The Window: The Reflection Issue by The Window

ISSUE NO.11 // SPRING 2018

THE REFLECTION ISSUE

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

ISSUE NO.11 // SPRING 2018

“how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet” ― Robert Browning As we rush to meet one deadline after another, we find ourselves nearing the end of yet another eventful year and slowing down to match our initial pace. We approach this state of stagnancy as we watch ourselves in slow-motion, but they are not quite ourselves. They too, like us, have the same pair of eyes. Yet, something has changed. Perhaps it is the forming of faint creases at the edges from the wear of carrying too many emotions, or perhaps it is the light in their eyes that no longer glowed like ours. We have changed, beyond what a mirror can detect. In this issue, we delve into the theme of reflection as we find ourselves wondering about our past self, re-evaluating and redefining ideologies we once held, and falling in and out of love with the person we see in the mirror. Although I could never say this enough times, I am truly grateful for the team that I have and for all their hard work. I know this semester has been tough yet they have never failed to amaze with the quality of work they produce. This very issue you hold in your hands is a reflection of who we are and maybe in our voice, whether it is through art or a few string of words, you will find yourself or someone you have never thought to exist in you. Without further ado, I present to you the incredible work put together by our wonderful team, without whom this would not have been possible.

...

Kitty Liu editor-in-chief

TH E W I N D O W T E A M k i t t y l iu

pei x u a n w a ng

Assistant Editor

Business Manager

M eg a n b h a l l a

n at h a n c h en

z i ya n c h en

v a nnie kop a l a k ris h n a n

vivian li

Ly nn l iu

go z ie n w a k a

a n a s ta si a pi t c h er

e t h a n smi t h

a nn a m a ri a sor d j a n

m a c k en z ie s t e w a r t

C a n dy ta ng

w innie w a ng

c h ris t op h er x u

i v a n ya n

Editor-in-Chief

Photographer

Writer

c h erry x in

Artist

Writer

Layout Designer

Writer

Photographer

eric y u a n

Photographer

cor a l s z h eng

Artist & Writer

Writer

Artist

Layout Designer

I N TH I S I S S U E / / 1 Thoughts for a 20th Birthday 3 Our Vision of the Feminine 5 Reflecting on the Meaning of Success in a Modern Era 7 Humans of New College 19 Muiere 21 Eulogy to That Frozen Banana 23 Richard the Clown 29 To Oneself 31 Winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Song 33 Introspection 35 Six Word Stories 37 A Soul Turned Grey 39 A Poem Reflecting Its Roots 41 Milan and Ted 43 Reflection though different lenses: a photo essay

Thoughts for a 20th Birthday From past, present, and future me.

written by vannie kopa l ak ris h n an photographed by meg an b h a l l a

Smile a little more today — it’s your 20th birthday! It’s another year to grow, another year to experience ideas that once made you withdraw with discomfort. Today is another day to take a step forward and breath with relief that the past is behind you. Twenty will make you feel new, not older. Far away from the steps of your adolescence, twenty will make you become a new person. Everything leading up to today will feel like a distant memory, tucked away in a past that isn’t you anymore. You will feel yourself grow into someone foreign, someone better than any dream your past self could have dreamt of. But this is what you will only hope will happen. In truth, being twenty won’t change you. On the hour, you will feel nothing but a slight sense of gratitude mixed with warmth before settling back into bed for the new day. You’ll wake up, slightly tired (but awake with excitement) for what the day—your day—will bring you. And as the day goes on, you’ll find yourself pondering the same question: why don’t I feel different? Being twenty will make you feel old when the memories sink in at night. The time you got angry at your parents or the time you learned to use Google maps properly will come to light and you’ll fill up with a mixture of happiness and regret. You’ll realize how much you’ve grown since the day you turned nineteen and even more so, in the days that followed to today. Twenty will be a time of reflection. You won’t feel different, you won’t bud with a newfound confidence nor stand taller. But you will come to question the little details of your life. You will learn to love those little details, too. You will learn from them, grow from them, cherish them like little treasures against your heart. The years leading up to this day have made you stronger but more importantly, happier and more open. Twenty will be your year of loving, your year of finding comfort in a past — and present that loves you just as much.

Our Vision of the Feminine written by vivian li illustrated by lyyn liu

weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve lost her again

we see her hair rippling the air

like a splay of dead branches

her face angled to the moon

in a flower, opening its petals to the torrential rain,

bruised arms with winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath

on its cheekâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; rooted to a stem of ice,

she freezes in mornings

before putting on

her Cinderella shoes

Reflec ti n g o n t he M ean i n g o f S ucces s i n th e M od e r n E r a written by ziya n ch en illustrated by c a ndy ta ng

What does it mean to achieve your personal best? When is something considered a personal achievement compared to societal influences, family, and friend pressure?

“Look at me... I will never pass for a perfect bride. Or a perfect daughter. Can it be, I’m not meant to play this part? Now I see, that if I were truly to be myself, I would break my family’s heart. Who is the girl I see, staring straight back at me? Why is my reflection someone I don’t know? Somehow I cannot hide, who I am, though I’ve tried. When will my reflection show who I am inside? When will my reflection show who I am inside?”

n the well-known verse of Disney’s animated Mulan, the main protagonist, Mulan, sings about her troubles fitting in with the stringent societal expectations of feminine roles back in ancient China. As the story goes, Mulan, a determined, forward-thinking young woman, takes her father’s place in the Emperor’s army by impersonating the identity of a male soldier, ultimately saving China against the Hun invasion by using her wits and quick judgments. Beneath the action of the drama lies a subtler message: Mulan is able to save her own identity by not conforming to the societal expectations and does what she thinks is right to defend her family’s honour. Mulan is a prime example of a success story: as the moral goes for many animated Disney movies, if one works hard and follows their dreams, they will be successful. But success itself is a broad umbrella term that encompasses a variety of meanings. Career-wise, success could take the form of a high-paying job or a stable long-term job. On the flipside, one could have a low-paying job, but enjoy the work that they do. For others, success could mean being surrounded by loving family and friends. Arguably, success can also be defined as the consequence of achieving goals. The premises you start off with can strongly influence the difficulty of achieving the goal(s): what resources have been given to you? What are the difficulties that you might come across while working towards your goal? The road to success is fraught with obstacles, whether it be gender stereotypes as in Mulan or other factors such as economic status, race, religion, ethnicity, or even age. There is an age-old ethos inherent in American culture that everyone, regardless of their background, should be given the freedom and the opportunities to work for a better life for themselves and their families. Most of us have been raised to the unquestionable belief that hard work equals success.

In fact, in the modern era, “the Information Age”, online resources are more widely accessible to people. This increases the competition pool as employers receive larger numbers of applicants. Admissions to schools are also increasing in difficulty as the grade averages for university entry are increasing. And children of wealthier families have extended networks and resources, getting jumpstarts in both post-secondary school applications and their own careers. In this day and age, success, for a majority of us, requires a redefinition of “hard work” – one needs to work smart. It simply isn’t possible to meet today’s standards by working harder: there just aren’t enough hours in a day. By talking to graduates of the University of Toronto, most of them got their first jobs through networking. Realistically, most of us will not achieve as drastic a success as Mulan did; our lives are simply more complex. However, to start with defining our goals, we can start off a three step analysis: 1. What do we spend the most time doing in our lives right now? 2. How does this benefit ourselves in the future? 3. How can we get better at what we are doing, now that we identified how it is useful for the future? If you don’t know what you can do to be successful, that’s okay. Most people don’t have a clear definition of success prior to starting their journey; it is only on afterthought, through comparison with other failures, when they realize where they have been successful. All these different definitions of success propel us to explore what to work for and give a new dimension to a “purpose” for our lives. As many of us are studying at university right now, let’s pause to reflect on why and for whom are we studying? How does the university assist us in making goals in our lives that will lead to successful careers? 6

h umans of new college 8

Sean Feng

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ W hen I tur ned 18, I thought I understood what people mean to each other. ”

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ T he moment when I saw this girl with absolutely captivating looks, I was severely intoxicated that my life suddenly became meaningful. T hat was the fir st time I tur ned religious. She has been my g oddess, my only deity, since then. ”

Bernie Hsu 10

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now?

Ronald & David Ronald Li: “ Two summers ag o, I lear ned how to drive and that helped me chang ed the way I do things cause n ow I can g et to places. ”

David Lin: “ I looked at other people and strived to want to be like them. For example, I saw other people wanting to do research and that g ave me the motivation to pursue my own research.”

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ T h e event that chang es my view dramatically might just be star ting university. It sound a bit cliché, but it chang es how I view other people. T he high school I went to was really small, with about 15 people per class. It might be the small population sample, or that most came from a similar socioeconomic ...

Lawrence Wood ... backg round, however the interaction with them bred quite a cynical outlook within me. In g eneral, I am in quite g ood ter ms with them. But seeing how they act and treat each other instilled a neg ative pessimistic outlook on people in g eneral. You know, like the typical “high school drama.” Looking back, I don’t know how accurate it was, it might just be some kind of teenag e angst or that it just too few of people. However, star ting in a larg e University like UofT, and interacting with so many people each day, that chang ed me. I do still feel there are “bad” people out there. Drama still exists. But this has shown me the diversity of people. T here are many people out there with their colourful and unique personality. It really allowed me to reg ain the optimism. I guess this is what people mean the valuable “experience” for g oing to university. ”

Ranmal

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ I am g oing to g o with after my first BIO120 midter m, which was one of the earliest tests I had in university. T he test kinda hit me that I am not in high school anymore and need to g et my shit tog ether. ”

Bandara

Bushra Ahmed

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ I feel that we take life way too seriously sometimes. We g et caught up in our schedules, hoping to g et through the day, week or even the month. And before you know it, years have passed and you’re wondering what went wrong and what could have been done differently. Life’s like a collection of f leeting moments, and after two near death experiences and pulling people from the ledg e of a tall building, it seems precious and too shor t to wor r y about small things. In the long r un, that F on a midter m or that hear tbreak won’t even matter. ” 14

Carl Zhang

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ I had always been a pretty shy person, but I had g reat relationships in high school. However, coming to Toronto was fairly challenging. Toronto is ver y different than where I’m f rom with its bustling nature and countless oppor tunities. I found it hard talking with strang ers and “networking” with them as well. However, in my Engineering Leadership Lab, the presenter (who seemed like a proud, confident man) told me that he was an introver t himself, and it was impor tant in our culture to act with confidence. After much practice, I’ve been able to fake confidence to prevent awkwardness. It’s also helped me understand how to proactively adapt to my sur roundings before I’m 15

“forced” to do so. ”

Elisa Fung W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ My personality has always been to be shy and timid. T hrough my four years I g ot more involved in different activities and lear ned that teamwork and communication are cr ucial to g etting stuff done. I tr y and apply this approach to how I problem solve now. ”

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ Having friends with mental health issues has chang ed the way I approach people nowadays. By talking to them and understanding their problems, it has really helped me to see things in other people’s shoes, and to not judg e people so easily. ”

Edith Ma 17

Tin Sun Mak

W h a t ’s o n e m o m e n t i n t h e p a s t t h a t h a s c h a n g e d t h e w a y y o u v i e w or approach things now? “ I think coming to Canada and leaving my parents have really chang ed the way I approach things now financially at least. I can’t rely on my parents anymore and I have had to properly manag e my finances instead of just doing whatever I want. I’ve had to realize the value of money here. ”

Muier e written by a nna ma ria sordjan photographed by eric yuan

“Prove it,” said a ten-year-old classmate on the playground. “If you don’t know what these words mean, you’re lying. You’re not really Romanian,” he would say as he proceeded to bombard me with his own version of vocabulary quizzes. Surely, this was not how I anticipated spending most of my recesses in elementary school, yet somehow, every Monday to Friday, my identity would be dismantled, scrutinized, and questioned by those who’ve felt I was never a) Romanian enough b) Serbian enough or c) Canadian enough. My family is ethnically Romanian but lived in Serbia for at least two generations. Both of my parents were born in Serbia and immigrated to Canada as a result of the Yugoslav Wars in 1996. A year later, I was born in Hamilton, Ontario. Growing up, my parents always made sure to teach me about my culture and heritage – from ethnic foods, folk dance, and learning both languages, Romanian and later Serbian, I’ve never felt a lack of connection to my family roots. In school, however, I quickly learned that having a multicultural identity would make me an outsider. My Romanian classmates would insist I wasn’t a real Romanian because of my family’s Serbian citizenship and different dialect, while my Serbian classmates would call me a “fake Serbian” given the fact I celebrated Christmas rather than the Slava. More often than any kid would hope, I found myself in the crossfire between three identities. I remember one day, a Romanian classmate asked me what the word for woman was. “Muiere,” I said, only to be ridiculed. “No, it’s femeie,” he said with an arrogant smirk. I remember coming home crying to my parents and asking them why I spoke differently from the other Romanian kids. They explained that we spoke a different dialect, that’s all. What I didn’t understand is how speaking a different dialect brought my authenticity and identity into question. I’ve always felt like three versions of myself existed: the Romanian, the Serbian, and the Canadian. At twenty, I am still unable to reconcile the three. I’ve always had great difficulty reflecting on who I am, or rather who I think I ought to be. It’s strange to think that something so personal like my own identity has been forged by the opinions of those around me. By no means have I figured out who I am. What I have learned is that I am allowed to be Romanian, Serbian, and Canadian simultaneously. I am proud of all three of my identities, and each represents a part of who I am. 20

eulogy to that

frozen banana written and illustrated by cor a ls zh eng

ow strange, how past memories can sometimes suddenly whelm up, likened to the blur of a red light before the impact – shamefully embodied in the uncanny sight of a brown banana seasoned with sidewalk salt, a single brown curve that dares to stand between you and your destination.

Memory is like this single brown banana, jumping out of nowhere with a malicious, indignant presence, resentful of its untimely passing. I was supposed to be someone’s lunch, it said, I wasn’t supposed to have gone to waste. In that sense, you feel pity for the banana, but you walk on, feeling how you would feel when someone doesn’t clean up after their dog. You don’t think much about the banana until there are four walls around you, until I’m alone, until the lock clicks, and only then, the image drips into the black of the iris, drop by drop, until the sink spills over, and I’m crying. You’re crying. We’re crying for a rotten banana who travelled from Ecuador to become someone’s lunch, but it is now frozen in the snow, too hard, too salty to be turned into banana bread. To christen its memory, I will write a short story of how the banana came to be abandoned: Our banana was planted two years ago, from a bulb, in Ecuador, a sunny place, a humid place that rains a lot. This banana came from a tree rooted in pitch black soil unearthed from a jungle clearance, where non-bananas migrated to the city to look for work. The banana plant was sprayed with pesticides, and grown in polyethylene bags to prevent spoilage via insects, birds, and generally served as a nice precursor to its supermarket fate. Our banana was picked while it was still green, sorted, and shipped 5,056 km to their marketplace where it is preferred that they are nice and in reasonable bunches. They should be taken to a good home with a wide yard, but this is Toronto so most immigrants began in small spaces; in this case, the fridge or a pantry unit. The banana faced discrimination and was not picked for a while on accounts that it is so green, and eventually as it reached its peak, our banana was broken from the bunch, and shoved into a bag to be taken to school. There the banana slipped out of the bag through a hole, and fell on Bloor Street, thinking it had finally achieved total freedom, before the snow fell, and it began to regret its decision to come to Canada − but it wasn’t really its decision so our banana existed in a state of paradoxic al agency and nonagency. Where the gleaming yellow of its skin faded to a nasty brown, a giant bruise surfaced from the stem to the little black bit at the bottom, and the colour grew so uniformed that it was almost aesthetically pleasing. Our banana was promised, sold to someone with a purpose − and now it’s stuck in limbo, on the street, in a gross state of frozen and rotten, like, nature couldn’t even figure out what to do with it. Actually, nevermind nature, she has a different opinion on the state of banana monoculture, so she expressed the distaste with a mass fungal banana extinction. Our banana may very well be the last banana ever.

The author strongly disapproves of reading the short story as a metaphor for the immigrant experience, or other likewise nonsense.

Richard the Clown written by et h a n smit h illustrated by c a ndy ta ng

ehind the safety of closed doors, Richard stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He gently applied white makeup to his face. Richard had dark blonde hair and blue eyes. He was in his midtwenties, but looked a few years older. The bathroom was foreign to him. This wasn’t his home, which was rundown in comparison. This wasn’t his bathroom. It was very spacious. One end of the bathroom had a large shower with a glass door, a shiny steel handle, and multiple shower heads that were on the walls. The expensive pearl-like floor looked clean enough to eat off of,and what seemed like hundreds of grooming products lined the tall wooden cabinet like books in a library. The only thing nice about my bathroom is that the hot water runs for five minutes instead of four. From outside the bathroom window, Richard could hear the playful shouts and giggles of young children. He peeked outside. One story down and beyond a wooden deck, the back yard, with freshly mowed grass, was bordered with a white picket fence. Many of the children ran around the yard, some carrying balloons and some wearing cone

shaped hats as they tried to tag each other. Two young girls chased a golden retriever that would stop momentarily for a breath, only to be kick started by the tug of its fur. One side of the yard had an extensive garden inhabited by a variety of flora. A stone pathway ran through the middle of the garden, and a few children hopped from one stone to the next. A few adults, fewer than there were children, stood on the deck, speaking to each other as they watched the young ones below. Richard couldn’t hear them clearly. A small boy who was running fell over, and a woman from the deck shouted, “KIDS, BEEEE CAREFUL!” Time to get ready. He finished with white, then added red makeup around the perimeter of his mouth. He then formed the shape of a diamond around his left eye and, using black makeup, formed the shape of a spade around the other. He unzipped his gray gym bag, moved aside a black dress shirt and dress pants, and from it, retrieved a white dress shirt and a ridiculous suit. The suit coat had a red and yellow checkered pattern, and the coat pocket

had the head of a fake flower popping out of it. The suit pants were also red and yellow, but with a diamond pattern. Richard slipped the dress shirt and suit on, then grabbed a multi-colored bowtie and pinwheel hat to match. Shit! Forgot the nose! He turned back, dug through the bag, and found a red ball at the bottom. He forced it on his nose. He hesitantly opened the door to the living room, but to his surprise, luckily, the house was empty. This was emphasized by the fact that the living room, as well as the neighboring kitchen, like the bathroom, were also very spacious. The kitchen had a marble counter. Above this, suspended from a hanging pot rack were a variety of kitchen wares. In the living room, the dark brown coffee table had not a single hint of dust, and the carpet beneath it could have been made from the pelts of cheetahs. The couch was made of a smooth dark fabric, and could fit many more than one would have over for an evening dinner. Photos lined the walls of the living room. Some of them featured a middleaged man, all dressed up and shaking hands with what seemed to be influential business people. The others featured a woman and all her greatest achievements. In one, she wore a graduation gown while receiving a diploma in front of a large crowd. One photo, and only one photo, featured the same man and woman, but this time accompanied by a young girl. She was the only one smiling. Through the sliding glass doors, Richard could see the wooden deck. He stepped outside and descended the stairway to the yard as he was welcomed by the cheers of the children as they gathered around. “HEY KIDS, I’M POOKI THE CLOWN!” He spoke in a high pitch and with a goofy voice. The children laughed excitedly. “So I was with my other clown buddies, anddd, Iheardthatyoungkidslikeballoonanimals.” Richard spoke too fast to be under-

stood. “Sorry! I got a weeee bit ahead of myself. WHO WANTS A BALLOON ANIMAL?” “ME, ME, ME!” shouted the children in close unison. Richard pointed to a young boy. “What’s your name kiddo?” “My name’s Billy!” speaking louder than he had to. “Well HEY! Now what’s your favorite animal?” The boy paused. “That’s a hard question, Pooki.” “Take your ti-” “DONKEY!” shouted the young boy. “Donkey it is.” Richard quickly grabbed a yellow balloon from his pocket. “WAIT! What’s your favorite color?” “Green,” said the young boy. Richard shot the young boy a friendly smirk. “That’s what I thought! Youdolooklikeamanwholikeshisballoonsgreen!”Richard held the yellow balloon out in the air, and with a quick flick of the wrist, the balloon was green. “WOAHHHH!” shouted the children in close unison. After making a variety of balloon animals, Richard fetched some water. He noticed the man and woman from the pictures inside. They approached him. The woman wore a dress suit and skirt, black heels, and spoke in a low pitch, “Hey there dear, are you doing ok? It’s quite hot out.” Richard spoke with his normal voice.“I’m doin’ fine ma’am.” The man was also dressed in suit coat and pants, but stared at his smartphone. “Hey there Pooki,” he said, chuckling to himself with a cruel smirk on his face that said, I’m better than you. “I have to take this call darling, excuse me for a moment,” said the man as he walked off.

The woman looked back at Richard. “So tell me, is the really what you do for a living?” “Well, I do this, and I also wait at a restaurant downtown.” “But surely you attend university dear? You’re so young!” “I did a few years ago, but I realized it wasn’t for me.” “You dropped out?” “Yeah, but it wasn’t because of my performance. I wasn’t happy.” “Oh, that’s truly a shame.” The man returned. “Darling, I have to go into work.” The woman turned to Richard again. “It was wonderful talking to you dear. Maybe you can go finish your degree one day. You can’t be doing this your whole life. You need a suitable profession.” That is absolutely the last thing I want to do. When Richard started university many years ago, he was an 18-year-old fresh out of high school with high hopes. His foot was in the front door of a world of opportunities. At least, that’s what he believed. Over the course of the first semester, his hopes were slowly drained. Richard spent countless hours, countless pots of boiling water, and countless jars of instant coffee (to save time of course) studying material from basic introductory classes: biology, chemistry, and calculus. But, none of this interested him, and test day only made things worse. Richard, like many others, poured all his energy into preparation, only to sit down and take a test designed with intent to achieve a class average of 65%. His efforts seemed more and more futile as he was stamped with C after C after C. Surprisingly, his hopes were rekindled on the first day of class in the second semester, when Richard accidentally stumbled into a fourth-year immunology class, ten minutes

late and clearly lost. He didn’t understand all the material, but the concepts amazed him and sparked his curiosity. He had finally found something that really excited him. This emboldened Richard. He switched into a program specialized in immunology, and although he still took the same kinds of boring classes and spent the same amount (countless) of hours, boiling water, and instant coffee, the hard work seemed more worth it now that there was a clear goal in mind. Eventually, the first day of class in his second year arrived: 9am, introductory immunology. Richard showed up fifteen minutes early to get a front row seat. The huge lecture hall had many rows of desks and chairs, each filled with an enthusiastic student ready to begin the semester. He watched the clock at the front of the room and waited as the small hand approached the nine. Time seemed to slow down. Once the clock struck ten past nine, a tall man waltzed through the doors at the front of the room. Richard couldn’t pinpoint his age, but he must have been in his 50s or 60s. The man had dark gray hair down to his shoulders that was put up in a ponytail. He wore a pair of glasses with circular frames on his face, which, through his wrinkles, showed the wear and tear of a busy life. He walked up to the podium at the front of the lecture hall and tapped the microphone, “Good morning class, I am Professor Hans Weber.” He spoke with a low voice and had a thick German accent. “You may address me as Professor Weber

or Doctor Weber. Do not use my first name. Any questions?” He paused very briefly, giving no time for questions. “Ok, let us get started.” Halfway through the lecture, Richard became confused about a concept. He raised his hand, and at first, Weber didn’t notice, but once he scanned the room, their eyes met. But, he continued speaking, ignoring Richard. The next time he scanned the room, Richard waved his hand, and this time, Weber looked directly at him, body stiff, his right shoulder twitched. “Excuse me sir! I have only 50 minutes to cover all my material. I don’t have time for questions.” Somehow, the room became more silent than it already was, and Richard froze like a stone-cold statue.“Do you understand me?” “Uh, yah, yah, sorry,” Richard replied. “This is not high school,” Weber muttered. Ricard had just been embarrassed in front of the whole class, and Weber simply continued speaking like nothing happened. This bothered Richard, and his emotions quickly built up, ready to burst. Weber noticed Richard staring directly at him. “Sir? Do you have something to say?” Richard stood up suddenly. “You can’t treat us like that! I just had a question for Christ’s sake!” Weber approached Richard slowly and calmly, his hands together. “I believe you are mistaken sir, I treated YOU like that. And YOU interrupted my class.” He turned and walked towards the podium, his back turned to Richard. “You don’t belong here boy.” “FUCK YOU!” Richard, now infuriated,

quickly walked towards the doors at the back of the room. “Please excuse that clown. Now, let us get back to it,” said Weber. That day, Richard left the university and never looked back. Yah, I don’t regret leaving one bit. From the garden, a young girl approached Richard. She had blonde hair that was done up in pigtails, and wore a light blue sundress with a button that read, “BIRTHDAY GIRL”. She held her hands behind her back. Richard leaned down to meet her eyes. “Whatcha got their kiddo?” He spoke like Pooki again. The young girl revealed a daisy that she had picked from garden. She held it out to him, but spoke no words. “Is that for me?” said Richard. The girl remained silent. “Does it squirt water like my flower?” The young girl laughed this time, revealing her shy smile. “No, I wish it would squirt something yummy, like chocolate milk!” “Now that would be something, now wouldn’t it? Thanks for the flower kiddo.” She spoke quietly now. “Thanks for coming to my birthday party Pooki, I begged and begged my parents to let me invite a clown.” “It’s my pleasure kiddo.” The young girl quickly hugged Richard, only able to wrap her arms halfway around his body, then ran off, leaving Richard kneeling with a flower in his hand. At noon, Richard retreated to the bathroom, regretting what was ahead. Two weeks ago, he was hired to perform for a

“Please excuse the clown. Now let us get back to it.” 27

young boy on his birthday. The father, who had to work that day, planned to bring his son with him. Richard was to meet them there. Ironically, the father worked at the same university that Richard had attended years ago. The last time he had been there as Pooki, two graduate students called him out. “Dude, look! It’s a fucking clown!” “Just another failure who couldn’t get a real job,” his friend replied. You’d think people would talk quietly if they were about to insult you. Near 1 o’clock, Richard arrived at the building in the center of campus. He didn’t notice the posters next to the front doors, which read “24th Annual Fibrosis Research Conference, TODAY!” In the bathroom, he slipped into his clown clothing just like he had done earlier. He snuck out into the main lobby, careful to avoid the judgmental gazes of those that were there. Luckily, it was empty. It was silent. A map of the building hung on the wall, and Richard approached this, hoping to find the father’s office. AH! Room 207, up the stairs. As he turned, he heard a faint, but familiar voice coming from down the hall. He followed the voice, which became louder with each step, to a set of doors. Next to them was a sign that read, “Auditorium 117”. From outside the doors, Richard could hear the voice more clearly. It was low in pitch and had an accent. Richard opened one of the doors, but ever so slightly to avoid being spotted as the only clown in the building. Through the crack, Richard could see inside the auditorium. The large room had rows of seats that were sparsely filled with people, and at the front, standing at the podium, was Professor Hans Weber. Richard hadn’t seen him in years, but Weber looked the same, and spoke the same; quickly and without mercy. Using a red laser pointer, Weber pointed to a large screen behind him. The screen had a series of black and white pictures on them. “So here you can see multiple images of the macrophages at different time points. Look at how they approach this cell in the center.” A woman near the back whispered to herself. “Wow, that’s insane.”

Weber continued, “Along with my other results, I believe that this cellular interaction is one of the major contributors to fibrosis in the heart. My aim is to target this interaction to reduce the chances of fibrosis in the heart after a heart attack. Thank you.” The audience clapped briefly, and then multiple hands across the room shot up in the air. “Yes?” Oh? Now you answer questions? “Wonderful research, uh, have you considered the effects of cytokines and cellcell connections? And which do you think is more responsible for the results you found?” Weber quickly answered.“Oh? You don’t see it? Well, it’s quite obvious that both are involved, and, it’s also quite obvious that cytokines are more important. Next question?” After a few more questions, a younger, more nervous student stepped up to the podium. “Thank you, uh, for your interesting talk, uh, we will be meeting in the lobby for lunch and, uh, refreshments.” Everyone stood up, starting to head towards the doors, and also, towards Richard. He quickly turned, fast walking back towards the lobby. Not thinking, he shoved through the bathroom doors and waited, listening to the footsteps of the crowd right outside. Shit! I have to cross the lobby! Two older men walked in, and Richard did his best to act naturally as they looked at him with confusion. Richard stepped out the bathroom doors and headed quickly across the lobby and towards the staircase. The lobby was now filled with people, which had separated into smaller groups of 2 or 3. Some of them looked over at Richard’s embarrassing pilgrimage, but Weber stood far away at the other end of the lobby, surrounded by a group of people, who were likely also researchers. In the center of the lobby was a series of cheap, foldable tables with a wide variety of food: sandwiches, fruit, juice, and much more. Two younger people, likely students, stood next to them. One, a young man, grabbed a green olive and tossed it into his mouth. He held it in between his teeth, boasting what he thought was a neat trick to

his friend, a young woman. Richard had nearly reached the other end of the lobby. The young man closed his mouth, and suddenly, grabbed his throat with both hands. His eyes widened, and he remained silent as he desperately gas ped for air. “HE’S CHOKING! HE’S CHOKING ON AN OLIVE!” yelled the young woman. The young man stumbled backwards, shoving one of the tables and knocking over three trays of assorted cheese. The people in the room huddled around the young man, slowly blocking Richard’s view. He approached the crowd, and saw Professor Weber in the center with his arms wrapped around the young man. Weber took on an awkward stance with his legs spread out, and performed the Heimlich maneuver in an odd fashion, grunting with each forceful compression. “Almost got it!” shouted Weber. “HE’S GONNA DIE!” yelled the young woman. Richard forced his way through the crowd. Once he reached the center, he grabbed Professor Weber’s shoulder and guided him away. Richard wrapped his arm around the young man and compressed his stomach inwards frequently and forcefully. His pinwheel hat fell to the ground. On the third compression, the olive launched out of the young man’s throat and over the crowd. Richard let go, and the young man fell to his knees, frantically breathing in. His friend quickly kneeled next to him. “You saved him! A clown saved him!” shouted someone from the crowd. The young man looked up at Richard, “You saved my life, oh God, thank you!” Richard picked up his pinwheel hat, put it on is head, and stood tall. All eyes were on him. “It’s no problem, but I have a birthday party to go to.” The crowd parted as Pooki walked away, and they all watched as he disappeared from the lobby.

To Oneself

written by gO ZIE nwa ka visuals by w innie wa ng

Some search for plentifulness Such can be found all around… A mess which can be cleared away with one’s beaming vision of certainty. But she, she sought a canvas Prepped for markings, prepped for skids The cotton above was far out of reach And so, she would long for a blue sky − untouched by un-assumable shapes. The small glass bottle by her left seemed promising in providing her clarity − Her ability to stare into blankness and Think up unbiased shapes was, precisely, close to her lids And so she would stare… As the years flew by, something began to seem opaque. The only thing she had once depended on - less clear than ever before It turns out that clear, crystal bottles can harbor clouds just as well as skies can. In this regard, perhaps, her “thoughtful seeking” rendered fruitless returns. Thankfully though, time harbors transition And so, from up above, she Recalled hearing: “Perhaps, it is time to do, and not be so afraid of the shapes before you.”

Winter’s Song written by v iv ia n li illustrated by ly nn liu

inter is a song of remembrance. We sit on cushions and sip hot chocolate, chatting about the warmer, brighter days. An old recording of White Christmas plays in the background, a sensual and rich tale of colder days to come. And although the sky is the same colour as the carpet, we will never remember these moments the same way. The memories of previous winters, summers and springs coalesce into one. When we chuckle, we exhale figurines of smoke, as if remembering all the people we have met, all the things we’ve done, and all that we need to explore. I’m writing in a notebook, curled up in a comfortable ball, my pen curved as if it were crafted to fit my fingers. My friends sit around the coffee table, giggles upon giggles. People are walking outside with hats, scarves, and jackets. Every so often, I glance out, find a proper subject, and write. For instance: here comes a woman in red with a blue backpack, off to study for her finals. Or here: a boy with a grey jacket and a tail-like tennis-bag about to head for the gym. Or what about this: a group 31

of students on the path hitting each other with snow. Every story appears dull only if you refuse to see the potential in them. The woman’s red jacket is a gift from her father, who worked long hours to clothe and feed his family. His responsibility as the bread-winner of her family has become her responsibility. Although her dream is to become a writer, she works full-time at a bank and has no time for her passion. And the boy is a Varsity athlete, who wants to play in the National Hockey League. You can see his glorious skates, slicing across the freshly polished ice— there he is, taking a shot, the goalie advances but the boy taps the puck to the left, to the right—in the future, when he becomes a star, I’ll ask him to sign my children’s hockey t-shirts and laugh about this moment with my friends in coffee shops, wearing slightly more sophisticated clothes. Meanwhile, that group of friends—by now all covered with snow—are creating the world’s first time machine, planning to build a grid of free electricity, charming a stone that can tell the future. What else is possible? And when the night is long, we can

snuggle in each other’s words, in each other’s stories. Like that night we stayed awake till three a.m. talking about people and ideas and plans. Our exploration is full of meaning if we don’t know what we’re trying to find. Here, lend me your hand for just a minute. Can you feel the pen sweeping its way across the page—the stones rearranging in the swell of the wave—the warmth of the heater as it rumbles a few feet away? Or the cars driving by with a relentless pursuit of success most will never find? Lend me your time and I will give you a world we have forgotten, a world we have to remember. Since it is cold outside, we must stay warm within. There’s nothing else for us to do but wait winter out in our homes, libraries, and coffee shops. We must wait for our memories to catch up to us and shape the people we think we will become. Stick a hand out into the cold and taste the snowflakes. Mix them with hot chocolate. Write well into the frigid morning. And repeat.

Introspection written by an as tasi a pi t c h er illustrated by pei x uan wang

When you close your eyes, is there a universe behind your eyelids? absorbed in imagination and promise, When you find yourself in the dark, does it soothe you or does it push anxiety into your veins? pumping your blood faster than you ever thought possible, When your laughter escapes you, does it spill out of you as if it never cost a thing or is it jammed? in some part of you that you don’t have the key for, When your thoughts translate to actions, does the gravity of what you do weigh on your chest or does it fit in your back pocket? memories and promises tied together discreetly, When you find yourself at a crossroads, do your experiences brand you or do they take a piece of you? a robbery you can never truly bounce back from, When you feel yourself spiralling, are your thoughts logical and calculated or do they consume you? transforming your stomach into a rock and your hands into paper, When you look in the mirror, do your eyes tell the stories of everything you have seen or do they shine bright with promise? focusing on what lies ahead, When your clench your fists, are your knuckles white with anger or do they hold the deepest parts of you? those you can’t lose even if you tried, When you speak your own name, do you speak it with pride and autonomy or do you whisper it softly? tangles in your mouth messier than those in your long hair, When you think of a soul held inside your flesh and bones, do you feel it guiding you or do you think it’s nothing more than a dream? an idea that allows you to keep worshipping every time they tell you to pray,

When you are painfully aware of yourself, do you leave things up to chance or do you tally each time you blink? suffocating within the most minute details as war wages outside, When others hurt you, do you fight for yourself or do you hide in the backdrop? watching their actions passively, When you need to make a change, do you nurture your bones or does your heart stretch and contort as you force it to grow? pushing in all directions until imploding, When you reflect on all you have faced, do you fall into a time warp or do you shed your skin? regenerating your limbs and recreating a shiny untouchable vision of yourself moving on, When you grow larger, does it compromise parts of you or does it liberate you? evolving and shape shifting into all that you dream for yourself, when you put your hand on your chest, and wait for the steady rhythm, do you ever just feel nothing?

six

Someday the last clock will stop. - Anonymous

For sale: $250 textbook, never used. - Cait Harrigan

In some paradise, leaves fall up. - Anonymous

Your student account has a balance - kg

wo Looks like candy, helps natural selection. - FaLing

One flake, two; then a storm. - Perlyn Cooper

I, blown out as a candle - Andrew Raya

s to

Meeting to part ways. Inopportune encounter. -WQ

Surgeon drops brain. Patient loses mind. - Anonymous

Re: Thank you for your interest - kg Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m tired, but I must continue. - All of us, sometimes.

Our disposable lifestyle destroys the planet. - Elizabeth Teo (Ig: @zerowaste.goals)

Sometimes you just need seven words. - Anonymous

Loathing. Lust. Bonds. Pain. Organic Chemistry. - Maxwell

ories 36

A Soul Turned Grey A Thought Turned Into Words

written by m ac kenz ie s t e wart illustrated by cor a l s z h eng Cold. That is what I feel. The scream of my default alarm tone only chills me further. I accept that I must pull my frigid body along the stale halls, those are native here. At the end of my journey I know I will have to face it. The cold eyes staring into me. The Reflection. I enter the cold grey room. The click of my shoes on the frozen tile fails to wake me. My fear manifests as the time draws nearer. I look up and see it, see me. “Where have you gone?” I ask. “When did your soul turn grey?” Clothing hides me when I walk to class. I long to remain hidden. The me on the outside must remain bright - her soul must glow. “Don’t allow the soul within to cool you further”, I think. I see my shadow, cool and dark. It does not allow the sun to penetrate its borders. I wish it would. Sometimes I wonder if they see through me. If maybe I am transparent. “That poor girl”, they must think. “All alone in a big grey city”. I wonder if they pity me.

Souls were much simpler in my hometown. Things were coloured there. Here, things are grey. People are grey, my soul − grey too. What happens to a person when their soul turns grey? Not much, actually, not much at all. I look like me. People see me. But I do not see me. My reflection - perished. I sit in class. it is Friday, one o’clock in the afternoon. ‘Bildungsroman’ is scrawled on the blackboard ahead of me. Bildungsroman...Bildungsroman... What a word that is! He says it means formation novel. I am disappointed. I wonder if the word is disappointed too. If he wished he were more. If his soul is grey too. In my hometown, he would have been more. The word would paint these grey walls yellow. It would bring people joy - true joy. It may have even coloured my soul.

A Poem: Reflecting its Roots written by v i v i a n l i photographed by n at h a n c h en

poem— speak, prayer before poem, pray not think—

poem is

calm, sharp, insistent—

copycat, hard, malnourished

poem:

cotton, delicate, reflective

not

sit—

mirrors, but

fragments frag me ntary— no, Howe thinks but

poem, it is

never finis

(hed)

bridge

jades

Milan

& Ted written and illustrated by cor a ls zh eng

here once was a man who fell in love with his reflection; he was good looking and vain so everyone understood why he did, though it did put his sexuality in a weird sphere of hmmm. He decided to marry his reflection because his reflection was the best person ever; he didn’t think he could do any better. He couldn’t possibly do any better. He didn’t have to make conversation or be likeable – he could just be himself and his reflection understood him anyways. Let’s call him Milan, and his reflection Ted. Milan loved beauty and Ted was the hauntingly beautiful companion to Milan’s person. Milan doesn’t know what he himself looked like, for in the mirror, whenever Milan opened his eyes to be confronted by his defect, Ted was there, anxious and nervous, on behalf of his lover, standing bravely between Milan and and Milan’s reflection. Ted existed in a space between Milan and reflectionMilan. He lived in an identical but uncanny world, and he saw Milan in ways Milan never could, so perhaps that’s why he agreed to the marriage. He pitied Milan, his heart swelled like a womb and he took it to mean love. On their wedding night, when Milan touched Ted, he felt a cool flat surface with warmth radiating from Ted’s fingertips, and in that moment, Milan could bear it no more and cried. Ted cried too, for the burden of his lover’s pain was shared between the two, like an umbrella in a downpour. Milan could not part with Ted, he carried a giant mirror with him wherever he went, glancing shyly at Ted, wanting so badly, in these awful public spaces, to link hands with the man he loved. Ted felt the same. And so years passed, and time tiptoed away while they slept. Ted began to change. He looked different. Very slowly did he began to look different. It started with how he combed to cover the egg laid in the nest of his hair. Then it was the cumulation of “anti-”products in the medicine cabinet and how he could no longer shave for the skin around his neck turned turkey-like. Falling out of love could only be explained in metaphors. Consider the brilliant piece by Felix Gonzalez-Torres where two identical plastic clocks, side by side, slowly tick out of sync. Or the splitting of a couple, told much better through Salvador Dali’s 1929 film Un Chien Andalou. Yes, a cloud passed between Milan and Ted. A cloud drifting across the full moon liken to the glide of a razor blade across an eyeball. The thesis is the same, Milan fell out of love with Ted. He knew. It wasn’t just his appearance that no longer aroused his lover. It was his words. They were unchanging

words. Repeated back to him with less and less conviction each passing year. I love you I love you I love you. When you say things again and again, they become sounds. One night in the Village, Milan chanced upon a bartender nearing the end of his shift. He had naughty eyes and dirty propositions focalized through a beautiful face. His skin was hot to the touch, then cold with beads of sweat. Milan and Ted’s divorce was finalized in fluorescent light. Fitting. Ambivalence lulled the emotions still – if passion was fire then apathy was cool toned LED ceiling lights in a basement apartment with no windows. The final signature was amicable; neither could find themselves the care to mourn for something so long dead. On the way home, Milan and Ted entered a bus shelter where an old woman sat. It was a cold day, the old woman was bundled in a thick wooly scarf, hat pulled down on her face, and eyes behind thick old fashioned sunglasses. Her small presence made huge by the puffy long black jacket, from which a single withered claw, like tree roots, curled around her walker. The only thing of her face visible was a large hooked nose with a decorative snot dribble. The physical presence of the old woman threatened Milan and Ted. She sat there, inert, almost unaware of the hugeness of her nose, the size of her nostrils, two black holes, or empty eye sockets. Milan imagined that beneath her scarf, beneath those sunglasses, lay skin as delicate as filo pastry. Her face was a vinyl record with turtle eyes peering straight into the cracks of his artifice. She boarded the bus in a slow crawl. Milan looked at Ted and was shocked. They were the same oldness. The same obsolescence of a container that once held beauty. Milan threw Ted into the glass of the shelter. He could bare no more of that ugly, that horrible frail old thing with no hair and no teeth. Perhaps when Ted made contact with the shelter, he finally felt the thing so long buried. The coals in his heart burst, and he left a great white spider web against the glass. For the first time in his existence, he wanted to proclaim his separation from Milan, wanting no longer to be the supporter of, the comforter of. Wanting to retort immediately with his hatred, his spite. Ted asserted his individuality in his first and last move of defiance, he smashed on the floor to such intensity that he gave birth to hundreds of Milan’s children. Milan stared at the hatred on the floor, hundreds of Teds looking back at him.

REFLECTION through different lenses

photographed by kitty liu

photographed by E R I C Y UA N 45

photographed by kitty liu

photographed by C H R I STOP H E R X U

photographed by NATHAN C HEN 48

photographed by E R I C Y UA N 49

photographed by CHRIS TOPHER XU

photographed by N ATHA N C H E N

photographed by MEGAN BHALLA 52

TEAM S N A P S H OT S team members draw themselves

C H E R RY X I N

ANNA MARIA SORDJAN

C A N DY TA N G

CORALS ZHENG

ERIC YUAN

W I N N I E WA N G

I V A N YA N 53

A N A S TA S I A P I T C H E R

LY N N L I U

MEGAN BHALLA

VIVIAN LI KITTY LIU C H R I S TO P H E R X U

V A N N I E K O PA L A K R I S H N A N

ETHAN SMITH M A C K E N Z I E S T E WA RT N AT H A N C H E N

Z I YA N C H E N

G O Z I E N WA K A

P E I X UA N WA N G

J u n c ta J u va n t