey.

“Turkey will have to import 100 per cent of the fuel bars necessary for nuclear energy production,” stated Kutluay. “Turkey is a very lucky country with regards to solar energy potential. The sun is a natural resource, and it is both local and free.” This means that an endeavour such as the Akkuyu Power Plant would have been unnecessary if the Turkish government were to dedicate the same amount of money and effort to solar energy production.

Due to its agreement with the Russian state corporation Rosatom, the company in charge of the Akkuyu Nuclear Power Plant’s construction, Turkey will have to charge around $0.15 for every kilowatt-hour of energy produced for the next 15 years.

In comparison, coal power plants charge $0.041, and solar energy costs $0.038 per kilowatt-hour. Even the nuclear power plant Rosatom is currently building in El Dabba, Egypt, is predicted to cost just under $0.07 per kilowatt-hour once the plant is

operational. Many presume the cost of energy is so inflated in Turkey because Rosatom wants to make back the $25 billion it invested in the project.

Therefore, most of the money coming out of Turkish citizens’ pockets will be going to a Russian state corporation rather than Turkey’s economy.

The establishment of this power plant would not only continue the use of unsustainable energy in Turkey, but it would also contribute more to Russia’s economy than Turkey’s. Assuming that people would be willing to pay three times more for their power bill, most of their money will be handed over to Rosatom until 2038.

On August 28, 2019, BBC Monitoring published an insight report on the power plant, highlighting some concerns that seem evident but were never widely publicized in Turkish media. In addition to being a peninsula surrounded by seas on three sides, Turkey is also located on multiple seismic fault lines, with a history of catastrophic and devastating earthquakes across the nation.

An examination of the construction site by the Turkish Atomic Energy Authority (TAEK) revealed that there were multiple subterranean cracks right beneath the area one of the nuclear reactors were planned to be built on. Following this discovery, the foundation was broken apart and rebuilt once the subterranean crack was repaired.

This process had to be done twice as new cracks formed in the ground, indicating a fragile base beneath the power plant.

Russian authorities have stated that these concerns are of no consequence and are exaggerated by anti-Russian interests.

Along with environmental activists, the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe also disclosed some concerns they shared about the Akkuyu Nuclear Power Plant’s construction in their meeting on

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November 11, 2018. While the Assembly discussed their general reservations regarding nuclear energy and the existing power plants in Europe, they were especially apprehensive about the construction in Akkuyu.

They emphasized the high-risk of earthquakes in the region and its proximity to other countries.

On April 26, 1986, when the Chernobyl disaster ravaged Soviet Ukraine, the immediate death count was less than 100. However, due to the long-term effect radiation exposure can have on the human body, the actual death toll is estimated to have reached around 60,000 over the decades.

While the city of Chernobyl was located in Northern Ukraine, the radiation quickly moved down south to the Black Sea. My grandparents are from a coastal town in the Black Sea region of Turkey. Growing up, they would tell me about the years following the Chernobyl disaster. The people from the notoriously rainy coast were frightened as the ground soaked up everything the sky poured down. Many people believe that cancer cases skyrocketed in the months following the nuclear accident, and they were afraid to eat or drink anything that grew from the soil.

People around the globe have been very apprehensive about nuclear energy since the Chernobyl disaster. However, the Turkish and Russian governments both seemed to welcome the opportunity to build a nuclear power plant with open arms. Not only is Akkuyu located in an area considered to be high-risk for earthquakes, but it also sits by the Mediterranean Sea, which is shared by many other nations. This intercontinental sea is encircled by 21other countries, which puts each at risk of a nuclear catastrophe.

None of these concerns were addressed or even acknowledged at the foundation-laying ceremony. Erdogan and Putin stood smiling side by side in the chilly

MEDIUM MAGAZINE

spring weather, wearing long dark jackets, applauding the start of construction for the Akkuyu Power Plant. Folk music was blasting through the speakers, alternating between classic Russian and Turkish melodies. The event resembled the celebrations my high school organized on national holidays. Without context, one might assume the event was in honour of an international treaty that would change the course of the world, rather than a foundation-laying ceremony.

Turkey has much potential when it comes to sustainable energy production.

Its abundance of coastlines, windy plateaus, and sunny cities is perfect for a variety of eco-friendly projects. Yet, the government chooses to support projects that might cause irreparable damage to the ecosystem.

These concerns aren’t exclusive to Turkey. Similar scenarios are taking place all around the globe. World leaders continue to support unsustainable energy production methods and industrial growth, ignoring the environmental disasters they might lead to in the future. The industrial complex’s complete disregard for the environment and future generations’ well-being might be considered criminally negligent behaviour by many people. However, in Turkey, there is evidence suggesting actual illegal conduct.

On January 12, 2015, the Turkish newspaper BirGun Daily reported that the signatures on the Akkuyu Power Plant’s environmental impact report were forged.

Environmental impact reports are crucial for sustainable urban development. These reports take months, sometimes years, to complete and are made up of multiple documents. Through the publication of these documents, the public is informed about the impacts a certain project might have on its surrounding ecological systems.

By requiring companies to conduct ecological research and produce an impact report, the government ensures that projects will not cause significant environ-

mental harm. But what happens when the government is behind the project?

BirGun Daily’s report also revealed that the six engineers in charge of the Akkuyu Power Plant’s construction area had resigned six months before the environmental impact report was submitted.

This led many to believe that the examinations of the site were conducted without supervision.

Following these suspicions, the Union of Chambers of Turkish Engineers and Architects (TMMOB) called for a criminal investigation. It was soon revealed that two of the signatures belonging to the engineers had been forged. The TMMOB also found that the report had been privately tampered with by Akkuyu NPP, a subsidiary company of Rosatom, without the engineers’ knowledge. Moreover, the altered report containing the forged signatures was approved by the Ministry of Environment and Urban Planning, allowing the company to begin construction efforts.

When asked about the aforementioned claims, the Environment and Urban Planning Minister Idris Gulluce rejected the findings and took to Twitter to defend the government’s integrity. “No one should think they can hinder the development and growth of Turkey with these types of intentional articles,” tweeted Minister Gulluce, implying that not only were the accusations false but that they were intentionally made up to obstruct Turkey’s development.

The signatures were confirmed to be counterfeit by three separate experts in their independent analyses despite the minister’s passionate assertions. While many people expected Akkuyu NPP to lose its license and the Ministry of Environment and Urban Planning to revoke its approval of the environmental impact report, that was not the case. Rosatom continued to develop the land, and by April 2018, it was ready for the foundation-laying ceremony.

The Turkish government wants Turkey to grow and become a powerful country with a flourishing economy. It envisions a future where employment rates are low, and citizens are happier than ever. However, the government sees the Akkuyu Nuclear Power Plant as a step forward and is willing to damage the environment in the process.

While I also want my home country to develop as a nation, I want it to be done sustainably so future generations can see the beauty Turkey has to offer. I would hate to imagine a future where Turkish children grow up without experiencing the picturesque landscapes I was lucky enough to see during my time in Turkey. Growth is a natural part of life and Turkey needs to develop and embrace new projects. However, Turkey cannot truly grow if it continues to pursue unsustainable initiatives and depend on other countries for support. While growth is necessary, so is a healthy environment. The two should not be mutually exclusive. MM

JASON BLACKEYE/UNSPLASH

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“that simple conver sation— MM

33

‘Going Abroad Really Changed Me’: The Year I Chased a Cliché Justin Singh

“G

oing abroad to France really changed me,” she says. Who is she? I don’t know, because she’s different now. I stand in front of the table of my last two customers for the night. My serving apron is already ripped off and my closing duties are done.

These two ladies have been here for my entire shift. The lady on the left, who ordered the Spanish Paella, spent the entire time detailing her Europe trip to her friend on the right, who ordered the Mushroom Swiss Bliss Burger. They both sip on lemon iced waters.

“While I was there, I got to go to Germany, Switzerland, Portugal, Greece—” Her friend laughs. “Wow, I’m going to call you Miss Europe from now on.”

“Oh my god,” Miss Europe continues, “in Spain, they have the best paella I’ve ever tasted. It was incredible!”

“No offence.” She quickly addresses me as she pushes her Spanish Paella bowl to the centre of the table. “Pickle Barrel

Tottori Sand Dunes, Japan.

TAKUYA KOGUCHI/FUN!JAPAN

just isn’t Spain.” She rests her head on her french manicured hand.

“I bet,” I take the bowl off the table.

“Do you ladies need the debit machine tonight?” I pull the portable machine out from my back pocket.

“No, it’s okay, I’ll cover both bills,” Miss Europe announces. She yanks her wallet out of her purse and digs for cash.

“Oh my god,” she waves a 20-euro bill at me like I’m a stripper and it’s her first time at the club. “I completely forgot to exchange all my money!”

“It’s okay,” her friend pulls out her Amex. I type in the numbers on the debit machine and hand it to her friend.

Miss Europe turns to me, her blonde wavy hair bouncing in unison. “Have you ever travelled abroad?”

“Me?” I ask. “No, I’m not much of a traveler. I’ve only been to California. But it sounds like you had an amazing time!”

I pump my cheek muscles, hoping for a genuine smile.

Kyoto, Japan.

KAZUO OTA/UNSPLASH

Osaka, Japan.

ALEXANDER SMAGIN/UNSPLASH

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tryside, just over a two-hour train ride from the major cities, Kyoto and Osaka.

It would be a nice place to live if my work hours cooperated. I start at 5 p.m. and finish work at 9:45 p.m. A bit under five hours of work. It would be even better if my classrooms weren’t about a two-hour ride away from Fukuchiyama, deeper into the countryside. I could sleep in until 1 p.m, except I wake up at 10 a.m. because the trains in the countryside are so infrequent that I have to leave two hours earlier to arrive to class on time. It’d be pretty nice, if things were different.

There’s no time for meeting people, eating out at fancy restaurants, travelling to different cities, going to the Pokémon Center stores scattered across the country, or— Mayuko’s pencil rolls off the desk and taps against my toe, interrupting my thoughts.

Clearly, I barely have enough time to think.

I pick up the pencil and hand it to her.

She bows her head and silently continues to write. Lisa giggles and pokes Mayuko as if I did something funny. Kanon, Aoi, and Junsei doodle in their notebooks and laugh at each other’s art.

I sit in the kid-sized wooden chair, staring at the walls with pinned up colourful posters: Days of the Week, How’s the Weather, How are You Feeling. The works. The terrible fluorescent lighting doesn’t help my mood as I graze my feet on the cold, rough, dull green carpets.

The fax machine beeps, but I ignore it.

Wasn’t Japan supposed to be modernized?

Where’s my next-generation iPad that hasn’t been released in Canada yet?

How did Miss Europe convince me And that’s how it all began. That simple conversation is what led me to this tiny, to move to Japan? Her cliché fantasy life cramped classroom teaching after school clearly isn’t something I can find here in Japan.

English to the youths of Japan.

“Okay, time’s up!” I shout and stand up.

The after school English company I work for, Peppy Kids Club, placed me in All of the sixth graders look up at me, exFukuchiyama, Kyoto, out in the coun- cept for Kanon, Aoi, and Junsei.

“You should do it. That’s what I keep telling my friend,” Miss Europe says. “I just graduated and had a job lined up, but I said screw it and booked a flight to Paris with my graduation money.”

“Oh. My. God. I bet you found your life calling there. Did you meet your future spouse there too? Are you going to move to Spain and eat paella every day? Or are you going to find a little apartment on top of a bakery in France and eat croissants for breakfast and explore little streets with quaint shops until the streetlights turn on and then when everyone is home, your lover will kiss you under the single streetlight, and your life will be magical.

Y’know, I’m shocked you’re not wearing a bright red beret right now that has ‘I lived in France for a year!’ embroidered on it.

You’re a walking cliché!”

That’s what I want to say.

“No way!” I say instead. I force my jaw to drop.

“Oui! And it changed my life! I’m ditching my business degree to go back to school for art history. I found my true passion for museums and art. My life is la vie en rose.”

I blink three times at her and pick my jaw back up. The debit machine beeps.

“Ah!” Her friend hands me the debit machine. I tear a copy of her receipt for her.

Miss Europe pulls out a bright red beret from her purse.

And that’s my cue. “Have a great night, ladies!”

“Merci, merci!”

“Now,” I gesture to the poster on the board, “Which do you prefer, living in the CITY or the COUNTRYSIDE?” I point at each word as I say them.

“I prefer living in the CITY because I like TALL BUILDINGS!” I mime a building. “I prefer living in the CITY because I like SHOPPING and DRINKING COFFEE!” I pretend to shop and drink my iced soy matcha tea latte with light ice and no syrup. “I prefer living in the CITY because it is FUN!” I try to act it out, but I just hop around like a rodeo cowboy. Everyone laughs, even silent Mayuko.

“Now, your turn!” I point to everyone’s notebooks. “What did you write?” I gesture first to Lisa.

“I prefer living in the countryside because I like stars,” she says.

“Wow, good job!” I clap. “Next!” I point at Mayuko.

“I prefer living in the countryside because it’s quiet,” she mumbles while picking at her nails.

“Wow! Amazing!” I give her a thumbs up, but she continues to stare at her paper.

“Next!” I point at Kanon. She looks around the room.

“Kanon!” I wave my hands to pull her attention. Which do you prefer?”

“Which do you prefer,” she responds.

“No no, I prefer…”

“I prefer…”

I point at the poster again.

“Countryside…” She drags out each syllable.

“Good! Naze?” Why? “Hoshi!” Stars.

I sigh. “Okay! I prefer the COUNTRYSIDE because I like STARS!” She repeats the phrase back to me and then goes back to her notebook to doodle.

“Okay, Junsei!”

“STARS!” he shouts. Everyone else giggles and Kanon bursts out laughing.

I sigh louder. Is that all they have here?

Pathetic.

“Cool! Next, Aoi!”

MM

“I prefer living in the city because I like shopping at the Pokémon Center.”

I pound my hands together and shake my head. “Perfect! Perfect! Yes! Amazing!”

Finally, a good answer.

After class, I speed-walk to the train station to catch the next train on time.

The main road is small, and cars rarely pass by. There’s no sidewalk, so I walk on the edge of the road. Music from the small karaoke bars and snack bars blasts through thin walls. I look up at the sky to find the so-called stars that the kids talked about, but all I see are clouds. Suddenly, I walk into a huge spiderweb.

“Are you kidding me!” My voice echoes through the empty road.

“I took this job because I wanted to explore Japan while making money, and maybe get some teaching experience because, well, I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life after graduation. But I don’t think that teaching is for me. I get stressed and anxious even though the job is easy. On top of that, with these hours, I don’t get time to do anything. Osaka and Kyoto are almost three hours away by train. When I start work at 5 p.m., there’s really no chance to go to the city unless I get a day off, which I rarely get because I’m constantly doing make-up lessons.

I’m lonely in the city because it’s hard to make friends, the other three teachers here never talk, and it’s just not working out for me. So, I’m sorry, Blake, but I have to quit.”

Blake is silent on the phone. I hear a sigh.

“Alright, I get it. But two weeks isn’t enough time. Can you please give me at least a month?”

A month? A MONTH? One more month with terrible trains, big scary bugs, and kids that ignore me and stress me out?!

“Yeah, I can do that. I’m sorry. Thanks for understanding,” I say.

“Yeah, that sounds rough,” Alex digs his tripod into the sand. “But at least you got to meet JJ and me and were able to come on this awesome trip to the Tottori Sand Dunes with me,” he flicks his non-existent hair extensions.

During the day, the Tottori Sand Dunes, found along the coast of central Japan, look like they were ripped out of the movie Aladdin. Now, at night, the bottom of the hill looks like a black hole. The only sources of light come from the moon, the stars, and the locals’ cell phone screens on the other end of the dunes. The crashing waves below us barely drown out the music from the black hole.

“I think it’s night yoga,” Alex says while tinkering with his camera. “If you didn’t leave, you’d be stuck in the country bumpkin land. Don’t you like living in Osaka now?”

“Yeah, Osaka is great. I love the city lights and all the good street food. There are so many cool restaurants and cafés.

They have that one restaurant where you literally catch the fish yourself from a pool, and they cook it! I have you and JJ, and I live in a Sharehouse, which is so fun! My roommates and I play Smash Bros. every night.”

“But it’s strange,” I continue. “I started my life in Japan living in the countryside, only two hours from here actually, and I hated it. I thought it was boring and—” “Oh shit,” shit,” Alex interrupts, “perfect “perfect timing.” The last cloud in the sky disappears, revealing a distant diamond sky. “Now I need to f ix the aperturrreee, adjust the shutter timmmeee, annnnd,” he clicks his camera. “Sorry, you were saying?”

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“Coming back here now, I can see its charm. It’s relaxing, quiet, and the stars!

I’ve never seen so many in my life.”

“Yeah, it’s awesome how there are so many different sceneries in one country.”

Alex tilts his head to the right and clicks his camera. “You have mountains all around, huge cities like Osaka and Tokyo, beautiful shrines in Kyoto, sunny beaches in Okinawa, and a fucking desert in Tottori. Where the camels at?” Alex tilts his head to the left and clicks his camera.

“Bitch, come see!”

My knees creak as I stand up. “Oh shit, I’m old.” I squint at the tiny white dots scattered on the camera screen.

“You should come to China one day before you die of old age,” Alex says, grinning. “It’s like Japan but better. And the food is better too. I’ll show you around my hometown.”

I glare at him. “I can push you down this hill, you know.” I plop back down on the towel. “But yes! I’ve never even thought about going to China, but now I’m dying to.” I stretch my arms and let out a relaxed sigh. “Do you think we’ll catch any meteors on camera tonight?”

“We betta!” Alex snaps his fingers like a drag queen. “This is the night of the Perseids Meteor Shower where the most meteor will be visible. I didn’t come all the way to country bumpkin land of Japan for nothing. I can’t believe buses and trains stop running at 9 p.m.”

Japanese people gasp, chatter, and clap.

“Where?” I analyze the sky.

“I missed it! Fuck!” Alex shouts. “Okay, I’m not blinking anymore.” He presses the button on his camera again.

The night sky looks like white paint splattered on indigo wallpaper. The hazy, milky way galaxy almost cuts the sky in half. I take a deep breath and listen to the sound of the waves sliding along the shore down below. Behind me, the bell chimes again. I breathe out. Ahead of me is just again. sky. It feels closer than before, and it com-

—is what led me to this tiny, cramped

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forts me like a blanket. I close my eyes for a moment.

Alex crashes next to me on the towel. “I’m done. I think I missed 20 meteor. Want to come back tomorrow? It’s the last day of the meteor shower. There won’t be as many meteor, but we should be able to get a good pic.”

Before I have a chance to respond, Alex is on the phone with our hostel to extend our stay for one more night.

“All right,” he puts his phone in his pocket. “Let’s enjoy the view.”

“Sweet,” I say. “We should go back to that ramen shop near the downtown area.

The decor was perfect, the food was delicious, and the server had a nice ass.”

“Um, no,” he says. “The cicada outside the restaurant literally jumped on my face!

It was stuck on my glasses, and all you did was scream. I’m never going back there again. Plus, there are tons of ramen shop down the other street.”

“Oh yeah, the cicada!” I laugh. “You’re right.”

Alex grins. Looking back at the sky, he points to a cluster of stars. “See that there?

That’s the constellation, Perseids.” Alex makes a box with his fingers and puts it over my eyes. He zooms his fingers out, putting the constellation into focus. “The meteors will be spewing out from here, so you’ll be able to see them flying from this direction, and this one, and this one.”

Alex draws invisible lines in the sky.

We sit in silence for a moment, gasping and pointing at the meteors that fly by. All the ones we’d seen so far had been small.

“Thanks for coming with me, by the way.” Alex rattles my arm. “We literally just met two weeks ago at the bar with Keita and JJ. What if I tried to kill you?”

“I probably look more like a murderer than you.”

“True.”

“Honestly, I think this is the most fun I’ve had in Japan since I came here.”

“Really?” Alex turns to me. His eyes are soft through his thick-framed glasses. He flashes a dorky smile at me. “Yeah, it’s actually really nice. I think I may come out here more often to take photos of stars next year.”

“There was one lesson I used to teach when I was working. I’d ask the students if they’d want to live in the countryside or the city. So many of them said they’d stay where they are in the countryside, and I thought they were insane. But they said they liked the stars.”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful.” Alex turns back to the sky. “But I’d still pick the city.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Just then, a huge, burning, bright red meteor rips through the night sky.

The plane finally bursts through the clouds, and the ascent is complete. I let out a sigh of relief.

“You okay, boo? You’re quiet.” JJ asks.

“Yeah, I just hate flying,” I say.

“Not that. I mean during the last day in Okinawa you seemed very distant.”

“Oh, sorry. Honestly, just thinking about that night Keita introduced me to you and Alex, and now we’re so close.

All within a few weeks. It’s crazy. Earlier this year, I was struggling so much with my job, I had no idea what I was doing here. I felt so lost. Now, I should be more lost, right? No work, no hobbies, just living every day by going out, meeting friends, and exploring Japan.

Sometimes I write. It sounds a bit cliché, but I feel like I’m on the right track in life by being here.”

JJ examines me with his hazel eyes. I look back and forth, avoiding his gaze.

“You know, babes. I get it, really,” JJ raises his bushy eyebrows. “There are times I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing too. Especially when I’m in Malta, I feel like a stranger or like the life isn’t

for me. When I’m in Asia, I feel comfortable and more like myself. It’s my home.”

“You’re right. Maybe it’s not what I want to do, but who I want to be.” My eyes f ixate on his tattoo sleeve. The rising sun tattoo, crashing waves, cherry blossoms, and an empty patch that he’s saving to add a crane. “And Japan feels like home now because I have you and Alex.”

“Aww, babes.” JJ puts his muscular arms around me and squeezes me tight.

“I’m going to miss you. Truly. I don’t want to go back to Malta.”

I don’t want him to go back either.

Moving to Japan pushed me out of my comfort zone, but JJ really shoved me into the spotlight and made me comfortable with who I am. If there’s something JJ likes or doesn’t like, he’ll make it known. He’s so conf ident, even in a country where he doesn’t speak the language.

“Please don’t,” I say. I think back to the time when the cashier at Taco Bell was rude to me, so JJ threw his drink on

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the f loor. “Who else is gonna stand up for me!”

“Oh my god, I swear.” JJ’s eyes widen.

“That cashier was being so rude. But you’ve gotten better. Did you forget that Japanese lady who was hitting on you at the bar in Okinawa? Aggressively. In a gay bar?!”

“Oh yeah.” I thought I told her ‘I’m not interested’ in Japanese, but Alex told me that I said fuck off. And the bartenders thanked me for getting rid of her.”

“You got us all free drinks for the rest of the night, and for that, I’m grateful. Truly.” JJ smiles at me.

“At least we have two more weeks together. Promise we won’t lose touch?”

“Never, babes. Between you and me, I feel so close to you, and I love these talks of ours. Once things settle down, we will stomp the streets of London, New York, Toronto, and South Korea. I need to find my Hyun Bin, thanks.” He bats his eyes like a princess.

“Oh yeah, what a mess,” I mock.

“Excuse!” JJ’s mouth drops into a smile. “You’re a mess of a mess.” He peeks over my shoulder.

Alex is passed out on the other side of me, still sunburnt from the last day at the beach. His mouth is wide open, and he lets out a cute little snore.

“I can’t believe you have a crush on this mess,” JJ whispers. He pulls his camera out and takes a picture of Alex.

The plane lands, and I eagerly stand up f irst and rush off the half-empty plane.

The crisp midnight air is about 10 degrees colder than it is in Japan. I rush to baggage claim to get good Wi-Fi. My phone lights up with texts from JJ and Alex.

JJ: Babes, are you back in Canada yet?

I’m falling asleep but text me when you land or I’ll fly over there and beat you.

Thankz.

Good, this bitch didn’t forget.

Alex: Get home safe! I’ll send you the Osaka pictures we took this week.

I’ll no longer have a personal photographer. I might as well delete my Instagram.

Back at Toronto Pearson International Airport, the security rushes everyone along. They’re especially rude to those who don’t speak English well. I stand around the baggage claim conveyor belt, with nine other people, but I’d rather be sitting at a sushi conveyor belt in Japan with my friends. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat sushi in Canada again.

“Excuse me,” A small Japanese man taps my shoulder, holding out my passport with both hands.

“Ah!” I bow up and down like a bobblehead. “Arigatou!”

The small man smiles and slowly bows, and waddles away with his wife. My phone rings. René, my old co-worker from Pickle Barrel, is here to pick me up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, I’m here at gate C,” he says.

“Alright, I’m just getting my luggage now.”

“How was the trip?”

“Oh my god, I have so much to tell you.

It really changed me.”

“Wanna grab a late bite and talk about it?” MM

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if you’re not growing, you’re dying (3/4) weeping willow, i’m envious of the way you bend. two limbs born together might never meet again, the way you succumb to the wind;

gw en m

ckenzie

and with that surrender comes hope to be bent better, broader, bolder.

words by te

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Preparing for the Front Lines

PEDRO VIT ALZ/UNSPLASH

PART 4: LEAVES

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A conversation with U of T students Sana Khan and Joanna Matthews on art, healthcare equity, and scientific literacy

hen we imagine a career in art, we might picture someone holding a paintbrush and preparing a wooden easel and white canvas in his small studio apartment. Alternatively, we might see a musician in a black leather jacket and bright red lip, strumming her guitar at the back of a dimly lit bar. We may not imagine, however, a graduate science student in her lab, grinding powdered charcoal and sketching fresh tissue.

Sana Khan, a Master of Science in Biomedical Communications student, is training to become a medical illustrator.

The two-year program she is enrolled in is offered through the Institute of Medical Science in the University of Toronto Faculty of Medicine and engages students in the creation and evaluation of various visual tools with the goal of making science more accurate and accessible.

Paula Cho

“Everyone who comes into this program is pretty artistically inclined. But something we really focus on is learning design principles,” Khan tells me, when we meet via Zoom. “How design and data visualization can account for the limitations of human cognition.”

Illustration has historically been an essential element of learning and understanding science, specifically human anatomy. Beginning in the Late Middle Ages and through the Renaissance period, anatomical drawings became an indispensable tool that revolutionized the study of biology and the practice of medicine.

Belgian Renaissance physician Andreas Vesalius famously observed dissections of human cadavers and devoted his career to illustrating the first comprehensive textbook of anatomy.

In 1894, Max Brödel, who was born in Germany and is now considered the father of modern medical illustration, arrived in the United States to work with clinicians at Johns Hopkins University. After graduating from the Leipzig Academy of Fine Arts and working for Dr. Carl Ludwig, Brödel gained a following for his prolific drawing techniques and eventually presided over the first Department of Art as Applied to Medicine in Baltimore. Over a hundred years later, medical illustration students still employ his practices, including the carbon dust technique which has

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enhanced the quality of scientific illustrations for physicians worldwide.

One such student of Brödel’s work is Khan. She grew up in Mississauga and, as a child, was always drawn to making art.

Besides the occasional fine arts class in high school, she is entirely self-taught.

By engaging with free online resources, she learned her craft and discovered her technical ability. But when the time came to enter university, she decided to forgo any artistic pursuit and came to UTM with plans to major in psychology.

“I ended up specializing in neuroscience, as I was more interested in the biological aspect of psychology. Although for my labs, I sketched here and there, it wasn’t anything major, like how I was drawing before,” she recalls. But one day, serendipitously, she stumbled across a HuffPost article on this unique discipline that fused art and science. “It was kind of like a Eureka moment. When a light bulb goes on in your head and you’re like, this is what I want to do.”

This moment of clarity prompted Khan to assemble her admissions portfolio for the M.Sc.BMC program at U of T, one of only a few accredited graduate medical visualization programs in the world. Her emphasis is on still life illustration, but she is learning a variety of

visual techniques such as 3D animation, user experience design, and virtual simulations, as well as training in anatomy as part of the curriculum. Importantly, the program, and profession more broadly, is research-intensive. Many of the details that medical illustrators visualize are undetectable to the naked eye or even under a microscope. Khan spends much of her preparation reading and developing an understanding of her subject, so that her drawings are not only beautiful but scientifically accurate.

One of Khan’s illustrations from the past year depicts a human skull with searing specificity. By sketching a smooth forehead and sharp jawline with slight cracks and dimples in the bone, she renders her plastic skull subject with exacting realism. Each time she sits down to draw, her process begins the same way. To start warming her still life, she sets the object under a specific concentration of lighting and sketches it from various angles. The detail and dimension that characterize her work are a result of expertly tailoring tonal values—her dark, medium, and light shades—on the page.

The most challenging part of her illustration process, however, is knowing when to put her pencil down. “It’s hard to make myself stop perfecting everything when it comes to art,” she says.

An indicator of when a piece is finally finished is “when nothing looks out of place.”

In an era of misinformation amid a global pandemic, we have been soberly reminded of the gravity of science, facts, and transparency. Specifically, Khan sees

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the role of medical illustrators as playing “the middleman who conveys complex scientific data. There is usually a group of people who never believes in the science but now, it’s just become so common.”

To combat misinformation on a virus that has infected more than 100 million people worldwide, visual translation of evidence-based information into digestible infographics and images is key.

“You know that very viral image of the virus, the grey sphere with red spikes? That was done by medical illustrators at the CDC, who used scientific data to make it,” Khan explains. Knowledge is power and by understanding the world in which we live, we are more empowered to make informed decisions on how to better take care of ourselves and of others.

What Khan is doing, by combining her passion for art and advocacy for health literacy, is challenging the status quo and showing that art’s limitations extend beyond aesthetic purposes. “I think most people just don’t realize this is an option,” she says. “I’ve gotten requests from elementary school teachers asking if I can speak about the different career options in art. It doesn’t have to be your traditional sitting with the big sketch pad and charcoal pencil.”

It was during her interview season with prospective medical schools last March when Joanna Matthews first learned that Ontario was going into lockdown. As our generation has begun to enter either the workforce or deeper training in our cho-

sen vocations, Matthews is no different.

After recently completing her four-week cardiology block—studying the human heart on Valentine’s Day no less—Matthews has found a rhythm for herself that balances her coursework with time for self-care and reflection on this new chapter of her life. As a first-year Doctor of Medicine (M.D.) student at the U of T Faculty of Medicine, she was among the first class to be virtually inaugurated into the program. Although many of the pivotal moments she would have as a firstyear student—from orientation week and meeting new classmates to visiting the hospital and interviewing her first patient—were compromised, her experience of entering medical school during a pandemic has been one unlike any other.

Matthews was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, and moved to Regina, Saskatchewan, when she was 5 years old. Her family is from Kerala, a state in South India, where Matthews would often visit as a child. When she entered grade 10, her exposure to psychology helped plant those initial seeds of her wanting to be a doctor.

“What brought medicine into my identity was when I started seeing that I loved community service. I liked forming relationships with people and following up with them,” she tells me during our call.

At UTM, she majored in psychology and double minored in sociology and biology as an undergraduate student. She chose her programs “out of intellectual curiosity more than anything. I wanted to understand the mind and understand the fabric of society, and how different social systems interact with the mind. I really

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ILLUSTRATIONS BY SANA KHAN

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feel that’s what medicine is about—understanding how everything works together.” In addition to her course load, she worked at a child development psychology lab, directed by Professor Doug Vanderlaan, where she researched gender nonconformity in children. In an observational study of more than 400 kids, she looked at the differing inf luences of prenatal androgen exposure and socialization on gender-typed play behavior.

Her passion for working with women and children stemmed from this research with the Biopsychosocial Investigations of Gender Laboratory. As they are introduced to more classes, shadowing experiences, and clinical settings, medical students will decide on their specialty. But for now, Matthews knows that she wants to make a career in maintaining long-term relationships with patients, building expertise in one area of medicine, and pursuing advocacy work in her chosen f ield. “That’s being able to recognize which people require more resources or are disadvantaged,” she says.

The healthcare system in Canada is far from perfect and perpetuates many of the f inancial barriers and social disadvantages present in society. Health inequity stems from the unequal distribution of care and health resources between different population groups based on social factors including education, income level, gender, and ethnicity.

In the past year, Covid-19 has distinctly highlighted how the dimensions of racial identity, age, and geographic location determines access to healthcare opportunities. The Black community in particular has been disproportionately impacted by the virus. According to a CBC report, 21 per cent of reported cases in Toronto affect Black people, though they make up only nine per cent of the city’s population.

In regard to the delays in vaccine distribution, hospitals in rural areas are not equipped to serve as vaccination sites due to storage and shipping restraints. Consequently, rural Canadians must travel further to receive their vaccinations than residents living in urban and suburban areas.

“We’ve also seen how Covid-19 cases are represented in our long-term care homes.

It shows how we might be neglecting certain populations and what we can do to improve things at a structural level,” says Matthews. The systemic inequity and inaccessibility to healthcare starts at the top and must be rectified by policies made by a collaboration between the medical community and local policymakers. “As personal support workers, nurses, and other healthcare workers, we have the insider perspective of what’s going on in different facilities or in more remote areas—all the behind the scenes aspects that need to be communicated” when devising policy.

Six months into medical school, Matthews has not only adapted to the steep learning curves of her classes and become a sponge for absorbing material, but she’s

also grown as a person and as a woman.

Science, technology, engineering, and math (STEM) is known to be a notoriously male-dominated field, as women make up 47 per cent of the workforce in Canada, yet only hold 23 per cent of jobs in STEM. However, as girls and young women become increasingly involved with math and science subjects in school, interact with female mentors, and see diverse representation in leadership roles, Matthews believes that feelings of uncertainty and self-doubt can be replaced by feelings of empowerment and belonging.

“Seeing women thrive in those roles, you hold that subconsciously in your head when you’re making your own career decisions,” Matthews says. “One thing I’ve realized about womanhood is that you can balance being feminine while still being assertive in a way that sets your voice apart and allows you to shine. I constantly feel so blessed to be a part of this class where there’s a lot of amazing women showing so much initiative with all the projects they’re doing.”

Crises, including the pandemic we currently face, often bring out both the best and the worst in people and illuminate where we fall short as a society. They can also finally put us all on the same page, revealing the kindness and ingenuity we are capable of together. In a constantly evolving world in need of truth and understanding, scientists are on the front lines. Khan and Matthews will be ready for their turn. MM

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MOUNT EDITH. JOSHUA WORONIECKI/UNSPLASH

I Have This Thought About a Mountain...

Ali Taha

I

have this thought about a mountain named Edith.

Two summers ago, a close friend of mine and I hiked as close to the peak of Mount Edith as we could get. We spent six hours scaling the mountain, stumbling over rock and root, completely unprepared for the difficult trek.

There’s no better example of our lack of preparation than four hours into the hike when we found ourselves stuck on the edge of a cliff. We could see a flag 50 feet below us that meant we were on the right path, but other than jumping, there was no realistic path forward.

Then an older lady passed by us with all the things we didn’t have—hiking shoes, trekking poles, a proper daypack—and walked down the cliffside like a mountain goat. The same cliffside that was clearly steeped at a 90-degree angle.

When the lady made it to the bottom, she turned back around to find us watching in disbelief from above.

“Do you need help?” she asked.

My friend and I pridefully said “no” and watched her step onward into the forest.

What had taken her seconds to do took us almost 20 minutes. Holding onto the cliffside with both hands and taking our precious time to find the proper footing, my friend and I made it down and continued on our way.

We eventually reached the peak of Mount Edith, and there, laid out before us, was the rest of Banff National Park. Under a blue sky rose cascading mountains, one after the other, blanketed by the lush green of trees, shrubs, and bushes. The gentle clouds above us left the valley below spotted in shadow, and the bluest lakes sprawled out across the landscape, fed by bending rivers that led from one lake to the next.

It was beautiful, and we spent a good hour sitting there, admiring the view, treating it like a sacred obligation.

Five months after the trip, while I was walking across my university campus to get to class, I remember stopping in the middle of an outdoor pathway, struck by the thought of Mount Edith.

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At the time, I had been dealing with the regular stresses of daily life—keeping up with my courses, arguing with my parents about things I now don’t remember, and staying on top of my workload at The Medium, my university campus’ newspaper.

When the thought of Mount Edith came back to me, everything else seemed a bit less important.

Mount Edith would continue to sit there at the back of my mind, wrapping itself around my perspective of everything I perceived to be difficult or time-consuming. Whenever I would think about a difficult aspect of my life, I would also think about Mount Edith and it’s enormous presence.

While at Banff, I didn’t see climbing Mount Edith as important. It was just another exciting thing to scratch off my bucket list. But it became much more than that. I’m unsure of the reason why.

Maybe it’s because, in some futile way, I was able to conquer nature. If I could conquer something as colossal as Mount Edith, a part of me believed that I could conquer most things in my life. What in life is like a mountain, in size and scope and difficulty?

Meaning comes from the struggle, and there’s always one struggle that’s greater than another. Mount Edith represented that great struggle for me.

The mountain is just one example of my attempt to make meaning in my life. This quest began in my first year of university,

shortly after I left Nova Scotia to study at the University of Toronto.

Belief in a god, an afterlife, a prayer, or a holy book can make life meaningful for a number of people, but some people just can’t take that leap of faith. All of these attempts at finding meaning in the great beyond are bound to fail because they are built on hope—they suspend our rational understanding of the world so that we can believe in something beyond reason.

This led me to search for an explanation of the world that would make sense to me—something that would help me find peace with the inevitability of my life (and death).

Enter French philosopher and author, Albert Camus.

In The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus writes, “Rising, street-car, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm.” Much of the time, the monotony of life holds us close, lulling us into a waking slumber.

But there

are times in life when we are shaken out of this repetitive lifestyle, whether through the realization of our impending death, however near or far, or an awareness of the passing of time. Such experiences can lead us to ask the simple question of “why?” Why am I alive in the here and now? Why is the world the way it is? Why does my life matter?

As Camus writes, “But one day the “why” arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement.” There is an awakening that occurs when we ask that “why” question—a consciousness and an anxiousness about the purpose of life itself.

Camus calls this human appetite for understanding a “nostalgia for unity,” this drive to “distinguish what is true from what is false” an “appetite for clarity.” Living in an age that was grappling with the “death of God,” Camus could not justify human existence based on a metaphysical worldview: “I don’t know whether this world has a meaning that transcends it. But I know that I do not know that meaning […]”

For Camus, our reasons for life are confined to what we

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know. If human existence, as Camus would argue, is futile and the only real answer to life is death, then our justification for our existence will remain unfulfilled. We have nothing that anchors us to it. From this realization, says Camus, we become estranged from life itself.

Humans want life to make sense amid the “unreasonable silence of the world.”

This tension between what should be and what is leads us to what Camus would call the Absurd.

The world is full of the irrational.

We’re thrown into this ridiculous existence where almost nothing makes sense and where life is filled with insolvable conflict. We’re fleshy and mortal, living on a glorified rock that is hurtling through space with no destination. Regardless of that, we still try to make sense of something that, on the surface, is nonsensical.

The human quest to find meaning in a

meaningless world—that tension—is Absurd.

“If man realized that the universe like him can love and suffer,” writes Camus, “he would be reconciled.” But alas, that is impossible.

In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus acknowledges the absurdity of life: “The human condition is characterized by the probability of suffering and the certainty of death—a fate which human reason cannot accept as reasonable.”

What is more absurd than life itself?

We’re doing everything we can to prolong life, to make it worth living, but death is inevitable.

We live to die.

Depressing, right?

But when we see the Absurd for what it is, when we finally acknowledge the meaninglessness of our lives, and when we realize how silent the universe truly is, what should we do? How can you justify a meaningless existence?

Camus outlines three possible answers. The first is physical suicide. You could kill yourself in the face of the Absurd. In doing so, you believe that life is just not worth the trouble of living. But you can’t have the Absurd

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without a person there to experience it.

It is an essential part of life. Therefore, you can’t have life without the Absurd.

It is something we must accept as part of our existence.

Another option is to choose to put your faith in the great beyond—in God or some other omnipotent being.

Camus would call this “philosophical suicide,” which is committed when a person performs a leap of faith. That leap of faith suspends our rationality and dissolves the Absurd since a leap of faith would signify that there is an ultimate meaning to life and existence, something Camus rejects.

The final option, and the one that Camus defends, is to embrace the absurdity of life and revolt against it.

In the foreword to Camus’ The Rebel, Sir Herbert Read writes, “[…] the nature of revolt has changed radically in our times. It is no longer the revolt of the slave against the master, nor even the revolt of the poor against the rich; it is a metaphysical revolt, the revolt of man against the conditions of life, against creation itself.”

Consider Sisyphus, the protagonist of the Greek myth who, after cheating death on two

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What counts is not the best living, but the most living.

ALBERT CAMUS

separate occasions, is condemned by the gods for all eternity to push a boulder up a mountain, only for it to roll back down upon reaching the top. Each time, Sisyphus must descend to the bottom of the hill and start again. That is his punishment.

But Camus sees Sisyphus as triumphant, not tragic. Camus believes that Sisyphus shows us how to live “with the certainty of a crushing fate, without the resignation that ought to accompany it.” It is Sisyphus’ walk back down the mountain, where he becomes conscious of his tragic fate, that he recognizes the full extent of his existence: “All Sisyphus’ silent joy is contained therein.

His fate belongs to him.”

The beginning of freedom from the Absurd is in the realization that life, in a way, is absurd. By rejecting the absurd life—the one that offers no clear answers to the “why” question—you can begin to carve out your own answer.

Once you get past the terrifying idea of the “unreasonable silence of the world” and learn to accept it, you realize that it doesn’t really matter. What matters is you and the boulder you’re pushing up that hill. That is your life— your experience. It is yours to own and make sense of.

As Camus puts it, “There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night […] crushing truths perish from being acknowledged.”

To rebel against the meaninglessness of life is to view every place as the center of the universe and every moment as the most important moment in history. You can eat that delicious fruit and get wrapped up in your favorite song.

You can find joy in the process of work and appreciate every single movement, word, sound, image, and idea you come into contact with.

My life up until Mount Edith had been like any other life: I was a 22-year-

old guy attending university while working a part-time job at my campus newspaper. I paid rent every month and bought groceries every week. I was living a repetitive life with the same day-to-day routine, but I wasn’t aware of it.

For me, the trek up Mount Edith and the view I admired from its peak was the beginning of my journey to understanding the Absurd. I had struggled for seven hours to get to the top of Mount Edith to appreciate something great and astonishing.

When my friend and I sat at the peak of the mountain, the sight was both beautiful and painful. Beautiful because of the breathtaking scenery and painful because of the indifference of the natural world. The sky, the earth, and the water were enormous, perfect, and untouchable. The thought running through my head was that compared to the rest of the universe, I was small and insignif icant.

This realization, while not original, felt raw and completely personal. I had come face to face with Camus’ “why.”

Acknowledging your place in the world brings you into the here and now—into the absolute mess that is life. Life is painful and confusing and beautiful, and death is right around the corner. But since I know my death is inevitable, I have to decide what matters. Are my daily concerns really as important as I make them out to be?

This is a question I ask myself almost every day.

We may be doomed until the end of time to question the reason for our existence, but that’s not the point. “What counts is not the best living, but the most living,” writes Camus.

All you really have to do is live—and live with passion, vitality, and intensity. Save the worrying for when you’re dead. MM

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Trapped in an Unrelenting Mind

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Chowdhury, Madhuleena Roy. 2020. 4 Ways To Improve And Increase Self-Efficacy. December 10. https://positivepsychology.com/3-waysbuild-self-efficacy/.

Crane, M. F., B. J. Searle, M. Kangas, and Y. Nwiran. 2019. “How resilience is strengthened by exposure to stressors: the systematic self-reflection model of resilience strengthening.”

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Davis, Jordan P., Sophie A. Palitz, Lesley A. Norris, Katherine E. Phillips, Margaret E. Crane, and Philip C. Kendall. 2020. “Chapter 10 Exposure therapy for generalized anxiety disorder in children and adolescents.” In Exposure Therapy for Children with Anxiety and OCD: Clinician’s Guide to Integrated Treatment, edited by Tara S. Peris, Eric A. Storch and Joseph F. McGuire. Elsevier.

Gillihan, Seth J., Monnica T. Williams, Emily Malcoun, Elna Yadin, and Edna B. Foa. 2012. “Common Pitfalls in Exposure and Response Prevention (EX/RP) for OCD.” Journal of Obsessive Compulsive and Related Disorders 1 (4): 251-257. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. jocrd.2012.05.002.

Haan, Lieuwe de, Christine Dudek-Hodge, Yolanda Verhoeven, and Damiaan Denys.

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if you’re not growing, you’re dying (4/4) oh wisest willow shaking in the rain water spills down your curves. teach me your ways of weeping; how to use my tears as drink. maybe in my next life i can grow like you.