The Strand Magazine | Bonds

FA L L M A G A Z I N E | V O L U M E 5 9

bonds noun | \bändz\ things (such as ideas, interests, experiences, or feelings) that are shared between people or groups and form a connection between them

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once bonded olivia miller

make your parents proud mary zelenova

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a bond broken alex zutt

summers at oma’s sabine calleja

bonds 9 fixing broken elena senechal becker

brothers

kody mccann

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10 the hedgehog’s dilemma varvara nedilska

distances

ashley meehan

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11 me too

nicole gumapac

strangers meeting emma lailey

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33

the big man

leyland rochester

an ode to the women i’ve lived with emma workman

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15 sadie

hannah dwyer

here & there

rosa kumar

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with a shadow of a doubt

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arjun sawhney

the land that built us

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grace king

opening the door in the 4th wall arin klein

unlearning the unspoken rules of language kathleen chen

the biology of friendship max weiss

& lidia hencic

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EDITORS IN CHIEF

Erik Preston Alexandra Scandolo

SENIOR DESIGN EDITOR Genevieve Wakutz

DESIGN

Annika Hocieniec Erik Preston Sonya Roma Alexandra Scandolo

SENIOR COPY EDITOR Tristan Mcgrath-Waugh

COPY

Ainsley Doell Grace King Victoria London Heather Mackay Tamilore Oshodi Sabrina Papas Carol Park Alexandra Scandolo

It’s hard to sum up something as unbreakable as a bond in words like connection, relationship, or network. They are all intertwined, but a bond is always rife with purpose and strength, and contextualized by personal history. We agreed that a bond could be interpreted widely, from the realm of familial relationships and friendships to how facets of life bond you with the world at large. What brings people and things close is our need for togetherness.

Bonds are inherently personal, and our contributors have provided quick glimpses into their own experiences and observations. We open our magazine on page 4 with an interview between exes after two years apart. Move from the dismantling and rebuilding of romantic bonds, to the ties between language, culture, and people on pages 8 and 22. Familial impact is unavoidable when discussing bonds. Turn to page 32 for an account of an older sister watching a younger brother grow up from afar, or page 28 for the connection between a place, food, and a grandmother. Inhabiting a space also fosters a bond; a contributor discusses the intimacy of sharing rooms with others on page 34. Read about the emotional bonds between nature and people in a look back to a trip to Greenland on page 40, and then flip to page 42 to read the reflections of roommates viewing their own home as an ecosystem.

Lucy Alguire Sabine Calleja Grace King Rosa Kumar Alexandra Scandolo Maxime Weiss Emma Workman

ILLUSTRATION

Melissa Avalos Geoff Baillie Varvara Nedilska Lynn Hong Genevieve Wakutz Yilin Zhu

Sabine Calleja Kathleen Chen Hannah Dwyer Nicole Gumapac Lidia Hencic Grace King Arin Klein Rosa Kumar Emma Lailey Kody McCann

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onnections between people, places, and things underpin life. In choosing to focus our theme on bonds, we hoped to swing the doors open for personal discussions on what relationships mean for students. Choosing a word to encompass the emotions and memories we hoped to tap into was no easy task. We cycled through many synonyms before a masthead member finally summed up those sentiments in the word bonds.

We often think to the people, places, and possessions that make up our own lives and feel emotional because of them. It’s hard not to feel nostalgic for your support systems—especially as we have built these networks in some of the most formative years of our lives. We’ve felt ourselves grow as a result of our bonds in university, and our pre-existing relationships change due to our time here.

PHOTO

CONTRIBUTORS

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Relationships and connections are what we strive to create, but we are often left with indelible bonds that interlace themselves in our lives. We hope you see reflections of your own networks, connections, relationships, and bonds within these pages. Enjoy.

- Alexandra Scandolo & Erik Preston Ashley Meehan Olivia Miller Varvara Nedilska Leyland Rochester Arjun Sawhney Elena Senechal-Becker Maxime Weiss Emma Workman Mary Zelenova Alex Zutt

SPECIAL THANKS The Strand team is proud to present Bonds as our Fall magazine issue. We thank all of our contributors, editors, designers, and artists for their hard work putting this issue together. We owe this compendium to everyone who made it possible with their hard work in front of glaring computer screens over the last few weeks. Whether they have been putting words to paper, editing grammar, adjusting image quality, or moving text boxes around—a million times, thank you.

COVER ART & DESIGN Lynn Hong Genevieve Wakutz

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once bonded olivia miller photos by rosa kumar

“How weird is this for you?”

Do you think this is weird?

I’m sitting in a room with my ex-boyfriend.

We’ve hardly spoken in almost two years.

Over the course of the six years we’ve known each other, we’ve had tales of unrequited love, friendship, reciprocal love, a devastating breakup, and radio silence. Despite the i

negative parts of our shared history, we easily slip back into our old banter. It’s a little surprising that we feel so comfortable, especially given that we are about to try to objectively talk about the nature of bonds and relationships for two hours.

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Him

Do I personally feel slightly weird? Yes. But I feel like it’s a good idea—it makes sense.

Me

Yeah.... So, I’m curious to know how would you define a bond.

Him

For me, bonds kind of imply a reliance on someone. A true bond involves a willingness to do whatever is needed of you, to always be there for a person. You can say you’re friends, but it’s the whole “actions speak louder than words” thing; you have to have a history of action for the person that you care about. And if you don’t have that, if you can’t build up that history and that reliance on the other person, then you can’t trust that you’ll be a priority for them. But what would you say? I might just prefer your definition.

I threw a metaphorical wrench into the conversation and gave two very personal examples of people we had bonds with in our lives, but whom we could in no way rely on (for example, an absent family member).

The linking of bonds and reliance was swiftly abandoned.

We were stammering and decided to look up the Google definition.

Him

I think, I…I’m going to take back my definition. Now I don’t think I can decide what bond means.

Him

“Physical restraints.” Good, we’re done.

Me

Do you think that in order to have a bond with someone they have to be a part of your life in that moment?

Him

Not at that moment, but you’d have to have some semblance of wanting them to be a part of your life at some point. Bonds aren’t stagnant, they’re fluid. As you go through life, new bonds form while others will dissolve.

Me

We started off as friends in high school. When would you say we started to have a bond?

Him

If we were to go from mutual bond development, grade ten. But are bonds inherently mutual? Because I liked you in grade nine.

If bonds are inherently mutual, then I’d say grade ten, but if they’re not mutual, grade nine.

Me

Do you think that there was a point, after we broke up, where our bond dissolved?

Him

I would say yes, but I feel like that’s because of my personality more than anything. I was working under the assumption there was probably no longer a connection, so I shouldn’t hope for one. But talking now, and thinking back, I think there is also something to say for the fact that we have millions of things to talk about and are quite fine right now and I think could easily have a bond again in that sense. I guess that’s what I would say, and maybe I assumed we didn’t have one more for my own—

We agreed on “a force or feeling that unites people, a common emotion or interest;” an elevated connection.

Me: Okay, but you can just say it wasn’t there.

You don’t have to justify— Him: No, no, no. Ok. Yes. I felt like it wasn’t there, but that also could potentially be because of my weirdness… [laughs]... how about that.

Me: I wonder whether bonds can be “dormant,” as opposed to dissolving completely.

They are things that can so heavily inform your life, it’s unsettling to think that they could just dissolve forever. Maybe once you’ve had a bond with someone, there is always potential to have it again.

Him: I think that’s kind of what I was trying to say. The idea that we didn’t have a bond at a certain moment but maybe... dormancy makes a lot of sense.

Me: But you said the bond dissolved; there is a fundamental difference in something being dormant and something dissolving. I think it had dissolved from your side, then.

Him: Yeah.

Me: A concept that I can’t wrap my head around is how someone can be so essential in your life, so important in one moment, and then irrelevant in another. I kind of hate the nature of relationships in that way, but I don’t think there is an alternative way to go about them. Maybe that’s why I have a tendency to say bonds are dormant rather than dissolved, especially if bonds are in some ways synonymous with caring—because I care about you.

Him: Well I would argue that you could care about someone so much, but that the best course of action is sometimes to dissolve a bond. You could care about someone and they could be a really important part of your life in that moment, but you know that continuing the relationship will just end up hurting you both. You can choose the sadder option because you care about them, not because you don’t want to have a bond… you can lessen the bond because of caring. I don’t think caring is directly parallel on a graph to a bond, I just think they’re unrelated. You can care about someone you don’t have a bond with.

Me: Really?

Him: Yes. Even if I thought we would never

have a bond again, I would have still said that I cared about you and hoped for your happiness and wellbeing.

Me: I guess I think that bonds don’t dissolve.

Once a bond is formed, it’s remnants or shadow will always already be there. I also think that the act of deeply caring for someone in and of itself is a sort of bond.

Him: If a dormant bond for you is caring about another person, even though you don’t have a connection at that exact moment, then I would agree with you. It might just be that we are saying the same thing in different words.

Me: No, I think it’s a difference worth noting.

Him: I would lean toward the idea of a bond being mutual. If I care about you and I don’t know how you are feeling, then for all I know that bond could be completely and utterly one sided forever.

Me: I think once a bond is mutually established, it’s not an act you can reverse. The nature of the bond may change, and it may predominantly exist in memory, but it’s still something that happened and informed your life and your connection to that person.

Aside from whether you want to, do you think we could be friends?

Him: Yeah.

Me: Yeah?

Him: Yeah.

Me: Him: Him: All of my answers have been so lengthy; this is much simpler. I’m a different person now, and you are as well. I think it would be easy to be friends. We have had the luxury of time off, and are sort of able to look at it from an outside perspective.

Me: I initially thought that interactions post-breakup would never be fully normal.

But today has cemented for me that that’s not necessarily the case. You’ve said that we’ve changed, and we have, but there are some things that are the same.

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Him: We took a natural amount of time and we haven’t ever tried to force it. We’ve waited and we’re not under any pressure. It’s hard to just decide to be friends again. I think that we benefited from the fact that we both wanted space, and now we are able to mutually choose when and if to have a friendship again. It’s harder to become friends again when you don’t have the option of space, even if that’s what’s needed.

Me: Another reason why I believe that bonds don’t entirely dissolve is that I’ve had no real sense of what has gone on in your life for almost two years, and yet I feel as though I still know you in a way.

Him: I would say the same. I feel like I still know you quite well. Experiences will change a person, but you can still know how their mind works and understand them on some level.

Me: It’s interesting, because I feel like I’ve changed fundamentally, but apparently I haven’t as much as I may think, if you’re able to feel like you still know me.

Him: It’s our behavior and our actions that have changed, but we haven’t had a complete transformation of self. There is a sort of evolution and solidification of our self through learning and growing. Just because we may be more centered or stronger individuals, it doesn’t mean we find different things funny, change our conversational habits, or have an entirely different set of morals and values.

And I think the actions make up the person, but those other things sort of make up the way you work?

Me: I’m going to end it with that…. It does make sense. Okay, we’re done.

I came out of this interview with a two hour long recording full of meandering digressions and a new old friend. I think our conversation is indicative of how difficult it can be to define human connection and to come to a mutual understanding. We decided that the only way to conclude this was to say that we gladly re-followed each other on Instagram. It’s funny that in attempting to have this discussion about bonds, we were able to renew our own.

This interview has been edited and condensed.

a bond broken alex zutt photo by rosa kumar

One night I dreamed that he found out.

His wounded eyes. The public shame.

I steered us quietly outside Where he could rave and spit and shout, But he just trembled and said my name Until tears starred his pleading eyes.

We were standing under the yellow lamplight: Then suddenly his hands were round my throat, Shaking in anguish, squeezing weakly As though they knew their own futility– People rushed by and shoved him down And struck and held him on the ground Though I yelled let go; and when they broke up, He spurned the hand I offered and turned away.

She nursed the raw bruise on his jaw.

Our friends went away with him.

And I never saw those eyes again Without a glint of suspicion Somewhere within the brown, that saw Whatever else was harbored in my soul.

Ever since then it’s felt wormed through, unwhole.

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elena senechal - becker illustration by lynn hong

Lately, I

dissing them at all, in fact, my significant other and I met on Tinder—it’s effective as hell), I think it has become easier to take people for granted, because they seem so replaceable.

When the person I had begun to construct a loving relationship with admitted that they had in some way wronged me, I was tempted to end it, if only so that I could stop putting in work. As my best friend, Celeste, told me recently: “Relationships take up so much real estate in our brains.”

We spend so much time working on them, deliberating in our mind about what course of action to take. There are always two options: keep going or end it, and sometimes they both seem equally unbearable. But, as I mentioned previously, I had been studying the theory of love, and I wanted to see what I could do to make this better. I wanted to try my hand at repairing a breach in trust.

The following are a few main steps I’ve noticed and put together in the process of healing myself and rebuilding trust. Before I start explaining, a disclaimer: this process only had a chance of working because my partner assumed complete responsibility for their actions and worked with me through every step. In no way do I encourage trying to work things out with someone who doesn’t respect or listen to you, or doesn’t want to be held accountable for how they hurt you.

Also, this isn’t by any means an all-encompassing guide; it’s just what has worked and continues to work for me, and I’m sharing it in hopes that it might help someone else too.

have been very interested in the theory of love.

I know this might sound counterintuitive, because a lot of people believe that love isn’t something that can be rationalized. It is supposed to be free, passionate—something you don’t have to think about. But I don’t buy that. I think love is work, and I am curious about the ways in which I can become better at it.

Recently, I began to build a love with someone else, another person who wanted this commitment as much as I did. I could say we “fell” in love, but I don’t think that’s the right terminology for what love feels like to me. Rather, we met, and we figured out that a love was not only possible, but almost necessary between us. We both agreed to continuously act upon this feeling of love, to honour it and feed it as much as we could. I entered a relationship with this person, and it was extremely easy for a while.

But here is the tricky part, the part that this article is really about; this person lied to me. They lied to me by not telling me something about themselves, something that may have seemed trivial to them, but was extremely important to me. The lie was not blatant, but rather an omission, made over the course of many months. When they finally told me, it was a shock, and I felt I had to grieve. Was I upset? Yes, of course. Was it a betrayal? Yes, I think so. Was it unforgivable? Well, no. It wasn’t.

In All About Love: New Visions, feminist author bell hooks states the following: “When we face pain in relationships our first response is often to sever bonds rather than to maintain commitment.” It is almost a reflex; pain incites a rejection, a pushing away of whatever it is that hurt us. This makes sense. This is normal. However, I would argue that it isn’t always necessary. hooks goes on to explain: “Relationships are treated like Dixie cups. They are the same. They are disposable. If it does not work, drop it, throw it away, get another.” I see this all the time in romantic as well as platonic relationships around me. Especially with the rise of dating apps (I’m not

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HOW TO MEND A DAMAGED RELATIONSHIP BRACE YOURSELF You already know that this incident has caused emotional pain in your life, but you have chosen to try and surmount this pain. This means you must be prepared for a large, if not overwhelming, amount of emotional labour. Accept the temporary absence of trust.

OPEN UP There are two parts to this step: on one hand, “open up” here means to try and remain compassionate. Even if you are angry, if you can see things from the other person’s point of view, it will help you let go of resentment. On the other hand, “open up” also means that you should remain honest and in touch with them. I think that one of the most important aspects, if not the most important aspect, of mending my relationship with my partner has been my relentless questioning and communication with them about the impact of their actions and the progress we have made—or lack thereof. If you are not sure about something, if you have a question or an opinion, voice it.

YOU FIRST It is crucial to put your own feelings first in this kind of situation. I find it can be quite hard to find a balance between being compassionate and standing your ground. Often, I would feel guilty for constantly bringing up my hurt feelings to my partner, because I didn’t want them to feel bad. So, I tried to rush the healing process. But as my friend Celeste reminded me (thanks Celeste, you rock), it’s important not to conflate “feeling better” with “healing.” The latter takes time and effort and, you guessed it, commitment.

ASK YOURSELF: WHY? Why did I make this particular choice, that is, the choice to work through these issues? Why do I want to conserve the bond between myself and this other person? Why is it worth it? Although you may have asked yourself these questions towards the beginning, it is important to constantly remind yourself of why you made this decision. I don’t think it matters if your reasoning is rational, but you probably do have a reason. This is also a good time to evaluate your relationship. How much is the other person putting into it? I cannot stress enough that none of this will work if you are the only one making an effort.

GO FROM THERE Now that you have an approximate answer to these questions, you can be better prepared for conflict in the future. For me, my answer to the previous questions was: “Because I know that this was a one-time thing, and I know that I can continue loving this person to the best of my ability, and that they will continue to love and support me.” I found that a breech in trust doesn’t have to mean the end. It doesn’t have to hinder your relationship or give you “trust issues.” It can be an opportunity for broadening the meaning of your relationship and the bond between you and someone else.

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the hedgehog’s dilemma varvar a nedilsk a

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“ ME TOO ” VULNERABILITY AND

HEALING CONTENT WARNING: NON-GRAPHIC DISCUSSIONS OF MENTAL ILLNESS, SEXUAL VIOLENCE, AND SUICIDAL IDEATION.

IN PUBLIC SPACES nicole gumapac ILLUSTRATIONS BY LYNN HONG i

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One in three women will experience some form of sexual violence in their lifetime. One in five Canadians will experience mental illness. Suicide accounts for approximately 20 percent of all deaths of people aged 15-24 years old, not to mention that these numbers are even higher in marginalized populations, which include racialized groups, Indigenous peoples, members of the LGBTQ+ community, and disabled folks. These common statistics are easily corroborated with figures, graphs, and sizable amounts of research.

We rarely connect these abstract figures to faces. Rarely can you go out into the world and point out the one in three people who have survived sexual violence, or the one in five people who have been dealing with mental illness in their lives, even though we know that these things are happening. This is to be expected, because these aren’t labels people feel comfortable giving themselves. To admit to having mental illness or to having experienced sexual violence is to out yourself; it is to risk having your identity reduced to this one defining feature, and to carry all the stigma that these labels bear. So while we know that it’s probable that someone within your very own friend circle identifies with one of these categories, we rarely talk about these things in a meaningful, critical way. And what arises is an unbearable silence.

In my first year of university, I was involved in an intensely emotionally abusive and manipulative friendship that ended in an act of sexual violence. It affected me greatly, to the point where I dropped a few courses, failed to attend my classes, and mostly stayed indoors to avoid doing things that could hurt me. Despite this, it was never something I tried to process externally or talk about with anyone. Instead, I tried my best to compartmentalize the experience and move on. A few years later, I came to understand that I needed help, but the healing process was one that I started alone.

What no one talks about is how isolating it can be to try and undergo a process of healing by yourself. It’s isolating to have to leave in the middle of the day to attend a therapy appointment, and to lie when asked about it. It brings a lot of feelings of shame and guilt to i

turn down an invitation with friends because you’re too depressed to get out of bed (let alone get dressed), look presentable, and interact with others. It’s frustrating to relapse and have a panic attack and have no one to debrief with and reassure you that your progress is okay. It’s exhausting to deliberately avoid places on campus because the memories and the trauma associated with them cause you to shut down.

This isn’t a piece where I ask for empathy, or for pity, or to be commended for having survived this experience; survivors and people with mental illnesses get enough of this as it is. This is where I talk about how embracing vulnerability has contributed towards my healing process.

Vulnerability is often associated with weakness, softness, and a lack of strength. To be vulnerable is to expose yourself when you are at your lowest and to trust that people won’t take advantage of that, or to acknowledge the very real possibility that some people might. In fear of showing that weakness and vulnerability in public, I kept quiet about my experiences and put up walls. But while putting up walls protects you from painful experiences, it also prevents you from connecting to others and compounds the loneliness that you already feel. Too often, survivors feel isolated because of the shame that these experiences bring. When we decide to keep quiet about these things, we contribute to a culture of silence. Far too often, people are lost to this silence because no one speaks out about it.

One of the most terrifying decisions I made was to be open about my mental illness and trauma in public spaces. I remember the amount of anxiety that built up within me at the thought of talking about my experiences, as well as the fear about the potential criticism, rejection, and hurt I might face. However, in choosing to be open about this, something miraculous happened: not only did I receive an outpouring of support, but, out of the woodwork, a striking number of people messaged me afterwards just to say, “this happened to me, too.” To find company with others even in such isolating circumstances was to find solace, as I realized that I did not have to work through this pain alone.

Slowly, but surely, embracing vulnerability and being open about my experiences led me to building a support network of friends and loved ones that I know I can be open with, and that I know will accept me despite the different ways my experience has affected me. I’m fortunate to have found a group of people who sympathize with me. I’m fortunate that these people also understand what I have gone through and what I am currently going through, and are able to provide support in ways that I need the most.

Today, I talk a lot about mental illness and trauma in public, and make a deliberate and conscious decision to bring these issues to the surface in order to explore the nuances that are normally never discussed. I recognize the amount of privilege I have in being able to have this level of visibility, to have had the resources to seek help, and to be surrounded by a loving support network who will help me. But not everyone has these things, and not everyone will be able to speak out against the silence. It is important to do so for the people that cannot.

Being transparent about these topics is important to survivors and those with mental illnesses in order for them to begin reconceptualising their experiences, reclaiming their narratives, and working towards taking the necessary steps to not only heal, but to

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also bring about cultural change. In being vocal and opening ourselves up to vulnerability, in refusing to be silenced, and in insisting that these topics should be kept in the public eye, we breathe life into a movement. We bring to light the idea that the current culture that we operate in is one that needs to better support people with mental illnesses and those who have survived sexual violence. We bring to light that the statistics that are so often abstractly discussed do correspond with people’s realities, and that a culture that is complicit in these realities is one that needs to change.

Not too long ago, people who were seen to be deviating from the common culture, who were mentally ill, experienced trauma, or were deemed abnormal in any other form, would be removed from society and isolated in institutions. Today, this doesn’t have to happen. We can provide support to the most marginalized and stigmatized groups within our own circles. Thus, the idea that they can reintegrate themselves into communities, and even thrive in the company of others, is a radical one, but is necessary.

It would be disingenuous of me to say that I’ve now reached a point where everything is okay—it’s not. Some days are better than others, and, ultimately, the healing process is not a linear one. But in opening myself up and embracing vulnerability, I know that it is not a process I have to go through alone.

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LEYLAND ROCHESTER illustration by varvara nedilsk a

I can sit in the crater of your left dimple And stare up at the stars and suns that come Rising above the cleft of your chin At the horizon line. Long treks across The flesh, and the jungle Of your beard surrounding my odyssey Down the sharp cliff of your jawline, Thick and as mossy as the Canadian wild.

Gargantuan trenches through the creases Of your lips that astronomers must have mistaken For canals on Mars. The vastness Of the tunnels of your nostrils And the strength of the wind that comes forth Knocks me to knees and sends me Across the slope of your face To the mountain of your Adam’s apple— And I am your Eve with the setting sun In the shadow of your left foot, and the smooth Straight plateau of your torso That I spent forty nights walking down Before you turned in your sleep And disturbed me altogether. The truth Is that I will never know every inch, Never know whether I am standing or sitting, Directionless as the fork at your pelvis Splits my path. O, I can spend my millennia Here, contemplating the hairlessness Of your inner thighs and the peculiar freckle Behind your right ear, but I come no closer To knowing the voice that speaks From your throat, or what coloured irises Blink behind sleeping eyelids. You snore And open your mouth to the sky, And I am afraid of falling, falling inward Into your mouth and downward To the blackness of your stomach.

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the story of how a boy-crazy teenage girl saved my life hannah dwyer photos by lucy alguire

content warning: discussions of mental illness and suicide just like many others, mental health concerns have played a large role in my young adult experience. In grade twelve,

off.

The evening of my overdose, my best friend sadie called 911 On that night, and in the months following, joy and gratitude began leaking back in through the cracks in my depression. On my worst days, sadie was there to make me laugh, make me feel safe, and make me know that I could get through it.

I went through

and then stayed over with me in the hospital.

an especially dark few months where my depression took over my life and i began to hear voices and see figures in the shadows.

The

episode culminated in me taking all my ssris, a bottle of tylenol, and washing it down with a good ol’ water bottle filled with

Smirn-

2014-03-04 8:28 PM

October 23, 2013

I wish we were both around on March break I can’t wait for him to meet you guys.

I start to cry. The reason for it, if ever known, is far away by now. It is not the kind of crying that is meant to be witnessed, or quieted. I have no control over this cry, however, I believe it to be cathartic. I give into it thinking it will die out, leaving me empty and tired. I will eat, sleep, and wake up new. What really happens, thirty minutes later, is my brother comes to the basement and sees me sitting on my feet, yelling into my lap. He asks me over and over what is wrong, and I calm myself enough to speak: “I’m okay, I’m just……it just...FUUUUUUCCCKING HURTS.” My breaths are catching on the way in. “Fuck hic ow hic Eli hic I’m okay.” Screaming. He’s scared, gets the phone, I tell him “I’ll stop, don’t call Mom.” The next thing I remember is the upstairs bathroom floor. After that, I’m in the kitchen. I’ve peeled my shirt off and thrown it in the corner—I always sweat when I cry—and I’m still yelling. The only words I can find are “fuck,” “ow,” and “call Dakota, call Sadie.” The front door opens and Sadie makes me sit up, makes me breathe, makes me tell her how many I took. “The whole bottle.”

When the paramedics arrive and the one who picks me up introduces himself to me, I think: “That’s funny, my friend who wants to be a paramedic has the same name as you.” Sadie is thinking about how she wishes the two of us could share an inappropriate joke about the admirable guys with the wholesome haircuts that are here to save the day. In the ambulance, she answers my cell phone and explains to Dakota why her calls have been missed. Yeah, cool paramedics, I’m cool too, look at both of the the cool chicks that love me.

I’ve met him but yeah.

But like actually meet him Like drunk dancing meet

lol okay

I texted her about it, it’s not like I had another option. I keep asking her to hang out and she keeps saying she can’t without offering an alternative or reciprocating any of the want to see each other.

I agree with you I understand.

She’s probably asleep.

Yeah except the past 3 months that would have been better.

I know. How can I help?

There’s no good time for her to read it You are. I love you and am grateful for you. Even when one thing sucks i

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ALL I WANT TO DO IS HANG OUT AND DANCE AROUND. My dad (who has hugged me three times since I was ten) has been called from work and comes in crying. He holds my hand and I tell him “Dad it’s cool, I’m so anti-depressed now. Fucking flying. Hey, does anybody else see that unicorn?” The nurse doesn’t laugh, and leaves. My parents leave to talk to the nurses, paramedics, and police officers, and Sadie and Dakota are allowed in. I’ve been given a high-tech vomit bag, and while talking to them at one point I stop to cover my mouth, and exclaim “Shit bag!”

“Shit bag?” The wave of nausea has now passed.

“Yeah it’s for if I need to poo. You know actually...I wouldn’t mind using it right now.” We’re reduced to hysterics by the image of the nurse pulling back the curtain to see three girls, one standing beside the bed holding the patient’s hands as she stands on the bed, suspended over the opposite side, where the third girl holds a bag of shit. The nurse actually comes in and kicks the girls out briefly, while they’re gone she asks me if Dakota works at Salsateria, my entire space reeks of the place.

I laugh, “Yeah, she totally stinks doesn’t she?” and Sadie and Dakota come back in and laugh too.

For a moment I forget where I am, I’m just in bed with my best friends. When I don’t move, I can’t feel the IV or the wires that are super-taped to almost every part of my body. The word that I have to describe this otherwise normal lounging and joking with my two favourite people is “charged.” Every silence is a hundred times more still than the silences around the fire in Sadie’s living room and every laugh explodes out of my chest, and fades to trembles.

2014-03-06 7:45 PM Have fun tonight!!!!

Thanks! we’re gonna “just hang out and dance around” You and him?

Yeah his plan

2014-03-07 12:46 PM We can dance to dreams tonight!!!!!!!!!

Dreams?

Gabrielle. Because both of our dreams are coming true!

I love it so drunk and sweaty

Girls like going to the bathroom together, at parties and in the emergency room. This is the first time since collapsing in my kitchen that I’ve supported my own weight. The floor is cold and hard and my knees buckle, hilariously. I’ve been carefully detached from my bed, and my friends drag my IV for me. This is also the first time I’ve seen myself in the mirror. Holy shit.

We stand, looking at me, laughing uncontrollably. I can’t even see the whites of my eyes, they’re so puffy, and the hot redness from crying has spread over my whole face. My hair, once braided, is sweaty and matted to my head, except my bangs, which veer in every direction. The cracks of my lips are filled with black, and a streak of charcoal runs down and back from the corner of my mouth—I guess I was drooling. When I laugh you can see that it’s in my teeth too, and my lip ring. “I’m sooooo sexy,” I flash my blackened smile and blow a kiss through my dry, stiff mouth, trying to wink my already closed eye.

As we stop laughing I continue to shake. I get help lowering onto the toilet. The time has passed slowly, but I did change

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my tampon about four hours ago—I don’t feel like doing it again right now. My motor skills at the moment being rather limited, I clumsily try to grab the string and hold it out of the way. It’s funny at first but I actually can’t do it. We ask a nurse for a new tampon and get a laugh out of how difficult it is for me to use.

Shakily, I return to the sink to wash my hands, and realize my appearance all over again. I laugh but the laughing almost instantly becomes indistinguishable from tears, and in seconds I collapse into cries, hanging off the side of the sink. None of us are really understanding what’s happening here. This is real. Three best friends are crying and apologizing and holding each other. On the floor of the bathroom. In the hospital. Because I overdosed.

I rise, sway, and stagger back to my bed whimpering—I do NOT look so sexy.

Dakota and Sadie are sent home. I speak to a doctor, he tells me, “You could very easily be dead.” I speak to a nurse, I speak to another doctor—I am discharged. I feel very loved, I feel very tired, I feel very sorry. I don’t remember going home.

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In the morning, going to school seems easier than staying home and figuring out how to exist all day. I go, Dakota and Ms. King hug me, and I miss math class to talk to them. Dakota breaks my heart when she says, through a cracking voice, “If I was a good enough friend you wouldn’t have done it.” She is better than the best, I have every single thing in the world. It is not her fault. Sadie comes for lunch, her mom has made my favourite food: kale salad and carrot cake, and she has something to share.

“So, last night, Hannah...Rob hugged me.”

“WHAT?” “Like really tight for a good three seconds.”

“Like he just hugged you? As in an embrace? Rob James? Glasses, buzz cut?”

“Well, he just said thank you and hugged me for three seconds, yeah.”

“That can’t be true.” Welcoming Sadie into the elite club of people my Dad has shown affection to felt like getting a new sister.

That afternoon in philosophy class, Dakota has to do a presentation on her beliefs which she had expressed with a painting and later I write her this poem: I Told the Nurse That the Girl in The Mermaid Pants Is My Best Friend You identify the most with Buddhism The world is a beautiful painting And a soul hangs between the Sun and the Moon—that’s us.

“The soul is on a path The path leads to happiness but on some paths there are obstacles The obstacles are the things you have to overcome, and you do but on some paths there are more obstacles than others” Everytime you say obstacles you cry a little harder And I wish you wouldn’t ever shake like this But you do, and we look like two little girls Fresh out of the little plastic castle We are seventeen.

After this, and a few more things You and I are going to sit in a field, with long flowing hair And big sunglasses And laugh.

We have had a lot of fun. Roberto walked Sadie most of the way home and then stood at the bottom of her street and sang to her until she was out of earshot. When I hear this story I’m in the back of a taxi, I “aweeee” and flap my arms. This is so exciting, my friend is happy and I am happy. On the same night, I have scrubbed blood off a purse, taken a break with my friends in the bathtub, rapped Slim Shady at the top of my lungs, and eaten the best burrito ever.

On my way to get that burrito, I crossed the footbridge over the road beside the Church of Our Lady and I remembered the night early in July, McFlurries in hand, when three of us sailed down the Gordon hill on a longboard. In those first weeks, I had no idea how tired that summer would make me or that by September, I would be medicated. I knew nothing about crippling

2014-03-07 6:30 PM “I love your friends” “you have very nice people surround you” for the second time HE GETS IT and they were unprovoked statements

2014-03-08 1:38 AM when I was walking down the street he was serenading me in spanish and he is just the cutest I love it so hard. <3<3 a zillion to the stars and then dance around and eat them and fucking laugh YES

anxiety and being trapped, a bad trip that lasts six weeks, or having to pull over because the shadows of the streetlights are too scary, hearing voices. I also didn’t know how clear the night would be in August when we were floating in the deep river beside the fire, and I didn’t foresee driving; the cool night air after a hot day blasting in the windows of a minivan filled with friends eating fro-yo.

Now, as I get out of the taxi and crawl into bed, I am tired.

My body can sleep because I have used my muscles to work, to play, and to dance. My bedroom walls are covered in Group of Seven prints and photos of me wearing medals, meeting bands, and on top of Silverpeak in Killarney. In all of the pictures I am smiling, and I am so glad that everything has happened exactly the way it did because it brought me here, right now, like this.

with the shadow of a doubt a short story arjun sawhney illustration by lynn hong

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obias tossed and turned in his bed, unable to fall asleep. The moon peaked through the curtain, casting a narrow beam of light through the window, shining a dim glow into his bedroom. Tobias made movements with his hands, casting a shadow onto the ceiling, chuckling to himself as he made the silhouettes of an airplane, giraffe, and a monster appear above his head. The moon disappeared behind a cloud and the silhouettes faded away.

He sat up in his bed and stared into the mirror across his bedroom. Wide-eyed and anxious, he looked earnestly at himself in his reflection, hoping to see something familiar. But he didn’t recognize his outline.

He motioned his hand from left to right, waving to himself in the dark and saw an indistinct movement in the mirror. Turning his head to his desk, he noticed his guitar case tucked away underneath the drawer, dusty and untouched. He was ecstatic when he got it on his 13th birthday. He had begged his parents for it. It was a rare Gibson Les Paul, too. It had barely been played since the day he got it.

Tobias threw off his covers, got out of bed, and fumbled for his guitar case. He blew off the dust and opened it up. It looked the exact same as he remembered it, only that he felt like a different person from the time it was last opened. He took it out of the case and plucked an E-string. It was really out of tune. He was reminded of his childhood dream of being a rock star, playing for thousands of people on stage. Connecting with people through his music had always been a dream of his. He lingered in that thought, in the hallow silence of his bedroom.

Reaching for his small desk lamp, he flicked on the light and got out his phone from his pocket. He opened up the camera app and took a few selfies with his Gib-

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son. He picked the best one and posted it to Instagram with the caption Late night jam sesh #musician. It had hardly been 2 minutes and Sita and Isaiah had already liked it. Tobias wondered what they were doing up so late, but it put a smile on his face. He felt a warm tingling sensation run through his chest. He was pleased with himself. “I will be a musician,” Tobias thought to himself. He put his guitar down and stumbled to his closet. He rummaged about and found his old Beatles tee. It was way too tight but he put it on anyway. He tried his hardest to remember one of their greatest hits but he was unable to. Maybe his memory was foggy because he was still tired, Tobias thought to himself. He took out his phone again, this time posting a selfie with the Beatles tee to his story on Snapchat. He sat down at his desk and opened up his laptop. In a Google search, he typed: “best Beatles songs” and then tweeted, “He’s as blind as he can be, just sees what he wants to see” from the song “Nowhere Man.” The silhouettes cast by the dim glow of the lamp projected his shadows all over the bedroom walls, creating multiple outlines of Tobias. He sat there, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, wondering if he was really going to make it as a musician. Would he ever be able to unify the world with his music? The sun was beginning to rise. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed. He looked back at his post on Instagram and suddenly felt better. A few more friends had already liked it and he started to feel more confident about who he was going to be. He got up from his desk and turned to his mirror.

With the light of his desk lamp and the dawn of a new day, Tobias could now see himself. He stared for a long moment and moved in closer to get a good look into his eyes. His gaze lasted for a while, but he was still unable to recognize himself in the mirror.

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script writers, performers, and directors often break the fourth wall in live theatre to create a connection with the audience.

When shows make reference to sharing a physical and emotional space with their audience, both performers and audience members can acknowledge that they are connected—present and involved in the reality of the experience. The connection differs from performance to performance: each show’s tone, energy, and flow depend on how the performers and audiences engage, creating unique relationships in each performance.

Breaking the fourth wall doesn’t always mean making direct references to being in a play or musical, or direct recognition of the audience. Some of the most profound connections I’ve felt with performers and audiences have been when the wall was broken in unconventional ways, especially when the physical boundary between stage and audience was crossed. Three experiences in particular come to mind when I think about how this has changed my understanding of the relationship between performers and audiences.

arin klein illustrations by yilin zhu

THE RECIPE FOR A MUSICAL When I saw Something Rotten, written by Karey and Wayne Kirkpatrick, I went to see it alone without knowing anyone else in the theatre. Luckily, the show allowed me to feel a sense of camaraderie with my fellow audience members, because of the way it reached out to us through jokes and references.

In the musical, which takes place during the Renaissance, a pair of brothers attempt to write a hit play that will supposedly be greater than Shakespeare’s. They turn to a soothsayer, who predicts that the next big thing onstage will be something called a “musical.” They then perform a number, attempting to illustrate what a musical is.

This is done through comical explanations of the conventions of musicals, using numerous references to other musicals such as Les Misérables, to Rent, to The Music Man. It is also clever because it makes fun of breaking into song—precisely what they are doing in that moment. In this number, the show is able to reach the audience by poking fun at the experience they are all sharing, and acknowledge other musicals which are familiar to them. i

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The show lovingly makes fun of itself and of the musical theatre genre as a whole.

I have never felt more connected to an audience than I did when the show made references to the art form that each person in the room loved.

The theatre felt like a space of celebration with a bunch of other musical theatre fans. This appreciation broke down the theatrical conventions that can often make performers and audiences feel separated from each other, and united everyone in the space as human beings with a shared passion.

Some of the most profound connections I’ve felt with performers and audiences have been when the wall was broken in unconventional ways...

PLEASE SPELL “AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION” One of my favourite musicals is The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, written by Rachel Sheinkin and William Finn. This is a hilarious musical comedy, which follows a group of pre-teens competing at a spelling bee, each with unique and slightly strange strategies for ensuring they spell the words correctly.

A crucial aspect to the show is that four audience members are chosen and brought onstage to take part in the performance, spelling the words required of them and competing with the actors.

The actor who plays the pronouncer in the show also has the opportunity to introduce these audience members by making up comical facts about them, which will change every night. Although, the script does control when the audience members are eliminated. The separation between the audience and the stage evaporates not only when the audience members first come onstage, but also in the inclusion of the audience in some of the songs and dance numbers.

When I saw this show, it was spontaneous

and hilarious. Imagine if one of the chosen audience members was your dad, or your sister, or your friend. Whether you are one of these audience members or not, the show changes the performer-audience relationship by bringing these two categories of people closer together and making the stage, as a space, more accessible.

beginning of the show as the audience takes their seats. At this time, the audience is invited to come onstage and buy a drink from the bar, listening to the performers jam together onstage.

This makes the performers more accessible to the audience: instead of waiting offstage before the show, they create an open space that is more casual, shifting from the usual formality of theatre performances. Though the performers are not onstage at intermission, you are also allowed to go onstage and take photos. The audience is given the chance to literally see from the perspective of the performers onstage, looking out at the crowd. This dissolves the boundaries between the spaces that are customarily separated between performers and the audience, sharing a perspective that is normally exclusive to the performers.

The theatre is a space in which a divide exists between audience and performers, but not in such a way that each person there cannot connect with others through the experience that they are sharing. When shows and actors are conscious of the divide and make attempts to break it down, it creates a more balanced and reciprocal relationship that is unique to each performance and person, leaving a distinct impression that lasts, even after the show is over.

FROM THE PERFORMER’S PERSPECTIVE A brilliant show that breaks the fourth wall by disrupting the barrier between stage and audience is Once. Once was originally a film, directed by John Carney, with music written by Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová. The book of the stage adaptation is written by Enda Walsh. It follows the story of a Dublin man who writes music as a hobby, and one day, while busking, meets a young Czech woman who is a musician herself. They write music and form a band while developing a close—and arguably romantic—relationship.

One of the most extraordinary aspects of the stage adaptation is that the entire cast forms the orchestra: each cast member plays at least one instrument and they accompany themselves throughout the show. The actors and musicians also have a chance to display their talent by playing music onstage at the

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learning the SPOken rules

of language SPE AKING M Y IDE NTIT Y kathleen chen we reveal ourselves through pronunciation. the but…” I prefer not to speak at all, which sustains a vicious way we speak is never neutral—our accents tie us cycle. My embarrassing Mandarin accent is worsened by to a language, a place, a culture. accents speak for

us, simultaneously denoting where we belong, and where we are foreign. before i speak, i know that

you are already reading my appearance and my body language. will you listen to what i say, or to how i say it?

When I speak Mandarin, my North-American accent gives me away. In China, my awkward sentence structure identifies me as a tourist. To my older relatives, my mixedup tones mark me as a Saturday Chinese-school dropout.

“Do you speak Chinese?” is an unavoidable question that puts me on trial for laziness and lack of filial responsibility. It’s a shame that you don’t know your mother tongue. Why don’t you speak to your grandparents in Chinese? My accented Mandarin becomes a source of guilt. When I speak Mandarin, I feel the need to apologize and to make excuses: “But we speak English at home, but I have never lived in China,

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my embarrassment about it. My fear of being singled out by the mistakes in my pronunciation makes it challenging for me to learn more about my Chinese heritage—which is one of the most fundamental and inescapable aspects of my identity.

In contrast, I feel comfortable speaking French with the accent of a non-native speaker. I am much less emotional about my French accent because I have an academic relationship with the language, whereas Mandarin involves cultural ties that cannot be unlearned. I am supposed to know Mandarin, but I am not expected to know French. Therefore, I am allowed to make mistakes. It helps that French speakers rarely comment on—let alone, criticize—my accent. However, by being comfortable with my anglophone French accent, I also accept that I will always be on the outside of French culture, looking in. I may be able to talk about politics in French, read Sartre and Molière, and sing along to Les Choristes, but my accent reminds me that I will be a francophile at most, and never a francophone; able to appreciate, but unable to embody.

My “lack of” an accent when I speak English enables me to find a sense of belonging in Canada. This speaks to the inclusiveness of our society, because it allows belonging to be picked up, to be acquired. However, I think that it is problematic to simply accept Canada’s reputation as a cultural mosaic that manages to find a place for every piece. There is a notion that it is desirable for people to lose their native accent and to adopt the Canadian one (but what exactly is a Canadian accent if it is not the caricature of “eh,” “aboot,” and “sore-ee”?). My mother tells me that she is relieved that I do not have an accent, because she has encountered microaggressions from neighbours, other parents, and salespeople who find it difficult to understand her (or find it to be too much effort to try), and do not value her voice, in both senses of the word. The funny thing is that people assume that her accent indicates a lack of familiarity with English, but she is a native speaker who has lived in the Commonwealth for most of her life, and simply speaks with an accent that is difficult to place, and is, thus, automatically and indiscriminately othered. On the other hand, a British accent is an asset, connoting refinement and attractiveness—and there is no pressure to underplay it to get closer to the so-called Canadian norm. Perhaps linguistic bias is an unconscious indication of socio-political prejudices. Why are some accents more equal than others?

But I was all right with that, because there was less at stake with my adopted, English name.

In a way, I have always been in between cultures, existing in the middle ground between the name I was given, and the name I picked out of a book in the checkout line at the grocery store.

I grew up in French. I read Les Schtroumpfs, drew “triangles rectangles” and carried a trousse equipped with compas and equerre. I may not always have been aware of it, but I lived in a melting pot of accents from around the Francophonie. My school was a popular choice for the children of French Canadians, as well as expats from France. The majority of students, however, spoke French as a second language, like me with my Anglo and Chinese names. My school was a microcosm. On the whole, the culture was one of acceptance of difference, but I still noticed a hierarchy of accents. Making fun of the Québécois accent was a running joke (but the Québécois students also made fun of the French students’ accents). There was a universal agreement that books sounded the best when the French students read aloud.

i have always been in between cultures, existing in the

LOOKING IN When I first moved to Canada, I was Yuanxin.

My Chinese name caused me grief for two reasons; I was always at the end of the alphabet (which to my competitive grade-school self, meant finishing in last place), and nobody could pronounce it, let alone spell it. Ys and Xs are scary letters in the English alphabet—so rarely employed at the beginning of words that they are more useful for communicating mathematical unknowns. My name became something ungainly like “You-Ain’t-Sing,” a perversion of its poetic significance. “Yuan” means source, or origin, and “xin” conveys appreciation and enjoyment. Sometimes, I even mispronounced my name for consistency, and ended up getting confused about its actual pronunciation.

When I changed schools, I took the opportunity to change my name. I chose Kathleen, an extremely anglicised name that, as a bonus, put me in the first half of the alphabet. However, I moved to a French school, so my French teachers called me “Catherine” or “Kate-lean” because my name did not fit into the French model of pronunciation.

middle ground between the name i was given, and the name i picked out of a book...

Where did this gold standard come from? Why is French from France widely considered to be the most beautiful iteration of French, even by non-French speakers?

Though the French empire has fallen, do our linguistic preferences still reveal remnants of power concentrated in the metropole? Quebec has been politically separate from France since 1763, yet the Québécois accent is constantly compared to French-French—at best, as being “different” or “cute,” and at worst, as sounding “strange” or “comical.”

Most of the time this comparison is done in jest, but it does reflect entrenched prejudice. The repetition of such comments can be hurtful for Québécois francophones because

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the othering is based on an innate, unforgettable, and inseparable part of their identity—ties that go much deeper than my non-native French accent, which is only a part of my experiential identity.

LINGUISTIC INSECURITY In contrast to English, France has a clear hegemony over the so-called “Standard” or “International” French, because the Académie Française, the official authority on grammar and vocabulary, is based in France. On the other hand, American English or Canadian English is not any less legitimate than British English. English does not have a single dominant idea of correctness. Perhaps this is because of English’s identity as a lingua franca—a method of communication between people who do not speak the same language. English is a language that can be appropriated by people from different backgrounds, and the emphasis is on its usage. On the other hand, the mission of the Académie Française is more focused on preserving the prestige of the French language, to “create linguistic rules we can be certain of, to make it pure, eloquent, and capable of treating the arts and sciences.” It has been concerned with keeping out “anglicismes”–words borrowed from English—in favour of French neologisms, unsuccessfully attempting to replace the word “hashtag” with “mot-dièse”, using the French term for a musical sharp. The Académie also claimed that femininized versions of certain words, such as auteur (author) and ingénieure (engineer), are grammatically incorrect because they do not sound proper. According to this institution, these nouns should only exist in their masculine form, which seems like a rather conservative decision. The Académie practices prescriptive linguistics, telling people how they should talk, and does not believe that the correctness of a language has anything to do with the way people actually speak. In effect, auteure and ingenieure are commonly used in Quebec.

Historically, Quebec has always been a linguistic other, existing under English power with a legitimate fear of losing its French heritage and language, a fear that persists today in the form of language laws and policing. After its separation from France, Quebec became obsessed with preserving a correct French, according to the standard determined by the French elite, in an effort to maintain and legitimize its ties to France. However, speech in France and Quebec evolved differently, and Québécois French still feels the pressure to prove itself as a “proper” way of speaking. It is criticized for its anglicismes, for attaching an extra tu to the end of questions and for skipping over the ne part of a negation, entre autres. These criticisms view Québécois French as grammatically incorrect, but does the linguistic norm attempt to correct grammar, or to correct a way of thinking? Does it correct pronunciation, or a way of expressing oneself?

Québécois francophones are caught in a cycle of insecurity about their French. Travis Bickle, a journalist for i

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accent should not be a marker of difference

opening of a but the

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La Presse, characterized French in Quebec as a “regional” language, with “elementary syntax, minimal grammar, vocabulary and spelling.” Radio-Canada also favours a more “neutral” version of the Quebec accent that sounds closer to Parisian French, thus perpetuating a standard of linguistic elitism. Having a normative version of a language marginalizes those who do not fit into it, and the linguistic division often widens and emphasizes social ones. An accent which differs from the “professional” accent presented by the media becomes associated with a lack of education, and thus a lack of credibility. In effect, a thick accent becomes comical, because it is a marked deviation from the mediatized norm. The criticism of the Québécois accent also comes from within the community, and is internalized, resulting in the self-correction of Québécois idioms which are perceived to be incorrect, and in self-censorship through the choice to speak Franglais or English instead.

Language carries historical baggage. Although times have changed, French from France is still associated with the Paris of the 1800s, a cultural capital for artists and intellectuals. French from Quebec does not carry the same connotation, but the basic function of language is not to sound beautiful or pure—it is to communicate. The more familiar character of the Quebec accent allows for a greater degree of rapprochement, especially between fellow Québécois.

In addition, Québécismes are expressions that were invented to describe the North-American reality in ways Parisian French could not. It is unfortunate that differences in accent are perceived as diminishing the purity of the language, instead of enriching it.

leges descriptive linguistics, recording and recognizing expressions that are used in Quebec and North America, including anglicismes and the feminization of occupations.

Québécois French is just one variant of French found in the Francophonie. Taking ownership of a region’s unique brand of French, and taking pride in the peculiarities of the accent is empowering. Many Québécois recognize the historical devaluation of their French, and in reaction, continue speaking their French with pride. Politicians, such as Gilles Duceppe, the leader of Bloc Québécois, use Québécois slang and the more informal register as a rallying cry, speaking on more familiar terms with voters to spread a populist message. There is a sense of pride, and a sense of critical distance, of being francophone, but not French.

A BALANCING ACT Accents represent the push and pull between the desire to fit in, and the desire to embrace exactly what makes us different. In many respects, I am not foreign in Canada, I speak English with the normalized accent and I have an English name. But certain aspects of me will always be foreign. I was not born here. The name I was given is a Chinese name. I want to be Chinese; I want to speak Chinese without an accent. I don’t want to be other in either context.

If I work on my Chinese pronunciation, I can belong to both groups through the avenues of two different languages.

I am lucky—others must choose between an English that is inflected with foreignness and standardized English, between preserving cultural ties and erasing personal history in the name of integration.

I still feel insecure about my Chinese accent, but my North-American accent is just a variation on a theme, alongside the multitude of accents in China. Although my less-than-perfect Chinese is frowned upon, I can choose to reclaim my version of the language and to embrace my idiolect. My incorrect pronunciation implicitly tells my story—my second language is French, not Mandarin, which is a choice that others may criticize, but a part of my personal history nonetheless.

RECLAIMING THE LANGUAGE Why does language matter?

It influences how we present ourselves to the world and how we understand and grasp reality. Being insecure about language is a major hindrance to communication, and to the navigation of our own reality. We may have achieved political decolonisation (to a certain extent), but many still communicate using the language of the coloniser. Nevertheless, just as individuals have pushed back against a political authority, we are also capable of pushing back against a linguistic authority.

Take Usito, a dictionary that seeks to “fill the gaps” created by the dominance of dictionaries produced by French publishers which codify a Eurocentric view of the language and, thus, emphasize a Eurocentric worldview. Usito privi-

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Let us change our attitude towards accents. An accent should not be a marker of difference, but the opening of a story. If we start to listen to what people have to say, instead of how they say it, I believe that we can communicate more truthfully—both with others, and within ourselves.

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make your parents proud mary zelenova photo by rosa kumar

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hen I was 11 years old, my family moved from Russia to Canada. It is difficult to overstate the amount of effort and bravery that it took for my parents to leave their careers, family, and friends behind to attempt to secure a prosperous future in a foreign country halfway across the world. They had no job leads in Canada. Nobody met us at the airport.

They didn’t speak the language and had just enough money to last six months. Stepping off that plane must have been terrifying.

Growing up, there were few things for which I had more resentment than math. In elementary school, I never liked colouring shapes, and I never liked connecting the dots to make a graph. In high school, I would throw my math textbook against the wall from the sheer frustration of being incapable of comprehending the principles of polynomial factoring. I always believed that if the seven circles of hell truly exist, then trigonometry was one of them. All of this negativity clashed markedly with a passionate math teacher that I had the pleasure of learning from in eleventh grade.

Always dressed smug in a suit and accepting no nonsense from his students, he lived by the dogmatic belief that any sort of career success needed an advanced knowledge of mathematics. On the first day of class, he asserted that students who graduate with an engineering degree have the highest starting salaries. As an act of rebellion and frustration, I informed him that I had no intention of touching another math textbook after completing the required high school math courses. He looked at me with an odd mix of bemusement and shock and said, in a patronizing and condescending tone: “Oh, but your parents worked so hard to bring you to this country! Do you really want to be a disappointment to them?”

Back in Russia, my mom was a veterinarian—one of the best in our town. My dad was an award-winning manager at Microsoft. Their friends, families, and their whole life was there. They had everything figured out; life was good. Leaving seemed absurd.

And yet, they willingly gave all that up in search of greener pastures for my sister and myself. Eight years later, they both have stable jobs and a house in a nice neighbourhood. But, the sacrifice that they made is still evident through their weekly short-lived Skype calls with family and childhood friends. The success they have achieved in Canada has come through herculean efforts and at a tremendous personal cost. And they did that all for me and my sister. My experience is not unique. I am certain that most first-generation immigrants’ children can relate to the overwhelming desire to pay our parents back.

And so how do we pay them back? Through relentless determination to succeed, of course. Through building a

great career, one that would not have been possible back home, and showing that all of their efforts have been worth it. Financial security is perceived to be the single greatest measure of success, and it is not unheard of for immigrant parents to coerce their children into programs that are most promising statistically. All the major decisions that we make in life stem from the desire to thank your parents for their sacrifice. We often opt for the safe route and strive to become doctors, lawyers, or engineers. Career paths are picked on the grounds of our parents’ desires rather our passions, and yet we don’t complain, because that would be inexplicably selfish. Our parents dedicated their lives to us, and so it is only fair that we dedicate our lives to thanking them. And it would be absurd to think otherwise.

I have been exceptionally lucky. My parents are incredible people, and have supported all my major decisions. I am pursuing a specialist in political science, and I have no idea whether I want to go to law school or not. I love my program and there is nothing else I’d rather be studying. I want to work in foreign affairs, or maybe not. I am at UofT because I strive to receive an excellent liberal-arts education, but where will it lead me? Will I find a secure job? Will I attain financial security? Was all of this worth moving half way across the world?

In high school, I watched as some of my friends were forbidden from taking arts or drama courses because their parents said they had to take chemistry and physics instead.

I watched the colour drain from their faces as they got their tests back to see that they scored an average grade. I watched them supress their passions and instead pursue careers in science, math, engineering, and business. Play it safe. Don’t risk it. Don’t you want to make your parents proud? And nobody ever even thought to complain.

My dad always said that “ships are safer when they’re docked, but that is not what they were built for.” I am teaching myself to live by this poignant quote. If doing what I love means living with a mediocre salary, then so be it. I’m just not sure how to do that, and so the gratitude I feel for everything that they have done for me manifests itself in tirelessly pursuing a career and financial security. My life is guided by this, and I don’t complain. I really don’t.

School is hard, and I am struggling to keep my head above water. The future is hazy and confusing and I have nothing figured out and there is a certain charm to it. For me, success is so much more than just being rich. Success means being happy where I am; mentally, and spiritually. Success means being excited to go to work in the morning, and deeply caring about what I do. But, above all else, success means proving that I am someone who was worth uprooting your life for. It always has.

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summer at oma’s essay and photos by sabine calleja

ne of my fondest childhood memories is spending summers in Austria with my Oma. Living so far apart was not easy, but the summers were a time to connect our two cultures, our two lives. Living in a village that had forests aplenty, we’d go mushroom picking in late summer when the Steinpilze were ready to be put in a basket and transformed into something delicious. It was an adventure. My brother and I usually ended up straying from our task of picking the mushrooms to play tag, and afterwards we had a mandatory tick-check that was done in my Oma’s kitchen. The good times.

She was a marvelous cook, my Oma. From strudels and gulash, to schnitzel and kipferl, Oma always made something that was

not just delicious, but made from the heart.

Though she passed away nine years ago, her memory still lives on today in our kitchen in Toronto.

A recipe for Erdapfel and Steinpilze Suppe—potato and mushroom soup—brings back those memories of mushroom picking with Oma, smelling the wonderful creations she had made with love for her grandchildren, to home, here in Toronto.

It may just be a simple recipe for a soup to warm you on a chilly day, but this family recipe also ties together the bonds we created with our Oma many summers ago; bridging the gap between our distant lives in Canada and Austria, in the local forest and her kitchen.

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you will need Half a diced white onion 1 tbsp of grapeseed oil 4 large potatoes, cubed 1/2 cup of dried porcini mushrooms,

soaked for half an hour (you can use

fresh as well) 4 cups of vegetable stock 3/4 cup of full-fat sour cream 1 tbsp of flour 1 bay leaf Salt and pepper Pinch of nutmeg Finely chopped parsley or chives to serve In a large pot, fry the diced onion with the oil when heated.

Add the diced potatoes and fry at a medium heat for a few minutes. Pour in the vegetable stock and the bay leaf and let it simmer. Next, squeeze excess water out of the porcini mushrooms and roughly chop them. Add them into the pot, along with a good pinch of salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Let simmer for 20-25 minutes until the potatoes are soft. Taking the pot off the heat, add in the sour cream with a tablespoon of flour. Once incorporated, let it boil up once, and remove pot.

Serve with herb garnish and dark bread.

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brothers a personal essay about the complex and unique bond between two brothers kody mccann photos by alexandra scandolo images provided by kody mccann

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am the youngest of four children, with two sisters and one brother, all growing up in and around Boston, Massachusetts. My sister Kait is the oldest at 32, my brother Kevin is 31, and my sister Kellie is 22. I have always connected with my sister Kait through academics. She was always a role model for my academic behavior and, although at times it was annoying and belittling, I would not be the student I am today without her pressure, and I owe her big time. Kellie is the closest to me in age and we love the same music, movies, and theatre. She now lives in California but every time we see each other we pick up right where we left off. She is pretty cool.

And then there is Kevin.

I will be honest, growing up we never got along.

It’s just a fact. He played video games and I did not.

I liked school, and he hated it. Our mutual love for sports only went as far as we both played basketball.

We rarely had those typical brotherly conversations about professional sports teams and who was going to make the playoffs. He tossed me around and beat me up to “make me tough,” which was not appreciated. But, so what? He is my big brother and we have different interests. But that isn’t the whole story.

Throughout my adolescence, he constantly asked me about my sexuality. “Are you gay?” was asked almost every time we were together. It made me question many of the things I liked and I asked myself many times about what I was doing, and what Kevin would think. Being young and impressionable, it was not what I wanted to hear, and one of the major impacts was that I did end up giving up acting to play sports for awhile. Now, there was more than one factor in making the decision, and it was not solely because of what my brother thought, but I would be lying to myself if I said that he didn’t play a part. He never appreciated what I found interesting, and my reaction was to shut him out. I found myself trying to distance myself from him and the things he did.

I would never talk about him, and my close friends would be surprised when I brought him up because they did not know or had just forgotten that I had an older brother. Not bringing him up was my way to mitigate his efforts to change who I was. When I spoke to him I would not say much. I would be rude and terse in most of our conversations. As I got older and realized I should not let him dictate what I did and didn’t do, we clashed more violently. We had tense conversations and went periods of time without speaking. I angered quickly with him and had a

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low tolerance for his jokes. I could tell him off, and beating me up was not as easy anymore. At one point I told him to never speak to me again. That may be dramatic, but it was because something he said finally angered me too much. I responded to his misunderstanding of who I was with hatred. I did not want to be friends and I did not want to talk. It was my turn to be the jerk.

With all the doom and gloom out of the way, we are still brothers. We never reached a breaking point.

The bond between us never severed. There has always been something extra, something pushing us close, and we push back at it. It would be easy to just say that we are brothers and we are still talking because we are family, but I do not buy that. When I first started thinking about it, I did not understand it. There is so much “bad” to point to, conflict to discuss, and unresolved issues. What was keeping us cordial and respectful? Why did we still care for each other in the face of so much bad? After a lot of thought, I knew there was more to us than we both had thought.

I’ve realized within the last two years we actually have tried to find what connects us and what defines our relationship, and over recent years, we definitely have changed. As we have gotten older and matured (him taking a little longer to mature than I), we have both looked back on our childhood together.

There is not a ton of stuff to look back on and laugh.

Looking back, we may have never gotten along, but it was not from the lack of trying. Kevin certainly did not give up trying to figure out who I was, and I admittedly came the closest to giving up. My version of not giving up was continuing to try to explain to him the things I liked, however I usually gave up trying after a while. To this day, we have constantly made an effort to try to strengthen our relationship. We have pushed and pulled on each other. Maybe not as much when we were younger, but more recently.

It has not been easy, but lately, I have come to realize I will always to try to bridge the gap between us, and I do believe Kevin wants to as well. Do not count us out yet. We have gotten closer in the past couple of years, and with a little sister mediation from Kellie, we have come to realize we truly care for each other.

I hope one day we will find what connects us. This may never happen, or it could happen when he reads this. I cannot predict the future of our relationship, but I know one thing is for certain: our relationship will not be defined as brothers who never found a bond, but as brothers who never stopped looking.

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ashley meehan illustration by melissa avalos

Distances If I could fold distances Like a map, My loved ones would Be only a pinch away.

There continues, While I am here, missing My brother’s laughter.

I would crumple the Paper-thin landscape To watch the soft Curve of his eyelids, As they flutter shut.

Forfeited moments are raindrops Littering the expanse between us, Evaporating into regrets That can’t be folded away Like a map.

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EMMA LAILEY For those few seconds when your bright eyes meet mine, two strangers on the street travelling in opposing perpendicular motion, I wonder who you may be. What kind of man are you? Would you have looked my way in another setting? I suppose not.

For those few seconds where you stare openly at my breasts, unashamed since I’ll be gone in a moment, I consider if you’re married. What little amount of pleasure this brings you, I’ll never know.

You don’t even know my age, and if you did, would you continue to stare? Everyone looks older on the street.

For those few seconds when you smile at me, watching with amusement at my confusion for your unexplained expression. Do I remind you of an old friend? A current lover? This is a social game I do not know the rules to. Around here, it is not custom to smile at strangers, this you surely know, yet you send a small grin my way. A sexual innuendo? Would it be wrong to return? It won’t matter in a few moments anyway.

A flash of a person, a flicker of another soul, a lifetime of stories and into the crowds they disappear.

But for that moment, when two strangers meet eyes on the street, they can imagine they are connected by some ominous director. The stars of the next doomed romance. Destined to meet again?

Possible. Likely even. But, this whisper of an encounter is shared not by two—but by millions. There are many seconds in a day after all. And even though those few seconds are special, a shared moment of hidden intimacy and understanding, their faces blur together. Stick and mold into one. His strong jaw. Her blond hair. His dark features. Her slender waist. This connection between fleeting strangers parallels our fragile bond with humanity; for those few seconds and then—

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an ode to the women i’ve lived with

exploring the ways that living with a person can make you know them, with photos of

each of the incredible women I’ve lived with, in the space they now inhabit without me essay and photos by emma workman

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have a younger sister, Ava. She’s three years my junior, and this means that I had to share a room throughout my childhood. We had embarrassing posters on our walls—Mariah Carey and Avril Lavigne—and twin beds. We purposely bought different duvets and decorations because we wanted to be sure that, just because we were sharing a space, it did not mean that we were sharing a personality. Sharing a room with Ava felt sweet. Sometimes, she’d have nightmares and wake me up in the middle of the night. We always said “Goodnight, I love you” in one breath before bed. We still do that. I’ve been sharing space with Ava since I was three. Now, I go home and we sleep in the same bed. We catch each other up on our lives, we make dumb jokes, and take ugly pictures of each other. What used to be an arrangement born out of our ages and the number of bedrooms in our home is now one we make on purpose. My bed goes empty for preference of her company.

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When I was 16, I left home for university and met Ally, my roommate. I met her directly after crying in a burger restaurant bathroom and she shook my hand firmly. Our first day together, we asked each other what kind of music we liked, what movies, what books. We wanted desperately to feel comfortable in each other’s presence. We made jokes and laughed without discerning. We lay in our separate twin beds, quiet in the dark. We’d put up photos and posters on the walls on our respective sides of the room, we’d put away our clothes—we had tried to make the space ours. We had said goodbye to our parents and our houses and our own rooms, and in the dark, we forgot our posturing.

Ally is one of my best friends. She and I bought a string of lights for our room, and a rug. She tolerated my messy clothes and my Diet Coke cans strewn around the room. We went to breakfast together in the mornings. On Wednesdays, we’d get up early. We didn’t have class until 12 and we’d sit

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first two years of high school. It had mint green walls and I picked out an embarrassing wall decal—a sprawling tree— for behind my bed. The other was a room in my family’s house in Miami. I painted the walls yellow. Those last two years were the only time in my life I had a space that was fully and wholly my own.

Now, as I did last year, I share a room with Bronwyn.

It’s strange to feel like if all goes well, I’ll never have my own room again. Our relationship feels permanent in the ways that we grant each other space. We buy things for the two of us, we decide upon décor, and scents, and sheets together because that’s what you do when you live with someone.

We’ve known each other since I was twelve and, in some ways, we formed our ideas of what a home looks like together. When we lay together, it is warm. It is studied, and practiced, and natural. It feels like something I was meant to do, all these years. It feels like I don’t ever want to stop, even if that means twice as many books and a shared habit of leaving clothes on the ground. Bronwyn’s love for me fills all the corners.

My house is a patchwork of items gifted to us by different people, a mix of kitchen utensils given to us by our parents individually and art done by our respective friends.

Living with my friends is an act of consolidating the things that are ours and sharing them with each other, not because we have to, but because we want to. I know the names of Heather’s friends from high school, of the people in Bronwyn’s classes. We choose to learn about each other because we always crave more. I spend every day with them and I still want to know them. I want to hear about them and clean our apartment on the weekends and laugh with them. I always want more.

together and play music and talk. There is nothing like sharing a space with another person to make you know them. In knowing Ally, I loved her. I loved the way she organized her notes and her space, the authoritative way she dealt with some things, and the tentative way she dealt with others. I grew to know her anxieties and her patterns, and the things that made her feel better. I knew this from observation, from a careful and informed look at a person with whom I spent most of my time. She knew me as well, saw me cry when I got a care package from my parents, and witnessed my fleeting obsessions.

In second year, we moved into a little apartment with Heather, our best friend, and my girlfriend, Bronwyn. Living with them let me understand them. The ways that I got to know these girls made them my future. I knew what Heather ate for every meal of the day. We sat around our tiny kitchen table, did our astronomy homework, shared food, and laughed for hours. Last summer, I shared a room with Heather for a month. We’d lay together in her queen bed, and there would be very little trepidation. We would laugh loudly, goading each other out of sleep. Heather is the funniest person I know. She arranges her spaces thoughtfully.

We live together in a different apartment now, and she arranges her space with the same careful warmth. She is sentimental. The way we take up space together feels yielding.

When I go into our bathroom and see our shampoo bottles in our designated corners of the shower, I am reminded of the ways that women share space, the feminine act of compromise and how we never take advantage of it.

There were six years where I had my own room. One was a room in my family home in Barbados. One was a room in my grandmother’s house, where I lived for my

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here

&there

contrasting travel photos with the comfort of home photo essay by rosa kumar

like to think that I’m a regular traveller and can leave home without any tears or regret. I pack up, say goodbye, and hop on a plane—usually alone and without any sense of remorse, despite leaving everything behind. Then I get there.

Whether it’s five weeks in Italy or five days in New York, home begins to slowly creep into everything

I do. When I’m having a coffee in London with friends, I’ll think of sitting in my kitchen at home with my parents and our well-worn mugs. I can be admiring the gardens of Versailles, and a flash of my garden at home will run through my mind.

No matter where I go, I’m always a little bonded to home.

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studying in siena

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wandering in versailles

brunch in montreal

on top of the rock in new york

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coffee in london

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views from puerto rico

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the land that built us article and photos by grace king

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n my bookshelf is a diary, chronicling a team expedition that took me around the Arctic region in 2015. The diary entries begin with a story of our arrival in Kangerlussuaq, Greenland—where we stepped onto Arctic soil for the first time.

One particular line, scribbled in clumsy pen, describes the moment that we tumbled off the tundra buses and onto the hills, when “everyone went sprawling like we had never seen nature before.” This description makes me uncomfortable—maybe because I know, deep down, that in my country it is true. In our relationship with the natural environment, Canadians choose what they want to see.

The very specific bond between Canadians and their natural environment traces back to accounts of European settlers. At the time that these travelers stumbled upon Canada, they had already reached near-depletion of resources on their own land. As such, their discovery of the Canadian expanse inspired words like “inexhaustible,” “infinite,” and “endless,” in their journal logs. By applying this diction of a limitless reality to the region, these settlers impacted the development of the Canadian psyche in a fundamental way. With their accounts, they created a metaphorical language for the nation. The same nation, as activist Naomi Klein states, “that was an extractive company—the Hudson’s Bay Company— before it was a country.” Canada’s first function was to serve as a warehouse of “spare parts,” a wealth of resources beyond any settler’s wildest dreams. Fast-forward to

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the year 2016, and Southern Canadians are stuck in this paradigm. To consider the idea that a limit exists to our current industries would not only be an uncomfortable matter; it would spark an acute existential crisis.

Long before settlers introduced their own language to Canadian economies, there was a language that had already been established by the Indigenous peoples. This was a language best summarized by the Inuit proverb that reads: “We are the land. We are the waters. We are the sky.” The proverb’s message was embodied by Inuk artist, Billy Gauthier, during his hunger strike against Muskrat Falls in October. Gauthier refused to eat for nearly two weeks, maintaining that he would not quit until the federal government met with him to discuss the consequences which his community would suffer due to the dam’s installation.

Through this, Gauthier stressed his internal connection to the land that raised him.

“We’ve lived off the land for so long,” he told reporters. “It’s literally built us.” Gauthier was prepared to die for the protest: not only to ensure that the project would not impact fishing in targeted areas around the dam— but to honour all that the land had done for his people.

“The land, the waters are our mother,” Gauthier explained. “And we won’t let anyone harm our mother.” His respect for the land echoes the message of the Inuit proverb. Together, they offer a suggestion for us all, regardless of our origin or culture. Redefining our bond with nature need not be an existential crisis, but an existential truth.

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We cannot, and will not, be greater than the elements that, as Gauthier said, “built us.”

Muskrat Falls is another failure to recognize the limits that exist in our natural environments. Authority figures have repressed any possibility that the environment around the dam could retaliate against its own exploitation, but this is the reality behind the project’s price tag, ballooning from four billion to eleven billion dollars. When Nalcor’s CEO was questioned on whether the project would be worth its cost, he coolly admitted that the plan was a “boondoggle.”

It is fair to say, then, that Billy Gauthier’s remarkable emotional connection to the land is virtually a radical concept for Southern Canadians. As we look the limit of our non-renewable industries in the face—as our resources shift from inexhaustible to exhausted—we are still playing games, snagging tickets for cruise ships to the North, joking that we have to “visit it before it’s gone.” Where Gauthier’s bond to the natural environment resembles a relationship, that of Southern Canadians is more of an ownership. By this definition, the seventeen-year-old author of my journal entries was touching on a truth. We do not want to “see nature”—to accept a relationship instead of mere ownership—because we are scared of the responsibilities that we must assume once we have done so.

Only a few pages after the entry of the first expedition that questioned whether we had “seen nature” before, there is an entry dated a week later that appears to provide an answer. In describing an excursion to Bylot Island in Nunavut, I wrote: “I think there must be a great, important difference between looking and seeing. I am trying so hard to see.”

Our relationship to our natural environment cannot be realized unless we abandon the narrative that nature is ours to exploit. We cannot continue to associate climate change only with borrowed symbols—that of the polar bear, the melting iceberg. We must begin to invest emotionally in our own symbols, our own motivations for preserving the land to which we owe everything.

The future does not have to be bleak, but it will be different. If we do not begin nurturing a relationship with the land, rather than forcing an ownership over it, then the even larger bond—the one representing the global dynamic and well-being as a whole—might break for good.

the biology of friendship and movement of ecosystems lidia hencic

& maxime weiss

illustrations by geoff baillie

& genevieve wakutz

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dividual members of the group could exist separately but instead, each strengthens those around it. Like an ecosystem, the demise of one would disrupt the order. It can be confidently stated that the group would be shaken without Golda, or rocky without the antics of Lidia and Caitlin. The metaphor gets slightly shaky here but bear with it. What will transpire when the species leave their natural habitat and set off on their own?

Golda will remain in Toronto and Caitlin, Lidia, and Max will go away to Europe.

The “major habitat” will be just a dust and Raid-veiled memory. The routine 6:30 AM wakeup of Golda traversing the hallway, the occasional kitchen fire started by Lidia, or the bags of prepared snacks made by Caitlin will no longer shape our days together. More importantly, the impromptu philosophical debates that often eclipse our dinner preparations will be a rare beast. Golda recently made us complete Buzzfeed’s “After Taking This Quiz, You’re Guaranteed To Fall In Love With Your Partner.” It reminded us that this love we could fall into was just what we had developed on our own, and that it had emerged from so many different subsets of the ecosystem.

omeone recently threw out the word “ecosystem” in an attempt to define our relationship. It was casual, but holy shit, it hit the nail on the head. An ecosystem is commonly described as a “large naturally occurring community of flora and fauna occupying a major habitat.” Okay, so “large” in this case is four girls, and our “major habitat” is a ramshackle duplex in the Annex—but the comparison still rings true. We are self-sustaining. We are able to relate to, engage with, and understand each other and offer and seek support. We fight off adverse conditions together; for the most part these conditions are not physical threats (save for that time we had moths) but more often things like heartbreak, loss, and everyday stresses and confusions. It seems natural that our connection helps diffuse these various tribulations but, more importantly, the nature of this relationship also seems particularly effective in cultivating and sustaining positivity.

As individuals within the “system,” we’re connected to one another in different ways and in different subgroups. These subgroups don’t compete with or hinder the others, but make for a complex and dynamic system. The bonds between in-

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Caitlin: I feel unsettled. Guys, we just put in notice for the lease, i.e. we are going to have to leave in two months. We’re going to all have to get into a new jive.

I propose weekly Skype dates.

Lidia: Necessary.

cait

Golda: It’s pretty cool how quickly we became friends in this sort of forced context of residence, and how it was by chance that we all gravitated to one another and not only managed, but wanted, to sustain and build on that initial bond.

It’s not like we have stayed the same person in these last two and a half years; we’ve all changed.

Max: Our friendship seems to really accommodate that well.

L: It makes it easier knowing that we’re not balancing on a common thread but a sort of interwoven system. We’re going to come back different, but it wont be a problem.

G: There’s a comfort that we have each other to turn to every minute of everyday, even across time zones, but also that when we reunite, our relationship will be there. It won’t be exactly how it was when we left.

golda

M: I would go as far as to say that our individual growth makes our friendship stronger—it’s like all the roots we’ve planted have grown and spread and stabilized. We started our friendship in this tight proximity of residence at Lower Burwash, and then we were literally living together in the house.

C: Burwash! Vic! Our roots are there too… I mean, they were actually plastered on the walls of Vic for a time last year—remember the Drake faces?

G: Yes! That time we printed out 30 Drake faces for Max’s birthday from the VUSAC system and I accidentally left the image on the computer, someone found it, and plastered the images all over the walls of Vic. M: That was awesome, such a great example of our friendship and care for each other. It was turned into this public image and literally took over public spaces.

lidia

L: There’s a sort of anxiety that accompanies the thought of being taken out of our habitat, though. At first, it was Vic. But when we moved in together, we got physically closer. Now we’re going to have to face things sort of separately.

G: Not separately, just far apart. It’s a new challenge. Our precious ecosystem will still exist—I love you guys too much for it not to. People say you meet your soul mate in university—I think we have.

C,M,L: Golda!

L: That’s gross.

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