The Window: The Persevere Issue by The Window

Issue 12 // Winter 2018 THE PERSEVERE ISSUE

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)

Issue 12 // Winter 2018

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 art by corals zheng

“We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” – Romans 5:3-4 There are days that I have faced in which I felt the weight of the world on me, when I choose to close my eyes and go back to sleep rather than to wake and confront the tribulations of the day. There are days where I hide in my shower, letting the water run over me, as if it would somehow cleanse the mistakes and wash the memories of the exam away. Perseverance is a heavy term, so easily said, yet hardly ever easy to do. To many, perseverance manifests itself within the big things, the visible battles and scars, but I implore you to seek deeper and see that perseverance can manifest itself in the most mundane beauties, whether it be refusing to hit snooze one more time or to get out of the shower and dive back into the work that engulfs us. There is beauty and respect to be found in the smallest victories, as those could mean the world to some; bit by bit smallest sums of perseverance equates to the construction of a character yet to unfold. Perseverance is what pushes the development of our character in University and, in perseverance, hope and camaraderie are to be found. So this issue is an ode to the beautiful diversity of perseverance, from the most mundane, to adaptation through immigration, tribulations of endurance, and the possibility that perseverance also can be found in mustering the courage to retire from a challenge. We challenged ourselves to present this issue in Risograph, to think one dimensionally in one colour to represent something multifaceted – in many ways the product in which you hold in your hands is a story of the perseverance of many actors that contributed to its creation. People just like you, the reader, whom decided to allocate the finite time they have to help create the product in which you hold in your hand. To those actors I say thank you. You have done good work; your stories of perseverance is testified by the magazine. But most importantly you, the reader, is the reason to which we dedicate the theme of perseverance to – day by day you add to this story. Thank you for giving a damn. ... 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

ETHAN SMITH

JOYCE WEI

Editor-in-Chief

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/Web Designer

ANAS TASIA PITC HER

ANNA MARIA SORDJAN

ARJUN SINGH

Writer

G O Z I E N WA K A

GRACE HO L AN C HONG

L AUREN LEVY

Writer

Writer/Photographer

Writer

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

VIVIAN LI

Z I YA N C H E N

Writer

AMY CHEN

D E R R I C K M WA N G I

N ATHANIEL C HEN

Photographer

SHAMMIE DEBN ATH

C AIT HARRIGAN

C ANDY TAN G

Photographer/Web Designer

Artist

LY N N L I U

Artist

1 On Mixing Songs and Spices Part 1 3 Little Runner 5 An Ode to the Season of Us 7 Blisters 9 On Mixing Songs and Spices Part 2 11 Persevere Through Different Lenses 23 The Price of Perspiration 25 Requiem 27 Quitting It 29 On Mixing Songs and Spices Part 3 31 Work Hard, Play Hard, I Suppose. Same Thing 33 Humans of New College 45 Monkey Bars 49 The Need of Now 51 Flash Fiction 57 The Story Behind the Swoosh

on mixing

Songs and Spices written by Vivian Li illustrated by Candy Tang i. soup

ii. father

water, circle and return dissolved salt in silver pots, mother’s tongue darting to catch oval drops about to curve on lips

he left, she says, her hands on the floor— she’s picking up the seeds she dropped when washing them in that wet, cold basin and the incense curls in the light, drifting further from the ground

we all know it feels to stare, and stare into an empty womb, waiting for words to escape from covers tightly bound by elastic and fear before the soup spills, she opens the lid, slides ladle into water and picks up a piece of wonton, connecting back home

I watch her behind my books, stacked neatly on my knees with letters I hardly know she clucks when I don’t respond, glances up, hands reached out to meet mine asking me if I miss him I stare, fingers at the edge of my book, poised to turn she blinks, the evening’s touch on her back, now and then she sighs and talks about jianada she curls her palm and plants the seeds inside, cupping them close for warmth

Little Runner written by Grace Ho Lan Chong illustrated by Corals Zheng I used to run because I was convinced that in order to gain my father’s approval, I had to be the athletic one in the family. My father worked full time and like any other Asian parent, he was neither affectionate nor emotional. I silently yearned for his attention. I had just joined the track team and after missing practice one day, convinced my dad to go for a short run with me. That hour was the longest I’d ever spent running or alone with my dad. A few days later, he went for a run without me and not wanting to fall behind, I slowly bore holes into my socks as I worked my way up and down the river where our apartment was, my sweaty hands clutching my old iPod touch that blasted old Cimorelli songs. No matter how humid, how polluted, how hot it was, I kept going because in my mind, the longer I ran, the further I would get from my gender and become that athletic child he wanted. The faster I ran, the higher I climbed in the eyes of my father, leaving my brother far in the dust as he grew up not with a sister but a competitor in the house. Years later, I would look back on the damage I had left behind in our relationship, damage that I would spend years trying to mend.

I used to run because my insecure middle and high school self needed to build a reputation that would set me apart from other girls. As my running shoes grew flatter and the number of running shorts in my closet grew, so did my reputation of being ‘The Fastest Girl in Her Grade’ until it became ‘The Fastest Girl in the School.’ When all my friends groaned at the thought of having to run laps in PE, or having to do the timed beep test, I would nod sympathetically to them, or offer advice on how to pace but internally, my selfish and insecure self was over the moon as I sprinted laps on them under the approvaling nods of teachers and coaches. I believed in the narrative of “I’m not like other girls,” and took it to mean “I’m not just better, I’m the best,” and if I couldn’t be the funniest, or prettiest, or best dressed, I could at least be the fittest. This merely brought temporary satisfaction and a lifetime of re-teaching myself how to look at other women not as competition but as peers and friends.

I used to run because I hated my body and running was the only thing that would make people look at my body enviously. Despite having enough school assemblies and inspirational texts telling me to find my value in my mind, my words, my personality, I couldn’t help but find my day brighten up at any comment about my legs or butt. I knew I wasn’t girlfriend material, but who needed a boyfriend when you had the coveted thigh gap? Or when you could have friends secretly confide in you that they thought you had the nicest butt in the school? Sure, I would have taken a compliment on my ‘brilliant mind’ and ‘shining personality’ any day but how would any of that compare to the envy of my friends as I wore size S t-shirts and managed to fit running shorts underneath my school skirts and pants?

I used to run because I was afraid. When I first moved to Toronto, and traded my shorts and tank tops for t-shirts, thick running tights and double socks, all my senses were met with a shock of unfamiliarity. All I knew was the burn in my lungs as my legs pounded through the unfamiliar streets, and the stitch in my side after

running uphill. I was unfamiliar with what mental health was and the only way I could get the people around me to vocalize concern was to tell them that I was running the streets of Toronto at 2am. They were concerned about my physical safety; I was just acting out of a manifestation of whatever mess my mental health was in. Gone was the approval of my father, gone were the envious looks and comments.

A year ago, I ran a marathon because I wanted the satisfaction of going from ‘I can do this’ to ‘I did it.’ Slowly, my mind adjusted to running longer distances and I stopped trying to muscle my way through a run with only dread for the next run. If you try to fathom the entire distance of a marathon at the start line, your mind will collapse into panic and your body will flash confusion. But after a while, you learn to ‘make it to the next stop light’ or ‘sprint until the end of the song,’ and before you know it, the race is over. During the training period, and even the race itself, I learned all the generic, cliché lessons about ‘Taking It One Step at A Time’ and ‘Keep On Going.’ But as hundreds of racers outpaced me, I learned my biggest lesson yet, one oddly fitting as I enter my final lap of university. Chances are, you will never be the best, and that is okay. Maybe your personal record will be someone else’s warm up laps, and that is also okay. I used to run blindly after an abstract idea of ‘best,’ as though the obtainment of that title would define me or make me worthier. But now I run because it reminds me of where I’ve come from, and how far I have left to go. There isn’t an end destination in sight, and I will never be number one and perhaps the best I will ever achieve is just the title of ‘runner.’ And that’s okay.

Or maybe running isn’t a metaphor and is just another way to demonstrate how cardio sucks.

an ode to the

Seasons of Us

written by Anastasia Pitcher illustrated by Lynn Liu

Fall When we first met, he averted his eyes. His gaze downcast, body stiff like a statue, memorizing the cracks in the wood table in front of him, as if it would open and swallow him whole. I was too much. Too much skin, too much space, too much sunshine, too much volume. 5

We studied each other through the holes of our awkward silences, through the lulls in my obnoxiously shrill laughter, through his exacerbated sighs at my ridiculous comments, through my subtle stares into his large brown eyes, daring to look for just a second longer each time.

We examined each other through my awful sense of humour, through numerous physics problems that made my brain hurt, through his very high walls I tried to peer over, stretching and stretching on my tippy toes until I stumbled, through his captivating smile and how his face scrunched when he was lost in thought.

Winter Before we were us, he approached me carefully, thoughts tangled and confused, wondering how people so different; different philosophies, different cultures, different lives, could ever feel like they came made to fit together. As if his favourite song was translated into a foreign language, as if anything he ever planned was on a map he lost last week. We learned each other through tears, when I lost something irreplaceable and the search party was missing in action, through stolen glances and subtly sliding closer, through sharing our hopes and our fears, through talking as if there was nothing we couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get past and we were invincible. We explored each other through cold afternoons, through mornings curled together, through bland French toast, through boring study sessions and air kisses, through sharing pieces of ourselves with no return date, through being vulnerable and not running away, through helping each other knock down our walls, each of us armed with dynamite and more hope than we cared to admit.

Spring We fell into each other faster than either of us could have ever expected. My whole world suddenly smelling of him, my mind wandering directly back to him, a string of good mornings and good nights and beautiful memories in between.

We mastered each other through patience, through talking through all the hard things even though my eyes clouded with tears, through knowing when to give in and sincere apologies, through always always being late, through laughing despite everything, through squeezes so tight I swore he thought I was the most important thing he had ever touched. We taught each other through the meaning of the word desire, through the meaning of the word acceptance, through the meaning of the word love, through the softness of his skin and the feeling of his hand on my cheek, and through holding hands and walking briskly.

Summer We committed to each other through not fighting even if we really wanted to, through forgetting about the circumstance and staying soft, through holding each other in our hearts and minds, through remembering to breathe, through train rides and long drives, through waiting and anticipation and sunny summer days. We memorized each other through hours long phone calls, through weekend getaways, through long walks and hungry mouths and hands and eyes, through everything I had ever wanted, through dreaming together, through whispering our hopes for ourselves so quietly only God could hear.

Fall When he focuses on being in love, he blushes blue like the wild waves of the ocean, emotion flooding into his heart. He envelopes me like water, protecting me from the pull of the shore. We drift off, lost at sea, fighting against the current. Hopefully we wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t drown.

BLISTERS written by Mackenzie Stewart illustrated by Shammie Debnath

There are books everywhere, and I know my old backpack won’t be able to hold onto them much longer. One of the buttons has already fallen off, the poor thing. A large book falls out of my arms and onto the floor. “You have got to be kidding me”, I let out in a fed-up tone. My brother was asleep in the next room and I knew I would be hearing about all the noise I had been making that morning. Let’s just hope one of the straps on this bag doesn’t snap, that would just be perfect. I sling my 800-pound bag over my shoulder and walk out the door. It was going to be one of those days. I could feel it in the air. I could see it on the damp concrete of my front porch. Why was

it always damp? One of these days I’ll walk outside and it’ll be dry, and I know that day will be a good one. But today it was damp and I had to get me and my dying backpack (and shoulders) to class. I had begun to develop blisters on the bottoms of my feet and couldn’t decide if it was on account of my backpack, one that I couldn’t seem to get the straps at an even length (which caused me to walk in an odd skip always hiking one strap back up onto my shoulder), or my boots that were one size too big, so that my feet slid forward with each step. It stung a little more with every step.

But I kept walking everyday to class, with my old backpack, shoes just a bit too big, and shoulders screaming at me, “Why must you carry EVERY book with you, and that old laptop?” The answer was that I liked to be prepared, even though I was sure my laptop would give up on me at any moment. I bought it second hand so it has been through a lot; high school wears us all down. It’s also slammed onto concrete floors one too many times. Yes, I like to be prepared but no one can ever be prepared for a five-pound metal object flying towards its impending doom, but this old thing held on even after being smashed several times. Perseverance! I think all my tattered school supplies are a bit of a metaphor for my life as a student. You get knocked down, you drown in pounds of books, your button on your pants blows off as you crouch down to pick up your seven-yearold Macbook Pro (who really ain’t a pro no more, time to retire really) off of the concrete floor of your high-school Anthropology class, but you just keep walking. Blisters and all. Past

the damp concrete steps towards a room full of hundreds of others who all have broken things of their own. I sit down next to one. “What the hell are you smiling about?” he asks. “You see this dent on my laptop? Looks pretty bad huh? Well this thing still runs like a charm”, I say. “…Great”, he replies. “Well, don’t you think that’s kind of like a metaphor? That things can be broken and battered and still move forward and conquer the world? Or the world wide web at least, isn’t that kinda like, beautiful?” “No it isn’t, you buffoon, it’s crazy, you’re crazy and clumsy so your laptop is dented, that’s about it.” He smiles. I just give my laptop a little pat, and smile down at that old backpack. Perseverance!

on mixing

Songs and Spices (contâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d) written by Vivian Li illustrated by Candy Tang

iii. home he thinks of home, he thinks of home of home emoticons bob and dance across screens, eyes wanting to reach out and hug me close, he talks of office jobs, and of finding a place for us to settle in, next to my mother, my grandparents smile and wave at their son but leave when she starts talking shi yin wei ta, mother says her voice muffled by the echoes of footsteps shuffling back to cold rooms but I hear itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s even colder over there

iv. turkey meat before it dissolves into soup, we must not let it disappear wo men ke yi de, mother says, as she lies the meat on its side, her fingers digging into flesh she aims the knife towards the center of its heart. when sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s finished, she puts it in a plastic bag and stores it, moisture dripping down her arms and lips, on the other side of the kitchen, the water is boiling and a gust of steam

dissolves on her glasses

PERSEVERE Through Different Lenses

ph o t o g ra phed by GR AC E HO L AN C HON G

ph o t o g ra phed by D E R R I C K MWAN GI

photog r a phed by SH AM M IE DEBN ATH

ph o t o g ra phed by N AT H A N C HEN

photog r a phed by SH AM M IE DEBN ATH

ph o t o g ra phed by A MY C HEN

photog r a phed by D ERRIC K M WAN GI

ph o t o g ra phed by GR AC E HO L AN C HON G

photog r a phed by N ATH AN C H EN

ph o t o g ra phed by WI N N I E WAN G

ph o t o g ra phed by S H A M MIE D EBN AT H

The Price of Perspiration How does this affect how you choose your career in today’s society? written by Ziyan Chen photographed by Derrick Mwangi Thomas Alva Edison was well known to chisel away at a new idea for about eighteen hours straight - sometimes forfeiting regular sleep - in his laboratory huddled over a workbench. Known as America’s greatest inventor, Edison was both an entrepreneur and a businessman hailed for revolutionary inventions such as the light bulb, the phonograph, and the telegraph. In fact, by the time of his death he had issued a total of 1093 patents, more than anyone in U.S. history. When asked about the secrets of his work ethic, Edison famously said, “Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration”. Edison is often admired for the hard work and perseverance behind his success; a multitude of biographies and documentaries have been produced, inspiring young people everywhere. However, behind the glamour that comes with fame and success lies a subtle inconvenient truth: not everyone can be an Edison no matter how hard they work.

Few career paths illustrate this point so clearly as those pursuing research. The backbone

behind modern scientific progress, the significant discoveries produced impact all decisions we make in our daily lives: what is the appropriate medicinal dose to take when one has a congested nose, or should I take the public transit or drive to work? Behind every crucial publication, a team of highly intelligent scientists have worked anywhere from months to years creatively designing experiments and mining for hard data to help answer a specific question.

In reality, unless one has really struck gold and made such a revolutionizing discovery in

the field that pushes its way to the front cover of Nature or Science magazine, much of the crucial hard work and labor required for this career goes largely unappreciated. The meager pay cheque at the end of the month in comparison to other people in business, information technologies or engineering further emphasizes the low recognition. Part of the reason is due to scarce funding: people want to invest in something that they know would raise them to a higher position than what they started off as. In research, there is no guarantee of finding anything, let alone anything really significant for society in the immediate years. In Canada, there is an even lower incentive to pursue research: the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) reported that only 18% of the research and development firms in Canada hired those with a PhD. Lower opportunities, lower funding, and lower salaries are strong reasons why many university graduates flock south to the states or travel abroad.

Yet despite the tough obstacles that befall students entering the research path, in 2017

a total of 2303 students graduated with a degree in science at U of T’s St. George campus alone. What makes research so compelling to explore? Each person has their own reasons: one could plan 23

on pursuing active academic research as a principal investigator, transfer to industry, or use research experience as a stepping stone to apply for professional programs. The career path that one forges for themselves in this modern age is entirely unique. There are just so many options. In fact, one’s career may shift entirely from what was studied in undergraduate. Few people remain stagnant in the first career they choose for their entire life. They enrich their experiences from trying out new fields that come with new challenges.

So what does this all mean? Ultimately, I think that one shouldn’t go into any field,

especially research, with the mindset that they are going to discover something life-changing like Edison. Edison did not make all his discoveries with the mindset that he was going to be rich and famous (though becoming successful with one invention certainly encouraged him to make more). One should enter a new career path with an interest in enriching one’s own critical thinking and analysis skills, traits that are useful in everyday life and certainly transferable to any field. There is no shame in giving up a pathway that doesn’t work and choosing to pursue an entirely new field. There is also no objective measurement of a “successful” career. What’s more important is using that previous experience to give yourself a new way of thinking. That is, itself, a priceless accomplishment. 24

You are seventeen years and 364 days old. It is 11:00 PM. You are waiting. For the turn of the gears, the chime of the clock and the sight of four zeros – all to confirm the end of your childhood, and bring to life the newborn adult. It’s a “milestone-of-life”… as some would say. And now, the ominous “But”. 11:15 You sit: solitary, silent, and contemplative. Auld Lang syne brings reminisce. The journey has charted – plunging depths and ascending waves, sometimes washing up and wandering about ashore. An age of discovery, of conquest – the captain of my soul. And yet it feels your fingers have skimmed the surface. Like a pool. It sounds more cathartic, especially in this rising swell. But at the sight of this – this new, Protean wave, you just don’t know. 11:30 You reflect: what have you done? How have you done? What do you know? Are you ready…? You know you can challenge any adult…at being them; and win. You can win their adoration – be called ‘mature’. You can stand apart, and make it known. ‘You are still a child.’ 11:45 You wish. You must wish farewell – say goodbye to childhood past and leave it behind and move on. ‘Bye’…Is it gone? 11:50 You fret. But soon, your stomach thaws – beaming humour. A smile breaks. Warmth. 11:55 You lie down and look up – stare into infinity on humble blades’ tips. Time sharpens the very end. 11:59 You close your eyes; counting down and up the end. 10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1 …00:00 Done.

R E Q U I E M written by ARJUN SINGH photographed by GRACE HO LAN CHONG

QUITTING IT written by Anna Maria Sordjan photographed by Nathan Chen ‘Giving up’ is a phrase that carries considerably negative connotations. One usually associates it with laziness, negligence, and poor work ethic – associations that are prominent on campus. To avoid these labels, as a result, students feel they must constantly compete against each other and prove their worth. How does this materialise? For starters, students begin to suffer from what may be called the I’mnot-doing-enough syndrome (I count my entire circle of friends as victims). For example, we’re all studious, active co-curricular participants, volunteers, and hold part-time jobs. Yet, amidst all these responsibilities, there exists an underlying pressure that we could and should be doing more. When your classmates have worked for the United Nations, created an app, or interned at Vice News; it’s impossible not to feel like opportunities must be ‘seized’ rather than truly desired. At the bottom line, worthiness becomes a mere measure of how busy one’s schedule is. Personally, the consequences of this syndrome are too well known. I have voluntarily assumed more responsibilities, activities and classes than I know I can handle. The pressure to prove that I could ‘handle it’ was overwhelming. Whether volunteering at a new company or agreeing to work extra shifts, I never could bring myself to “quit” any of them. All this, despite knowing the mental physical harm I was causing. Nonetheless, I couldn’t resist, and neither can many others. There’s a certain stigma attached to “giving up”: the sense of incompetence & inferiority, the bruises to your ego – that you’re not “good enough”. For many of us, these feelings are demoralizing. We’d rather bear the pain of our toils than the pangs of our minds. But what does “giving up” even mean? Intuitively, it seems to represent leaving an activity incomplete. Due to the sentiment aforementioned, we’ve often been told to “never give up” – essentially, making the phrase a derogatory term thrown at people. The intention of making them feel guilty, and compelling them to press on, is only too evident. “Giving up” then serves as a seal of failure and a lack of discipline and strength on the person’s part. This rhetoric is toxic and needs to change. More than falsely attacking a person’s self-esteem, it prevents them from making real and free choices due to the fear of stigma. “Just push through”, “Don’t give up”, “Only 10 days to go!”, “You’re too far in now!” are some of the misguidedly positive reinforcements I’ve heard to this effect. While the proponents of these may have good intentions, they (and I mean we, as a society) must realise that there is nothing wrong with quitting, and our commitments – when they begin to harm us – aren’t inviolable. So, the next time you’re faced with a decision – be perfectly assured that quitting may not be the ‘wrong’ choice. Drop the class you don’t like, quit the job you don’t have time for and resign from excessive the clubs you’re a part of. Signing up doesn’t mean signing away yourself – and quitting may just be the healthy, and mature, thing to do. “Staying strong” and “fighting through” struggles are admirable sentiments. I applaud those who courageously persevere through tough times and emerge triumphant. However, courage works both ways, and it’s time we applauded those who’re courageous in the opposite direction; a courage that says it’s okay to give up, pack their bags, and call it a day.

on mixing

Songs and Spices (contâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d)

written by Vivian Li illustrated by Candy Tang

v. plane across the Atlantic Ocean, on her lap, her fingers stroke through my hair

maybe she is thinking we should go back but she removes her glasses and stares out the window

I am shivering from the cold when the voices scatter, crude and flat to my ears

Guangzhou disappears beneath us, like a thick sheet of black paper sliding over an open well

shui ba, mother says and my stomach curls as we separate body from body, earth receding underneath us

and the screens on the back of the chairs flicker on

mother holds my hand tighter

vi. first home photographs, mornings, rooms of blue walls and skies I hardly remember, a rented house of piled up discs and forgotten stars but mother tries to make it welcome she strikes open the xigua and lets the juices run out, inviting us on pale-colored tiles we sit across from each other, watching the world pull and drag across the endless green silence the movements fall into place as we dry our hands on a white towel, and change into our red silk clothes to celebrate the New Year but the radio we borrowed startles us—

they’re playing soft country soul music West Virginia— take me home— country road— my father starts to hum so does my tone-deaf mother we all start to hum and even though we don’t know the meaning of every word we feel it— we have travelled far enough to understand

Work Hard, Play Hard, I Suppose. Same Thing. Muscles grow by breaking and shredding. We cause micro-tears, then fill in the gaps, and so growth blooms in the crevices. Nearly every child joined the American Youth Soccer Organization and we all learned to play soccer; at the age of seven, Tessa wanted me to play for her club team, but I predicted that I would always play for AYSO; I did not want to be competitive and I played because it was Play. My Play challenges me, I challenge myself. I cannot do a pull-up yet, but I will.

written by Lauren Levy illustrated by Lynn Liu

The key is “yet,” and the growth mindset is fundamental. Swimming and tennis lessons had not led anywhere by grade six— gymnastics and hula had been much earlier dead-ends—and tryouts for Punahou Intermediate Girls Soccer were months away with a countdown now reality. Quit or get serious; I need a sport to get into university (they want well-rounded students). I will make myself a Soccer Girl. My motivations were misguided but I do not regret what I learned and who it has made me. Bodies bodies bodies: soccer gave me thick thighs 3 more inches and I might not have quit in grade 9 3 more inches and maybe I could’ve reached the Bar 5 years of letting those thighs lie dormant Cross-country became me because I am what I do and what I do makes…

Me, shapes me. Shape my body, shape my mind; duality is an illusion and the mind and body are interdependent and indistinguishable. working out is caring for myself, for my body that is Me, just as sleeping and eating are. Mālama ‘āina, ‘āina mālama care for the land (that which feeds us) and the land will care for you I say that I am working on my relationship with my body but what I mean is that I am working on Me. I love Neuroscience; my body is how my brain—my mind— experiences and engages with the world. This is how I propagate change. and meanwhile, reveling in the immediate gratification of squatting what will soon be my own bodyweight; eventually, more. Quads and hamstrings that had once made me so insecure; they are giving me a head start, a leg up, if you will, in this period of my journey (and there is no destination, it is the journey, nothing is static) April 2017, when AP’s had ended, and my schedule was near-empty for perhaps the first time in years, I could test how far I could run. So far, I have run up to 16 miles. There is no reason to do any of this unless you want to Dragon Boat training is not forcing you to do anything. I do it because I am balanced and grounded when my body and I are intimately present, and I feel that when my breaks are brief and when I push myself to finish a set, when my tempo is slow, and my form is sharp. I am steady There is no reason to do cardio, to do any exercise, to take on any challenge, unless you want to. Why you want to will vary, how you achieve what you want will vary, and my way is not the only way or maybe even the best one. I am working on it when I work out. Grade 6, I quit tennis lessons (I hadn’t been a Top Gun since grade 1) and I joined a tiny club, not a titan of a team like the Bulls or Leahi but a sweetheart, Crush Academy. Coach Peter asked me, “Which position do you want to play?” and I said goalie because the superpower of using one’s hands on the field was a distinct honor that I was unaware of—a responsibility— since you could have found me braiding my hair while in goal barely months before. I wish I had known that lifting heavy—Farmer’s Walk! —would build grip strength so much more than grasping a ball alone would. Bodies bodies bodies soccer was my first real sport 3 more inches and I might not have switched sports (this wasn’t quitting, this was growing) 3 more inches I don’t need to reach the Bar 5 years of letting those thighs lie dormant and now I engage again (a new set, a new sport, the same journey) The faster you run, the sooner you’re done—but I don’t think I’ll ever quit.

HUMANS OF NEW COLLEGE

Q Tell us about a time this year you overcame a challenge. I hate talking to people first. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t normally talk to strangers like that. But I actually did a lot in these first 2 months, which is a big breakthrough for me. What is an everyday challenge that you have to overcome? I slept at 2am one night but I still had to get up at 8:30am the next day.

Tianwei 1st year, life sciences

Andy 1st year, life sciences

In what way have you impacted your friends? I have a friend who isn’t as strong academically. So when he came to U of T, in the first 2 weeks he wanted to drop out. I feel like he just didn’t have a lot of self-confidence. He was always like, ‘I can’t do this.’ He kept convincing himself he couldn’t succeed. But he could. People always need someone who can give them support. In this instance, I gave him that. What is an everyday challenge that you have to overcome? Just sitting down and actually focusing on doing work is very hard. I feel like I always want to scroll through social media or something. So just sitting down and actually being productive is kind of hard, especially when you have so much time gap between courses.

Q Linda 2nd year, health & disease, nutritional science, immunology What is an everyday challenge that you have to overcome? Having the motivation to actually get out of bed, get ready and go to class. I struggle with that every single day. I wake up and and ask myself, ‘do I really want to go to class today? Is it worth it? Maybe I can just catch up on that class later on.’ But I have to put my foot down and say, ‘no! You paid for education, you have to go.’ What is a goal you have this year and what is making achieving that goal difficult? For me, a goal would be to invest more time into my social life. I didn’t really enjoy myself as much as I had hoped in first year. This year I really hope to go out and have lunch with friends or have some more time to myself. A really big barrier would be time management, being able to finish all my assignments and do all my studying before I can prioritize taking some time off from academics.

& What was the most difficult thing you’ve faced at U of T? I think the biggest difficulty for me coming into University was the academics, because my high school was pretty trash so I came to U of T thinking, ‘oh I’m going to get A’s and B’s’ and I swear to God my first paper for theatre studies I got a flat D. It was so bad. I had to relearn how to study and how to do my work and how much time things required. I think getting over that first hump made first year a lot more difficult than it needed to be. What is something about yourself that you have learned to accept? I’ve learned to accept that I’m particularly bad at staying focused on an individual thing for more than 10 to 15 minutes. I can’t sit down and do a single thing for 3 or 4 hours, so when I structure my study time I’ll work on two or three assignments and I’ll balance between them. I recognized that I have a short attention span and I’m working around that in my life.

Amin 3rd year, political science, philosophy

& Shawn PhD candidate, laboratory medicine and pathobiology Tell us about time this year you overcame a challenge. I spent the first 4 months of my PhD trying to figure things out and get experiments going. I was doing tons of work and getting no results for like months and months and every time I would talk to other students who had been there for 2 or 3 years they’d say, ‘wow we just did 7 publication quality experiments,’ and I’d say, ‘I have nothing, again!’ I would go to my supervisor and say, ‘hey I still have nothing and it feels like I’m doing nothing,’ and he’d tell me, ‘don’t worry. It’s coming. You just have a lot of prep to do.’ I spent my weeks and a couple weekends working on immunofluorescence imaging and eventually after three or four attempts I finally got a couple of images. I called in my supervisor and he started freaking out and saying, ‘Oh my God, these are beautiful.’ So that was nice. I just needed a lot of support from other grad students and my supervisor but I eventually got there.

What surprised you about UofT and how did you adapt? It was a bit of a shock when I first came to UofT and realized there would be multiple courses every semester, with assignments, midterms and finals for each. It was quite the adjustment. It forced me to be smarter with my time. What worked for me was to make schedules. At the start of each semester, I would create one with assignment due dates and midterms, so I knew roughly what work needed to be done by when. At the start of most days, I would think how exactly Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to spend it. That way I could make time for friends, extracurriculars and sleep! My best advice is to work smartly - find out what works for you in terms of studying, be realistic and try and divvy it up with other things you would like to be doing.

UofT can be a bit crazy at times, but if you stick with it, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re ready for so much. Last year I graduated and started working as a data analyst at a catastrophe modelling company. The lessons I learned at UofT, in terms of working to multiple deadlines, and staying cool under pressure, have proved invaluable. And, you know what, what I actually learned in classes has been useful too!

Harry graduated, data modelling analyst at CatIQ Inc.

Q If you had to have someone else raise your children, who would it be and why? It would be my mom. She did such a great job raising me and I know she would be the best role model, friend and protector of my kids. What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned from from equestrian show jumping and how did you learn it? I think it was to get comfortable being uncomfortable. You learn in the moments you step outside your comfort zone and that is where true growth in life and competition comes from. What does ‘home’ look like to you? Home has always been a funny thing for me to identify with. I am a person who doesn’t have much spacial attachment. I love Calgary, where I grew up, but I think what my real home is where my family, friends and animals are.

Julia 4th year, contemporary Asian studies, international relations

& Trevor PEY, engineering science, biomedical systems What’s a lesson you’ve learned from having 3 siblings and how did you learn it? To not take them for granted. Despite the constant irritation, bickering, and fighting, you’ll miss them a lot when you’re gone. It’s taken all of us being in different places right now – different universities, different cities – for me to understand. It’s much harder and less satisfying to interact and converse over a screen, than say, a meal around the table at home. Tell me about your best friend. My best friend is someone I can talk to after a long, exhausting day, or share exciting news, or bring worries and stresses to. They challenge me to do better, and to see things outside my own perspective. They also have an undying love for dogs and photography. If you see a dog on campus, chances are you’ll find them next to it, camera at the ready.

Q Describe a time you needed help and someone was there for you. That’s a good question. Halfway though my grade 12 year, my mother died suddenly and all my friends were there for me. Specifically my girlfriend at the time, she came out of school and spent the day with me, and so did another one of my friends. That’s when somebody had been there for me though a hard time I would say. Three word to live by? My initial answer was four words… Eat Sleep League Repeat. Three words to live by, hmm… I suppose I should go with the first thing that came to mind. Accept, understand, and move-on. Move-on being one word.

Xander 3rd year, astronomy, physics specialist

Nathalie 1st year, life science

Where would you go to feel at peace? I usually go on walks outdoors. Especially now because I’m stuck in a building most of my day, I go on walks. It’s nice now because at UofT it’s like a whole different community away from the city, even though it’s right in the middle of downtown. Philosopher’s walk is nice, to clear my mind it’s nice to not be in a building for seven out of seven days of the week. It’s nice to go outside and get nature. What is something about yourself that you have learned to accept? Failure is necessary. I really learned that in first year. Coming from high school and getting decent grades, and coming here, failure is necessary to grow. And there are worse things than failure. Which is what I’ve learned to accept. Not everybody’s perfect, yeah there are people that it’s so easy for them to come here and adjust really easily. For me, it takes a long time to adjust and I’m okay with that. I’m in the process of growing and I’m not a perfect person.

Monkey Bars written by Ethan Smith illustrated by Cait Harrigan

I stretched my arms upwards as far as I could, even angling my shoulder and wiggling my fingers. This made no difference. I still couldn’t touch those metal bars. It wasn’t a near miss kind of thing, like if I stood on a couple of my third grade English books I’d be granted the last few inches I needed. Frankly, I’d have had to ask my math teacher to multiply my height by two, maybe three, before I had any chance of reaching the monkey bars. As I nervously waited for Tommy and his friends, the seemingly endless ocean of corn stalks in the farmer’s field behind my elementary school whipped back and forth in the harsh wind. I looked past the tree line at the road. Tommy would appear any minute now. As the branches of the trees flailed, dark gray clouds smothered what was left of the kind blue sky that had slowly dwindled away since the sun rose to say hello. Earlier that day, during recess, when the sky wasn’t nasty and the farmer’s field was still, I sat alone on the wooden bench beneath the oak near the playground and watched the other kids run on and around the various playsets. I often spent this time by myself. I didn’t have many friends. When the other kids weren’t ripping holes in my self-esteem with serrated box cutter comments about my less than average size for a third grader, my inexpensive light up shoes, the birth mark on my forehead, my glasses, my clothes from GAP, the fact that I looked like I was allergic to peanuts, or the time I sat with one leg crossed over the other (according to Tommy, only girls did that), they avoided me all together. So I sat quietly, ate the neat-freak lunch my mom prepared for me (she separated the different items of food with cardboard dividers) and daydreamed of better days, of days when I wouldn’t be made fun of for the time my mom interrupted class to give me the lunch I had forgotten at home, or of Christmas morning one month away, when I would be getting the

new LEGO Star Wars Battle of Hoth set, or of my life in the future, when I’d have an exciting job making cartoons or designing toys, and I’d be married and happy when my childhood bullies would be unibrow’d forty-year-olds wasting away somewhere boring. But for some reason I felt a sudden urge to go play on the playground. I’m still not really sure why. I normally didn’t care much for fitting in. I had gotten used to the feeling of being an outsider. Maybe I just wanted to prove that I could be normal, that I could spend recess playing like the other kids. So I scanned the playground for a something that wasn’t being used. There were the swings, but they were occupied. The first and second graders loved them. They would spend most of recess laughing and swinging out of sync with each other, and they always were let out for recess first; you could never beat them to it. Then there was the castle. It was by far the most popular on the playground, modeled and built to look like a castle from a cartoon. It had a yellow slide that swirled from the top down to the gravel. The older kids like Tommy would hang out here during recess, so that was out of the question. Next to the castle though was a set of monkey bars, completely by itself. The monkey bars were old news, built back in an era my dad called ‘the good ol’ days.’ Nobody cared about them anymore (except my dad). Although it was a bit big, it was perfect. Normally I would have doubted my ability. I rarely believed in myself. But I thought if Luke Skywalker could bring down a gigantic AT-AT walker with only his T-47 air speeder and a length of bungee cord, I could certainly make it across. I set my lunch box on the bench and walked towards the monkey bars. As I began the march I felt like everyone was watching me, eyes I couldn’t see observing my pace, my shoes, vigilantly, wondering what the hell I of all people was doing headed towards the playground. Once I reached the monkey bars I grabbed the ladder and put my foot on the first rung. “Hey kid, whatcha think you’re doing, huh?” said Tommy mockingly from behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to know that it was him. You don’t forget a voice like that. I faced him apprehensively. “Oh hey Tommy, I was just gonna try out the monkey bars.” Tommy wore boots and a flannel shirt. Behind him were three of his goons. He had a contemptuous grin. “Is that right, huh?” He looked back to his friends with humorous disbelief before facing me again. “But you’re a midget,” said Tommy in his poor imitation of a Scottish accent, “a wee little elf from dumb elf land. You can’t even touch the monkey bars! You’re not big!” “That’s funny Tommy,” said one of Tommy’s goons, chuckling. Tommy turned his body, staring into the eyes of the boy who had just complemented his cruel comments about my height. “Shut up you dummy, don’t be a dummy!” “Oh, sorry Tommy, I didn’t me–” “Dummy! Quiet!” The boy shut his mouth. The other boys stood behind Tommy, silent and attentive. I wanted to declare all the thoughts in my head, to tell him that he should go away and leave me alone. But my mouth said, “Well I bet I can cross.” Tommy laughed at my wager in an attempt to hide his anger, but it punctured through his eyes. He hated to be challenged. “Oh yah? Huh? And I’m a girl who plays with dollies,” said Tommy, waving his arms like a puppet suspended by string. “I can, you jerk!” Tommy made himself big, looking me dead straight in the eyes. “Then prove it.” I paused, knowing I had entered into a contest I had little chance of winning. I could’ve done it alone, but the presence of Tommy and his goons would surely affect me. I couldn’t give in though. That would just lead to embarrassment. I was scared. But I had to try. So I turned and placed my foot on the first rung like I had done a few minutes before. Suddenly a loud bell rang. “Kids, recess is over! Time for class!” shouted a teacher from the

doorways of the school. I was quite literally saved by the bell. “Let’s goooooo!” “Meet back here at four pm. We’ll finish it then,” said Tommy before jogging away. Later in the afternoon I sat in Mrs. Haight’s math class. I was dazed and staring at the chalk board. We were working with fractions but the numbers were blurry. The numerators and denominators morphed together on top of the line that was supposed to separate them. It reminded me of the time I first noticed my eyesight going. Except this time I had glasses. I had updated my prescription only a month ago. On the hour the bell rang. The last class of the day was now over. I ran across the street to my house. My mom was in the kitchen cleaning my 3-year-old brother’s face with a baby wipe. She asked me about my day. As usual I told her it was fine. I didn’t want to burden her with knowing. At 3:45pm I returned to the playground. And so there I was, beneath the monkey bars, waiting. Tommy and his friends appeared from past the tree line and rolled up on their bicycles, hoping off and tossing them sideways on the ground despite having kick stands. “Hey shorty, you ready?” Without responding I climbed the rungs of the ladder and reached up, wrapping my hands around the first bar. My stomach turned inside out. “Go ahead. Let’s get this over with,” said Tommy. The strong wind cooled the growing warmth I felt beneath my skin. I grabbed the second bar, then the next. “Hurry up. We don’t have all day,” said Tommy. I let my feet slip off the ladder and was suspended. I felt the weight of my body swaying in midair. I overcame two more bars, but as I brought both my hands to the next I stopped. I felt myself slipping. “Fall! Fall! Fall!” they shouted. It felt as if their words materialized out of thin air and started pulling on my legs. I got my hand to the next bar. “Fall you idiot!” yelled Tommy. As I followed with my other hand I lost my grip and fell to the ground, landing on my right foot turned inwards and then backwards on my head. “I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU COULDN’T DO IT!” shouted Tommy. I sat up and fought the tears erupting from my eyes. But Tommy could sense the water works. “Oh what a baby. See you at school tomorrow bud,” said Tommy as he and his friends mounted their bicycles and sped away behind the trees and out of sight. I lifted my body up and limped a few feet away before giving up and sinking my butt into the gravel. Tiny, jagged stones dug themselves into my rear end as I clutched my ankle with scraped and sweaty hands. Warm blood puddled in the tiny cuts and colored my white sock red. A stinging sensation arose in the back of my head as I looked to those metal bars. Sitting there alone I wept. I was beat. Tommy and his friends had been right all along. I was unable to make it across. And to make matters worse, tomorrow I would be the laughing stock ripe for the mocking. Even if I did try again and succeed, no one at school would believe me. It was over. But then I realized. This wasn’t a story of me versus them. “Hey Freddy!” I turned towards the sound. It was my dad on our porch. “Dinner in fifteen! Come inside!” If I was going to try again, it had to be now. Now or never. I gathered all I had left inside while blocking out the bombardment of noise racing through my head. I picked myself up, hobbled back towards the monkey bars and pulled my body up the ladder. Bar #1: I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants and wrapped them around the bar. Bar #2: The heel of my shoe teetered on the last rung of the ladder as I leaned forward. Bar #3: With both feet off my body swayed like the pendulum of a Grandfather clock. Bar #4: The ache in my biceps sharpened, and the throb in my head tightened like a vice.

Bar #5: I fought my scars. I fought my fears. Bar #6: I fought my anger. I fought my sadness. Bar #7: I fought my inability to believe in myself. Bar #8: Grit. Pain. Hope. Bar #9: My arms were tired. My will was tired. Too tired. I couldn’t reach the next bar. I felt myself slipping again. I had to do something! Anything! Now! I extended my leg out to form traction on the rung of the ladder with the rubber bottom of my shoe, but it didn’t stick. I tried again. My foot slipped and I almost lost my grip. If I waited any longer I would fall. I swung forward, then back, then forward, then back again, using the mass of my body to swing more and more, my momentum carrying me closer and closer to the ladder. As I reached the peak of my swing towards the ladder I let go and skipped past Bar #10: and landed with both feet on the top rung of the ladder. I began to fall though. I quickly wrapped my arms around the side railing like a passenger of a shipwreck would hold onto a floating piece of wood. My ankle stung like crazy. But it was over. I hopped off ladder and limped back to my house, carrying most of my weight on my good leg. It was Tuesday. My mom made chicken fingers on Tuesdays. I wasn’t going to miss that. … The other day I went to get my little brother at the school I attended way back when. The farmer’s field was bare; the harvest had happened two weeks before. I noticed the monkey bars. They’d been repainted bright blue. While I waited for my brother to come running out the doors of the school, I stood beneath the monkey bars like I had done so on that day. I wrapped my hands around one of the bars so the tips of my fingers met the base of my palms. My feet planted firmly on the ground, and the soles of my shoes sunk into the gravel.

the need of now written by Gozie Nwaka illustrated by Cait Harrigan A light mass with seemingly little potential, planted by the hands of intent. With care, time and earthly externalities dancing to its tune, she thrives. As the wind lifts its protĂŠgĂŠ from under the dirt, a serene sight comes to light, daylight meets the young one to flourish. Not far along, a certain honeybee busying herself. This determined buzzer seeks far, far beyond the nest, rare for its kind. Although our honey bee is sweet, with sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ray out to shine, and a dozen skin bearing creatures divine it all gets rather much Honey bee can barely gage who roots for her. This external quake, fostering her impatience. Furious by her sight of ferocity humming all around, Honey bee stung one - with intent to sting many. But49

As much as she busied, she would never see or make sweetness again. Not too far along, our blooming friend tirelessly blossoms. I pick one of her leaves and lay it next to honey bee. If honey bee could see, I would also want her to hear “Don’t worry honey bee, I will teach your baby bees that time may not always fly by your side. It must decide to come.” ” I did not know this, but Honey bee, by some magic, had understood, that persistence may require one to embrace to the chaos, and hum to the slow tune of time.

FLASH FICTION

We asked students from the community to challenge themselves by telling a complete story within a strict word limit. Here are some of the best submissions that we received.

Fleeting Anonymous 3:00 AM Walking down the now empty streets that have been dressed with a blanket of snow, she breathes in the December air. How nice would it be to stay like this forever. She crouches down, sinks her hand into the snow, gets up, and continues down the street. 4:00 AM The late-night shift drained the very little energy left in him. He always works late-night shifts on Wednesdays. He looks up at the sky, losing himself momentarily to the darkness. Exhausted, he strolls down the streets and spots a handprint in the snow. He places his hand over the print, enlarging it. 5:00 AM It starts to snow again and a chilly wind picks up. The deep handprint that was once in the snow is now filled. There is nothing but a faint mark. 6:00 AM In disbelief of yet another snowy night, he pulls his wool hat over his bed head and, after a slow exhale, begins to clear the snow on the streets. 7:00 AM The city wakes up and the streets start to fill up again, everyone rushing to get to their destinations.

The Kiss by Stephanie Taylor “Yeah, I remember my first kiss,” I replied. Toby eyed me and blew a stream of smoke above my head. He had already told me about his first kiss - he was fourteen, drunk, and smitten with a girl from his art class. She was also fourteen and drunk, but he figured that she had just been bored. I laced my fingers around my beer bottle more tightly; they were nearly numb. I silently thanked the party inside for being both a little too much and not quite enough for both of us. The early morning air was chilly but from the balcony you could see the profound stillness of the whole neighbourhood. It was as if time itself had frozen; even the trees weren’t moving. We were the only signs of life for as far as I could see. “I was seventeen and hanging out a lot with this guy from my history class,” I said. “One day I was over at his house and he wanted to show me Life of Brian - you know, the Monty Python movie?” Toby nodded and looked at me with that easy smile he wore so often and so well. “So it was the end of the movie, and they’re singing that song, Always look on the bright side of life,” I sang softly. “And I could feel him looking at me. I tried to focus on the movie but he wasn’t looking away. So I looked at him, and... I don’t know how to describe his face... he looked dazed and terrified yet determined... then he just said, ‘hey.’ I said, ‘hey’ back. And just as I was starting to get an idea of what was about to happen, he leaned over and all I remember thinking was, ‘ok, I guess this is going to happen.’” Toby chuckled. “And how was it?” “It wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d always read in books that kissing was this magical thing that feels amazing, but it was... I don’t know, just like two people moving lips together.” I found myself in that memory again; even though it was five years past, it was still nearly as clear as things that had happened minutes ago. “I tried to follow what he was doing but we just kept getting the timing off. And I tried using tongue but I think I just touched his teeth... I’m still not sure how it was so difficult... and I just kept going to see if I’d start feeling something. Anyway, my mum ended up calling me to say she was coming to pick me up, and it ended. We kissed before I left - just a short, sweet one - and that felt in some small way like what I’d imagined it would feel like. But yeah... that’s it.” Toby stepped towards me. Our bodies were nearly touching. “Can I kiss you?” he said softly. “Yes,” I said, already going up to meet his lips.

The Architect, The Bun, and The Golden Sun. by Y.M.H. It was just another cold day, a standard fall day, nothing out of the ordinary or too spectacular. Well maybe besides the golden sun that bathed this afternoon, an unusual friend after the pale grey days. As I made my way to the final class of the day, a low rumble emerged from my stomach – that’s not good. There are few things quite as comparably horrible as a 6-9pm class, the dreaded hours for a student – it’s unnatural, it’s ungodly – the only thing worse is having a 6-9pm class while you are hungry – I would not wish it upon my worst enemies. I pulled out my wallet. Flipping over the flap of leather, I was greeted by a crisp green plastic sheet – good, I have money. I turned into the nearest bakery for some sustenance; Ding Dong – ha, that’s the name we called Doraemon back in Hong Kong. Inside, a familiar sight and smell greeted me, the smell of butter, the golden topped buns that everyone from back home has seen and eaten. I picked my favorite few: a golden bun with a mysteriously red sausage embedded in it (肠仔包), and one with a flaking yellow crust on top (菠蘿包). Happy with my pickings I left the shop two dollars less than when I had stepped in. The weather was particularly beautiful today, as if Wes Anderson took a shade of gold and painted across the screen – it was almost cinematic – illuminating the towering One Spadina, my destination. I wiggled a sausage bun out of the transparent plastic bag and took a bite. A familiar sense and memory lucidly played in my head; I was back at the small side exit after school. Wing Yee would be there to greet me, a similar bag of golden buns waiting for me. “What did you buy for me today?” my hungry younger self asked. “All the best ones,” came the reply with a smile. I remember her taking my backpack away from me, the burden of the day removed as she held my hand back home swinging, and me happily gnawing on the golden bun with a sausage embedded in it. Those were the simpler days, not unlike this, with the same golden sun and the same golden bun, but with a slightly older me. “Sorry, do you know which way Dundas is?” And just like that, my childhood memory was ripped away as quickly as it entranced me. “It’s just straight down that way,” I gestured. “You can’t miss it.” I took one last look at the bun; a bite was all that remained. Some days like this, I think about the people back home. Sometimes I miss the family meals and the nagging questions whether I’m hungry or have I eaten – sometimes I miss home. With another bite, the bun disappeared and with it the brief moment. I took another step – maybe the 6-9 won’t be too bad today.

Golfing Trip in Scotland by E.G. When we were toddlers you loved to play tag. Cheyne and I would hide inside the closet of our bedroom, and upon being found we’d make a ruckus running down the stairs, skipping every other step to get a head start. Once you caught up you’d snatch us up into your grasp, wrestle us to the floor and rub your cheeks rough with stubble on our faces. Yesterday your face was cleanly shaved. You laid there peacefully, eyes shut, the tattoos on your arms covered with black fabric, no longer sitting on the couch in your boxers like you usually did. I made sure to look at you one last time. Next to you was the photograph of us on the golf course in Scotland. That photo captured such an imperfect moment. My long, thin hair covered my eyes. The whitecaps in the distance battled each other as you peered down at me, holding on tight so that my small body wouldn’t be blown away by the harsh coastal winds. You had a look of dismay, knowing any golf ball you hit would be carried off course. And that’s exactly what happened! When my ball landed in the sand trap and I couldn’t lob it out onto the green, I tried to pick it up and place it on the grass. But you grabbed my wrist. “You can’t just go around.” So I stood there and smacked at the sand with my club, every swing propelling tiny particles of sand into the air. Each time, the ball would roll back into the trap and I’d get more frustrated. “Keep trying.” And on the ninth try I hit it onto the green. The ball landed softly, two feet from the flagpole. … I fiddled with my glasses as they lowered you into the ground. Cheyne tugged at the loose seam of his pants and looked at the other grave stones in the cemetery. When it was over I dropped Cheyne off at home, but I drove to the golf course in Jefferson. It was after hours but I parked at the driving range anyway. I could barely see so I left my headlights on. After grabbing my four iron from the trunk I dumped a bunch of golf balls on the grass. I aimed at a flag pole three hundred yards away and hit a ball. It curved hard to the right, disappearing into the trees. I pulled another ball in front of me and hit it. This one shot straight ahead down the range like a rock skipping on water. I hit another. It curved left this time. I hit another. It curved right. I hit another. It curved right… After thirty or so balls, none of them landing anywhere near the flagpole, I rested the head of the club on the ground, letting the handle lean against my thigh. I looked down to my sweaty hands. I could feel the calluses forming. I stopped and thought back to that day in Scotland. The ocean. The wind. That sand trap. And you. I reformed my grip on the club, aimed and took a swing. It soared up high through the cold night air and landed softly, two feet from the flagpole. 55

Cat’s Cradle by Hanbin Choi We played cat’s cradle during recess, a loop of well-worn yarn between us. Our deft little fingers flitting through the designs, creating and recreating familiar symmetries, hands moving in delayed synchronicity, perfectly practiced, never even needing to touch. One afternoon during the summer lull between semesters, we were sitting on your bed, your windows barely shielding us from the heat. You stole some neon orange paracord from your brother and we made survival bracelets for ourselves. Everyone else had gone away to summer camp or to even more marvelous sights abroad. We were left behind. The meticulous knots that you had created put my haphazard and crooked mess to shame, but we exchanged bracelets anyway and you promised to treasure it forever. Life moved so fast in high school. Even faster when we realized your family matters would soon take you out of the country. We cried together for hours, and I couldn’t understand a word of your explanations or apologies through the thickness of your tears. We promised to stay in touch, but neither of us kept up. I moved across the country for college. It was easy to forget, to compartmentalize you as a phenomenon that only occurred back home. I left everything else behind, and I figured I could survive forgetting you, too. You reached out to me a few years later. Your dad had been arrested. The list of charges was long. You figured I should know. I could hear your mother through the phone, too. The reverb of her sobbing was a distant static during the entire call. I wanted more than anything to hug her, then, but I didn’t even know where you were. The next time I saw you, you were back home, and we were different people. Your hair was shorter than I remembered it ever being. You stood with an inexplicably adult poise. I offered a greeting. You accepted it. “What happened to you?” you asked. The audacity. I nearly scoffed, knowing from the pieces she shared of her story, that mine was infinitely less interesting. “You look like you could be someone’s mother!” you joked about my capris. I played mock offended, but you were right. The years were good to me, and I had been shaped into a doughy and unresistant adult. Pliable, comfortable. We had tea the next day at my house. It was quiet and you met my cat. The conversations were stiff with lack of practice. Then, you noticed some orange paracord holding up my houseplants and laughed in recognition. “Actually, my brother tried to seduce women with mine,” you told me. And the barriers started to fall. The stories began weaving themselves. And we conversed for hours after that. We talked in near-perfect delayed synchronicity, listening, contributing, revealing to each other the years between us. It was almost muscle memory, the way we made space for each other to move. The sun set and rose before you left. We stayed in touch.

The Story Behind the Swoosh: A LESSON FROM NIKE’S CO-FOUNDERS written by MEGGIE DEBNATH photographed by SHAMMIE DEBNATH

‘Just do it.’ As motivational, meme-able, and successful Nike’s slogan has been, it may be surprising how a message so simple could inspire so many. What should I imagine when I see a storefront window with ALL CAPS JUST DO IT underlined with the equally recognizable swoosh? What is the it you are telling me to do? Here’s my loose translation: To provide some context, Nike, originally named ‘Blue Ribbon Sports’, was founded in 1964 by Phil Knight and his track and field coach, Bill Bowerman. Knight was a middle-distance track athlete during his time as a student at the University of Oregon. He graduated with a journalism degree in 1959, and immediately following, joined the United States Armed Forces. After one year of active duty, Knight began his master’s degree at the Stanford Graduate School

of Business. It was during a class at Stanford where he discovered his entrepreneurial spirit and wrote a business plan that would shape the beginnings of Nike. His passion for running brings us to what I think is the most important takeaway from Phil Knight’s journey. You must advocate the reason for why you do what you do. This sentiment is perfectly expressed through Knight’s words: “I’d been unable to sell encyclopedias, and I’d despised it to boot. I’d been slightly better at selling mutual funds, but I’d felt dead inside. So why was selling shoes so different? Because, I realized, it wasn’t selling. I believed in running. I believed that if people got out and ran a few miles every day, the world would be a better place, and I believed these shoes were better to run in. People, sensing my belief, wanted some of that belief for themselves. Belief, I decided. Belief

is irresistible.” Nike wasn’t just about building a profitable company, it was about the spirit of innovating and creating better products for runners and athletes. This idea of taking one’s purpose and incorporating it into the work one does is seen in some of the most successful organizations. Take Apple for example, now a trillion-dollar company. That kind of achievement doesn’t materialize out of hunger for a bigger bottom line. It happens by having a core belief and communicating that idea effectively enough to inspire and connect with people. During the 2018 FIFA World Cup, Apple featured a video titled “How to Shoot Soccer on iPhone X”. The ad had no mention of any iPhone X features, rather, it simply showed video footage taken on the iPhone, of people from around the world playing soccer. The focus wasn’t on the phone itself, but on what you

can do with the product. It’s the ability to convey that an iPhone X is a tool that enhances an experience and allows you to do what you love, but somehow in a better way. That’s what sells. There was still a long way to go before Phil Knight started selling. Upon graduating from Stanford, he travelled to Japan, where he convinced Mr. Onitsuka, the owner of a shoe manufacturing company, to meet with him. In a desperate attempt to secure distribution rights for Onitsuka’s Tiger-brand shoes, an inexperienced yet ambitious Knight told Mr. Onitsuka that he already had a company and blurted out the name “Blue Ribbon Sports”. Phil Knight secured the deal and was told the first shipment of shoes will arrive in just over a year’s time. When the first shoe samples arrived, Knight sent some to Bill Bowerman, and with just $1200 in the bank, they agreed on a partnership that

marked the birth of Blue Ribbon Sports. In those first years of the company, Knight faced significant financial hurdles, being refused loans from multiple banks and financial institutions. He worked full time as an accountant for the first five years and made sales out of the trunk of his car at track meets.

good grip on multiple surfaces. This idea was further refined and went on to become Nike’s ‘waffle trainer’. After the creation of the infamous swoosh logo, there was no stopping Nike’s success. In 1980, Nike went public with fifty per cent market share, and revenues climbed beyond $1 billion by the end of the decade.

In their second year, they were able to hire their first employee, and by year three, they opened the first Nike store. Sales creeped higher, and by 1971, they parted ways with Onitsuka, and officially became Nike Inc. It was also during this time that Bowerman had been trying to invent a running shoe that had better traction on the new urethane track at the university. While having waffles for breakfast one day, Bowerman had a eureka moment that would change everything. Seeing the waffle iron gave him the idea of pouring in melted urethane to make the outsole of the running shoe. The waffle pattern that resulted would provide

Some might defend that this was the point when Nike, named after the Greek ‘goddess of victory’, truly began to epitomize its name. Personally, I believe it was in the moments of uncertainty, when Knight sold his shoes to athletes at track meets, believing they would run better because of it, or when Bowerman sought to reimagine what running shoes could be by using his family waffle iron to make them. It was in those moments when belief in their work drove their actions, that Nike’s co-founders truly succeeded.

The story behind this issue of The Window started on July 24 when I met the current Editor-in-Chief, Ivan Yan, for the first time in a Starbucks. Over coffee we spoke of a few things: our vision, our goals, and given that we were both new and approved executives, how we didn’t want to screw it all up. Since that day, I’ve seen the writers and photographers create incredibly compelling content. I’ve watched the layout crew crank out the final magazine design in a matter of days. Our team has done a hell of a job, and to be in a role where I can help enable the passions of so many different people is such a great thing. I’m so grateful for that. A mentor of mine once told me that if you have great group of people to work with, not to take them for granted. I took that advice to heart, so I’d like to firstly thank each member of the The Window for all that they’ve done in the making of this issue. Their work exceeds expectations each time. The material that we present in this issue is an ode to their hard work. I’d like to thank Ivan for his partnership in the creation of this issue. It’s not often that you find someone that you work so well with. I’d also like to the thank the past Editorin-Chief, Kitty Liu, for introducing me to The Window, for playing a large role in my own discovery of my interest in writing, and for the strategically limited guidance she currently provides for Ivan and I. She doesn’t often think of herself as a person who inspires others, but without her I think I’d be a slightly different person. Most importantly, I’d like to thank you, the reader. At the end of the day we do what we do for you. As Ivan most elegantly put it in his note at the beginning of this issue, thank you for giving a damn. I hope you enjoy this issue as much as we enjoyed creating it. Now than Ivan and I have gotten our boots wet so to speak, we expect to push the limits of what The Window can achieve even further. Please feel free to join us for the ride.

Ethan Smith Assistant Editor-in-Chief

The Bubble Tea Address: Congrats! You have reached the end of the magazine, since you have read so far, we challenge you to find the window drawn on the cover of the magazine. The first three people who correctly locates the window featured on the front cover of this issue and sends us a selfie of them with it to: eic@newcollegewindow.com gets one free bubble tea on us. Good Luck!

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.

J U N C TA

J U VA N T