CATALYST: 'GLOW', Issue 4, Volume 77

EPISODE GLOW

ISSUE 04

My Journey with Dyslexia Learning to Create Again

The Spending Pact Countdown

catalyst

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Catalyst and RMIT University Student Union acknowledge the people of the Woi wurrung and Boon wurrung language groups of the eastern Kulin Nations on whose unceded lands we conduct the business of the University. Catalyst and RMIT University Student Union respectfully acknowledge the Ancestors and Elders, past, present and emerging.

We also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia where it conducts its business.

Catalyst is the student magazine of the RMIT Student Union (RUSU). The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the editors, the printers, or RUSU.

SOCIALS Instagram: @rmitcatalyst Website: www.rmitcatalyst.com

GLOW

EDITORS 2021

Catalyst Issue 04, 2021 RMIT Student Magazine, est. 1944

Chloe Karis (She/her), Ellie Barclay (She/her), Sayali Harde (She/her)

CONTACT catalyst@rmit.edu.au rmitcatalyst.com RMIT Building 12, Level 3, Room 97

CATACLYSM PODCAST Let your voice be heard: catalyst@rmit.edu.au

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CONTRIBUTORS

EDITORS

NEWS REPORTERS

Chloe Karis Ellie Barclay Sayali Harde

Isabella Podwinski Matt Slocum Molly Magennis

DESIGNERS

ENTERTAINMENT OFFICERS

Bridget Hayhoe Kelly Lim Sumit Saha

CREATIVE WRITING EDITORS Noa Shenker

CULTURE EDITORS Beatrice Madamba Savannah Selimi

EDITORIAL COMMITTEE Abigail Leamon Alyssa Forato Bella Sewards Bridget Hayhoe India Curtain Isabella Podwinski Jasper Riley Cohen-Hunter Jean Wenjing Zhang Jonah Epstein Lola McKimm

Mackenzie Stolp Molly Magennis

SOCIAL MEDIA Diane Armstrong

NEWS EDITORS Mackenzie Stolp

PHOTOGRAPHERS Bridget Hayhoe Jasper Riley Cohen-Hunter Kelly Lim

COVER Kelly Lim

PRINTER Printgraphics Pty Ltd 14 Hardner Road, Mount Waverley Victoria 3149 Australia

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CONTENTS

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19

38

Acknowledgements

Soccer

Get to Know Your Happy Chemicals!

03

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Contributors

Modern Love Season 2 Review

06 Letter From The Editors

22 This Clay Mask Enjoys Classical Music

09 Make Six-year-old You Proud & Fourteenyear-old You Cringe.

11 Stepping Out of my Own Shadow

14 Countdown

16 How my Favourite Childhood Cartoon Character Made me Realise I was Bi

Light At The End Of The Tunnel

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Dear B Comm.

Journalism; Class of 2021

My Journey with Dyslexia

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07 Letter From The President

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28 Calendar

30 Learning to Create Again

33 Share Your Work!

36 The Spending Pact

Glow Playlist

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LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

CHLOE KARIS, ELLIE BARCLAY, SAYALI HARDE

Welcome to the last issue of Catalyst in 2021!

We made it to another end of a crazy, uncertain year, well done to us all!

platforms. However, we are forever grateful for the experiences we’ve had, the lessons learnt, and the connections made.

In this episode’s planning sessions, we were desperate for joy, positivity and motivation and we know we’ve found it within these pages.

Lastly, we would like to congratulate Beatrice Madamba, Jasper Riley Cohen-Hunter and Savannah Selimi, the newest Catalyst editors. Keep an eye out for what the future holds for Catalyst!

We welcome you to our boasting, tooting your own horns episode with GLOW. Read the big and small achievements of students from all over RMIT. Highlights include inspiring stories of endurance from people who have found new meaning in their lives, discovered themselves and been recipients of great awards.

You’ll also find truly helpful advice given throughout our pages on how you can achieve your own success.

We’d like to thank all our lovely contributors, our 2021 team and our designers, we could not have done this issue and all previous episodes without you!

It has certainly been an interesting time for Catalyst over the last two years, living through a pandemic and making the most of our online

Stay safe over the coming months, as we enter new beginnings and enjoy seeing our friends and family again

For the last time, Your Eds Chloe, Ellie and Sayali.

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LETTER FROM THE PRESIDENT

AKSHAY JOSE, RUSU PRESIDENT

Hello again friends, As we come to the end of the academic year, Melbourne is entering spring with beautiful sunshine and vibrant colours.

However, this is not an ordinary spring. Normally we would be getting out and exploring nature and all this city has to offer, but instead we are all trying to do our best to learn from home.

Last time I wrote to everyone I was reflecting on the difficulties of the year gone by, and the resilience everyone had shown, to continue their university journey despite all the difficulties that lockdown presented. RMIT students have shown their strength and tenacity time and again through the exceptional challenges that have affected all of us over the last 18 months.

Meanwhile, RUSU has been working tirelessly for you, and in the spirit of the Glow edition I wanted to take the opportunity to reflect on some of the big wins which we couldn’t have done without your support and solidarity.

From ensuring the university offered continued mental health support to offshore students, to the medical hub administering vaccines to students, as well as many more positive wins which I shared the last time I wrote.

As we approach the assessment period, RUSU is working hard to ensure you get the support you need. Our Compass team are ready to offer advice, information, and referrals on a wide range of issues that students experience during their time at university. Our Compass staff are trained social workers who can offer support by email or phone. Our Student Rights team help students to be assertive and respectful when navigating the policies and processes that affect them at RMIT and in seeking outcomes from RMIT staff. Life can be particularly stressful when assessments are due so I would also encourage students to visit the RUSU Calm Zone – our online resource, packed full of tips, ideas, and activities to help support study stress and encourage wellbeing.

I also wanted to let you all know that this will be my last letter to you, as I am finishing my term as RUSU president. I am excited to hand over the responsibility of representing students to the newly elected incoming team and I know that they will continue to fight for all of you in 2022. I wish you all the best and don’t be a stranger if we cross paths.

Akshay

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BEATRICE MADAMBA

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MAKE SIX-YEAR-OLD YOU PROUD & FOURTEEN-YEAROLD YOU CRINGE. INDIA CURTAIN

You might be thinking, “Um, why would I want to do that?” But let me explain my philosophy.

When I was coming into my teenage years, any act that brought me out of the crowd was mortifying. This could be as simple as wearing bright shoes to P.E among a sea of crisp white Nikes, or being praised for my work by a teacher. Or, if I didn’t have that pair of Windsor Smith sandals (you know, the ones with the tassels), I may as well not go to the party. It’s safe to say I had an issue about what others thought of me, however I think lots of you may resonate with these feelings, in a more or less drastic level.

At the age of six, my one reason for living was to one day become a fairy princess. It was also an age I hadn’t yet felt the social pressures of who I should be. My naivety allowed me to think anything was possible. If I was told “no”, I would ask “why?” In front of my kindergarten class, I’d get up in my frilly fairy dress and carelessly sing a pitchy rendition of whichever Kylie Minogue song I was obsessed with then. One word. Cringe.

Now, I admire her. She was fierce, with the world at her fingertips. The thought “I’m not good enough” didn’t hinder her aspirations. She went to

sleep eager for what the next day held.

She didn’t sit at home and overthink every interaction she’d have that day.

If early-teen India saw me now, beginning my 20s with trips to the supermarket in socks and Birkenstocks, and speaking up about my passions and beliefs, she would probably die of embarrassment.

She’d be surprised about some of the decisions I’ve made in the attempt to achieve a sense of self worth. While I still have a long way to go in curbing my social anxieties, I am comfortable in this realisation. I’m turning into someone that 14-yearold me would hate. However, sixyear-old me would be proud.

At 14, I used to dumb myself down and underplay my achievements, petrified of larger personalities thinking I was ‘outshining’ them.

Walking around school, I felt like I was the topic of gossip for no apparent reason. While this developed as an anxiety disorder years later, I think it’s important to note that general teenage angst hits us hard.

Being out of school and in a time of lockdowns, I have experienced so much forced self reflection. I begin

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to realise that no one really cares. No one is looking at me. I am not the topic of conversation. Everyone is caught up in their own insecurities that they barely catch onto mine in anything more than a passing comment.

Wearing my blazer with my school dress on a day no one else did, wasn’t the end of my social life. There isn’t a direct correlation between being thin and being happy. They won’t hate you if you don’t reply to that text within minutes.

I’m happiness driven, career driven and not afraid to seek professional help, which was a massive step in my maturity. I’m progressing into the self I’m proud of, rather than being overwhelmed by the idea of being ‘liked’ by others. I think the girl in the fairy dress would point to the person I’m becoming, and decide it’s who she wants to be when she grows up. That’s now the most important measure of my growth.

@KELLJAIDE

As I enter a new decade, I still have an exceedingly long way ahead of me. This is certainly not a how-to, more like a shout into the void. But, I feel as though I’m closer to self satisfaction than my younger self could have ever imagined. She would say, “Don’t lift weights, you’ll get bulky.

Don’t have a political opinion, you’ll be controversial. What will people say?

What if they call you names?” To her I say, “Honey, Who?”

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STEPPING OUT OF MY OWN SHADOW

BEAU WINDON I failed English in high school. I failed most of my subjects but the one that really gets me, considering where I am now, is English. It wasn’t because I didn’t like reading or writing, I did, a lot. It was a combination of things: a teaching system that couldn’t cater to a neurodivergent student, a social system that baffled me to the point of crippling anxiety, a sense of alienation that disrupted any desire to learn, and that black dog called depression that would follow me around my entire life.

Once I finished high school, I didn’t go to university. Education just wasn’t catered to someone like me. I moved out of home immediately and started working, jumping from dead end job to dead end job. It would take years before a therapist helped me realise what I wanted to do with my life.

I wanted to tell stories.

They suggested taking a course in writing. I looked up a variety of different writing courses in my adopted home of Melbourne and found that the one that could help me the most, was a degree through RMIT. To say university education intimidated me would be an understatement. Having flunked my way through barely finishing high school, the thought of re-entering an education system felt like a recipe to

further cement my sense of failure.

None of my family had ever gone to university, it just wasn’t something people like us did. No, my family all had the same trajectory. Finish school and then go straight into working a low-income job to get an early start at surviving adulthood.

University was a shiny Pokémon card of a dream that people like me weren’t invited to play with.

Still . . . I applied with no ATAR, my statement of why I wanted to take the degree and a sample of my writing.

To my surprise I was invited in for an interview as part of the selection process. The interview was . . . okay.

I was a nervous mess and got told multiple times to control my volume (which isn’t easy for neurodiverse folk) yet somehow I got offered a spot in the program.

To my surprise, I excelled.

I had a slow start and struggled to immediately understand what I was doing, but it turns out when you’re passionate about something and are in a system willing to work with you rather than against you, it is possible to make up lost ground.

I graduated from an Associate Degree of Professional Writing & Editing (with Distinction) in 2019 and surprised myself with a desire for

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further study. So, in 2020 I enrolled in a Bachelor of Arts (Creative Writing).

The courses in this program were already a leap in difficulty . . . and then COVID. Living alone was a choice that had made my life easier. With my mental health issues, having an apartment to myself is just less stressful than sharing. I always loved living alone because it was my choice, but now I was plunged into forced isolation.

Weeks and months of no face-toface human interaction now made up the menu of my social life.

I’ve always been good at being alone.

Heck, I had been unconsciously training my whole life for this situation. It should’ve been easy. But everyone has breaking points.

I needed something to set my mind to.

A path to follow.

teachers. The thought of sharing my work to anyone else terrified me.

But now . . . I needed something to give me a reason to get out of bed.

A couple hours a week of online tutorials was a small nudge but I needed more, I needed a push.

A conversation I had with one of my past teachers, before lockdown, danced in the back of my head.

During that talk, the concept of having submission goals came up.

“Just aiming to submit for one writing opportunity a month can give you the motivation to really make progress.”

I created a spreadsheet and gave myself a goal of submitting for fifty opportunities by the end of the year. Rejection after rejection came through, but success wasn’t my goal. My goal was just submitting. If I submitted for something, in my eyes, I had already won.

A destination to strive toward.

While I had been writing for years now, I still struggled with my confidence and low self-esteem.

When you’ve spent decades failing and being made to feel slow and stupid, a couple years of straight HDs isn’t going to instantly fix your self-esteem issues. So despite excelling through my degree, I hadn’t submitted my work anywhere. My head told me I was stupid and that the good grades I had been getting were just a showing of pity from my

Here was my reason to get out of bed.

The avalanche of productivity really picked up when I got my first “almost win”. I was longlisted for a minor opportunity and suddenly I craved more. Diving into my writing; I finished short stories, I finished suites of poetry, I finished pieces of creative non-fiction, I finished a novel.

And I submitted them all for different opportunities.

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My low self-esteem no longer had control over me. I wasn’t playing to win; I was just playing to play.

Then the wins started coming.

I was awarded a prestigious Varuna Fellowship. I was highly commended in a YA Writing program and received free mentorship from an award-winning author. I was one of six writers chosen from a pool of six hundred applications to be part of the Emerging Writers’ Festival “At Home” residency program. I had an essay of mine accepted to be published in a literary journal that I had always thought of as being way too smart for the likes of someone like me. I was invited to speak on panels at the Emerging Writers’ Festival and the Melbourne Writers Festival. I won grants for my writing on a city and state level. All of these, and a few more, in under a year.

I still struggle with my confidence and low self-esteem; but I continue despite this, just playing to play.

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COUNTDOWN

NOA SHENKER

I have 23 days left before I submit my final assignment. I think it was probably about 23 minutes into my orientation day when I first introduced myself to the person sitting next to me. We were implored by the speaker to get to know our neighbour. My face was hot and back slick with sweat at the uncomfortable and unnatural greeting. I’d really done a poor job with that one. I was hoping that situation would not be indicative of how I’d act around every other new person I met at uni. But it was okay – I eventually found my people.

I have 7 classes left before I graduate.

Approximately 7 minutes into my first class, and I was thinking to myself, I really hope everyone else is just as confused as I am. I’d habituate myself to that very thought. But then I’d outgrow it, too. I caught on at some point, and I realised this; the key to university success is just looking at the rubric. Don’t do anything more or anything less. Look at the rubric.

I have 5 assignments left to submit.

About 5 months ago my group and I were announced as finalists in a global creative competition – Cannes Future Lions. Definitely a highlight of my university campaign, and at least one experience that’s (thankfully) transferrable to my resume. As an RMIT student, it’s hard to pull yourself

above the weight of expectations that the competitions thrown at you in your undergraduate degree carry.

Sometimes winning one feels like a life vest has been thrown your way.

And even if you don’t, we all know how to swim.

I have 3 more subjects to complete.

It’s been 3 years of ups and downs.

My first year went by in a flash, punctuated by lectures in Building 80, classes scattered across the many rooms of Building 9, and the occasional trek to Building 51.

Lunchtime RUSU sausages, the occasional pint, adventures around Melbourne Central and beyond. I often found myself feeling like a tourist in my own city, with RMIT acting as the base point of my explorations. The following year was a slow trudge, with a total of two weeks on campus, and a fair few more than two breakdowns at home.

My final year has been an unusual mix of the two that preceded it. My first semester seemed like a sprint, and as I began my descent on the final strait, my legs lost their way and buckled beneath me, leaving me crawling to the finish line. It’s been a weird one.

I have 1 class presentation left. One feeling supersedes every other one that my university experience

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might be defined by; there’s been joy, confusion, insecurity, confidence, boredom, excitement, fear, fatigue, fun – but ultimately, as my knees scrape across that final submission button on Canvas, what I feel most predominantly is pride. I’m proud that I’ve managed to finish my degree.

Anyone that’s graduating this year (albeit, most likely online) should be proud of themselves. It takes more than a begrudged high school alum to achieve. It is no easy feat.

@KELLJAIDE

I have an infinite amount of futures ahead of me, anticipating my heavyfooted arrival, bracing for the impact of my journey. Because whilst I might be crossing one finish line now, it’s really just the beginning of a new, much longer race that RMIT has been training me for. Monthslong uncut hair in the wind, tassels from my cap and gown flowing in their direction, I know my legs will be ready.

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HOW MY FAVOURITE CHILDHOOD CARTOON CHARACTER MADE ME REALISE I WAS BI CLAUDIA WEISKOPF

I’m 12 years old and my heart is trilling like a rooster’s morning crow, my breath catching like a hapless fly in a spider’s web. I’m sitting on the cold floorboards in front of the TV, legs crossed, enraptured by the shifting images on the brightly lit screen.

I’m 18 and my heart is pumping with the vigour of an athlete who knows they just won gold, my breath hitching like a horse to a cart. I’ve just kissed someone for the second time in my entire life and now I understand why people write poetry.

What is the connection between these two seemingly disconnected experiences? I won’t make you wait for the answer; it’s girls.

When I was younger, I was obsessed with the 2003 animated DreamWorks movie, Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas. It’s a dashing tale of pirates, criminals, heists and the end of the world. Its sharp wit, ravishing romance and high stakes action truly stand the test of time, even now in the era of sanitised, Disneyfied media. I loved it then, and I love it still.

However, I’ve come to realise in the past few years that my

childhood fixation stemmed from more obscure reasons than mere entertainment.

In the movie, the dashing and cavalier Sinbad must journey to the edge of the world with his best friend’s beautiful fiancée (cue angst) on a journey to retrieve the stolen Book of Peace under threat of death.

Sinbad is a lovable, irreverent and understandably misunderstood antihero who secretly shields a heart of immense compassion.

His companion, the beautiful and bold Marina, secretly longs for freedom from the political duties of her station as ambassador to Syracuse.

They, along with Sinbad’s ragtag crew, must outrun ancient hunters and plentiful obstacles to retrieve the Book from the one who took it; none other than the Goddess of Discord, Eris.

Eris is everything you imagine a chaos goddess would be; conniving, luxurious and utterly wicked. In a dusky purple dress that descends into coils of smoke at the hem and wreathed in sheaths of long ink black hair that seem to defy gravity’s siren song, she is a beautiful menace.

Every time she was on screen, my

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young eyes remained glued to her animated form. I distinctly remember the fluttering feeling in my stomach that greeted me every time she appeared, as light and unsure as a deer’s first steps. I watched and rewatched her scenes like an acolyte, especially the one where she bathes naked in a galactic bubble bath of stars, never understanding why she made me feel different than Sinbad or Marina or any of the other characters.

It was only after I came out as bisexual years later that I truly grasped my obsession with Eris.

I had, even at a young age, been attracted to her. Not consciously, not knowingly, but attracted nonetheless. This revelation made me question my entire coming out journey. This was not something that happened well into my teen years or overnight, this was something that had been present from childhood. I was not ‘going through a phase’ as so many people claimed. I had liked girls from the start.

One only has to ask the question ‘which cartoon character were you obsessed with as a child?’ to get a plethora of answers. Shego from Kim Possible. Jessica Rabbit from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Megara from Hercules, Velma from Scooby Doo, Kida from Atlantis. These characters, two dimensional as they are, illuminate a world in which the binaries of heterosexuality are not the only pathways to tread. Cartoons allow us to explore attraction in a liminal space, to push the boundaries of what we find appealing in a fluid, non-confrontational way.

Coming out is scary. You fear backlash, intrusive questions, judgement. When I told my family I was bi, they asked if I was doing it for attention. People claimed I

was a lesbian when I started dating girls, never stopping to ask me or hesitate to assume my orientation. Bi erasure pervades our community, as do harmful stereotypes about promiscuity and selfishness.

I am so proud to be bi, to be out, but it doesn’t rewrite the rocky road that lays behind me. Somehow knowing that I was attracted to more than men from an early age comforts me, because how would this be a phase if it had always been there?

I’m grateful for Eris; for her charm, for her cunning, but – most of all – for helping a questioning girl validate her blossoming sexuality. I recently rewatched Sinbad at 24 years old.

All the same butterflies were there, even more in fact, because now I feel no shame in admitting that Eris is one hell of a goddess.

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@KELLJAIDE

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SOCCER

BELLA SEWARD

You had me first Before I even knew I liked you Before I knew how to kick a ball or how to run a lap of the oval I didn’t know the extent to you I never expected to love you as much as I do I never expected to kick that goal To take on four players and chip the keeper To have someone watching and choose me I didn’t know what you were about until I got onto that plane You were serious, so my life became serious You were the best thing to happen to me You were the thing that made me believe in myself You were more than a goal, a selection, a team You were a friend I’m sorry if I disappoint you sometimes I’m sorry if I miss that tackle and let the other team score I’m sorry I didn’t get into that team But look at where I am today All because of that goal All because of you.

IMAGE BY ELLIE BARCLAY

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MODERN LOVE SEASON 2 REVIEW

SAVANNAH SELIMI

When you blend the whimsical backdrop of New York City with adored actors and the lightheartedness of rom-coms, you get Modern Love. It’s Amazon Prime’s anthology series that retells love stories from the New York Times column of the same name, and depending on who you ask, it’s either corny garbage or an enjoyable, albeit rosy-eyed escapism for the times.

I’m the latter.

Season one was regarded as a hit-and-miss, or ‘nauseating’ as the Guardian put it. Maybe I’m blinded by the likeness of Dev Patel and Andrew Scott, but I’ve got some good things to say about Amazon’s latest drop (not the one into space).

Indie filmmaker John Carney, returns to direct, casting a spell of intimacy in each episode. It’s a directorial quality that reels me in from Episode 1, which focuses on a widow’s sentimental attachment to a sportscar belonging to her deceased husband. Reimagining Doris Iarovici’s ‘On A Serpentine Road, With the Top Down’ essay, Carney illustrates attachment and grief with assistance from the charming Minnie Driver and the breathtaking scenes of the Irish countryside.

The scenes of Driver riding through mountains, defying misty air and the

lonesomeness of country roads, projects you into her character’s position. You can feel the coldness pain your skin and hair as they fight the mighty wind, as if you are there.

Carney constructs a parasocial interaction between viewer and setting, making it as if space and place are characters themselves.

Whether it be by the sparkling Brooklyn Bridge or aboard a Dublin train, you teleport beside these characters, watching their love stories unfold like a strange third wheel.

Where this season differs from the last, is within an exploration of love through a wider age range. In the episode ‘Am I…? Maybe This Quiz Will Tell Me’, we follow a teenage girl who is questioning her sexuality, and then in the final episode we’re along the journey of two middle-aged divorcees rekindling a romance amid tragedy.

Although this season mirrors the heartwarming, albeit sappy writing of the first season, in my humble opinion, the latest episodes don’t spark as brightly. Where last season was consistently entertaining, I felt a dullness in a few episodes of this new season. Though alight with great performances by lesserknown actors and a deeper insight into themes of mental health and infidelity, it simply didn’t hit as poignantly. Perhaps I’m biased by the stardom of season one or turned slightly off by the more ‘grounded’ turn that the rom-com love stories took this season.

In its joyful viewing pleasure and uncomplicated storylines, I recommend the show and its latest season. So, grab some tissues and a wine glass, and get ready to love or hate it.

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BRIDGET HAYHOE & KELLYLIM

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THIS CLAY MASK ENJOYS CLASSICAL MUSIC JULIANNA PERKOSZ

A Russian Clay Mask She asked when the semester will be over. I opened the bathroom window, a stick forest of scorched branches lay beyond the sill. I told her, When I finish this new jar of my clay mask.

The recyclable jar sat sealed on my bathroom counter.

Her morning voice asked at eight oh six, I got the entire day off, now what, and I said, blurry-eyed with healing pink eye, Open Spotify and search for Shostakovich.

I spelled the name one Soviet letter at a time.

Now what, was met with, Put on the thrifted prom dress—making sure she washed it twice—and turn on Waltz no. 2. Now pretend you’re Anastasia.

We pressed play at the same time, our feet gliding messily against our wooden floorboards, beds needing to be made and birds begging for windows to be open. We were two close friends, soul mates, waltzing through our mid-twenties, there was beauty in that moment that I wish I could have locked away in the locket she bought me when I finished my first degree.

We talked for almost six hours, breakfast and lunch included. She began her day with stale waffles drenched in golden syrup and I

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echoed one fresh bagel layered with lots and lots of cream cheese, a few oily slices of salmon smoked and a scattering of capers from a glass jar.

Time washed away the slow release of energy from bagels and waffles.

I’ve got leftover ramen, how long do you cook soft-boiled eggs for?

I said the number, she forgot it, It happened again, it’s hard. She slurped homemade ramen and I crunched on two toasties.

Lots and lots of cheap cheese like always, I said as I put the white bread away. I bought a new face mask; I think I’ll put it on after our call.

Why not now, was bathed away with, Because I’ll get lost in the niceness of the mask. I want to give all my attention to you.

The jar sat open, stains of dry clay dirtied the lid. My face felt soft as I washed away the dehydrated green.

A Polish Clay Mask No one’s made me cum like you did, was met with, As if, his cheeks a raspberry shade.

My clay mask sits half empty in the bathroom cabinet opposite the ajar window.

My cotton sheets in the wash, they’re a sloppy shade of blue.

They’ll come out smelling like eucalyptus, I tell him as we watch the washing machine swirl and whirl the creamy night of our second date.

One peg, two pegs, three turned to ten, my bed was stripped of everything except my sister’s handme-down queen mattress.

My pores need to refine and redefine themselves after last night, I laugh as we head up the stairs of the onebedroom apartment I’m sitting for a family friend.

I nod twice with a smile as he asks if he can have some of my clay mask.

His iPhone timer set to ten minutes, we sit cross-legged on the grey and yellow tufted rug my cousin said to put on the bedroom floorboards.

I play Paweła Mykietyna’s Poskromienie Złośnicy from my iPhone.

Ow, it’s tight, his mouth stretches open as he stares at his reflection in the mirror I brought in from the little entryway.

Don’t do that, I say, it’ll fuck up your laugh lines. I roll my eyes, the Betty Boop pen and pad sitting in-between us. He motions for the pen with his right hand, his free hand dragging the pad. He turns his back, quickening scribbles scurry through the room.

Face to face, our mouths shut, he loops his thumb in-between his middle and index finger and touches my nose with it. As soon as he takes his thumb from my nose, he hands me his Boop note: NOSE RETURNED ONLY AFTER A KISS. The timer went, my sheets changed from cotton blue to cotton/polyester orange. I kissed him; he kissed my cheek. As I entered the bathroom to clean the clay jar, I noticed a Betty note slid under it: YOU ARE EUCALYPTUS GUMDROPS UNDER, OVER AND ALL AROUND THE TONGUE. I’m glad he didn’t leave any x’s and o’s.

A French Clay Mask A discussion about The Witches hovers through the bedroom. I listen on the ground in a lazy Slav squat as my final lecture plays: the uncanny as metaphor. It nears towards the end and I line a white Hot Wheels Mustang over the barren floorboards in unconventional shapes. The bedroom window has been open for six hours, an hour of which I spent listening to the lorikeets and fairywrens instead of submitting my

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final essay: a surrealist piece about clay masks and silver watches.

Erik Satie’s Gnossiennes plays one through to six, the cuckoo clock chimes four p.m. and I laugh with myself. The night before I danced daggy on the blue sheets, in front of the entryway mirror, still in the bedroom, and all throughout my rosemary and lavender-scented shower. I moonwalk across the tuft rug, my laptop closed on SUBMITTED in bold, black Helvetica Neue.

He asked me what the title of the song was in English on our third date, The one you played when we had that green mask on.

I replied, It’s called Taming of the Shrew. I’m not sure was the answer, We only covered boring Romeo and his Juliet.

The clay mask is used up, tossed into the recycling bin. I scour through my jacket pockets for my phone and google the recipe for an egg and oat mask. I’ll be answering my close friend with another end of semester date in three months’ time.

@KELLJAIDE

My close friend, my soul mate, sent a phone photo of homemade waffles, batter pancaked all over the 80s kitchen. Her voice memo shouted FREEDOM with high shrieks replacing exclamation marks. I asked for the waffle recipe, she messaged back she’ll make me some in exchange for a face mask.

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MY JOURNEY WITH DYSLEXIA

ISABELLE WEISKOPF Words.

The elusive things that as you try and grasp them, slip away, giggling.

Vindictive, pesky things.

My whole life I have struggled to find them. I always wondered why my classmates found them so much easier to catch. If my words were the Fairweather fairy’s, buzzing and slippery, then my classmates’ words were sheep – easily herded and docile.

When my mother asks me to read to her, I have started to make up stories based on the pictures. I think that I am getting away with it, my secret. It is only years later that she will tell me what she didn’t have the heart to do then. That I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Desperation settles in my stomach, hard as gravel. I look around, hoping to find a face that looks as confused as mine. There are none. I am a lonely planet with no star system and nothing to orbit. I am achingly, inexorably alone.

I am 8 years old and I am in class.

The words never came, until they did.

We are in a mixed classroom; the younger grades share with the older.

My friend, a year younger, sits next to me. She is reading a book, flipping the pages with a whimsy that angers me. I shift, intent on deciphering the swimming letters that float around on the colorful page in my hand. I try to grasp at them, but the words will not come. I settle on flipping the pages each time my friend does, that way, people will not know my secret.

I am 8 years old and I can’t read.

The book I am holding is meant for a reader much younger than I but the letters won’t form themselves into words, the words won’t fit themselves into sentences, and the sentences won’t be squished into paragraphs. All I have to go off are the pictures.

One word, in particular, has started to follow me around like a sickly dog, nipping at my feet, chittering after me wherever I go.

Stupid.

This is one word that I cannot lose.

I want to shake it loose and free myself, but the dog has its teeth sunk deep. It is after this word follows me tittered when I can’t read a sentence out loud in class, whispered in the school playground, and then shouted – that I go to my mother. I am crying, the tears running snottily down my red cheeks.

“Why am I stupid?” I ask. She frowns, and hugs me tight. Clutched against her I hear her whisper, “You’re not stupid, you’re different.’ I don’t

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understand what that means at that moment, but years later I will come to appreciate her words.

We go to the specialist, and finally, we have an answer. I am dyslexic.

“You’re better than this,” I whisper furiously into the mirror. ‘I thought we left this behind us.’ I want to hurt myself for my failure. I want to punish myself. The pain feels good.

I grow up.

What I think this means is that I will struggle my entire life for things that others will not. What I think this means is that I will always have to chase the words, they will never come to me willingly. What I think this means is that mathematics will always stay a foreign language. What this means is that I am different.

“You’re just wired in a unique way,” my mother says, and I am glad. I am not stupid. I am dyslexic. A word to place to the feeling of intense loneliness that comes when the words will not be found.

I am older now and I have found my passion. After finishing with an ATAR score I once would have thought impossible, I find myself at university on a scholarship. The hours and the study have paid off. The ATAR score to me – while it annoys my friends and family that I mention it perhaps once too often – is my certificate of validation. A piece of paper that says I am worthy. That I am enough. That I struggled and fought for the words, and after all that toil, they are mine. I had captured the elusive screeching things, And I wasn’t about to let them go.

It gets better.

I write a book.

We do activities, we train my brain.

Each day my mother and father do assigned games to help me understand. I am 10 years old, and I have read my first book, it was a short one, but it was a victory. From there, I get a taste for it. The words come slowly, and then all at once. I am reading, and not just occasionally, but ravenously. I read the classics, and the contemporaries, and everything in between. It has become my superpower. I still find it hard in class, but the feeling of being a lonely planet has slowly started to dissipate.

I am in high school and I have figured out the secret. If I study, hard, harder than anyone else in the class, I can be the best. The hours are long, and the work grueling, but after being stupid for so long, I am ready for transcendence, for wings. Each A sends me soaring high, and each C brings me crashing down. When the Cs come, I feel a rage boil inside me.

During lockdown my sister and I escape into another land through the words. They transport us to another world. We traverse through crumbling underground catacombs lined with the knowing eyes of the dead. We flee, hand in hand through a dark glittering forest. We face off with the monster.

But another monster, one which I thought I had buried, rears its head.

Despite all the years of struggle – the deep well of inferiority, the fear of that one word, the one that still occasionally nips at my heels – I am faced with the realisation that the words will come to her like they never have for me.

They slide through her like a stream of water flowing through a mountain. While mine, I still have to find like a rock climber desperately searching for each new perch,

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praying that this next handhold will bear my weight.

After so many years I thought I had conquered it. The words. I had almost convinced myself that I wasn’t dyslexic anymore. That I had beaten it. That I was normal. It was this very word that would galvanize me against the other one that still knocked on my door in my weaker moments. The dog was keen to get in.

I thought of my ATAR, of all the As I had racked up in my life, of all the books I had read, wasn’t this enough?

Hadn’t I proved myself?

Had I left the classroom of the lonely planet? Or had I only blinded myself to the truth? And then it hit me: I don’t need to fight anymore.

I had locked myself away in a room.

This room had four walls, a door and a floor. And I couldn’t get out. This was the room of the lonely planet, and there was no escape.

I am 8 years old and I can’t read. The dog is in here with me, and he won’t leave me alone. His sour breath tickles my neck. His teeth are deep in my skin and I can’t breathe. The book I hold in my hand’s swims around in front of my eyes and the words are playing tricks on me, teasing me, laughing at me. I have been here a very long time.

I see the door crack. A woman walks towards me, she is tall, much taller that I. And she has a kind face.

She kneels down in front of me and smiles. It is a small one, but it blooms with the empathy of a thousand suns.

“I’ve put you in here for a long time,” she whispers. “I wanted to deny that you were a part of me. I wanted to forget.”

“You did.” I say.

“Not anymore.” The woman takes my hand and stands up. “I think it’s time you saw what was outside of this room.” Together, we walk out and into the sun. The dog trots next to me, but I let him. He was scared too.

I’m sure that if we looked deep within ourselves, we would find that we all have a small child locked away.

Somewhere deep, without light.

Petrified in a moment of horror. Of loneliness. It is when we extend the hand of empathy to that small child, to ourselves, that we can truly start to heal.

It has been a long journey to selfacceptance, but it is when we deny the parts of ourselves that scare us that we become incomplete. For so long, the memory of the lonely planet made me want to forget, but it was only once I could accept myself, all of myself – the stupid, the smart, the silly, the forgotten –that I could truly be whole. When we accept that we are different we can start to work to our full potential, because it is our differences that are our strength.

I had always been scared of the words, the fear, I had tried to lock that part of myself away. But now?

I walk with them hand in hand.

And we stand tall.

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LEARNING TO CREATE AGAIN

VIVIAN DOBBIE-GLAZIER

Shame and self-doubt. A diabolical duo of villainy that hounds the soul of a creative.

to see what resonated with the creative soul and what made it sing loud and proud.

It felt impossible to overcome them, especially in the face of everything that had occurred over the past year.

Who was inspiring? Why this medium? When did the love for this aesthetic style form?

Nothing is more haunting then being a creative who hates their creations.

To enjoy the process of creation yet walk away feeling as if nothing had been achieved. To get swept up in the motions of conception only to shun what had formed.

These feelings permeated and buried their roots into the corners of the creative soul taking hold. The processes and the motions were not worth it anymore. Nothing was generating and the inner workings were grinding to a halt.

In the process of laying the base down, it also helped reveal why a crisis of creative identity had manifested in the first place. There was no blueprint beforehand.

Creation was constructing and hoping for the best. When the best didn’t appear, it cut hard. This sounded too simple. Going back to what brought that joy in the first place. Surprisingly though, it was an easy thing to lose sight of. Especially with the overstimulation of culture and entertainment that exists, creating a paralysis of choice when it came to the pivotal moments in forming the creative identity.

It was a crisis of creative identity.

To solve it conjured two options: stay in this constant state of selfloathing or solve the issue to reclaim the joy and pride that once existed in creating. The latter was chosen, and it needed a space to be nurtured.

This space needed a strong foundation first to weather the crisis. Laying this foundation meant forming and answering questions

It was time to move forward from that.

This process was not easy. Things were not perfect. There was a lot of trial and error as time went by. But it all helped in constructing a place that felt like home. Each experiment left something to learn from that would let the structures become clearer.

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Shame was becoming smaller, and self-doubt was beginning to fade.

Finally, a home for the creative soul had been rebuilt. Somewhere to feel safe and free from the months that were plaguing it beforehand.

It could glow as bright as it wanted.

Make mistakes if it felt inclined to. The processes and motions of creation were embraced with open arms again. Most importantly though, there was pride in what was made.

Something to put up on the shelf for all to see. Bouncing back never felt better.

But was the crisis averted?

The journey was far from over and probably never will be over until the lights go out. What was important was that there was a small victory in this journey during a year where the odds felt stacked. Even if no one saw or took notice of it there would always be a home to return to and flourish.

@KELLJAIDE

It would’ve been ignorant to think that it was always going to be a smooth ride. Yes, the shame was smaller. Yes, the self-doubt had faded. It wasn’t completely gone though. It was lurking in the dark waiting for an opportunity to return when the time was right.

However, this time, there was a solid foundation to batter anything that was thrown at it. Instead of succumbing to it again, it could be managed. A utility existed for it now that could problem solve and critically think when approaching creating. Long ago this would’ve thought to be impossible but now things were different.

Now it was about creating from a place of love.

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@KELLJAIDE

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SHARE YOUR WORK!

YUSHA AZIZ

I’m here to flaunt my wins.

And I’m going to focus on a win I’m proud of -- getting my written work out there. It’s not on par with travelling across Asia, or buying a house, or running an ultramarathon.

But I don’t care, because it’s huge for me. A few years ago, I didn’t have the confidence to send my writing to anyone except close friends. Now, I’ve pitched and submitted to multiple publications. Let me share a few things I’ve learnt. Maybe it can help you share your own work?

One major strategy that helped me was having goals. I’m talking specific and measurable goals like ‘get published in every issue of the university magazine this year.’

Initially, my goals were vague: ‘get your work out there.’ That doesn’t mean anything. I could print up an article and throw it outside my window. Technically, that’s getting your work out there. I needed clear goals.

Breaking down a vague goal and making it more tangible, helped me by outlining a specific set of steps that I could follow. These steps had a distinct pass or fail criteria, so it made it harder to lie to myself about

progress. It kept me honest and created accountability.

However, it wasn’t just a lack of clear goals that stopped me from sharing my written work publicly. I had a chorus of self-limiting beliefs singing in my head.

This ‘chorus’ has many labels but the most apt and scientifically sound (I swear) label is perfectionism. And that perfectionist voice always intruded and crushed any thought I had of sharing my work.

‘It’s not good enough. It sucks. It’s so bad.’

My other limiting beliefs grew from here: the low confidence, black-andwhite thinking, and nihilistic outlook.

The last one, nihilistic outlook, was the most harmful. It didn’t matter how hard I tried or how much effort I put in, because it would all be a pointless stupid laughable rambling vomit of word trash; and if people read it, they would tear it apart wordby-word.

That isn’t exactly a healthy and constructive line of reasoning. You wouldn’t say all that to a friend, would you? (I hope you wouldn’t).

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So, then what did I do? I started to accept I had these unhelpful mental barriers and tackled them one-byone. Eventually, they started melting away. The biggest helpful shift in attitude came from thinking in terms of possibilities. I used to think, ‘Well, unless I know for sure that X will happen, then I’m not sharing work’ and, surprise, surprise, I never shared anything. I never even tried.

Once I started to see things as possible – ‘it’s possible that my work gets published or gets a positive reception’ – my confidence grew, and with that came the ability and faith in myself to try. If I tried and there was a possibility of success, then I had the impetus to send my work out into the universe.

And what about rejection? I hated the thought of it, but I learned rejections aren’t permanent. Having your work rejected at one place at one time doesn’t mean that your work will never get published. Unless the universe implodes, there will be more opportunities to pitch and submit your work in the future.

There’s still a long way for me to go.

Yet I’m happy with the progress I’ve made so far. Do you have something, creative or not, that you’ve been putting off sharing? If you don’t, you snuff out any good possible outcome that comes from doing so.

Why are you still waiting?

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@KELLJAIDE

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THE SPENDING PACT ALYSSA FORATO

I have a confession to make: I’m an impulse-shopper. A very bad one.

I never used to have any issues saving money. Before COVID, the majority of my payslip would go straight to my savings. I always knew just how much to leave for my weekly expenses, my social life, plus the occasional treat for myself.

When lockdown began, so did my shopping addiction. I made excuses to buy new clothes, justifying it by saying I’d get heaps of wear out of them once we were out of lockdown.

Besides, my work hours were consistent and higher than ever before. What was the harm?

CHLOE KARIS

As lockdown went on, my onlineshopping tendencies steadily increased. I don’t think there was a single day between April through to September wherein I wasn’t waiting on at least three packages at one time. At my worst, I was expecting 13. Checking my Australia Post app, I realised this was a serious issue. I was becoming more than a shopaholic; I was a consumerist monster, a blackhole for Australia Post packages.

My wardrobe started to overflow.

It was impossible to keep clothes neatly in my drawers anymore, and my room soon became a total mess.

My chair, once sitting in the corner of

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my room in all its glory with its funky clock pattern, was now invisible, hidden behind a giant mound of clothes strewn across it. It was bad. I had to stop.

My best friend was in a similar boat.

We both had a serious clothing addiction, our purchases fuelling each other’s. One morning, I was watching her latest clothing haul over Snapchat when I realised that I loved every item that she purchased.

Then it hit me. I liked pretty much all her clothes. And we’re the same size.

And she’s completely fine with me borrowing absolutely anything at any time.

I rushed to text her my proposal: neither of us could buy any new clothes until we had gone through our entire wardrobe and worn everything. After that, we would proceed to go through each other’s wardrobes. Neither of us would be allowed to purchase anything new until this is complete. The only exception would be buying clothes we genuinely need, such as for work, but the purchase must be approved by the other person before any money is spent. With reluctance, she agreed.

It’s been hard, but I’ve survived. The last item of clothing I unnecessarily purchased was June 16th. I’ve discovered that the key to impulse buying is not to look. Not even to browse. I ignored the emails flooding my inbox and resisted the temptation to search my favourite clothing websites. Instead of throwing my money towards materialistic items, I have been utilising the funds I once wasted towards bettering my lifestyle.

So, how’s it all been going?

Firstly, to my savings. I’m lucky

enough to be living at home with my mum, and as such I save hundreds of dollars each week that I would otherwise be spending if I were renting. However, I like to pretend I am renting, placing the income I believe I would have to spend on rent, bills and daily expenses straight into my savings. Once the money is in my savings, it no longer exists to me – I pretend I don’t have it, therefore I don’t touch it.

Additionally, I have started investing.

I never had an interest in the share market as I didn’t understand it. It seemed like an overload of information to attempt learning.

However, with the advice of my brother and dad, I have slowly begun to comprehend the world that is investing and placing my money in sturdy companies and ETF’s that will benefit my financial situation in the long run. Furthermore, She’s on the Money is a great podcast I’ve been listening to in order deepen my knowledge on investing.

However, there have been some purchases.

I have bought organisational tools for my room, including a jewellery box and stand which I have on display next to my desk. Through having my accessories visible, it reminds me of what I own and how I have more than enough, thus I am not tempted to purchase the latest jewellery trends I see on Instagram.

My biggest purchase (and my favourite) since my pact with my friend has been a bike. I wanted to not only improve my fitness but invest in a healthier lifestyle while also doing something I enjoy. Though it was expensive initially, it will benefit me in the long run. Was it a slightly impulsive purchase? Maybe, but I don’t regret it one bit.

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GET TO KNOW YOUR HAPPY CHEMICALS! JENNA MACLEOD

The RUSU Women’s collective have been running weekly online wellbeing sessions for female identifying and non-binary students. The group is run by Harsheet Chhabra, your RUSU Women’s Representative for 2021 and Jenna MacLeod, your Compass Coordinator.

The sessions are focused on a different happy chemical in our brain.

The aim of these sessions is to give us insight, as once we’re aware of our happy chemicals, we can learn how to use them and then we can enact those plans.

When asked the value of the group, Harsheet said, “It was important for the RUSU Women’s department to make female identifying students feel comfortable and be connected during the lockdown phase - a place to collaborate, share and speak your heart out. It’s always better to have a ‘Power Of Pack’ than being alone. Isolation can be overwhelming, being shut in the house and not able to communicate your feelings out. The inner circle of close female contacts trying to rise to face the cultural and systemic

hurdles can be overcome by sharing experiences and develop ourselves from shared wisdom. The weekly catchups give us an opportunity to have each other’s back and act as mentors or sponsors which makes us grow stronger individually and as collective. It gives us and chance in relationship building and nurturing them to have long lasting bonds.

Amplifying the voice and finding a squad to tap into has actively helped us out to succeed by really walk the path and champion each other through all the different avenues (and also have fun through the process!)”

We are reminded to set one self-care goal for ourselves for the upcoming week. At the start of the next week, we check back in with each other and discuss how we went. There are no failures, we are believers that something is better than nothing and giving any new or old strategy a go is an achievement!

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WHICH ONE ARE YOU GOING TO FOCUS YOUR ATTENTION ON THIS WEEK?

DOPAMINE

OXYTOCIN

(THE HAPPY ONE)

(THE LOVE ONE)

Set one self-care goal for the week.

Choose a reward for yourself once you have completed the goal, this can help with motivation.

Practice positive self-talk. Write down three of your strengths. Write down three things you are proud of yourself for. Repeat these to yourself during times of self-doubt or negative thinking.

Listen to a meditation podcast. You can try sitting, standing, walking, or lying down. Meditation can help to increase dopamine.

SEROTONIN (FEEL GOOD ONE) Record three things you are grateful for at the end of each day. At the end of the week, you will have 21 amazing items of gratitude.

Appreciate nature in your day. Notice the sunshine, how does it feel on your skin? During a walk outside, watch out for flowers, trees or dogs and find awe in the natural world.

Set one self-love activity for the week. You can try massage your hands with cream, give yourself a manicure, cook a special meal, clean your space, have a bubble bath, or long hot shower, brush your hair, buy yourself a small treat or make some body scrub.

ENDORPHIN (THE STRESS RELEASE ONE) Set one physical health goal for the week. Using your body to decrease stress. Move your body, increase your breathing and heart rate to fight negative feelings.

Make yourself laugh! Watch a funny movie, show, or clip. Listen to a comedy podcast. Find some laughter in your day!

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LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL ISABELLA HAWKINS

Sitting behind a glass window, computer screen or any barrier, can leave you with a lingering desire to escape and flee this trapped feeling. However, despite how isolating the feeling is, this situation isn’t permanent. We are stuck - not trapped - which is a notable difference. It’s important to remember that these lockdowns don’t last forever, no matter how much they feel that they do.

sun rays that are rarely provided by weather in Melbourne. Also, playing the sounds of acoustic music resonates with me more strongly than ever, consuming my body and mind with warmth. The delicate plucking on a guitar echoing with the beat of my heart, and helping ground me in the present moment, away from the chaos of the world.

Every time I stare out at the ghost town of my local streets, it’s tough to avoid these constant reminders, and become impatient with a frustrating situation. Watching the news in this crisis is similar to watching a dystopian film; factions of people fighting and protesting and a heart stopping earthquake shaking the state. However, when you are reminded that the return to normalcy is just around the corner, it makes the current struggle a little more bearable.

Being given all this free time, it is cliché to say you are given the opportunity for self-care, but it is true. Podcasts have become a new passion that has come to light for me.

Hearing the voices of other people and sharing laughs at interactions with others in a time where it is scarce, lightens the longing to escape lockdown. Building better and healthier habits has also been something that has given me drive.

Having a clean room and a more consistent sleep schedule are small achievable wins that can uncloud my mind.

Staying inside the four walls of my home, allows me to appreciate the smaller things I would take for granted in life pre-COVID. A sunny day can both literally and figuratively brighten any day. It encourages me to go out for a much-needed walk, or just bask in the warmth of the

One of the most defining parts of my character is my positive, optimistic and pulsing energy which is absorbed by those around me. I am proud and tooting my own horn when I say that and when others give me that compliment. However, lockdowns have helped remind me

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These trying times can make big accomplishments feel out of reach and unachievable. Therefore, taking notice of the everyday wins can be more impactful and cause more momentum for a chain reaction of wins to occur. The pulsating glow of pride coming from a small accomplishment helps to get out of a continuous rut of lockdowns. My levels of motivation and productivity can be very low, and everyday activities turn into struggles. When I actively try to find the highlight of my day, no matter how small it might seem, it gives me a stepping point to get out of a ditch of doom. I am glad that my optimistic outlook has been tested and even thrived in these dark times. Always give yourself this glowing hope, that before you know it, we will return to our previous society. Be your own light at the end of this pitch-dark tunnel.

@KELLJAIDE

that people who look like they are bursting with energy can have their off days. In most recent times it can be hard for even the brightest smiles to shine in the dark night of COVID. We learn to remind ourselves that when we feel those all-powerful lows, not to be too hard or critical on ourselves for it.

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DEAR B COMM. JOURNALISM; CLASS OF 2021 CLAUDIA FORSBERG

Hi there it’s me, Claudia. I feel like most of you would know me, even if we haven’t formally met. Maybe we’re good friends, classmates, or you’ve seen me around.

Remember back in first year journalism 101? I sat in front of all of you and introduced myself via a presentation. Maybe you weren’t expecting that, but then again, you didn’t know me before then. All you knew was I was that quiet girl, in a wheelchair, sitting at the front of the classroom. Perhaps you were a bit nervous to come up and talk to me.

Or perhaps you were just nervous in general, it was our first year of uni after all! Either way, I did that presentation to make it easier on both of us. I was absolutely terrified before that, but I’m so glad I did it. I mean it worked, didn’t it? I told you a bit about myself and let you know that I was just like the rest of you.

I told you that it was okay to say hello, I don’t bite. Most importantly, I cracked a few jokes that made you laugh. Suddenly we were all talking to each other. We even became really good friends. The rest, as they say, is history.

Can you believe that was almost three years ago? A lot has happened since then. We’ve grown so much...

Wait, wait. Before I continue. If some

of you just gagged then, I’m very sorry. I know this already sounds so cheesy. But I do have a point to all this wistful reminiscing. Bare with me.

So, what’s happened? We went to a few protests and tried to cover them like real journalists. We attended some professional events and seminars. Some of you got to learn about the joys of dealing with inaccessible venues. Good times.

We fumbled our way through live broadcasts for TV and radio, many of us totally sweating bullets. Mind you, we all looked fabulous dressed in our best reporter outfits. We had a few trivia nights which produced some of the more hysterical moments of the year. We laughed at Janak’s corny jokes and Tito’s poignant tweets.

Sonja has opened us up to so many wild opportunities and we’ve even enjoyed the weekly newsletter-like announcements from Alex. In fact, I wish I could thank each individual amazing lecturer and tutor we’ve had throughout this degree, but I only have 700 words.

Oh, I almost forgot, WE SURVIVED A PANDEMIC! Bet you didn’t see that coming when we started first year. I’m just glad our generation got at least one full year on campus to get to know each other before we all hopped on Zoom or bloody

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Collaborate Ultra. On the bright side, we learnt how to use Slack really well and I don’t know about you, but all the newsrooms that I’ve interned for use it. In fact, we still learnt quite a lot from home. How to make videos and podcasts using Premiere Pro and Audition. How to manage a group project on Trello. How to build our portfolios and networks.

Most notably, how to broadcast a news program from our bedrooms.

Remember that week that started off with us broadcasting Newsline from a real studio on campus, then halfway through the lockdown was announced we had to switch to doing it from home the very next day. It was super stressful but still, we did it.

You don’t need me to tell you that as journalists we tend to be knee deep in the news. If we’re not writing it, we’re consuming it on a daily basis, more than most people. Every election, every natural disaster, every update to the pandemic. We are right there.

It can feel pretty overwhelming on top of all the uni work we had to do.

I wish I had a highlights reel to show you all, so that you could see just how much we’ve accomplished over the past three years. But I guess, that is why I’m writing this letter to you.

To mark this occasion of coming to the end of our degree. Months away from graduating as fully fledged journos, ready to take on the world.

You don’t have to believe me, but I am proud of each and every one of you. Just as I will be proud to work alongside any RMIT journo alumni in the future workforce. I’m proud to call myself an RMIT journo. We are not just a class of students, we are a family. A family that will look out for each other for years to come.

On a personal note, thank you all for getting to know me and making me feel part of such a wonderful group of people. It’s hard as someone with a disability to fit in. But you all made it

so much easier. You are good people that I will miss very much.

Finally, I want you all to remember just as I will, no matter where you end up after this year, you have accomplished something truly great. You graduated one of the best journalism degrees this country has to offer and you did that despite the many challenges we’ve all faced. You should be damn proud of that.

So, this is not goodbye, but see you round, fam.

Yours truly Claudia Forsberg

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@KELLJAIDE

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PLAYLIST

CITY REPRESENTATIVE - ADAM STEINER

Live Wire AC/DC

Join The Club Hockey Dad

Piano Man Billy Joel

Be Calm (ft. Willaris. K) Skin on Skin

The Difference (feat. Toro y Moi) (Willaris. K Remix) FLUME

Boys In town Divinyls

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11 Stepping Out of my Own Shadow

20 Modern Love Season 2 Review

22 This Clay Mask Enjoys Classical Music

25 My Journey with Dyslexia

40 Light At The End Of The Tunnel

PUBLISHED ON ABORIGINAL LAND