NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 3, Issue 2

volume 3 | issue 2 | FREE

vo l u me 3 | i ssu e 2 | FREE

northern canada collective society for writers

contents

president Suzanne McGladdery

1

editorial

Joanne Hlina

treasurer Joanne Hlina

2

community report

Kiran Malik-Khan

public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan

3

self-dissection

Shannon Thompson

4

salt by any other name

Jenny Berube

8

what's in a name?

Patricia Mary O'Neill

9

handicap

Adrienne Norris

11

he sacrifices himself to ares

Nathan Berube

12

this is my name

Wissal Abadi

13

the power in a name

Theresa Wells

14

what's in a name?

Heather Thomas

15

yadera

Dorothy Bentley

19

call me patricia

Patricia Mary O'Neill

20

who am i?

Pattie Dwyer

22

marginalia: a column

Douglas Abel

24

contributors

25

mountain dreamer

Jon Koegler

25

perfection in reflection

Patricia Reid

26

name change

Dorothy Bentley

e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com web www.northwordmagazine.com

This Issue: Volume 3, Number 2 Winter 2015 ISSN 1920-6313 cover Dawn Booth design & layout Rachel White-Murray issue editor Joanne Hlina managing editor Jane Jacques president emerita Jennifer Hemstock

Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W

volume 3 | issue 2

editorial What’s in a name? A name means many different things to people, as you will see by the compelling pieces in this issue of NorthWord.

A person’s name is the most fundamental part of their identity. Naming ceremonies are important rituals in many religions and cultures, and parents and elders often spend months considering what name will be most beneficial for the life of a child.

History shows that some people will die to maintain and uphold their name, while

others die simply because of their names. Still other people give themselves new names, believing this will change the trajectory of their lives.

NorthWord’s writers come from around the world, with names that reflect that diversity.

I frequently encounter names I have never heard before, and learn the meaning and power of each one from getting to know its owner.

This leads to an exploration of identity and culture every time. I find myself wondering whether a girl named “Heather” is treated differently in Japan than in Scotland, or why

Canadian-born people don’t call their children “Perfect” or “Precious.” Or maybe they do: I found out my own name means “Precious Gift of God.”

What does your name mean? And what does it mean to you? Our contributors have much to say…

Joanne Hlina |

fourteenth issue editor

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

community report

by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director

wrapping up a busy year of partnerships Community and collaboration have been a focus of NorthWord as we wrapped up a busy 2015. The #GameOn Issue #13 was launched during Alberta

Theresa

Wells, communications/media

relations

professional and freelance writer will be the next

guest editor. She chose “Climbing the Mountain” as her theme.

Culture Days, followed by the Annual General

“Over the course of my life I have come to recognize

re-elected. Literacy events in partnership with the

mountain is a literal or figurative one. Sometimes we

Meeting on October 18, which saw the current board Rotary Club of Fort McMurray, and Arts Council Wood Buffalo were also supported.

Our board consists of Suzanne McGladdery, President, Jane

Jacques, Managing

Editor, Joanne

Hlina,

Treasurer, and Kiran Malik-Khan, Public Relations Director.

Following a collaboration with 2015 Western Canada Summer Games, the #GameOn issue was produced

in conjunction with the Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo (RMWB) and the Games Committee. It

was launched on September 27, 2015 during Alberta Culture Days.

NorthWord proudly supported Rotary Club of Fort

McMurray’s literacy awareness month events. Held in partnership with Arts Council Wood Buffalo, a youth

we are all mountain climbers in a sense, whether our choose the mountain, and sometimes the mountain

chooses us. In exploring the theme of “Climbing the Mountain,” I hope people will share tales of their own

climbing adventures, real and imagined, whatever their mountain happens to be. I have always found

great strength in the resiliency and resourcefulness of mountain climbers, and I look forward to reading

and sharing the stories of the mountain climbers in

our world, who tackle mountains, large and small, every single day,” Theresa explained.

Here’s to a successful 2016! Happy New Year from the Board.

For real time updates, like us on Facebook: www.

facebook.com/northword and follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM.

writing workshop, and author’s success program

with best-selling author, Charmaine Hammond

saw strong community support. In addition, a busy family book swap for Halloween saw many families in attendance.

“It's very gratifying to see people coming out and

participating in creative endeavours. Life is a little

stressful in the oil patch these days, and writing, and creating any kind of art, is a really good way to work through that stress in productive ways. I'm glad that

NorthWord has been able to provide a venue for that, and that people are participating,” noted Suzanne McGladdery, President, NCCSW.

2

NorthWord's volunteer Sheheryar Khan, Imagination Library's Manjit Sidhu, Suzanne McGladdery, President, NorthWord, and Jane Jacques, Managing Editor, NorthWord at the Halloween Family Book Swap. The event was hosted by Rotary Club, and supported byNorthword at the Wood Buffalo Regional Library.

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self dissection shannon thompson

My first name represents

what my parents wanted me to be, whether beautiful, strong or joyful.

Maybe they had seen me as a leader, intelligent and courageous.

It’s all there, wrapped up in the letters of my name.

My second name

a tribute to my grandmother, Should it have been first?

Did they know I would become just like her?

I look into her eyes,

and see the spark that once shone,

Am I looking into the past, or the future?

Does she look at me and see the girl she once was?

My maiden name,

my only link to my ancestors.

The only clue I have to find where I come from, to know where I belong.

Who were the people before me?

Why did they choose this place I call home?

It is all there locked away, waiting to be discovered.

My name, the link, the key.

The discoveries sometimes painful, others make my soul come to life.

Through my name I have found them, walking where I walk,

Living how I have lived.

Knowing that they were here,

seeing the great beauty of the Boreal around me, knowing they chose it too.

My surname,

an honor to my husband, more than a ring,

more than a signature,

a declaration that we have become one.

We have found each other, loved each other,

and have chosen one singular name to define us, as a family, as a love.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

salt by any other name jenny berube

“Don’t be stupid. You can’t just walk out. Ms. ‘I’m WAY too perfect a babysitter to even be polite to teenage boy,’ which is ridiculous, considering I’m almost eighteen...”

"Having just turned seventeen last month...

“Whatever!” Jason waved an impatient hand. “Just because you were born five

minutes earlier! Anyway, she will tell stepmom and dad, and then where will we be? No trip to Arizona for me. No trip to New York for you.”

“You could cover for me.” Dianne fluttered her eyelashes extravagantly.

“NO WAY! I want out of here even more than you. You want to go to Katy

Perry, I want to get to the Blazers. We have to work together on this. It’s stupid that we are stuck home on a Friday night...”

“But, what about Bradley? The babysitter is ... I don’t know... different. I don’t like her.”

“Ok, there’s something weird about Ms. Creepy. But that doesn’t mean she’ll not look after Bradley. We just have to convince her that we are going to the library or something without making any issues.”

“But Stepmom told her we are grounded.”

“I know. Bitch! We didn’t deserve that!”

“We did! NO!” Dianne took a step sideways, and picked up her brush. “Don’t

fight with me. I told you not to skip chem class.” She smoothed the curls cascading on her left shoulder.

“You didn’t have to come.”

“I needed to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. Oh OK! I didn’t want to miss out on the fun.”

“And that trip to Cannon Beach was fun!”

“Except we got caught and now we have tickets we can’t use.”

“We have to think of something. .... Bradley’s cough. We could make it seem like we have to get something from the pharmacy...”

“It’s not bad enough for that...”

“It could be... and should be! Crazy! Dad marries someone who is less than ten

years older than us, and suddenly we aren’t important anymore! And suddenly everything that’s ours is now mostly Bradley’s! He should get a bad cough.”

“Not nice, Jason, not nice at all.”

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“True, but who said I was nice?”

“Lots of people! Mostly you are teacher’s pet and I get

to hear how smart my brother is and how he looks so much like mom and how strange it is that twins can be so different.”

Jason stepped forward and put a kind hand on her

shoulder, “Oh Di! I do miss Mom and she would be so proud of you.”

“Not sure she’d approve of us conspiring to break curfew.”

“Break grounding… and she would never have grounded

us. She used to take us out of school on occasions just to smell the roses.”

Dianne sniffed and reached for a tissue. “I love how she’d

say that.” She dropped the wipe into the trashcan. “So, how do you make a baby cough?

Jason sat at the desk. “That’s what the internet is for...

Ahah—Capsaicin and or citric acid.”

“Ok chemistry genius, where do we find either of those?

And how do we get it?”

“You should never skip chem... Red pepper for capsaicin... lemons for citric acid. We’ll go to the kitchen, make some snacks and drinks and get ourselves both or some.”

“And where is Ms Caspar?”

“Last I saw of her, she was sitting in the living room, Baby

Bradley laying in his chair thing and sucking a bottle of pretend milk.”

“At least our mother breast fed us.”

Jason grimaced. “So let’s go kitchening and see how we can get Bradley away from her to bolster his coughing.”

“We aren’t going to hurt him, right?”

“Nah, just a little more of a cough. Probably will be good for him, might help him clear up any chest congestion.”

Downstairs, Jason started hunting. “Damn, damn – no

red pepper. This is a direct result of a stepmom who doesn’t cook but orders in, or heats up pre-mades.”

“She certainly has weird tastes – no condiments, no salt.

I hate eggs without salt.”

“Which is why I have a whole stash here of ketchup, mustard, vinegar and salt.”

“Can you find lemon juice?”

“Nah! Bottle’s empty! Someone who will remain anony-

mous, because I have refused to remember her name, used the last of it this morning to make herself some ‘lemon so I can keep myself thin’ drink.”

“Easy for you to say. You never gain and you pig out on everything.”

“It’s a skill.”

“It’s being male and annoying. So, now what?”

Jason pulled out the carton of salt, and poured a little

into a baby bottle, before filling it with water from the distiller. “Maybe we just need to have him throw up a little... and that artificial pap often causes a kid to toss.”

“Maybe this is really stupid, Jason. If you just want to

go, I can cover for you. I don’t want you hurting Brad....

I know he’s a pain, and seemed to cry more than most babies... but, he’s just a kid. And it’s not his fault.”

“Spare me from a sister with sentimentality. I’m not going to hurt him. And I know you love Katie Perry... and

you’ve got forty minutes to leave to get there on time.

And I have a great seat waiting for me at the Blazer’s

game. You distract the witch. Bradley chucks his drink, and we go off to the pharmacy for some gripe water.”

“And get back three hours late. Doesn’t seem like a plan.”

“No. You go straight to concert. I drop off the gripe water and then quietly leave.”

“How?” “Last time Creepy babysat you were out, I was in because I had that history essay due... I was working in the study and saw Creepy drank most of a bottle of gin.”

“Did she see you?”

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

“No. Remember the study has the closed circuit station for the security.”

“Why didn’t you tell Stepmom?”

“Cause I drank the rest after they came home. And it was easier to bury the evidence in the neighbor’s trash.”

“But isn’t it really bad to have a drunken babysitter left

“Uh?” “Come my dear, I’m sure you can know you aren’t

needed to watch Bradley while I’m here. Why not just

make sure you are in at midnight as I’m contracted to be here until one thirty.”

in the house?”

“Ahhhhh, but…”

“Oh for crying out loud! Half the people on this block are

“No buts! Smoking is such a nasty habit, hehehe. Just a

He’ll sleep until Stepmom and her husband, our illustrious

goats.”

blotto half the time. It’s not like Bratkid needs entertaining. father, who will be blotto by that time, come home.”

“Ok.” “You are a champion at saying ‘ok’ with such a sigh and

resignation that I feel like I just loaded you on a tumbrel to the Place de la Concorde.”

“A skill that has got me my way more than once. I’ll make Ms. Creepy a mint tea, and dig up some of those peaches

and cream I know she’ll like. You take Bradley and walk

him around the living room but accidently end up here.”

“That’s my sister! Brilliant choreographer.”

little joke, or as my mother said, no butts, we don’t like

“I see.” Dianne realized how efficiently the older woman had finished the peaches while talking. She picked up the bowl and spoon.

“Where’s Jason and Bradley?” Mrs. Casper frowned.

“He needed changing so Jason took him up. I’ll go tell him about your suggestion.”

Mrs. Casper handed her the empty sherry glass. “So call

your brother, and I’ll hold down the fort for you, taking care of darling Bradley. Darling Bradley who will be exactly twenty-one days old at twelve minutes past eleven!”

Ms. Caspar smiled. “How lovely of you, my dear. Ah, a

“Yes! We all laughed about that, being born the 8th day

ever tried making it with fresh mint? I have some grow-

laughed. Dad didn’t. He wanted his son born on the 10th.

soupçon of honey! Just exactly how I like it. Have you

ing in the garden, and sometimes I will also add a little fennel, or anise. Of course, your mother, (titter, titter) step-mother has such a lovely garden here…”

Kept by our faithful gardener with whom I’m pretty sure she is in a convivial relationship.

“Aaaah, fresh peaches! How sweet! Would you mind if I had a little sip of that sherry to go with this darling dessert? How nice. Thank you.”

“You are very welcome!”

“And so nice how Jason has been walking with Bradley!

It must seem so strange for such young adults as your-

selves to have a newborn in the house. And it’s Friday night! What time would you have to be home to be in 6

before your parents came back?”

of the 9 month, 2010 at eleven twelve. Of course, we His birthday.”

“So, run along, have fun! You are young and you deserve

to enjoy.” Mrs Casper smiled at her over the tea cup. “I do so love mint tea.”

Dianne met Jason coming down the stairs. “Where were you? I told her you had to change Bradley.”

“And me! Junior here threw up everything! Over eve-

rything! That saline solution was amazing! And my clothes will never be the same. I’ll just tell Ms. Creepy….”

“Her name is Mrs. Casper.”

“Whatever, we can go to the pharmacy.”

“No need! She told me to go out and just make sure we

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are back before one.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I’m going to grab my coat and bag. What are you doing now?”

“Making a bottle for Bradley. He lost all his dinner.”

“Well, he looks better. I didn’t notice before but look at him. He’s no longer greenish.”

“You are right! We are amazing. Helping him. And no

need to shake your head at me. Just grab that bottle, check for temperature and hand it over.”

“When did you learn to do all that?”

“How soon she forgets that four week period when she

had the mumps and I was doing your Tuesday night babysitting job for Ms. Lawyer next door.”

“Right! I’ll be back soon.”

Jason turned off the main lights, and sat with Bradley. He

Reaching out to Dianne who was backing away as though trapped in molasses.

“What did you give him? He no longer has the potion!

Never mind! I’ll have to eat him and hope it works anyway….”

Jason grabbed the only thing close at hand, he box of salt and flung it.

And it seemed time stopped.

Salt hung in the air between them and the …. the babysitter…. Who was now sliding to the floor like a Modigliani

painting while an unearthly scream echoed around the room.

The back door opened with a crash. And time reverted to normal as three people exploded into the room.

“Ah great! You used salt! How did you know to do that?”

The taller man asked Jason, while the woman raced over to Bradley and lifted an eyelid.

really was a cute kid. So tiny, so vulnerable. “Glad you’re

“He’s fine,” she told the third man who was bending over

Dianne came down and sat beside Jason, and he handed

Dianne found her voice first. “Jason gave him salt water

while you finish his feeding.” He stepped towards the sink.

est chair, visibly shaken and didn’t resist as the woman

feeling better.” He put the bottle to the little mouth.

her the baby, whispering. “I’ll just clean up the kitchen Jason heard the clicking of the heels on the hardwood floor, so he was looking at the swing door when it opened and Ms. Casper entered. “Ah there you are. Dianne said

you changed Bradley. I hope she told you about our little secret for you children to have some fun tonight.”

“She did.”

the remains of the thing.

and Bradley threw up everything.” She sat on the neartook the child and held him to her shoulder encouraging the burp.

“And why did you throw salt at it?

“I grabbed the closest thing.” Jason peered from one to another. “Am I crazy? Salt? Common salt? Sodium chloride?”

“My it’s dark in here.” CLICK.

“By any name it’s the best weapon against those things.”

Bradley startled in the sudden glare and then resumed

“But, what is this? You guys look like the actors on that

“What are you doing??? What are you doing?”

The shorter man raised a hand. “Not crazy. And we are

his sucking.

And it seemed time slowed. Jason turned from looking at

Diane and Bradley back to Ms. Casper, but it wasn’t Ms. Casper he was seeing. Somehow her face was distorted and her fingernails and hands were stretching.

TV drama… Grimm…”

so grateful to you. You saved the kid, and you have saved

countless others! We’ll get a crew in here to clean up and we’ll explain everything. But first, I have to tell you. It is

not a drama. It’s a reality show. And you are now part of it.”

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

what’s in a name? patricia mary o’neill Perhaps I know no other like

Passionate about words,

You feel there is no end to the

To which answers seldom come.

Her whose heart is so open that Love that she possesses for you Love that, like the poem,

Is not conceited or vain but is Simply boundless!

Caring is her natural state

Rich imagination fueling the words as In a kaleidoscope that

Catches light and transforms it Into something new

And, with a simple twist, something new again.

And no better example of unconditional love

Magic in a dictionary, how 26 letters

Heart wide with no reservations and no

Reassemble themselves into words

There can be found. She opens her Exceptions. Everyone is welcome!

Rather a broken heart than one Incapable to letting others in.

No pretense or false flattery. No agenda.

Ever the honest, open heart!

Only sometimes I worry that

Not everyone else’s intentions are true. Not Everyone sees this brave heart too yearns Itself to be loved.

Loved wholly and without condition.

Love given, and in kind, returned.

8

Always asking questions

Arranged and rearranged Yearning for life.

Ordinary words become extraordinarily

New when life is breathed into them and Exhaled as story.

Installed into your mind from mine

Lifting your spirits, making you laugh, or cry

Letting you know, we’re not so different after all!

volume 3 | issue 2

handicap adrienne norris hand·i·cap

noun

a circumstance that makes progress or success difficult.

synonyms: impediment, hindrance, obstacle, barrier, bar, obstruction,encumbrance, constraint, restriction, check, block, curb; More1

It was just a small spot. Hardly noticeable really. If I tried

to ignore it maybe they were wrong; maybe it was going to be just fine.

But it got bigger, and then there were more spots.

I was at my desk at work the Friday before the August

long weekend. I was looking forward to the break--- no

real plans, just a break. A catch up weekend… catch up on laundry, catch up on the house cleaning, and catch up on the grocery shopping.

I rubbed my eye. I had sleep in it. I drew my hand away

and looked for the blob that should have been there.

Nothing there. I rubbed again, this time digging into the

corner of my right eye searching for the distraction in

My receptionist’s doctor examined me for two minutes.

“I’m sending you to a specialist. Here’s the address. Can you go now?”

“Do I need to?” My heart struck the inside of my chest.

“Yes. Now.” I don’t remember driving there. I remember how busy the office was. I remember the sting of the drops in my eye. I remember the wait. I remember thinking, should I

call my husband? No, nothing to report really. The other doctor said she wanted this specialist’s opinion. It’s just an opinion. I can wait. It can wait.

After two hours of waiting, my patience snapped.

“It won’t be too much longer for the doctor to see you.

We still need to dilate your eyes.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’ll be giving you drops to dilate your eyes.”

my vision. Still nothing there. I ran my finger over the

“Okay. Thanks.” I sat back down in the general area that I

my vision. Still nothing.

To her word, another nurse called me into a room for

surface of my eye, as the sleep was still there blocking I closed my left eye, and looked down at my desk with just my right. There was something wrong. Something

was blocking my vision, but it was in the INSIDE of my eye. Frantic, I called my optometrist.

“I’m sorry, he’s already left the office for the holiday. I can get you in on Tuesday….”

NO! That wouldn’t do! My receptionist offered to contact her doctor. She quickly made an appointment for half an

hour away, and I drove to the downtown office. I didn’t want to overthink. Couldn’t be a big issue. A simple problem.

1

had just left, my previous seat overtaken in my absence. more drops, bitter drops. Then a tap on my frozen eyes

for a glaucoma test, and a chart test. Then she gave me a grid, and asked me to draw around the area that I

couldn’t see out of. Well, I could see out of it in a sense.

It was white. Void of a picture beyond the white, like a smudge or a drop of water on a camera lens.

I went back to my seat. I was trying to read the short articles out of the Reader’s Digest. All of my vision started

to blur, and the words disappeared. What is happening!! Terrified I aimed for the desk. “I can’t see anything!

What is going on??” The fuzzy colours beyond the line responded, “It’s just the drops. The doctor needs to see

Accessed October 29, 2015. https://www.google.ca/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8#q=handicap

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

inside your eyes, so we dilate them.”

“I drove here! How am I supposed to drive home like this??” Panicky. Upset.

“It will only last about 4 – 5 hours. Patients aren’t allowed

to drive. You must make other arrangements.” Calm, professional.

The drops. It was supposed to happen. I slumped back down. Why don’t they ever explain things that they are

doing to you BEFORE they do it??? Once I knew more, I’d call my husband. He’d come get me.

Frustrated, I tried to relax, breathe. Breathe in; breathe out… just breathe. After another few minutes I realized

how bright everything was getting. I couldn’t handle

to go to the hospital across the street. If I explain how to get there through the underground pedway, can you

manage? Or would you rather wait until perhaps your husband could take you?”

Hospital? Husband? I mentally calculated how long it

would take me to contact him, for him to drive down-

town in what was now rush hour traffic, and then for us to get to where ever I needed to go. “I can figure it out. I’ll go now. Doctor what’s wrong with my eye?”

“Let’s just wait until I can do some more tests before we discuss that, okay?”

“Okay.” Numb whisper.

this! I needed a cigarette. I told the fuzzy blob I was

He rambled off details of where I was to go, and how I

ber if she acknowledged me or not.

there, now that I think about it. I remember the pedway,

going down for a smoke, and I’d be back. I don’t remem-

I pushed the exit door out into the sunshine, and was flooded in light. It was as if God landed. Everything around me was hot white light. I shut my eyes against

the burn, opened them long enough to light my smoke, and inhaled deeply. That always took the edge off everything, anything. My stress-reliever in a box.

After crushing the butt under my heel, I made my way back in time for them to move me into the office to finally see the specialist. I watched him as he flipped

was to get there. I have no idea how I managed to get and that’s all. When I got to the Eye Clinic station at the

hospital, I identified myself and asked if I could use a

phone to call my husband. Yeah, okay. Perhaps now’s a good time. I didn’t expect to end up in the hospital. He

was unhappy with the way I handled things. Always doing things on my own; never ask for help, or just for

someone to be there. Please, just get here! I don’t want a lecture now. I don’t need a lecture now.

More rooms, more tests.

through paperwork. Maybe it was the diagnosis from

“Mr. Barns, Mrs. Barns, I’m sorry to tell you that you

I’m just going to take a look at what’s going on there.”

ease, and we don’t know much about it. You are going

my receptionist’s doctor? He only said, “Hello Mrs. Barns.

He was a short man. Younger than me; I could tell by his

voice, in a bright white doctor’s jacket, and a red topper.

He switched off the lights to make me more comfort-

able. Then after I placed my chin on a frame he shone a

bright light directly into my right eye. I flinched back to escape it. “Sorry. Try to relax. I’ll be done soon.”

I swallowed air, and rested my chin back into the frame.

Every time he scanned across my eye with the light I tried

not to pull away, but it stung. He swung away from me, and I could hear the scratch of a pen or pencil across paper.

10

“You can sit back now, Mrs. Barns. I’m going to need you

have PIC: Puncture Inner Chorodiopathy. It’s a rare disblind….”

I don’t remember anything else. Just the last word from his mouth: Blind.

Since that day, nineteen years and eighty-seven days

ago, I’ve lived that word. I’ve lived other words too.

Disabled. Visually Impaired. Handicapped. I think it’s because of the weakness I associated with it. “Disabled” meant I am un-abled, “impaired” sounded even

worse. But handicapped…that one I hated the most. I was going to be an outcast, unwanted, maybe hidden

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away in an institution for the blind; dependant on everyone. NO! I am not that person. I will not be that!

I find it ironic that the word “blind” was not accept-

able; that society preferred visual disability, or visually

Instead I am to be described by words that make me

feel useless, a burden, incapable, dysfunctional. Then a counsellor at college told me to find out exactly what “handicapped” meant.

impaired. I’m the one going blind! Don’t I get to choose?

Handicapping was used in horse races. Strong horses ran

to be realistic. I’m sorry… I’m blind! Enough said. Straight

were added to the stronger horses to give the weaker

I don’t want to be polite, to be politically “correct!” I want forward isn’t it?

the field, so to allow the races to be more equal weights horses a chance to win.

Well, no. You see “Blind” people cannot see ANYTHING.

What that meaning defines for me is that I am strong.

of “Blind” people can’t see anything. It’s colours, or shad-

peers--- that through my strength I can overcome the

Void, black space. But that isn’t the case. Only about 10%

ows, or partial vision that the majority have… So we can’t be “Blind.” It’s too confusing for the sighted people!

My vision loss is a way to make me equal amongst my

additional weight and bear it. And so I did, and so I have.

I am handicapped, and proud of it.

he sacrifices himself to ares nathan berube

There is no soul on the ridge. A pair of eyes—one

ther man nor beast in this guise. It wants to be melted

through glass. Two mouths: flesh and stamped steel.

to be recognized as human.

squeezed shut, the other, sapphire-hard and glaring The flesh is cold, and closed. The steel is an infinite

circle. There is life—there is power—nascent, in the

fingers, in the wrists, in the shoulders. But there is no room for a soul, in the heartless determination, contained on the ridge.

The lines engraved on the lens make a target of the

hapless fool in the valley, tending the weapons cache.

His slight, animal, movements are simply variables: 20

degrees down angle... 1200 metres, distance… five kilometre/hr crosswind… 68 kilograms… 165 centimetres…

Moving a few metres per second in a tight circuit. Not human. Not enemy. Target. Objective.

For, also—and, in fact—the thing on the ridge is dis-

guised in all things. It is covered in sticks and foliage.

into the escarpment, and one with it. It does not want For an explosive moment, a smoking bellow—and, a

blinding flash—cleansing the valley of sound. The crea-

ture in the valley jerks, and turns, and falls. The avenger on the hill falls to silence and stillness once more. It is not a record, even. Not remarkable in anyway. Still, the avenger counsels himself, that his job is done, and he

performed his duty… and the Enemy would be harmed by this loss… this bleeding life on the rocks of the

valley. At length, the avenger arises, and retreats into the shadows, that are his mother and father. He has no name, and he has no further purpose, here. His vic-

tory will not be proclaimed in the papers. No one will

know what happened here… This murder of two men, deemed to be unremarkable.

Greasy paint deforms its contours and planes. It is nei-

11

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

this is my name wissal abadi

What is in a name?

Does it have a special effect on its bearer or are they all the same?

Does it shape the personality?

Does it encompass the power to encourage charity?

Can a name give a positive experience?

Or can it cause its owner to be tense?

For me, I have dealt with both.

At one point in my life, my name I would loathe.

As I grew older and wiser, I began to appreciate my name.

Not only that but I became proud of it, no longer did I think of it as "lame" I was given this name by my father, a man who is kind and full of affection. A man who decided to give me a name that literally translated means, "connection."

He made a rare and unique choice in that it is very uncommon in both Canadian and Lebanese cultures.

This resulted in years of, "can you spell that again, please?", "is that your

first or last name?" Or Microsoft Windows always underlining my name

in red asking me to "fix" it. Those were the moments I wish I was a Mary or a Melissa, a Rachel or Carissa.

But as the years passed by I learnt how much my name is a direct reflec-

tion of who I am and what I do on a regular basis. I fell in love with it and always wonder the story behind everyone's naming. Literally translated from the Arabic language my name means "connection" or "to connect" something I have been doing my entire life.

I seek and search to find commonalities and similarities between people.

I connect with my peers, my children, my husband, my family members, with my Canadian and Lebanese cultures. I try to find what things we have in common in hopes of creating a common ground, a unity and thereby creating peace and harmony.

My name is unique, rare and beautiful. I am Wissal and proud to spell it over if you need me to ;) :

12

volume 3 | issue 2

the power in a name

and she was using the same last name as I had used for

over two decades, perhaps having far more claim to it now than I did.

theresa wells

The irony is that my ex-husband’s last name isn’t even

It is funny how little thought one gives to some things.

his stepfather adopted him, leaving behind a distinctly

There are things we simply accept for being what they

are, never really pausing to consider them until we are

given some reason to stop and think about them, often

for the very first time. And so it was with my name, something I always simply accepted and never gave much thought—that is, until my life changed.

When I married at the tender age of 21 (I always found

that an odd phrase, but now I understand it to mean fragile and innocent, which I was) I took the name of my

new husband. It was, and is, a rather plain name, easy to spell and pronounce and with clear Anglo-Saxon roots as opposed to my own decidedly Germanic maiden name. Taking his last name wasn’t even a question—it

was assumed by both of us I think, as doing anything

the one he was born with. His surname changed when

Irish last name that rang far more true with his other names than the English last name he now carries.

What’s in a name, anyhow? My father was the third to carry the full name in his family, but as he did not have

any sons the proud name he held died with him. Did that make the name mean any less or any more? How

was I now bearing a name that had no connection with

me at all, other than belonging to the man to whom I

was once married (and the same surname my daughter

carries)? And did knowing his new wife carried the same name make any difference? Was the name an indication of property or territory, a state of belonging or being?

Or was it just, in the end, a name?

differently hadn’t really occurred to either of us. While

It took me some time to work it through, this name

hyphenated names were a mass of l’s and vowels, strung

name, one I had not used in years and which now felt

the concept of hyphenation was around back then, our together with a dash that meant even less than the names, and so I took his name.

And I never thought about it again really, not even when we divorced almost 25 years later. By then I had lived

with his name for over two decades, never really developing any significant attachment to the name but never

finding it troublesome, either. Over time his last name

dilemma. Should I change back to my pre-marriage

foreign to me? Keep the name I had used for over two decades even though it was not truly “mine” (and in a

sense not even originally my ex-husband’s)? Adopt an entirely new last name, coming up with something that

was hopefully not pretentious or “twee” as the British

term something overly sweet, but that undoubtedly would still feel strange?

had become the name that was associated with me pro-

I worked through the feelings. My first and middle

it was with his last name that I inked my copy, forever

name was chosen by my eldest sister, who was 15 when

fessionally, and when we signed the final divorce papers ending what once had been a beginning.

The first time I thought about it was when my ex-husband remarried—and his new wife took his name, too.

Divorce and remarriage is a funny thing. The tangled

web of emotions is difficult—almost impossible—to

describe unless one has lived it. There was a new “Mrs”,

names are ones to which I am quite attached. My first I was born. She was given the honour of naming the new

baby, and in a decidedly ironic twist she chose the name

of a gentle saint—how surprised they must have been when my true nature began to show and it was clear

that I came down on the side of the sinners and not the saints! My middle name honours my mother, and I am deeply touched that despite having four older sisters I

13

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

am the one who carries the name of the most loving and

it, but it was mine all the same as I had claimed it with

me to love without reservation or condition. Those

every interview given, every nametag I have worn, every

gentle woman I have ever known, the one who taught names, the ones by which I am most often called, those

have meaning and reverence and my affection—but my last name?

In the end it was just the end. Just a last name, one used

to sign documents like divorce papers. A name that had stood me in good stead, and that while I had no great

attachment to it I had developed a sense of affection for it.

It was a name that I was not born with, but that I had made my own over time. It might not have been mine at the beginning, and there might now be others who carry

every usage, every article I penned under that name, time I introduced myself. I had made the name my own.

And so the name I now hold is the one I will hold until some day I have reason to change it. Perhaps I will

remarry and choose to change my name, or perhaps I

will die and this name will be the one inscribed on my tombstone. Whatever should happen, I have come to understand that our names do not define us—we define

them. In the end they are just names, just words and

nothing more. We are the ones who give those words

meaning—and we have the power to decide what is in our name.

what’s in a name? heather thomas

When we first met, I wasn’t sure and neither were you.

Once in a while you would slip and call me that name.

other and our patched together story.

while my heart burst with joyful flames.

It was unfamiliar territory. We were strangers to each Time passed and deep inside I craved acknowledg-

For years you referred to me as “Step-Mom”. You stood

you a new term to use. Day after day you would

run for a chance with your “Real-Mom”.

ment for this role in life. Day after day I would offer refuse.

Again and again I would suggest a change. Again and again I would hear the same. “Hey You,” you would say. “Hey You” I heard every day.

More time passed and my love grew deeper. We grew

together, you and I. We grew together, not always able to see eye to eye.

by my side day-to-day and yet were always ready to

As the years flew by I settled back comfortably. Letting go of the name that had once meant so much, that really had very little to do with us, with me.

I now know that when you say my name it means so much more than it did before. I know that my name

means more to you than what I could ever have hoped for.

Eventually I realized something about those words I

So forget about “Mom”, “Mama” or even “Step-Mom”.

not come from you, my dear.

heart knows your heart and that my love, is for infinity.

ached to hear. I learned and accepted that they would

14

I knew it felt strange to you, so I would hide my smile

I am happy to be whatever you want to call me. My

volume 3 | issue 2

yadera

dorothy bentley “Nikol! Get my wine and a glass,” Yadera’s father, Yuri,

full of smoke. Another time her father was yelling at

“Yadera! Bring the bread and cheese.” Yuri had worked

Sean, a tall curly topped Irish boy at the next farm did

farmer in south-western Ontario had been a difficult

Yadera never invited him in when he came to the farm

shouted to her mother.

for the government in Russia and becoming a tobacco switch for her family, but Yadera didn’t mind. She liked

it in Canada. No longer did Yadera’s father have an

expense account or servants. Her mother hated it on the farm.

“Here, Papa.” Yadera hastily put the block of cheese on

the wooden table, knocking over the glass of Bull’s Blood wine with her arm.

Her father impulsively slapped her. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“Yuri, she’s only a girl!” Nikol pulled Yadera into her, muffling her sobs against her chest.

Later at the A & P in Kingsville, Nikol held up the one check-out line.

“Mama,” Yadera pleaded. Audible sighs and eye rolls made Yadera tense. They leaned on their cartfuls of food

while Nikol read the backs of all the new paperbacks on the rack above the chewing gum and breath mints.

“You already have four novels, Mama; do you need another?” The store speaker was playing Gordon Lightfoot’s “Sundown.”

“Ya, ya, don’t worry, Darling.” Nikol added the fifth book.

Tucking wisps of black hair back into her bun, she told

Yadera’s brothers in a drunken stupor.

not care about rumours, and did not question why with any excuse at all. He thought it had to do with her wanting to be alone with him; to walk the two kilome-

tres to town in the heady scent of tobacco curing in the kilns; to hang out at his friends’ houses sharing smuggled beer and cigarettes; to dance with music from the

AM radio; or to laugh with him, kissing beneath the massive oak tree in Linden Beach on Lake Erie before walking her back home by curfew.

He tastes like spearmint, she thought. Yadera did not care about kissing. She could take it or leave it, but Sean

listened to her. He became her best friend. It was easy

for her to be friends with Sean; since she had four broth-

ers, she was more comfortable with boys than with girls anyway. His affection filled her with confidence.

At the high school, Yadera became a permanent fixture

beside Sean. His friends didn’t really notice her. She barely spoke.

The first time they swam in Lake Erie together, Yadera

walked in slowly, the cold waves splashed up against her tanned legs, then receded, splashed up higher onto her aqua-blue one-piece, then receded. Suddenly, Sean splashed her with a torrent of water.

“Aaaugh!”

the clerk, “Put back pork chops, please.”

“Come on, Chicken!” Sean dove in.

Yadera did not have girlfriends. They had stopped invit-

Yadera stepped onto Sean’s large cupped hands, inter-

around that her family was peculiar. Once when a girl

heavy, wet curls tickling. She dove into the water, pres-

ing her to birthday parties long ago. Word had gotten had come over after school, her mother was sitting at

the kitchen table in her bra, reading and smoking men-

thol cigarettes, one after another so that the house was

laced fingers. Her bare legs were against his face; Sean’s sure hurting her ears and filling her nose.

Afterwards, they ran across the hot sand to the blanket,

15

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

where he kissed her and felt her shivering skin.

Two years passed like a breeze. “I want to do some-

thing,” said Yadera. “I can’t stand being with my family anymore.”

“I want to be a carpenter,” Sean said. “I’ll build a house

for us by the lake.” They were in Sean’s house, one of the few times his family was away.

“You can’t build a house. You can’t even fix your hair.”

She attacked it with hair gel and a blow dryer. It turned out frizzy, ludicrous.

“Look what you did to me. Give me that.” Laughing, Sean jerked the brush from her hand and went to wet

his curls. In the bathroom she stood behind him at the mirror, laughing at his brush manoeuvres.

Sean suddenly turned around and held Yadera tightly.

“I love you,” he said. She felt good with him, but did she really love him? She wasn’t sure.

It was their senior year of high school and Yadera was reading Atwood, and Laurence, Roy and Munroe, Engel and Van Herk. She decided she wanted to be a femi-

nist. Maggie Trudeau had a night life and wore lovely designer clothes, after all. There was more for her out

there somewhere, but she didn’t know what. She had to

get away from the tobacco farm, from her family, from the small town life.

“We’re so young, Sean. I think we should date other people.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he turned his back to her. He moped for a month, then he began seeing other

girls while Yadera found herself alone. She gloried in

more. She was restless, longing for change. Then it came: at the end of such a long time of sameness that it

didn’t seem possible that it could ever come. And when change came for Yadera, it came with all the pent-up force of a volcano.

“I’m sick to death of sitting around this God forsaken

tobacco farm watching you drink all our money away,” said Nikol to Yuri.

“Fine, GO. You think you can do better?” Then Yuri hit

her hard across the face. Her mother sank to the floor.

Yadera watched, frozen to an old, dusty wing chair in

the dingy sitting room, her tattered copy of Lady Oracle

open on her lap. Nikol stood and began throwing dishes from the drain board at Yuri. He blocked the ones that came near with his fists. When those dishes were all broken, Nikol pulled more from the shelves until there were no more. Anything that could be broken was.

Yadera and her mother moved out to western Canada in October of her senior year. The boys stayed with their father to keep the farm going.

Sean lent Yadera a suitcase for the flight.

“I promise I’ll give it back when I come to visit. I’ll be coming back soon to see everyone,” Yadera said halfheartedly. If she never came back, it wouldn’t long enough, she thought.

“When you come back, maybe you’ll stay.” Sean held her

hand too tightly as he drove her and her mother to the airport in Toronto.

“I’m pretty sure the plane flies both ways,” she bristled.

her freedom. She went to the occasional show or dance

In Edmonton, Yadera and her mother found a shabby

Sean had seen in her). But mostly she was left alone to

were close. They shopped in consignment stores, blend-

when invited, (some of the boys wanted to see what read. Sean began to call her again, missing her.

One day, out of the blue, Sean said, “Maybe we’ll get married when we’re out of school.”

“Maybe,” said Yadera. She radiated a whole exciting life

16

ahead that didn’t involve him; he didn’t say anything

third floor walk-up, in old Strathcona. School and work ing with the growing city as petals in potpourri. As soon as they had saved enough, Nikol and Yadera changed their names to Canadian ones: Nicole and Lisa. They

shed their old lives like worn, smelly coats. Sean’s sad letters protested her name change.

volume 3 | issue 2

At University, Lisa’s long hair and curves caught the eye

Her brothers, now married, all arranged to meet at

who he was, what he stood for, the success that radiated

ket after lunch, Lisa stared up at the blue and green, sky

of an ambitious senior, Christopher. She fell in love with from his family and the promise of a future. They mar-

ried on a beautiful August day in Hawrelack Park. Lisa’s father and brothers were too busy with the tobacco harvest to come.

She quit school in her junior year when morning sick-

ness overcame her. Lisa worried about money. “It’s fine, darling,” her husband said. “I’ve got this.”

The baby was born when the tobacco was kiln curing and needed checking four times a day; her father and brothers stayed home. They chose a Canadian name.

Lisa and her husband bought a house in an old neighbourhood next to the Provincial Museum before the

prices skyrocketed. When news about Lisa reached Kingsville, they said she had married up. She had also converted to Protestantism.

“What are you doing, Yadera? You don’t stop being a

Catholic. You were born Catholic.” Nicole pounded her

fist on the counter of the clothing store she now owned.

“For Heaven’s sake, Mother. What difference does it make to you? We never went to Mass anyway. And Papa is the biggest drunk I know.”

Lisa felt contented. She threw herself into raising their

growing family. But when Lisa and her husband had

a disagreement, she would hear a whisper: “Marry me

Yadera… I’ll build a house by the lake shore.” At other times, when something went wrong with a charity project or she felt misunderstood, she would run to him in

her mind. Maybe life would have been better by the lake

with Sean. He loved me the way I was. He didn’t expect me to be perfect, like Christopher does.

Eventually, Lisa flew back to Kingsville to visit. Her husband was too busy to go along.

“I’ll come next time,” he promised. “Just leave the chil-

dren with Nicole. You can relax for a few days while you’re away.”

Linden Park for a reunion. Lying back on a wool blanthrough leaves of the huge oak tree. Her memories of

Sean came to her softly in Edmonton. In this place she could think of no one else.

She propped herself up on her elbow to watch her nieces

and nephews play soccer, when she noticed a group of

men playing cards at one of the distant picnic tables.

Most of the men were over fifty, but one had curly-

brown Irish hair, like Sean. She watched, wondering if

it could possibly be him. He wore a white undershirt, untucked from his green work pants. His curls were

unruly, and his face looked lined. He had a potbelly. They

looked like the men Lisa used to see coming from the steel mills during shift change, when on occasion her family went to the city.

After a time, Sean said his goodbyes, took his cigarettes, and walked across the street to a tattered two story

with an imitation brick façade around the base of the teetering front porch.

If I had married Sean, thought Lisa, right now I would be the wife of a steel mill worker, living in that dump.

She remembered how once Sean had agreed to let her fix his hair. How they had laughed. And she thought of

the time they had swum here. Hot sand and shivering, water in her nose and ears. Lisa was relieved now, think-

ing who he had become. Maybe if she hadn’t broken his heart he would have amounted to more. Why had he settled?

“Auntie, come swim with us,” came a far away voice.

“Come on, sweetheart, let Auntie Lisa rest.”

Lisa mouthed “Thank You” to her sister-in-law, then lay

back on the blanket. She felt herself slipping in to a fitful

nap. The wind from the lake was humid and gusty. Her gauzy skirt fluttered and blew up higher around her

thighs, her legs crossed at the ankles. She rested her

bent arms up across her face to shade her closed eyes.

Her long hair danced around her tanned arms.

17

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

Then Lisa sensed him; stronger this time than earlier; much stronger than in Edmonton. She could smell his spearmint gum. She was afraid to more her arms. Her

memories of Sean were like a best friend. Now he stood

looking down at her, and she didn’t want to know the new Sean; she preferred the one she knew long ago.

“Is it you, Yadera?” Sean said.

Lisa moved her arms and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.

Sean looked her over from head to toe.

“Hi Sean,” she said.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice cracking.

She sat up then, crossing her legs, pulling her skirt down

over her knees, looking down, avoiding his eyes. Sean sat

on his heels, his face close to hers. She looked at him. It

was the same Sean. He was there beneath the pot belly, wrinkles, and weathered skin.

“Cigarette?” He held out the open pack to her.

“No, thanks. I haven’t smoked in years.” A lump grew in

her throat. She wanted to make things right between them. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Sean.”

“I’m married now, Yadera. Do you remember Michelle? I

got her pregnant in twelfth grade, so I got a job at the steel mill right after graduation. I come home on weekends. Things are different now.”

18

“No, I don’t remember Michelle. You were my only friend here.”

“Do you think it could have worked out between me and you, Yadera?”

“Oh yeah— well, maybe. If I hadn’t had to move west

with my mother, things would be different now.” She wanted to tell him everything; to sit in the shade of

the oak and laugh. She wanted to jump into the cool water from his cupped hands. She looked at his hands then. They looked rough.

Sean stroked her cheek with his finger. Longing rose up inside of her for the past.

“Gotta go. See you around.” Sean walked toward his house.

Her heart felt torn, broken. She couldn’t understand why

it felt as though a part of it was leaving with Sean. She

didn’t want to ruin her marriage or his; she didn’t want

this life with him, she liked her own life in Edmonton.

Yet—

“Hey, next time you visit bring back my suitcase,” Sean called over his shoulder.

Lisa watched as he caught up with his wife pushing a stroller toward the playground. A teenaged girl came running from the house with a soda in her hand.

“Shut the door, Yadera!” yelled Sean to his daughter.

volume 3 | issue 2

call me patricia patricia mary o’neill

My name is Patricia. My mother Mary died when I was

time. When I think about that name now, I wonder how

unanswered questions including why did you name me

I thought it was a strong name. I feel no more like a Pat

four years old, leaving behind seven children and a lot of Patricia?

I wondered about that until, in my early twenties, I came

across the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry regiment formed during WWI.

My mother, a young adventurous single woman at the

time, took basic training somewhere in Ontario during

WWII. In my romantic imagination, she met a hand-

some young soldier from that regiment. They fell in love but she was discharged for having problem feet. You couldn’t be a WAC (Women’s Army Corps) if you couldn’t march.

He went off to war where he perished in No Man’s Land.

She returned to Newfoundland but never forgot him.

She married my father and at age 32 started having

children, one after another, until after the last, she died, suddenly and unexpectedly.

My father always called me Patsy. I think my mother may have as well because of a picture that my cousin

Peggy showed me, given to her mother from mine

with the name Patsy written on it, presumably in my mother’s handwriting. That aunt also called me Patsy

in the world I thought it ever suited me. Yuck! I suppose

than I do a Patty. Patty-the thing in pastures attributed to cows, cow patty. Double yuck! If you want to get me riled, call me Patty. Well except for my Aunt Phyllis who calls me Patty Cakes but that’s a whole other thing.

For more than a decade now, I’ve introduced myself as Patricia because Patricia is who I am and, as a tribute

to the one who named me. Finally I’ve come full circle, come home to myself after having taken all the side

roads and short cuts, trod through the thickets and muck

to come out as who I was all along, my mother’s daughter, the one SHE called Patricia.

These days when I travel across Canada I have different

names depending on the province I’m in. In Newfoundland I’m Trish, though I’ve tried my darnedest to make them stop. Habits of a lifetime, as you know, are almost impossible to break.

In Ontario, depending on whom I run in to, I’m Pat. I

cringe sometimes because during the years I was called

Pat was also the time in my life for which I have the most regrets, so hearing that name conjures up old ghosts, old miseries—felt and inflicted.

as did another of my mother’s sisters, Alice. My father

In British Columbia and Alberta I’m mostly Patricia and

name. After all, to be known as a patsy (a person who is

my Irish friend Philomena (another lovely name) or my

and aunts were the only people allowed to call me that easily taken advantage of, especially by being cheated or blamed for something) was not exactly flattering.

depending from whose mouth the name comes, say

French Canadian friend Jean-Yves, it is both musical and romantic.

Growing up, my siblings and friends called me Trish;

There’s a fellow at work from Bosnia and when he says

not do. It sounded like an insult: get outta here you piece

of the r in tree. Pa tree she ah!

that’s just one letter away from trash. That too would of trish.

Not long after moving to Ontario, I started to introduce

myself at Pat. Short and blunt, so much like myself at the

my name, it comes out as Pa tree she ah with a slight roll

I love my name. I love who gave it to me. The people I love most in the world call me Patricia.

19

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

who am i? pattie dwyer

Many years ago people traveled to speak to the great

Labels can also define a person. Think about when you

Regarding their self-inquiry, he had only one reply.

and some were for entire groups of people. For example

mystic Sage, Ramana Maharshi to acquire guidance.

The Sage told the seekers to ask themselves this ques-

tion, “Who am I?” It seems easy enough to answer, but when you begin to explore the depth of the question it becomes limitless.

Who am I? How would you begin to answer this question? The majority of individuals would reply with a

short scripted elevator pitch, beginning with their name, occupation and where they grew up. But let me ask you

this: when you write your name on a piece of paper, are

you the letters that appear on the page? I think it’s safe

say you are not the letters on the page. You are much more than a name.

With that being said, names and labels hold extreme power and importance.

The world we live in exists because of labels. It is cru-

cial that they are present. Our reality that we perceive is alive for the ego, our sense of self. Names help separate

items so the ego can differentiate between objects in our surroundings.

A name holds an entire story within the very word. Think about your name. Have you ever said, “I couldn’t imagine

“jocks”, “mean girls”, “nerds”, “criminal” “popular” “Goth” “skaters” “preppy” and the lists go on. These labels carry

weight and have often helped define a person and their actions. Quite often the label doesn’t match their authentic self, but the pressure of the label leads them to

put on the “mask” and in fact they begin to morph into

the title that they have been given. We must be mindful

with the words we choose to use to describe ourselves

and others, because like it or not, the labels, titles, and names we give to each other can either take our power away from us or help it expand it.

On the contrary think back to the question given by Ramana Maharishi of “Who am I?” One of the deep teachings of this question is to genuinely acknowledge

that our true self is in fact both nameless and form-

less. In order to comprehend this concept, the ego must

learn from the separation that there is no separation.

A teacher once told me “You must use the mind, to rid

the mind.” This teaching influenced me tremendously.

I began to understand that the knowledge we acquire

exists entirely by labeling; it is the key to unlock our very existence of the formless, nameless state.

my name as anything else.” Or maybe it was quite the

Knowing that words, labels, names, and titles carry great

fact did so. In either case we have become such masters

the equation: the deep meaning of the question “Who

opposite, where you wanted to change your name or in

at labelling we can notice when the label doesn’t quite fit with the subject. What if you grew up with a different name—would you possess different qualities?

I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts specializing in Performing Arts; so I have the opportunity to play all sorts of dif-

ferent characters. And let me tell you, I most definitely change my physicality and mannerisms simply based on the name.

20

were in high school; there were many labels assigned,

influence, we also must recognize the counterpart of

am I?” In this simple but profound question the truth is

buried. It is up to you to dig into your own existence and uncover it.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

marginalia

Dangerous Names

A column by douglas abel

what’s in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Romeo and Juliet, II.2.43-44 Juliet’s well-known words summarize, as only Shakespeare can do it, the “name dilemma.” Do names, or, more generally, nouns—naming words—have any intrinsic significance? And if so, what creates the quality and the force that come to be attached to nouns?

Do names/nouns have any built-in meaning, apart from their function as

identifiers of—pointers to—persons (Romeo), places (Verona), things (hand), qualities (kindness), actions (kiss) or ideas (freedom)? Juliet tries to convince herself that they do not:

What’s Montague? It is not hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. (II.2.40-43)

Juliet is claiming that nouns are arbitrary, and meaningless or content-free in and of themselves. Certainly this case can be made. At its most basic, a noun

is a sound or sequence of sounds which has come to be associated1 with some person, place, thing, etc. In most languages, there is a corresponding sequence

of graphic symbols representing those sounds, and hence coming to repre-

sent the name as well2. But there is no strictly logical or objective reason why that particular sound set should be associated with that thing. Arguments for

onomatopoeia—names often “sound like” the things they’re naming—break

down when you compare languages. The names defining the sounds that ani-

mals make differ drastically from language to language. And why do babbling

English babies say “Mama” when first they recognize and vocally identify their mother, while Japanese babies say “Haha”?

There is, then, no coldly logical reason why any naming word should have any significance apart from its strict linguistic function. A name simply points out

something. You use the name to indicate, “This is the person or thing I’m talk-

ing about, or to.” But almost any name does have such additional significance, a significance which comes from the detailed function of names, and from the

contexts both from which they come and in which they are used. Juliet’s nurse makes this greater meaning clear when Juliet asks her the name of the young man with whom she has already fallen in love: 1 Usually by very long and often twisted etymological trails.

2 This sound-symbol correspondence is true, for example, in French or English (more or less!) It is not generally true in Chinese.

22

His name is Romeo, and a Montague,

The only son of your great enemy. (II.1.137-38) The name Juliet wants to hear has malevolent, and ultimately tragic, meanings that no simple analysis of its sounds could reveal.

volume 3 | issue 2

Nouns are more than simple, content-free labels attached

are like you and those who are not. Every ethnic group

it by association, attach qualities to it, place it in specific

“racial” epithets that deny to the outsiders all the quali-

to things. As they “identify” something, they also define categories, and exclude it from other categories—pretty

much simultaneously and organically. And those asso-

ciations, qualities and categories all have historical, emotional, psychological and social significance. The

connotative meanings of names are usually much more

powerful than the more restricted denotative meanings.

For Juliet, the three-sound sequence of Romeo’s name has all of the following meanings: • A particular young man.

• A particular young man who was wearing a blue velvet doublet, etc.

• A particular young man who is extremely hot.

• A blood member of a family my family hates.

• A young man I should hate.

has negative names for those who are not in the group, ties that the in-group holds most dear in its members. A

label that says “not us” almost always adds, “and therefore

dangerous and bad.” Such labels do not just define people or things; they define threats. Persecution and violence

are all too often the result of “simple” sequences of sound.

And the politics and psychology of such racial epithets

can become mind-bogglingly complex. Afro-Americans

can use “the N-word” to label themselves, often as an act

of solidarity and defiance. If a non-Afro-American uses the same word, no matter how benign or positive the

intent, it becomes an unacceptable racial slur. The field of names becomes a mine field. There are centuries of history and hate behind the choice to call a particular city on the Irish island Derry, or Londonderry.

• A young man I can never hope to marry.

Most of the meaning of names comes from context, both

• Etc., etc.

geography, and in both shared and individual experience.

• A young man I must have, or I will die.

Names can come to have all the significance, attributes

and might of the being or thing named. In traditional

magic, you summon and compel a powerful spirit by “invoking” it—saying its name out loud. Magical entities

general and personal. Names are steeped in history and Names can have extremely powerful emotional reso-

nances, often as powerful as those generated by the thing

itself. And from these facts comes the complex problem of contemporary “micro-political correctness.”

and gods have multiple names, of which at least one is

We accept that words can wound, often as much as deeds

the being it labels. In traditional Judaism, the name of God

to disturb, distance, demean or denigrate individuals. And

hidden. To know that secret name is to grasp the power of

must never be spoken, and can only be written in a kind of code. God gave Adam dominion over all the creatures of earth by bringing each one to Adam—to name.

The act of naming and, thereby, of defining, categorizing, including and excluding, is in itself an act of power. When the first “colonizers” came to the Americas, they labelled

the inhabitants Indians. In doing so, they began a process

which, by design or default, disenfranchised, disinherited and dislocated those inhabitants. By implication, “Indians” did not belong in, and had no claim to, what was not India. America became a new world—for the namers.

The exclusionary function of names is perhaps most

emotionally significant, and the most dangerous. You use

can. We feel that words should not be used deliberately

since words themselves have the power to traumatize, we increasingly insist that writing or speech should be

preceded by “trigger warnings,” letting people know in advance about the potential for pain in the words to be used. The problem is the intensely personal context in

which words resonate. Any word, any name could poten-

tially hurt. “That which we call a rose” could be associated

with deep trauma for someone. How can we know in advance? Are benign intentions enough to excuse namegenerated pain?

Is the solution to stop “naming names” at all? To think of

that handsome individual in the blue doublet, and say nothing?

names to define in-groups and out-groups, those who

23

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

contributors wissal abadi has been in Fort McMurray for five years. She has

I was diagnosed with PIC, and deemed legally blind within 4

three beautiful children, and she loves reading, swimming, and

months. After learning how to live with being handicapped, I

watching her kids play hockey!

pursued my Degree in Elementary Education at the University of

douglas abel is writer, actor, director, ongoing student of French and Italian, and novice digital documentary maker. His

patricia o'neill "This is for you Aunt Phyllis. Thank you for lis-

secret name is . . . none of your business.

tening to my stories and for encouraging me to write. You are

dorothy bentley moved to the north in 1980. Her non-fiction

my biggest fan. I love you."

and prose have appeared regularly in several Alberta publica-

tricia reid grew up in the foothills of the Alberta Rocky Moun-

tions. She believes change comes unbeckoned; our challenge is

tains. An bushbunny at heart, her favourite place to be is outside

to improve with it.

in nature, no matter what the weather. She is following in her

With a background in print journalism, dawn booth has made it her lifestyle to be actively involved in the Wood Buffalo media community since she moved to Fort McMurray in 2007 from the Ottawa Valley in Ontario. Known for her past work as editor

great-grandparents footsteps by climbing the same mountain peaks, capturing the moments with her camera and recreating the pictures taken by her family nearly a century ago. #NeverStopExploring

at the Fort McMurray Today and general manager of snapd

heather thomas is a Fort McMurray local who loves life and all

Wood Buffalo, Dawn loves calling Northern Alberta home and

of its ups and downs. She believes that every experience is an

is happily raising a family with her husband, who's a life-long

opportunity to walk her talk and live as authentically as pos-

resident of Fort McMurray.

sible. Heather is an RMT specializing in Craniosacral Therapy, a

jenny berube was born elsewhere, and hence lives in Fort McMurray by choice. Originally from Australia, she loves the Canadian north country and enjoys the diversity of cultures in Fort McMurray. A financial advisor, and accountant in her other life, she writes to find out what happens next. nathan berube writes, “Not too old, not too young... Been a writer and a story teller before I could remember. Because what's the point of trying to make sense of the world if you aren't trying to have fun with it as well?”

Yoga Instructor and Wellness Practitioner. She is excited to be published again in NorthWord and feels that this is an auspicious new beginning to her foray into the world of writing. She is grateful for the loving support of her husband and two sons, and the grounding and joy she receives from Mr. Max-A-Million McQuilliam the Hedgehog. She can be reached through her website: www.heatherthomas.ca shannon thompson writes, “I am a third generation Fort McMurrayite with Metis roots. Writing and local history has been a passion for me since I was very young, I still have every-

pattie dwyer is a local theatre artist, playwright, yoga instruc-

thing I have ever written but have shown it to very few people.

tor and lover of words.

Most of my time is taken up by my two children and our family

jon kroeger is a student at the U of L working on a combined

business.”

bachelor degree in business management and education. He

theresa wells is a communications and media relations pro-

spends his summers as a certified mountain guide entertain-

fessional who believes the written word has the power to

ing, informing, teaching, and learning in beautiful Waterton

inspire, compel and change lives. In addition to authoring the

Lakes National Park. He has an amazing zest for life and a posi-

“McMurray Musings” blog for almost 5 years, she also contrib-

tive outlook on the world.

utes freelance work to several local publications. She always has

adrienne norris writes, “After having 20/20 vision for 35 years,

24

Alberta. I currently teach and reside in Fort McMurray, Alberta.”

time to listen to a good story, cuddle a stray cat or admire a pair of fabulous shoes.

Mountain Dreamer by Jon Koegler

Subject is Patricia Reid

On the Canada/US border on Forum Peak in the International Peace Park formed by Waterton Lakes National Park and Glacier National Park. An amazing place to hang out 4000 ft above Cameron Lake.

Perfection in Reflection by Patricia Reid

Taken at Mount Revelstoke’s Meadow in the Sky, the morning sky reflecting perfectly in the crisp, calm waters.

name change dorothy bentley

northern canada

collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

Come here

call for submissions

Fear

NorthWord Volume 3, Issue 3

Prepare for change

deadline March 30, 2016

Warm up your art

We’re always looking for prose (2000

Step outside comfortable

theme Climbing the Mountain

Move

words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction),

You are skilled and strong

Here is help when you need it Trailblaze to another level Dance

Free your dreams

Join the conversation

Experience alternative routes Breathe

“Are you sure about that?”

You have things to do Be encouraged

Release your gifts Dazzle

Your new name is Beautiful

poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts

from current projects, and visual art. please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors,

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