president
secretary
treasurer
public
editorial
say what you mean—it seems simple enough. Be direct. Be honest. Express yourself. Language is constantly evolving, or devolving depending on one’s opinion of the state of the dictionary, yet it seems harder to say what you mean.
Words that meant one thing now mean something else. Words can suggest pejorative intent when used in certain ways while that same word can evoke praise used in another way. One’s intent is seemingly not as important as the reaction elicited.
I have always thought ‘being honest’ is the truest kindness. A conversation about this brought up the argument that honesty can be used to hurt others and, therefore, is not always kind. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around that concept until I remembered an incident from the early days of dating my now husband.
His friends are all ‘huggers’. I am not. Each new person met involved that awkward ‘I’m not a hugger’ moment. (I’ll save the diatribe about the injustice of having to explain why I’m not and feeling like there’s something wrong with me for not wanting to embrace strangers for a later issue…) In the spirit of fair play, while attending an event, I decided that if I met any of his friends, I was going to be more open. Along came ‘Marianne.’
“Hello Ron” we heard from behind us. I turned, large, forced smile on my face.
“Marianne” said Ron, icily. Awkward silence ensued for a (long) moment while I deduced that this was not going to be a hugging moment. “This is Liana. My FIANCEE!”
I swear I heard the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath as he emphasized the word ‘fiancée.’ The ‘Marianne’ character visibly recoiled, made some polite utterance and quickly exited, stage left! Turns out she broke my dear Ron’s heart quite extensively some years prior.
So, yes, I see how words can be used in the correct, honest context and still cause hurt. My original concept was that this issue would likely explore Political Correctness but expanded after this revelation.
It has been an honour and an interesting voyage determining which definitions of ‘Say What You Mean’ are expressed in this offering of NorthWord Liana Wheeldon | issue nineteen editor
community report
Indeed, McMurray is alive with the literary arts, and NorthWord was delighted to partner with it all. We launched our last issue earlier this spring at the Keyano Art Gallery. Guest edited by Kitty Cochrane, local writer and teacher, and featuring a stunning cover of the Boreal sky by Carol Breen, local visual artist, the “Whispers” issue was well-received by all.
Visual artist Russell Thomas was live on location to paint a secret literary legend, which attendees learned to be Margaret Atwood following a social media contest to suggest the subject. A silent auction was also the highlight of the event. Poetry and prose readings, open mic, as well as a conversation between the incoming and outgoing guest editor remained a perennial favourite.
“Being a guest editor helped me understand that a magazine as a whole is a piece of art as well,” noted Cochrane, who also helps organize Full Moon Café, a local arts/culture gathering.
“It was inspiring to read through the over 70 submissions for this issue. It was very difficult to choose, as each piece was beautifully crafted. The ones selected represent the range of human experience and emotion, wishing and wanting. Judgement, self-doubt, anger and loss. Strength, endurance, renewal, hope and love. The pieces connected with the theme of Whispers in sometimes direct and sometimes oblique ways,” she explained.
Speaking of connected, NorthWord was glad to collaborate with the Wood Buffalo Regional Library for the Words in
by kiran malik-khan PR Director
Motion program. Dawn Booth, our president was one of the four judges and enjoyed the opportunity to help promote poetry in the region.
We were also represented at the first ever Local Authors’ Fair organized by Arts Council Wood Buffalo and Coles this summer. The well-attended event, held at Peter Pond Mall, gave us a chance to connect with local writers.
As you read this, we are excitedly working on our milestone Issue #20 – marking 10 years of NorthWord in the community. Our theme is “Celebration,” and the Board is honoured to guest edit. Jane Jacques, Dawn Booth, Theresa Wells, Jenny Berube and I will look forward to your submissions. Deadline is October 30, 2018. Original poetry of no more than 50 lines, prose, fiction or non-fiction - 3000 words maximum, and art can be sent to northword@hushmail.com. All names will be removed, and only alignment with theme matters.
So get those submissions in, and help us launch this “Celebration” of the literary arts in Wood Buffalo.
NorthWord is available free of charge at MacDonald Island, Chez Max - Jamaican Restaurant, Blue Mountain Bistro, Keyano College, Points North Gallery, and the Thickwood YMCA.
For real time updates, like us on Facebook: www.facebook. com/northword and follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM. Visit our website: www.northwordmagazine.com.
Thank you so much to everyone who supported our Issue 18 launch and silent auction on March 25! Special thanks go out to Russell Thomas, who created a stunning portrait of Margaret Atwood at the event and then auctioned it off for us. Many thanks as well to the following individuals and businesses for their support of the literary and visual arts in the community:
A-1 Towing • Avenue Coffee • Cindy Amerongen • CRUZ FM • Denise Brideau • Dennis Barrow and Carol Jewers of Fort McMurray Tourism: Oil Sands Discovery Centre Gift Shop • Emmalyn Soriano • Erin Stinson • Florence Weber of Points North Gallery • Hanna Fridhed, ADFA North Zone and Keyano Theatre • Jenny Berube and Action Tax • Joan Nobles • Juvaria Javaid • Kelly Clemmer • Krystle Field of Krystle’s Kreations •Michelle Ploughman • MnSS Boutique • Munira Manji • MXC Fleet Services • Nasira and Ata Rehman of Shell Retail Stories • Samra Ilyas • Sherry Duncan • True Love Design • Uzma Syed • World Hijab Day YMM Committee
say what you mean
heather hegge
Fine.
I’m fine. I’m fine! It’s fine. Fine!
What a weird word. What do we mean when we say it? In our friendly Canadian culture, we are often asked “how are you?” How honestly do we answer? Your dog just died…but you say you’re fine. You are overwhelmed by exams, or kids, or bills…but you say you’re fine. Your job is stressful…but you say you’re fine. You have had a huge argument with your significant other…but you say you’re FINE. Does the frequency of the question diminish the significance of the answer?
It seems that ‘fine’ is something we often say when we really mean the opposite. Like it’s a code word; code for: don’t listen to my words…I really want you to read between the lines, to see something in my face or my tone of voice that will tell you what I can’t find the words for. Fine is a word we say when we can’t figure out how to say what we mean…when emotions are so strong that mere words feel feeble in their expression. At least that’s how it is for me. I am a card-carrying expert at being ‘fine’. Emotions get so tangled up inside that they seem to flow seamlessly into one another, and it’s virtually impossible to give voice to them. To offer any answer to the question “how are you?” other than “I’m fine” would be to unleash a floodgate. I have learned to repress, to ignore, and hopefully forget about emotions I can’t deal with. After all, how can I expect those around me to deal with my emotions if I can’t deal with them?
This system has been in place for most of my life, and it has served me…just fine. Recently, I have begun to choose a theme for myself at the beginning each year; something to guide my thoughts and decisions. Not so much a resolution, but more of a personal mantra. This year I have chosen the theme: Dare greatly. I want to live my life with courage and with passion. My yearly theme stands in stark contrast to my system. I can’t live with passion if I continue to be fine. Do I cling to the system that has kept me more or less fine for so long, or do I leap into the unknown? What would happen if I say what I mean to people? The familiar pulls like a magnet; old habits die hard. I’m coming to discover that being fine keeps me in emotional homeostasis, but I think I can be much more. Life is too short, too fragile, too amazing. There is so much to learn, so many people to meet, there is so much beauty in the world…I don’t have to settle for being fine. My emotions might be strong, but I am stronger than they are and I don’t want to be held back by them. Fine isn’t enough for me. I will not be fine anymore. Starting today.
empty words
mario eric
I love you, however if my love for you be brought before High Courts and an accusation be raised against me that my love for you does not go beyond words and as such is not real for it does not exist in concrete reality, and that, unless I can produce a tangible evidence, an artifact, I will be found guilty for misleading with words, for the which the punishment would be that forever more I shall be forbidden to utter those words, I am afraid that I would hear myself uttering these words; Your Honor, having lack of evidence to prove otherwise the defendant pleads guilty to all the charges which are raised against him, and a punishment is met for the crime, forever more I shall not utter the words, I love you!
dream diptych
garry berteig
( PART ONE: THE BONES OF DREAM FISHING )
My line is cast up and out by a flick of my eye, hand and body. There is no hesitation.
The line is little more than a spiders strand floating in an arc of thought—up and over the river— directed by the hook and weight in a single sentence or song.
In the depths a primordial sturgeon, leviathan, quick in these currents, takes to the hook on the first cast.
And with no hesitation glides up to the shallows and joins me there like a Methuselah. This shadow visits me on the strand of reason… …held by way of a line.
Eye to eye at the edge of the waters, mystic depths are joined from heart to heart. Here even the mud is golden, smooth and fine.
( PART TWO: DREAM FISH SOUL )
Again I cast a line out over the river waters. (Writing) It sinks into the deeps and quivers. (Emotions)
Gently I pull a primordial sturgeon toward the shore. (Caught) Far too large to land, I can only look at it lounging in the swirling murk. (Enchanted) We are joined but neither are we the same nor are we in the same world. (Mirrored)
better left unsaid
janelle ormond
Grief is all too often a mask that leaves us unrecognizable to ourselves and others, smothering us with misunderstanding as we cycle through its phases the way we cycle with the moon.
From the outside looking in we have worriers, those who pity and those distant half-hearted concerns. Well-being has become currency for likability and when we are broken we are broke, left alone and feeling worthless; except in the case of those who have known the disturbing disquietude of their own grief. They are the few who may recognize the smothering and be most likely to stay at your side until you can breathe again.
Others who perhaps miss our light and who want our gifts and energies back to carnivorously feed from, they will probe with questions to gain a sense of how far we may have come back to ourselves, hoping we are not still carved out and hollowed by our preoccupied misery; or they use our condition of suffering as gossip in other circles as a trade-off for their own shortcomings, to avoid being truly seen by the curious eyes of the critics they keep in their company.
These questions are as weightless as their intentions: How have you been? How are you feeling? Still it is sometimes worse if they don’t ask the questions at all—dismissing your losses with cold indifference—making you small in your suffering. I hope you have been well or I am glad you seem to be doing better. Their gladness as surface as their niceties.
If heard from an old friend, the timeliness of her message is selfish and inconvenient. If I could say what I mean, I would ask where have you been? I would tell her that her careful distance while I had been at the end of myself has been noted as a purposeful absence. Friends cannot burden true friends with their pain after years of devotion. I would remind her of my unwavering loyalty to my loved ones, a loyalty she would be at a loss for now; having been treated like a piece of furniture did not serve me, after all.
I would respond to her shallowness with a depth she would drown in, sharing the darkness of hopeless, helpless loneliness felt in the despair of betrayal, in the endless wondering and dissection of my worthiness: a painstaking evaluation better left abandoned.
If I could say what I mean, I would tell her that while I was aggressively fighting to survive from the bitterness of personal growth I came to know genuineness through the love that kept me alive. I would tell her with a blunt unforgiveness that I saw she isn’t willing to be real and I would tell her that I no longer accept less than authenticity in my relationships.
If I could say what I mean, I would say Thank You for finally letting me get to know You. I had waited for so long to see who would show up, the representative of social contract or my old friend. The image was unwanted and the obvious fraudulence was unflattering. I would watch as her face falls and her jaw drops, as the indignation washed over her stature and I would shamelessly continue, making her intimately know my raw anger at having been a pawn in her self-protection.
Have I done something wrong? she would deflect, trying unsuccessfully to manipulate my perception and shift the victimhood from accuser to accused. She would squirm in the hot discomfort of my stare knowing that I knew her then, aware that all of her pleas and her sly duplicity would no longer be received. I would turn the tables then, dismissing her defenses, taking accountability where it was due but sure not to make myself small with apology for her wounded feelings.
If I could say what I mean I would tell her that she obviously felt there was no admiration earned in standing by a wounded woman, needing the obsessive and relentless attention of a friend less absorbed in healing than I; she must have someone devoted only to commiserate with her daily self-consciousness, recognizing then that I had been promoting her own vain gluttony all the while. I would acknowledge the way her presence in my life starved me more than it lifted me up, leaving not a shadow of a doubt that my light would no longer be lent to guide her to deeper self-love.
You’ll regret rejecting me, she would state. I would say I have known regret in my life and I have known certainty. I have been nurturing my intuition and I feel comforted by the self-respect my decision recovers, the integrity it will repair. The betrayals that had nearly slain me have been defining, allowing me to recall my values with little else left to cling to. I would feel a temporary pang of guilt at my lack of compassion but feel confident in the slaying of the ego in front of me: a necessary task in a society filled with narcissism. I would no longer belittle my needs to make others feel they can safely stand
on my shoulders while I continue to be crushed by the weight of upholding the ideal they portray.
I would end just short of attacking her character out loud—inside remarking that the mother, wife and friend were imitations I knew better of; the emotionally abusive, unfaithful imposter in front of me uncovered and uncoveted. I would stop short of assaulting her inauspiciousness, careful not to undercut any of her past kindness and careful not to dissect what was conditional or real.
*
Have I done something wrong? she asked me one day, my long-held silence having replaced all the things I would say if I could say what I mean, in the months we hadn’t spoken. She fought the excruciating need to know why being her doting follower was no longer a priority for me for as long as she could but her ravenous and empty grandiosity would not stop gnawing until she heard, hopefully, that she was still well-regarded.
I disappoint, answering her petty interrogation with a kind consideration for my own privacy, not allowing her the depth of my answers, not feeding her information she could use against me. I knew regardless she would twist and exploit my words as much as she would the silence, so I settled for being useless, forcing her to lie if she wants to capitalize on painting herself as the injured party.
*
I see her one day, long after the grief has shaped me, and the resentment has left me. I feel complete and worthy, radiant and at peace with my now soft femininity. She looks on with interest, observing me from a distance. I approach her, smiling with lightheartedness. She is heavy with fear, poisoned with envy at my evident joy. How are you doing? I ask. Good…she lies. I am so glad to hear you are doing well, Take care, I say.
I don’t pause to wonder what she would say, if she could say what she means.
candid conversation 1 by Ron Kirsch
candid conversation 2 by Ron Kirsch
fast friends
michèle gagnon
Mandy's body was a rolling valley of curves. Her soft flesh rose, fell and rebounded with her every step. Her large breasts rested on the swell of her belly. Everything about her seemed soft and comfortable. Vince watched her with curiosity. The more he watched her the more he was filled with a kind of longing he didn't understand. She was gregarious, her laughter tumbling freely to tickle the corners of his mouth into a smile.
She had just moved to the city from a small town. They worked together and Vince wanted to make her feel welcome so he showed her the park, the theatre and where to get good food.
Mandy avoided looking at Vince for too long. She darted her gaze here and there, breaking contact with the sharp blue of his eyes in an unnatural and rehearsed shyness. Her bashfulness, her modesty, her habit of drifting to the back of the room and standing behind other people in photos were all learned habits.
She knew that the sleek lines of Vince's body, the symmetry of his jaw, the glow of his vigor and health were not meant for her. She inserted herself as his friend and never thought of herself as anything other than a distraction from the monotony of the office they shared. His company was welcomed as she tried to make her home in a downtown much larger than the one she had known.
Vince had a lot of friends. He was funny, charming, and athletic. He played the guitar and had a lot of ideas. He was a walking cliché of a desirable man. He cycled through a new girlfriend at least once a year, every one of them meeting his friends' approval. Their imaginations, he thought, were like abandoned bird nests; their lips overdressed in bright red, forming half-hearted exclamations.
Most people felt lonely, Vince supposed. Loneliness was an old friend that urged him to seek a better version of the girl whose body he had expertly learned and whose faults he had memorized.
Mandy helped to push away the alienation that seemed to thrive as a permanent knot in Vince's stomach. Over drinks, she made his laughter spill out from the very bottom of his gut until the knot of his disconnect was hurtled out onto the floor. He was free to take a deep breath and feel a space that had been cleared for
him. He reached out to Mandy without thought, breathing in new air between bursts of laughter.
**
Mandy sat next to Vince after work to help console him with drinks. He had just broken up with his most recent girlfriend.
"I just can't seem to stay with a girl," he said, "I don't understand how other people do it. Every one of them turns into something I can't stand."
Mandy told him jokes that made tears bead at the corner of his eyes. She pretended to be his old girlfriend, ordered the most complicated drink on the menu and then told the bartender that it tasted weird, insisting he make her a new one. She drank and paid for both drinks and tipped the waiter well for playing along.
Vince's hand found itself somewhat surprisingly on Mandy's waist as they both laughed in the comfortable haze of too many drinks. Before his hand could find its way to the small of her back Mandy stopped laughing and elbowed Vince in the side.
"Hey, dude, I think you're about to get some company," she informed.
She watched a woman that looked like she might have just been cast in a movie walk up to them.
Mandy prided herself in being a good friend. She slipped away under the pretense of using the washroom but found her way to the exit and into the freshness of the early evening. Her cheeks were hot and burning from a type of fear that rolled around in her chest, a nugget of something she couldn't pin down. **
The woman walked up to Vince with confidence. She was tall, slim, and dark-eyed with full lips; her swaying hips were only slightly larger than her narrow waist. She sat on the stool beside him and put her hand on his arm, running her fingers along his bicep as though she had already claimed him as her lover. She smiled, but some-
thing in that smile mocked the state of strange and easy delight Vince found himself in.
He noticed that the hand he had pressed up against Mandy had fallen loosely to his side. He watched her make her way towards the washroom as the woman flirted with his empty glass. "Will you buy me a drink?" she asked. As Vince motioned to the bartender she stretched her neck and tilted her head towards the space where Mandy had been sitting, "Have you two been friends for very long?"
**
The day after Mandy doesn't bother finding out what Vince is doing. She gets herself ready to go out with a man whom she’s been chatting with on a dating site. It had been a while since her embarrassingly short marriage had ended. Today felt like a perfect day to move on.
She applies her makeup and curls her hair. Her reflection is pretty, she thinks. To be sure of her attractiveness, she wears the expensive bra that presses her breasts together and wears the low cut black blouse that makes her feel like someone else.
Vince shows up at her door wearing a big sweater, its over-sized hood on his head. Mandy hates the way he looks perfect even in the worst clothes, as though everything he wears is exactly as it should look once it is on him. But what she hates even more than his mannequin qualities are the way she imagines that his eyes seem to beg her for something.
He steps into her apartment.
"I'm so hung over. I don't even know what I did last night," his voice sounds out of place, like he's been rehearsing a script and he only half remembers the lines.
He moves in close to her, wraps his arms around her and holds her. Mandy feels a panic rising up in her as she struggles to decide where to put her own arms. She settles on resting them awkwardly and amicably on his back, just barely touching him.
Vince holds her for what feels like a really long time. She has not been hugged this way before by anyone other than a lover. She wants to hold him tighter, rest her head against his shoulder, nudge into his neck and smell last night's whiskey on his breath, but she brushes off the thought like an intrusive fly. She begs her mind to return to the rational world, the reality in which Vince has surely slept with the woman from the bar and where he only pretends he doesn't remember. He releases her from the hug and looks at her more carefully.
"Look at you. You're beautiful." His compliment sounds like an apology as he lowers his eyes, sighs and plunks himself onto her couch.
He smiles and laughs in what feels like a disguise for some other feeling. Mandy tries to recover from the blush that has now spread across her face and chest.
"Well, I have to look good. I'm going on a date," she says as the blush only deepens to warm her entire body.
Vince slaps his hands together at the news, "AHHH," he exclaims his face painted with simulated jest, "My cue to go then." He winks at Mandy and makes his way to the door.
"I'll see you around soon, buddy," and with a weak smirk on his face he strolls out.
Mandy takes a few deep breaths. She spends the next few moments shooing away theories about why Vince had come to her door and settles comfortably on the one that makes the most sense. She concludes that the woman from last night had done something to annoy him or delight him and he wanted to share it with her, as he often did.
At six o'clock she reapplies her makeup, changes her shirt for a high-necked, short-sleeved sweater from her work wardrobe, and heads out the door to meet Michael.
woodgrain by Carmen Wells cedar by Carmen Wells
port hardy by Carmen Wells
neurons
vanessa mcmahon
He gazes at his reflection and wonders how it got so old.
The deep lines and furrows make him almost unable to recognize himself.
But the eyes remain the same.
Those deep soulful blues tell the story if you bother to look deep enough.
Behind those eyes there is a puzzle.
Crossed lines, neurons firing at rapid speed.
Information flowing in all directions.
He can’t pinpoint the moment it happened, He just knows that it did.
A switch was flipped that changed the pathway of information in his consciousness.
The pathways became mazes with no exit.
Things move too fast or far too slow.
Right became wrong, day became night.
But the eyes remain the same.
say what you mean
jennifer mcmullin
Your voice is a gift and a tool to be used
You can share your unique views
Sing a beautiful song
Talk to a loved one all night long.
You can give advice to a friend
Encourage someone to fight to the end
Let someone know when you are concerned
Share advice from lessons you’ve learned.
But heed this warning
Not all words by nature are adorning
Words can cut like a double-edged sword
Causing hurt that can’t be ignored.
Choose words which are well defined
And always be kind
So, say what you mean
Just don’t be mean.
a true promise
lara mehraban
No distance between us nothing could keep us apart
I'm standing here beside this little window looking at this sorrowful sunset thinking of you
You're not far from me just closing my eyes is the bridge between you and me
When I close my eyes, I see you young and cheerful coming to me with a branch of Wintersweet in your hand and I hear your silvery voice telling me;
_ "Did you know Wintersweet holds your scent?! … your aroma gives me euphoria breath is not worth taking without you I'll be always with you"
When I close my eyes you hold my hand and take me to the fest of rain and Acacia
We're not apart, sweetheart!
I sense your presence through the aroma of the garden’s Jasmine I reach you through the green breath of spring the poems the harmonious melodies through the breeze when it brings me the scent of Lilac
I see you through the dawn's clear dew drops feel you whenever beauties inspire me at any sunrise in the glory of moonlight the silence of the grove the roaring of thunder
I am with you wherever I am my gypsy soul will be lost without you
Oh...
you're gone for ever but there is no complaint you were saying the truth when you said you'll stay with me forever!
let's talk
nathan rogers
Let’s talk about a subject Getting more and more press
Let’s be proud of the progress we’ve made Where we’re going next.
Let’s talk about being open About asking questions instead of judging Increasing our knowledge and understanding Rather than sticking with one opinion and not budging.
Mental health is not a given Struggling and having trouble does not make you weak Rather it must propel you To stand up and speak.
"Say What You Mean" is a weighty theme. It conjures images of both discord and hope. The attached image shows a proclamation in progress. The speaker is a bird with one feathered hand on a hip and the other pointing with purpose. The intent of portraying the speaker as a bird, and not as a person, was to create an androgynous, universal, and non-judgmental image of a speaker who could be addressing any topic. Birds are commonly recognizable as messengers of truth: both ancient Greek myths and Norse legends portray ravens as messengers of the gods; pigeons delivered posts for
by Barbara Madden
more than two millennia; and the image of a canary in a coal mine summons ideas of warnings and imminent danger. The bird in the painting appears oblivious to the crevasse beneath its feet. It may be that the cracks and fissures are older stagnant features and the bird is speaking to those on both sides of the yawning divide. Or, the crevasse may be growing as the ground rumbles, creaks and shatters beneath the speaker's feet. How the viewer sees the painting, "Spanning Divides or Shattering Foundations," will depend on their perspective on what it means to "Say What You Mean."
spanning divides or shattering foundations
faux fur
vanessa mcmahon
If you have spent any time on Victoria Street you may have seen the lady of which I speak.
Once you have seen her you cannot forget her exaggerated image is not easily met. Her sense of style... you could call it unique. Some point and laugh but I call it chic.
The voluminous gray hair in perfect rows of curls. Her withered lips painted with the perfect shade of pearl.
She is wrapped in 3 layers of fabulous faux fur. The first one is cheetah, the second bright pink and I believe the third is some version of mink.
I asked her once how she stays so neat. She told me
“I’ll tell you, but I must be brief. Just down the road I keep a stash of my things.”
But where, I asked?
That was a secret she wouldn’t reveal for the loss of her things would hurt a quite deal. And then I asked her “why so much fur?”
She said to me, and I’ll never forget “when your floor is the ground and your pillow is leaves, it is then that you decide what you really need. I don’t need money, the stars are my roof. My self-respect is fully weatherproof.
I want to feel fabulous each and every day. That’s what I want my obituary to say.
To say I was strong, put-together, full of sass! What I lacked in possessions I made up for in class.
My furs may be fake but they keep me warm. They help me weather the terrible storms. Not just the snow, but the storms in my head. Life can be hard when you don’t have a bed.”
So
If you see my new friend wearing her furs, Please be kind, sit down And listen to her.
Show her respect, It is well deserved And hope she shares stories of that fabulous faux fur.
we are coming for our language
shirley jones-luke
In the history of words suffragettes fighting for rights badges of honor queer an insult to some but a fortune to others who wish to tell it slant & mingle fact with fiction as they try to copyright our words we must reclaim our names This appropriation is unnecessary for the power of language has been distorted & used against us
This is unacceptable our culture will not be tainted our words will not be appropriated we will veto this wrong an offensive sting a symbol of irrational actions now in play must be restricted by law singled out for the corruption that it is & present itself for intense scrutiny for our language is at stake
the word
garry berteig
the movement of the Word in the mind is like a wind—it passes and the mind trembles so the heart sees the way
the source
vanessa mcmahon
Fact or fiction?
That depends on the source. Left or right. Is there any in between?
what i mean to say
donalee williams
Taught to make nice with a defacing yes, quietly binding my bloodied feet on the razor path of respectability. Taught not to think twice about denying my woman-being, in the image of Her, weeping in my soul’s closet. Taught to roll the crooked dice of privilege, the seeming choice of not seeing, swallowing bitter questions. Taught to pay my gender’s price: prepared to be someone’s groomed morsel, to live in frozen silence and rage.
And now, my learned advice: to the agreeable automaton, the soul denier, embodied dishonesty, invisible pain, Is to say, to cry out, finally, what I mean: No and no and no and no.
In a world of trickery and falsities It’s up to you to decide. In a world where so few people Say what they mean, this decision is not to be taken lightly.
The headline you see differs from mine based on your prior search history. Your ‘news feed’ really isn’t news at all but instead a jumble of pictures and divisive articles based on motives and not facts.
You can bury your head in the sand and pretend it doesn’t happen... but ignorance is not bliss, it’s simply ignorance.
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marginalia
Say What You Mean . . . ?
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column by douglas abel
“Say what you mean” and its corollary, “Mean what you say,” are directives that we claim to respect, even if they are frequently “more honoured in the breach than the observance” (Hamlet, I, iv, 16). In other words, we say we should say what we mean, but we don’t always mean it, or do it. The principle of honesty involved in saying what you mean is considered a virtue, but it is not one of the Classical (4) or Christian (7) cardinal virtues. The inverse of honesty, lying, is a behaviour forbidden in a commandment mythically carved in stone: “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour” (KJV Exodus, 20, 16). But while lying “under oath,” as testimony1 in legal/ criminal situations is forbidden, the converse obligation to speak the truth is not insisted upon without exception, or in all circumstances. “The truth shall make you free”—unless it doesn’t. We should “speak truth to power”— unless the consequences are unacceptable.
While honesty may be “the best policy,” it is not the only one. In the immensely complex web of social interaction, the “white lie” and the “halftruth,” the divergence, the distraction and the deflection are considered acceptable, even essential communications, at certain times, in certain circumstances, between certain people. We should say what we mean, but not if it creates “unnecessary” pain, or fear, or danger—for oneself or for the person spoken to. The key, complex, confusing and ever-redefined questions then become, “When is saying what you mean really ‘necessary’? When is it even advisable?” Faced with an irritable boss, who, just before employee evaluation time, asks curtly, “What do you think of my idea?” is it really virtuous, let alone advisable, to say what you mean?
There are of course numerous alternatives to telling “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” You can say what you mean, but not completely, presenting the acceptable part of the truth, but not all of it. If a response would involve both positive and negative comments, you can maximize the positive ones, minimize the negative ones, or give the positive ones first to soften the blow of the negative. From the vast number of synonyms in any language, you can carefully choose your words to modify the message. Is the boss’s idea “dumb?” Or is it “unusual,” “challenging,” “ahead of its time,” “in need of further study,” “worth thinking about,” or perhaps just “interesting”—a most useful word to avoid brutal honesty. Sometimes you can avoid saying what you mean, without lying, by keeping silent. Sometimes you can delay a response: “I need to think about that.” Sometimes you can change the subject. And sometimes you can formulate your thought with such complex words and such complicated structure that the “true” meaning is hidden, even if it is there amidst the verbiage. The overall tone and emotional content may mollify the hearer. Or he may become confused, but unwilling to admit that he doesn’t really understand. And you, the
speaker, can “honestly” say that you didn’t lie; the truth is in there—somewhere. Political, diplomatic and academic discourse is rife with such buried meaning.
It is sometimes important to avoid saying, exactly and completely, what we mean because the act of “saying” is not just words, or sound. It is an act, an action. The question is really not what you are saying, but what you are doing with the words you say. Are you trying to persuade, comfort, reject, criticize, dismiss, seduce, teach, destroy, encourage, discourage? Meaning is altered by both intention and target. If I want to encourage, I will “accentuate the positive” and play down or even “eliminate the negative.” If I want to dissuade from a dangerous action, I may avoid mentioning possible positive results completely. I haven’t lied, as such; I definitely have shaped and selected the objective “facts”—which are never, in fact, objective. When Hamlet advises the player to “Suit the action to the word, the word to the action,” (Hamlet, III, ii, 17-18) he is encouraging both restraint and truthfulness in performance. But his formula can also mean select the words, and the meaning they represent, to accomplish the particular action you have in mind. If you want to do A, then say B, leave out C, and say what’s left in manner D.
Equally important for a verbal action is the person you are doing it to, the intended target of both your words and your act. Intention is coloured and complicated by the intended, the receiver of your meaning. There are often two, sometimes conflicting, questions to ask before the act of saying begins: What does the receiver want to hear? What does the receiver need to hear? From those two questions come a host of others. If the want and the need are different, how do you proceed at this particular time? Is the need more important than the want? And, even if it is, is the desire so great that the receiver will not be able to accept, or even understand, what he is told he actually needs? Is fulfilling her desire a necessary precondition for eventually telling the “hard truth?” Or is the only way to proceed to shock the listener into understanding, as the first step to acceptance?
All of the above is based on the assumption that we know and consciously choose what we want to mean, and how we want to say it. We can choose to say exactly what we mean if all the aspects of saying it are in our awareness and subject to conscious control. But communication is not just an intellectual action; it is just as much a physical and emotional one. And much of our body language, our emotional tone, and our vocal quality are generated automatically and subconsciously, without our being fully aware of their nature and their effect. We may wish to make an appeal for calm; a rigidity in the spine or a quaver in the voice clearly indicates our nervousness, often without our being at all aware it is doing so. We may try to control an impulse to anger as we speak “reasonably;” a wrinkled forehead and ragged breathing give away our suppressed rage. And who has not tried to fight back tears when expressing grief or loss, and been amazed when the breath, body and voice simply refuse to obey? The messages that our body and our emotions create, immediately and automatically, are often stronger, clearer and truer than those we try consciously to send, however good our “intentions.” Unconscious or conscious: which is the true saying, and the true meaning?
Honesty is a virtue, albeit a conditional one. Saying what you mean is a good thing. But how can we say what we mean, when we may not and cannot even be aware of what we are saying, and what we are meaning?
1 The concepts of testimony and testifying have interesting physical origins. Both are based on the Latin word for testicle. In ancient Rome, two men who swore allegiance to each other would grasp each other’s testicles while doing so. A man swearing evidence in court would grasp his own testicles. In either case the implication of real, and painful, consequences for falsehood is clear.
contributors
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, and voice and speech teacher. He has just completed a World War 1 video documentary, Yours, Lovingly He always says what he means. Really.
garry berteig says, “Raised in Southern Saskatchewan under brilliant starry heavens and dry land farming, praying for rain. Began to read in a one room school and continued learning from books, people, travel and various disciplines. Resident in Fort McMurray since 1990 and love it here finding a widening embrace for making art and documentary video.”
mario eric grew up in Croatia , moved to Ontario, Canada at age 20, and to Fort McMurray at age 40. He began writing poetry at age 22 and since then has written over 100 poems.
michèle gagnon is an aspiring writer, poet, and artist from Fort-Coulonge, Québec. A mother, a powerlifter, and a lover of the culinary arts, she is inspired by the big ideas found in the small details of everyday life.
caitlin (cat) hare has been an artist for as long as she has been holding pencils. She is currently a freelance artist with a year of studying the arts under her belt. Cat left her studies to experience Europe and hasn’t looked back since. Cat says, “I like drawing because it’s fun and rewarding. I feel it is the only way to give my life meaning.” Keep an eye out for this upand-coming artist!
heather heggie writes, “I’m a stay at home mother of four. I have lived in Fort McMurray a total of 9 years, and I’m excited to embark on my adventures with writing.”
shirley jones-luke is a poet and a writer from Boston, Mass. Ms. Luke has an MFA from Emerson College. She will be a 2018 participant at VONA and Tin House this summer.
ron kirsch is currently on year ten of his two-year plan of living in Fort McMurray. His enjoyment list includes loud rock-n-roll, cats, cooking, photography, spending time with his incredible wife, and a complete disinterest in sports of all kinds.
jennifer macmullin writes, “My name is Jennifer but most people call me Jenn. I moved to Fort McMurray seven years ago. I am originally from Cape Breton.”
Born and raised on the west coast of Canada, barbara madden has lived, worked and created in Fort McMurray since 1998. She has participated in a number of painting exhibitions, recently completed writing and illus-
trating a children’s book, and was delighted to be an artist in residency for the Municipality of Wood Buffalo in 2017. She finds inspiration in the whimsy and wonder of the world.
kiran malik-khan is the communications manager for the Fort McMurray Public School District. She's a TEDx Fort McMurray speaker, a freelance journalist who loves sharing stories about Fort McMurray, and a social media specialist. The co-founder and Public Relations Director for NorthWord, she's also the co-founder and president of World Hijab Day Fort McMurray, a committee that has brought the conversation about the Islamic headscarf front and centre in our region. Kiran has been in Fort McMurray for 17 years. Happily married, she has two beautiful boys.
vanessa mcmahon says, “I am from Newfoundland and have lived in Fort McMurray for 5 years. Mom to two boys. Bookworm.”
lara mehraban, currently working at Syncrude as Associate Chemist, writes, “I am originally from Iran and immigrated to Canada in 2001. I have been writing short stories and short & long poems since the age of fifteen. My poems and stories are usually about love or social issues. I write in Persian and some of my works are translated in English.”
janelle ormond is a social profit worker in Wood Buffalo and mother of two. Originally from Cape Breton, she completed her BA from St. Francis Xavier University in 2012 and made the permanent move to the great North immediately after. In her spare time, Janelle enjoys being outdoors or following her passion for creative pursuits such as writing and painting. She is fascinated with the human condition, often writing about experience and relationships. She recently completed her first manuscript.
nathan rogers is a K-12 teacher, a long time basketball coach and a contributor to Fort McMurray Athletics.
carmen wells is a Metis artist who originally hails from Vernon, BC, but has found a home in Fort McMurray. Carmen works full time as Regulatory Manager at McMurray Metis, and works on pieces in her home studio. She writes, “My process for my work is a form of meditation for me; it may vary from time to time, but I free my hands from my mind and let the work reveal itself. The piece will become a life all its own, and I am merely bringing it to light. A lot of my work is based on instinct and feeling, which started as an idea.”
donalee williams has delighted in writing poetry for many years and is thrilled to be published for the first time. Donalee is an ordained minister at Fort McMurray First United Church and along with her spouse Ian, son Gavin and cats Misty, Mimi, Dixie and Oreo has called the city home since 2010.
dusk meets dawn by Kiran Malik-Khan
the everlasting stigma
nathan rogers
Life can change
At any given time
One minute you’re “normal”
The next you’re “out of line”
Prejudgement and stereotypes
Become a part of everyday life
The looks and whispers
Cut through you like a knife
The measures taken
To help things improve
Are often looked upon
As things that shouldn’t be needed or used
Through it all you learn
To persevere and to fight
Take on all the naysayers
Let your light shine bright
northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose:
To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
call for submissions
NorthWord Volume 4, Issue 2
deadline October 30, 2018
theme Celebration
guest editor NorthWord Board
We’re always looking for prose (3000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts from current projects, and visual art.
please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors, northword@hushmail.com for advertising and business inquiries, contact northwordmagazine@gmail.com