The Window: The Breathe Issue by The Window

Issue 13 // Spring 2019 T H E B R E AT H E I S S U E

Issue 13 // Spring 2019 The Window is a student-run magazine published under New College at the University of Toronto. We feature stories and content that touch on subjects close to and far from home in hopes of providing different perspectives on familiar themes in life. // facebook.com/newcollegewindow issuu.com/ncthewindow cover photo by Nathaniel Chan left photo by Grace Ho Lan Chong

We wish to acknowledge this land on which the University of Toronto operates. For thousands of years it has been the traditional land of the Huron-Wendat, the Seneca, and most recently, the Mississaugas of the Credit River. Today, this meeting place is still the home to many Indigenous people from across Turtle Island and we are grateful to have the opportunity to work on this land.* *Statement of Acknowledgement of Traditional Land (PDAD&C #72)

“Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” – 2 Corinthians 4:16

@.edu email, re: Application Status Update. Rejected. Rejected. Accepted. Congrats! Accepted. Waitlisted. I was barely awake when those emails came in, the faint blue light of my phone illuminating a face with a pounding heart. Life is a continuous stream of information, a barrage of events, a cacophony of things needing attention. We yearn for some order and sometimes even predetermination, as it might solve the endless opening and closing of doors. In all of this we sometimes forget to breathe. … … … Just three seconds, to prepare, to enjoy, to reminisce, to cry, to look, to listen – just a brief time to breathe and recollect ourselves. In this process, we are able to clear our minds and refocus on what we need to do rather than what had happened – we may choose unexpected paths, leading down surprising new roads. Life is just not as clear cut as we try to make it seem, but in breathing we give ourselves time to just think and remind ourselves of how far we’ve come, how many moments that has came to past, and how much further we can potentially go. Sometimes we breathe louder, and sometimes softer; maybe out of happiness and occasionally out of sadness; but it is just important that we breathe. To those who have taken the time to breathe, and share with others your stories and adventures, I thank you. I hope the innumerous hours spent thinking, working, and constructing this magazine has given you some respite, as it had given me. So I encourage you, reader, to take a moment and glance through the work of your fellow peers – whether it be on the toilet or a nice sunny spot (or dim spot) of your choosing – and just be reminded to breathe. Everyday we push forward, sometimes we take a step back, but in every decision comes a moment of breathing – so go on and fly, Fleance, fly. Fake it ‘til you make it, then fake it some more,

Ivan Yan Man Hin EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

THE WINDOW TEAM I VA N YA N M A N H I N Editor-in-Chief

ETHAN SMITH

JOYCE WEI

Assistant Editor-in-Chief

Business Manager

CORALS ZHENG

W I N N I E WA N G

ANTHEA WEI

Senior Editor

Social Media Manager

MAGGIE C HEN

S U S I E WA N G

MEGGIE DEBN ATH

Layout Designer

Writer

ANAS TASIA PITC HER Writer

ARJUN SINGH Writer

G O Z I E N WA K A Writer

L AUREN LEVY Writer

GRACE HO L AN C HONG Writer/Photographer

M AC K E N Z I E S T E WA R T Writer

VIVIAN LI Writer

ZIYEN CHEN Writer

N ATHANIEL C HEN Photographer

SHAMMIE DEBN ATH Photographer

C AIT HARRIGAN Artist

C ANDY TAN G Artist

LY N N L I U Artist

Coexist

With a Breath Like a Song

Smoke Free

Inequality Magnified

Untitled.

Breathe Through Different Lenses

Taking a Hit

Stress Makes You Sick

4 Seconds at a Time

Moment by Moment

Through the Ages

Humans of New College

Breathe Through Others

Breathe Through Different Strokes

COEXIST written by Meggie Debnath illustrated by Shammie Debnath

Dedicated to my grandpa, your words wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be forgotten

you told me a story of rumbling thunder, a violent sky pouring out sharp, sheeted rain and through it, you managed to keep aloft my tattered and torn tire swing: ten years old. a glimpse of your fiery facade, only made brighter by a day like today. tall, towering over me ever since I could remember. changing your hair every so often, golden locks one day, head half-shaved the next. nothing has really changed, I come home, shuffle into a serene, shaded spot. you are always home. my lungs full of air, palms no longer painted with dirt I recall my roots, and I know every time you breathe out, I breathe in.

with a breath like aSong written by Vivian Li illustrated by Candy Tang

I’ve been a victim of my own voice; I become quieter around professors or teachers, and my voice quails when I attempt to speak in class. Even the most accommodating and helpful people intimidate me when they lean forward, hands cupped to their ears, and ask me to repeat what I said again. Sometimes I’d do what I was told, with a few corrections. Other times, I’d exchange the entire sentence or phrase with another, consequent thought. When I speak in class, I’d force the breath out of me instead of letting it glide. In crowds, I find my throat drying and my words sinking into the ocean, unable to be borne out from sleeping waves, still and quiet. In groups of more than one person (and yes, two can be a group too) and when talking about difficult-to-process emotions or obscure ideas, I tend to look the other way, drop my head or refuse to meet my partner’s gaze, voice quieting little by little. I notice these qualities, and I try, in an effort, to make my voice louder. However, sometimes it seems like the opposite effect takes place. But when I sing, words are no longer forced out. It starts with a deep, inner breath. My mouth opens, round and full. Then the expansion of ribs, the continual stasis of those intercostal muscles (those endlessly busy muscles), while the jaw drops, the tension is released, and somehow, inexplicably, a sound comes out from my mouth that shocks me, that leaves my body ringing. Of course, there are always small corrections to be made—perhaps my posture was leaning back a bit, or my neck inching forward, or maybe I was moving my hands when I tried to hit the highest note in the song. But the effect of hitting the notes, of rolling through

them, and of hearing myself over the piano’s echoing octaves is something that I’m only able to live when I sing. In classes, I have a bad habit of second-guessing my statements, of even questioning myself when I’m in the middle of my phrases. I suppose that I can’t exactly stand up, dig my heels into the ground, and with the force of my intercostal muscles, yell out my answer, but there has to be a balance between the two extremes. I just know that one day, when I open my mouth, I want to be able to speak like I’m singing.

SMOKE FREE written by Lauren Levy; illustrated by Corals Zheng

We were, what, eight years old, and clustered criss-cross apple sauce on the ground, outside of the Gates Science Center, a learning lab located in the high school part of campus. Today, we would learn about smoking. Of course, my generation had been told for as long as we’d be remotely cognizant that smoking was bad, sans exception. The power of thorough public health campaigning, right? Cancer! Look at this smoker’s hands, the tube and box for her voice (was a man ever used for this?), look how much it buying cigarettes costs—one box might not be much, but it’s an addiction and if you smell this much a day, it’ll add up, and so on. The lung baggie got to me. In it, what resembled a lumpy piece of white raisin bread. In retrospect, I wonder who it had belonged to.

Florida, 2010. Uncle Mike stood outside on the patio by the grill to smoke. I was ten. knew better than to stare, but Aunty Donna must have caught me taking glances. I had never met someone who smoked! “He makes his own choices,” Aunty Donna explained, and left it at that. Uncle Mike had been through a whole lot, from what I’m still learning to understand. Not an uncommon coping mechanism. I don’t know if he still does.

“No drug paraphernalia” was the law of the glass studio. Rumour had it that the TA’s were required to smash anything that could be used for drugs. Aaron said Calvin had had to do it, once. I suppose crafting tools for recreational drugs in an academic studio would have conflicted with our squeaky-clean untouchable image of the school you want your child at. I suppose it would’ve angered, or at least bothered, other parents if bongs and pipes were made on campus.

It really wasn’t until I got to Toronto that I met people my age who smoked, and not cannabis sativa or indica, but cigarettes. Of course I held my tongue, but the bigger challenge was holding my judgement and my concern. I knew my story thus far. I knew what I’d been shown and the environment I’d been in. My new friends had just arrived from Turkey and Russia. They coped with their histories in different ways. What a throwback to AP Psychology, they’ve developed an addiction, a dependency. I don’t think it’s immature of me to be bothered by people tossing cigarettes on the ground, just as I tend to wish ill (to put it kindly) on the people who put gum under tables and chairs, but that’s more a matter of disposal and litter. Of course, I also don’t chew gum. The Centre for Addiction and Mental Health emphasizes that addiction and mental health are related issues and best handled with awareness of both. Say it with me, mental health is health.

I’m trying to keep an open mind and embrace bodily autonomy. I’m certainly not trying to shame anyone for their coping mechanisms, particularly because that seems counter-productive. I don’t have a solution and I don’t have an ideal world in mind. I suppose that just leaves me with frustration.

Inequity Magnified written by Gozie Nwaka; illustrated by Candy Tang

She gazed as the sun slept. The dated and dented telescope positioned perfectly. Her squint and strain enabled a vivid vision of beauty. Time’s touch went faint. “Lost”; Yet her will grew strongerNearly tasting the warmth. But in the reality of her time, her will would render ostensible defeat. defeat, all the more vivid in her eyes. More than intangible from the base of her windowsill, it was intangible in climate of which she is subject. Her then timeless clarity seemingly escaping... With the supposition of times changing, It would have been worth hearing: “Forget the distance, Forget the era. Ponderance upon such things Will not Make you fall out of love with your dream. Simply go with your eyes closed And your ears shut It is when your breath gives out That your efforts Will Take you the rest of the way there.” 8

Untitled. written and photographed by Grace Ho Lan Chong

As a Chinese Christian, any discussion on mental health either ended in a call to prayer or a quip about ‘mental asylums’ and the amount of time I spent on the computer. This is a piece describing a panic attack I had in my senior year, before I had the words to understand or explain what was happening. I filled that empty space with an anti-friend, whom I referred to as Her. It was the start of a toxic friendship that has taken me years to walk away from.

She sits in front of me, her eyes dark and dead, face a pale reflection of mine. I hug my knees closer to my chest, my breathing fast and rapid as I choke back sobs and tears. She does nothing. Only blinks and breathes. Blinks and breathes. I listen as the bathroom tap drops: single droplets welling up at the mouth of the tap before colliding with the enamel basin. The lights are dim, casting oblong shadows against the toilet, walls, floors. Everything is hanging still, like a moment caught up in itself. All this I knew not from sight, but from memory. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself here: nails scratching tally marks across my arms, teeth biting down on my lips to keep in the screams, head pounding against my cold hands that clutch helplessly at my skin. In my mind, I call up all thoughts of reasoning, told myself that the rooms aren’t closing in on me, that the floor aren’t cracking under my weight, that I wasn’t unraveling with each thought that left me. But the heaviness in my chest tells me otherwise, the inner demons clawing their way out of my throat, my eyes, my chest all screamed for attention. It is all I can do to keep from collapsing under the weight of my own existence. No one will come. No one will care. You are no one. This mantra that ran through my head, a strange paradox of comfort and condemnation. I found myself chanting this as a source of consistency, a thought to cling onto; ironically, these were the very thoughts that were driving a dagger through my very being.

Every moment of my life had led up to this one moment. The heavy books that I lay under to remind myself that I was a part of this world when I felt like I was drifting away on a forgotten wind. The lonely nights of handing out comforting words and sweet songs when all I wanted to do was pull the rain clouds over my head to mingle with my tears. All the lost and unheard symphonies played across my hips, my wrists, my thighs, the blood running down my skin into the shower drain the greatest master piece lost to mankind. I felt the bile rising up in my throat, equivalent to the aftermath of sprinting for miles in the hot summer sun just to chase after a physical feeling to prove that I wasn’t just a figment of imagination, that people didn’t look through me but at me. All the while, She simply sat there, a calm and collected presence in the middle of a storm. I didn’t have a name for her, referring to her only as She or Her. Never It. My mother raised me with better manners than that. Sometimes, I would go for weeks without hearing from Her, spending my days twirling through the halls, a whirlwind of books and papers strewn everywhere. I would handout smiles and hugs, spend time not just on those around me but actually on myself. But the warm copper nights of autumn would slowly peel away, and one night, I would feel Her icy fingers wrap themselves around my throat, Her cold smile looking back at me in the mirror when I woke up, and I would feel my breathing stop. I stopped seeing colours, and instead of watching the days on the calendar grow, I would only see them drop: a countdown to the end. The people around me looked fake, their smiles too cheerful to be true, their words to perky to be natural. I felt like a shadow walking amongst the stars, always destined to be lost amongst those greater and brighter than me. My friends left me, or rather, I left them under the assumption that they would fare better without me. I began to take long runs to obscure places, biking at breakneck speed to avoid making eye contact with other people. I dove into the world of fictional characters, turned to living avidly through bloggers and movie characters. I hated the world I was in, and sought for a way out. It just felt so comfortable to stay with Her, or to have Her there with me. She would always be there to talk to me, listening to me worry about being a nuisance to other people, nodding gravely as I explained my inability to be significant in the lives of those around me. I could always count on Her to sit with me at lunch as I bypassed the table that my ‘friends’ were at, full of gossip and inside jokes that I would never be a part of. Without fail, She would be there during my worst moments, sitting with me as sobs racked through my body, as my eyes swelled shut from aftermath of crying. I stayed home to be with Her, as she preferred to avoid social interactions. I stopped writing because She hated having Her thoughts and opinions in physical form. I built a comfortable life for two, where I could spend time with Her just as She was always there for me. Instead of a school uniform, I cloaked myself in the heaviness of the sky, draping the failures and sins across my shoulder like a thick robe made of the finest silks.

And now I was back, anxiety and panic raking at my throat and chest. My chair sat empty in a classroom someplace down the hall, the students around me already turning their focus back on their books and phones, dust already gathering. I could feel it in my grips, the sharp blade pressing against my palm. A faint rusty smell filled my nose as blood welled up across the fleshy part of my hands. My hips were afire in anticipation, the scars from before scrambling for attention and extra space. She looked at me and nodded Her approval, a faint smile playing on Her lips. The lights were too bright, the room too small. I could feel the walls caving in on me, the entire universe empty and still too small. All the air had been sucked out of my lungs, an entire galaxy stuffed into my head. A bright spot had filled my vision and my hands were starting to shake. Down the hall, a teacher cracked a joke and the class groaned at the tragedy of humour. The kiln in the ceramics room rumbled as it fired batches of pots and cups. The printer ran off a stack of tests and quizzes to be taken in the near future. Please. Please. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do this, please. Help me, please. I opened my eyes. There I was, sitting with my knees to my chest in the middle of the bathroom. The tap was dripping, and the lights had been growing dimmer from the lack of maintenance. The toilet seat was up, the insides brown and stained. Taking a few shallow breathes, I held my hand over the seat, swallowing deeply. God, please. Please. A childhood dances across my vision, birthday parties and hot dogs, sundresses and dogeared pages of books. I close my eyes and focus on an image of me as a little girl, hair barely long enough for pigtails. My hand open and the blade falls, a fallen angel soon rushing along the cursed rivers of the toilet. I stretch, splashing cold water onto my blotchy face, taking a moment to blow my nose before I leave. I look into the mirror and stick my tongue out at my reflection. Instead of turning down the hall to go to class, I turn down the stairwell, making my way to the open courtyard covered with cracked tiles and forgotten jump ropes and broken plants. As pages turn and markers cap and uncap, as voices preach the holy word of the textbook and yawns are passed around the room, I sit on a step at the edge of the podium. I am alone, nobody perching next to me, or standing afar watching me. A cold wind tumbles through, patting me on the back as it leaves. The clouds thin, and the prodigal sun reappears, pushing its rays through the cold air to find the ground. I close my eyes as I felt the sun dancing across my arched back. A hush falls, the birds and cars falling silent. A pause, and then the bell announcing the end of class. I feel the shaky weight of life resettle back over me, knowing that I have escaped Her grasps this time. I tip my head back and look into the vast blue skies, the sun blinding me with uncertainty.

Different Lenses

Breathe Through

photographed by Grace Ho Lan Chong

photographed by Shammie Debnath

photographed by Nathaniel Chan

Taking a Hit written by Arjun Singh Today, I know I’ll take a hit, I’d felt it’d come, I must admit, On my success, it’ll be a slit, Today, I know I’ll take a hit. In public, silently I’ll have to sit, In private, though, I’ll throw a fit, “Why?” I’ll ask, “did it come to this” “What crime did I really commit?” “Bad things happen” they will say, “To good people” in added wit, “At times we have to deal with failure,” “And for our sins, we must remit”. “Sin?” I question, in defiance, I’m in an existential knit, Pondering over my reliance, My regimen and moral writ. The blow is hard, but I remember, As The Stallion once put it, “It ain’t about how hard you hit, It’s about how hard you can get hit.” “And keep moving forward.” “That’s how winning is done!” his quip, Wisdom did it nigh transmit, Stay strong, “be willing to take the hits.” So I’ll be disappointed, but handle it, My Creed will stand: clichéd; yet honest, albeit, That those who quit will never win, And those who win will never quit. Still, I rise; to take the hit ***

illustrated by Candy Tang

Illustrated by Lynn Liu

STRESS MAKES YOU SICK – LITERALLY written by Ziyan Chen One of my earliest childhood memories was sitting by a large grand piano in front of a crowd of strangers, fingers tensed and poised over the smooth array of black and white keys. Sweat was beading from my brow, and I was trembling in nervousness. Fears danced around the back of my mind: “You’re going to fail. You’re going to mess up those difficult chords. Someone is going

to laugh.” On and on these criticisms would stew in my head, pushing me to the brink of what one would consider sheer madness and paranoia. I would come across this experience again and again. It was like a disease; it would relapse and take on terrifying forms to haunt me in recurring patterns. It would tease me in the form of class presentations. It would chase me on the ice skating rink. It would resurface

on the front page of any examination. All of us have experienced the well-known feelings of stress at some point in life. As a student, we are constantly bombarded with tests and assignments. Therefore, in recent years, I became extremely interested in whether stress negatively impacts how well we perform. For instance, it was always a mystery to me how some professional athletes, actors/ actresses and celebrities could keep their composure and still perform outstandingly while being watched on national television by billions of strangers who are not afraid to blatantly critique any fumble loudly over social media platforms. However, for many of us, the thought of performing any kind of task that is free to be judged and critiqued by others is intimidating. I began looking into the phenomenon of what is an actual common social fear: performance anxiety, or “stage fright”. What I found further confirmed my suspicions. In one research study published in December 2018, females at a 50 m archery competition at the 21st Korean National Archery Team Trials were ranked into high-performance groups and lowperformance groups based on their game records. The researchers wanted to determine whether there was any correlation between sport performance and anxiety. The levels of known biomarkers of stress, amylase and cortisol, were measured from each athlete’s saliva at various time points during the competition. Interestingly, they found that in the high-performance group, there was on average lower levels of salivary amylase and cortisol compared to the low-performance group. These findings seem to suggest that anxiety correlates with significantly worse performance1. Another study in 2007 looked at how anxiety affects test performance. Elementary, middle school, and high school students were given the Multidimensional Anxiety Scale for Children (MASC) test, a self-report questionnaire designed to evaluate anxiety levels in children and adolescents. The results of the test were then cross-compared with their academic performance. Again, students with higher self-reported levels of

anxiety tended to perform worse in school2. Therefore, it seems that anxiety has some correlation to performance, regardless of whether it is in sports or school. As a society, we are far from being flawless, yet this is the ideal that we push on to the younger generations. In an ever increasing competitive world, we are pushing the boundaries of what defines “good” results. Being good is simply not good enough. That 90 is good, but not as good as your classmate who got 95. You are taking a full course load and working part-time, but Mary Sue is taking 6 courses in Engineering, tutoring German, volunteering at the local pet store and working part-time shifts twice a week. Can we ever stop comparing ourselves to others? Competition for elite spots on sports teams, entrance into top schools, and jobs are demanding increasingly higher qualifications, and this drives the majority of us to push ourselves harder. It is no wonder that performance anxiety exists. We are afraid of failing. We are afraid of screwing up this one rare, hard-earned opportunity. I wish there is a clear solution. I wish I could travel back in time and tell that young, trembling girl sitting by the grand piano that “it’s okay.” But the scope of the problem is much more than any single child’s upbringing. It is the same drive of perfection that fuels so many of our technological advancements and creativity but circles back to cause excess stress and anxiety. We need to seriously address the toxicity of performance-anxiety stress now if we want to build a mentally sane society for the future.

References Lim IS. 2018. Comparative analysis of the correlation between anxiety, salivary alpha amylase, cortisol levels, and athletes’ performance in archery competitions. J Exerc Nutrition Biochem 22(4):69-74. Mazzone L., Ducci F., Scoto MC., Passaniti E., D’Arrigo VG., Vitiello B. 2007. The role of anxiety symptoms in school performance in a community sample of children and adolescents. BMC Health 7:347.

seconds at a time

written by Mackenzie Stewart photographed by Shammie Debnath

After four seconds The air comes rushing in Through the nose Held for another four Out through the mouth A pause Slowly muscles relax Thinking becomes clear And for just four seconds Everything stops All that is left is the breath The pressure building in the chest A swift release as it leaves the body A sudden calm like a heavy blanket It is possible to stop time in its tracks When you take time To breathe

Note: this is actually a very useful coping mechanism called breathing in a square. Wait for four seconds, breathe in, wait for four seconds and breathe out. Works every time!

moment by moment written by Vivian Li illustrated by Cait Harrigan

toes are softly cold, rounded, heart beating with trepidation back slightly curled and open to the elements the world barrages me with— just a moment of focused release, a pause, in between these sentences and languid waves of stretched consonants— eyes close, spine softens, and the branches out the window stop swaying— then the music that flits in and across screens brings the breath closer to my body and sweet words settle into my heart: I wish to sing once more

Through the Ages written by Anastasia Pitcher photographed by Nathaniel Chan

hen I was 5 years old, my sister launched me down a hill on her old bike. The brakes were old and rusted, but I

wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t afraid. I flew down, cackling as the familiar scenery whipped by. I still feel like thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the closest I will ever come to being a bird. When I was 7 years old, I stepped on an ant hill. They swarmed out of their small home, conquering my feet and reminding me that this was not my territory to wipe out, that size should not innately equal power. I felt ashamed, like I had ruined something that was never mine to ruin.

When I was 8 years old, there was a rainstorm that knocked out power in my village. All the girls missed our ballet recital, so I took center stage alone, with only my mom in the audience to applaud. I felt like a star, even if I wished my friends had been there to see me. When I was 10 years old, I found a small tree frog missing a limb. I picked him up on his leaf in my tiny hands. I cradled him until he took his last breaths and I cried salty tears over my chubby, rosy cheeks. I felt like the world wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t how it ought to be. When I was 11 years old, I hid my bad report card under my pillow, deciding it was easier to never change my sheets again than to tell the truth and admit I messed up. I felt like if I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t entertain my failures, they didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t count. Reality was only as real as I let it be. When I was 13 years old, a boy leaned over and grabbed my face, pushing his lips against my dry, peeling smile, his hands in my greasy, sandy hair. His hands were sweaty, and his eyes were scared. I felt a bit bad for punching him after.

When I was 14 years old, I decided that I had outgrown my childhood possessions. I auctioned them off to the kids in the village, trading candies and favors for toys and old Disney movies and books my dad read to me, when my only worlds that mattered were in black ink. When everything was gone, I felt like I had lost something I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know I still needed. When I was 15 years old, I left on a new adventure to a place I had never once thought of as a home, I carved out a space for myself and hoped my smiles seemed sincere, as I forged my path alone. I felt for the first time like I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t belong, and I was afraid. When I was 18, I fell in love for the first time with a soft soul. It was the heart racing and anxious and does he love me too type of love, filled with promises and hopes and hunger. I felt like this was what I had been waiting for. When I was 19, I realized that things arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always as they seem. Despite everything, my heart still beat, and my lungs still inflated. I felt like all I could do was breathe.

HUMANS OF NEW COLLEGE

Photographers Shammie Debnath Grace Chong Interviewers Susie Wang Meggie Debnath Ethan Smith Ziyan Chen

HUMANS OF NEW COLLEGE

What would you tell to younger you? Try a little harder. Not just with academics and ‘productive’ things. Try harder to mend those relationships that should have been mended, pursue those interesting hobbies, and go for those seemingly unattainable things. Answering this kind of question often sounds like regret, but having lived through my past, I know exactly why I made the choices I did and sympathize with that little guy. It is extremely difficult to go the extra mile when no one is pushing you to do so and I think my past self just needed someone who loves and cares about him to push him beyond the limits he created for himself. So if a future version of me gave me a bit of encouragement, past me would have listened and been happier for it. Probably, but he was pretty okay as it was. How would you like to celebrate your birthday? Not sure how I feel about celebrations. Seems a bit vain, but I guess it’s your birthday, so who could blame you? Surrounded by friends with good food and a good story. Tasty food and music at an appropriate level; the central elements to a great get-together.

Deforrest 2nd year, life sciences

Subhang 3rd year, mechanical engineering

What is your favorite quote/saying? “It is important to draw wisdom from different places. If you take it from only one place it become rigid and stale.” - Uncle Iroh. I like this quote because it can encourage us to be open minded and learn new things from places we wouldn’t expect. For example, learning about inspiring life advice from your favourite childhood cartoon. When do you feel the most relaxed? I feel the most relaxed when I’m programming games, but I can also feel the most stressed here too.

Q Elizabeth 4th year, human biology and immuniology Describe a moment of high anticipation that youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve experienced. Once there was a music trip to Boston, in band. It was lots of fun. On the first night, we went to a jazz bar. They told us ahead of time that they would ask people to come up on stage, like students in my class. Most people knew I could sing at that time, but at that time I was pretty shy about it and I usually would only do it if I had really rehearsed a performance. So I had anticipated while they were asking people to come up that my friends and teachers would say for me to go up, even though I might have been uncomfortable with it. So they did, and I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really want to, but I had anticipated it. So I did go up, and I sang. And It was a fun time. What was your favourite time period in your life thus far? I would say grade 12 because it was full of music for me. I was finishing my grade 10 piano, and I had never played so much piano as I had in that year, and then the band trips. There were lots of those and lots of little performances.

& What does “breathe” mean to you? Breathe means staying. Like saying: “Still hanging there.” What did you hope to gain from your undergraduate experience here? When I just entered university, I hoped to meet new friends and learn more knowledge in fields that I like. Right now, in my final year, I like how I actually got to learn a variety of things and start to think about how I can integrate knowledge from various fields.

Yvonne

4th year, molecular genetics

& Joanne 4th year, environmental studies and political science Does the future stress you out? Not really. I feel like it’s stressful to not be sure of where life is going to take you. So I’m not worried about the end. I’m just enjoying the journey. What makes you feel nostalgic? Listening to old songs and watching old TV shows makes me remember where I was in my life and what I was doing when I first experienced them.

A Does the future stress you out in any way? It can sometimes be stressful not knowing what’s going to happen. I’m going for a degree in chemistry and I’m trying to choose a career based on my interests and what I know about myself. But who knows? It may not lead me to what I’m looking for. I think I’ll only know for sure when I get there. Are you allergic to peanuts? Yes.

Tim 3rd year, chemistry specialist

Q What did you hope to gain from your undergraduate experience at U of T? As an international student, far from family, I wanted to learn how to be selfsufficient, to strengthen my identity while opening my mind to different things. It was also about finding my passion, to rule out what I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to do and discover what would be a good fit for me. How do you approach challenges/stressful events in life? Whenever I feel stressed I pray and listen to worship music, it takes me to my quiet place surrounded by Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s presence, only then I feel calmed and confident to keep going.

Sara 4th year, microbiology and biomedical toxicology

& Juan PEY, immunology and neuroscience Do you have a motto to live life? Not to stress too much, to enjoy life and to take advantage of the different opportunities life has provided me as they may not occur twice. What does “breathe” mean to you? To relax, to sense what is occurring around me at the moment even if my eyes can’t perceive it. To take decisions in a mature and efficient way.

Q Describe a loved one. My 10 year old sister, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s so excited by life and brings so much joy to the family. She skips practicing piano to ride her new bike and shows off her cycling skills to all her friends. She also is a mini me, and bought glasses frames recently that look exactly like mine, just little kid sized. What is a memory you would like to relive? Zip lining with my brother and my dad through this forest in the South Island of New Zealand. Or... Reliving my whole Taiwan trip, especially eating all the night market foods and daily bubble tea. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll even take the heat and humidity and constant sweating.

Renata 2nd year, psychology, industrial relations and human resources

Sherry 4th year, neuroscience, psychology, music history/ culture

How do you decide when to take some time off for yourself? When my stomach growls, it’s always a good time to take a break, open the fridge, and eat some yogurt. Or if I’m trying to write an essay and nothing’s been coming to my mind for a couple of hours. I think that would also be a good time to take a break and go get some yogurt from the fridge. Other than that, I think the human body is pretty good at telling us when we need a break. What advice do you have for new students coming to New College who see university as a new beginning? Oh, I’m terrible at giving advice. But I guess I’d say to find a “go-to”! It could be a go-to place to eat, a go-to place to study, a go-to lunch to pack, a goto friend, a go-to place to nap/relax…University has definitely been full of adventures for me, but sometimes, I just needed something familiar to fall back into, just so I could stop and breathe a little.

BREATHE THROUG

Afnan Shahid

GH OTHERS

Photo by Iram Tahir

I read somewhere ‘Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage’; And some part of my heart whispered ‘There may be an excuse for being weak, but there is no excuse for being a coward’; Oh, what a relief the thought brought That I had not failed myself; That my love was an ode to my life; That every broken piece of my heart In its darkest moments Could breathe on its own. Iram Tahir

Breathe. The water streams down my face, off my legs, through my toes. Breathe. I check my phone, the pictures, the perfection we try so damn hard to achieve. Breathe. I take my pills, you know them very well, pretending its the solve. Breathe. Look at me. Look at me. LOOK AT ME! I look up at myself in the mirror. She will be okay, I tell myself. Just breathe. Malinka Ruminski

Illustration by Oscar Sun

Illustration by Diptaraj Singha

I could have cut inside myself If I had wanted to see how Pink my lungs once were But instead I sat Next to her And blushed, so she could see My pink cheeks When she passed me the joint And our fingers touched, Just slightly Just a second Take it in Breathe it out Cough, accidentally Blush deeper Pass it on Tell her about your black lungs Hold her hand Go outside The air tastes like snow, smoke, and smog If you could kiss her, you could steal some of her oxygen and Turn your lungs pink, again. Adina Heisler

BR EA TH UG H

Fish. illustrated by Corals Zheng

Untitled. illustrated by Cait Harrigan

Untitled. illustrated by Candy Tang

As I reach the end of my degree, I’ll soon have to say goodbye to The Window and our team, many of whom I’ve worked with for two years now. For me, working on this magazine has been the most exciting and rewarding experience while at U of T. Because of this, I feel as if I should say a few words. It’s incredibly odd to think that it all started with the last Editor-in-Chief bothering me to sign up, and me thinking, “Yah. Let’s give writing a go.” Since then, arguably due to the introduction of a deadline, writing has become a passion, one which developed while I worked on The Window. Through it, I learned a lot about myself, knowledge that is invaluable. And since many people played a part in that, I think I have to thank everyone. So, thank you everyone. The purpose of The Window has always been to create compelling content for our readers. To do this is a challenge. Yet, overcoming this has been something that we embrace with each issue, because in that pursuit, we feel we can create a unique representation of student experience. It’s been an honor to be part of a group so passionate about doing just that. To everyone who makes it possible for us to share our ideas with this community, thank you. The theme of this issue was inspired by the simple idea that in our lives we all need to take a moment from time to time. I’d like to encourage you to take a moment (let’s be honest, we all need one). What this moment will be used for is up to you. And don’t limit yourself; the options are endless. Although both Ivan and I will be graduating, we are confident that the next senior staff will continue pushing the boundaries of what The Window can achieve. I speak for both Ivan and I when I say we are excited to see where it goes next.

Thanks for the ride,

Ethan Smith ASSISTANT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Issue 13 // Spring 2019

The Window Magazine is the official undergraduate student publication of New College, one of the constituent colleges of the University of Toronto. Find us at https://issuu.com/ncthewindow/ www.instagram.com/ncthewindow/ eic@newcollegewindow.com Printed at VidePress in Toronto http://videpress.ca/ ©2018 The Window Magazine ©All Contributors ©Ivan Yan and Ethan Smith All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior written permission from New College, The Window Magazine, and its contributors.

backcover photo by Nathaniel Chan right illustration by Candy Tang

J U N C TA

J U VA N T