The Strand Magazine: EMOTION | Volume 60, Issue 10 by The Strand

the

STRAND

VOLUME 60 / SPRING MAGAZINE 2018

EMOTION / SPRING MAGAZINE 2018

Nothing is more humbling than taking inventory of our own emotions and finding that they may not be as unique as we thought. Emotions are responsible for the way we act and the way we exist in the world. They dictate how we interact with each other and how we make human connections. We can choose to act on them, ignore them or repress them, but they usually make their way out into the open anyway. This theme was originally suggested to us as a joke by our Stranded Editor, Rebecca, because she wanted to write about Carly Rae Jepsen’s infamous 2015 banger E•MO•TION. The entire masthead was immediately taken with the idea, making Rebecca’s casual interjection the underlying current of the next month of our lives. We are lucky to have her piece, as well as a plethora of thought-provoking and insightful articles by some of Vic’s strongest voices in our Spring Magazine. From emotional labour to emotional distress to emotional catharsis, the pieces we’ve included in this magazine cover a wide range of, well, emotional topics. We wanted to offer a platform for not only allowing these emotions to exist outside of ourselves, but also for showcasing and elevating them. So often, emotions are discredited in place of facts, news, anything that can be labeled as “objective”. They are cast aside as irrelevant to reality or to productivity. But can’t emotions be productive? Are they not irrevocably real? There is no such thing as a fake emotion, and that’s what makes this theme altogether so compelling. We also wanted to offer the possibility of connection through these pages: we hope that these stories will be engaging and approachable, and that you will afford them empathy. Perhaps even understand them as similar to your own. That is the beauty of emotionality. It is so painfully and wonderfully relatable.

With love, Molly and Elena

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04/06 07 08/09 10/13 14/17 18/21 22/24 25 26/29 30/31 32/35 36

getting emotional over E•MO•TION rebecca gao fate hana nikcevic mad libs ally matas we asked 17 people to describe themselves as an emotion clare downie let us have this georgia lin a lot of people tell me i look like zooey deschanel rhianna jackson-kelso spinning into control chantel ouellet musings amy jiao emotions as political, emotions as theoretical shailee koranne everything hurts mattea roach what does home feel like? gabriel calderon hamburg, 2017 jay bawar

editors-in-chief MOLLY KAY ELENA SENECHALBECKER design team AMY JIAO MOLLY KAY HANA NIKCEVIC visual team HANA NIKCEVIC YILIN ZHU

senior copy editor TRISTAN MCGRATHWAUGH copy team KATHLEEN CHEN REBECCA GAO GEORGIA LIN SABRINA PAPAS ELENA SENECHALBECKER HARRISON WADE

cover illustration ERYN LOUGHEED title photo HANA NIKCEVIC

SPECIAL THANKS TO OUR MASTHEAD FOR THEIR SUPPORT

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Getting emotional over

E•MO•TION words by rebecca gao art by mia carnevale The first time I listened to Carly Rae Jepsen’s 2015 album E•MO•TION, I was freshly eighteen, sitting on the stoop of my parents’ house, and biting into my first ice cream truck popsicle of the summer. It was the summer of 2016, between grade 12 and first year. After a particularly awful school year, I found myself reverting back to my old coping mechanisms. I refused to acknowledge my feelings lest I revealed some sort of deeper trauma. It was easier to pretend that everything was fine, hold back my tears, and be the goofy funny girl that everyone knew me to be. Then I heard “E•MO•TION,” the song, and the floodgates opened. Throughout high school, I pretended that I hated pop music and singers—especially female pop artists. I scoffed at my friends who loved Ariana Grande, while secretly spinning Taylor Swift’s Red on repeat. I tried to give off the impression that I only listened to “serious” music. I was scared that someone would find out about my shameful love of pop music. But it went deeper than that—I was scared of the connotations that loving pop music carried. I thought that I needed to maintain some level of “cool,” some level of “I’m-not-like-other-girls,” that could only be achieved by listening to “real” music, like classic rock and folk. But that day, on my parents’ stoop,

when I heard “E•MO•TION” for the first time, I couldn’t stop crying. Carly Rae Jepsen somehow managed to reach into the deepest depths of my soul. She pulled out my darkest secrets and insecurities, and forced me to come face-to-face with what I thought was the worst version of me—the one who felt all her feelings. This sudden burst of emotion, rather than inspiring a journey of self-discovery to become a less closed-off individual, scared the hell out of me. I guided myself back into my overt and public bashing of pop music. It wasn’t until a few weeks later, when I was at my friend Noah’s house, that I heard another Jepsen song. He played “Boy Problems” and we started dancing around his kitchen. Again, there was an outburst of emotion—this time, joy. When I went home that night, I listened to the rest of E•MO•TION, all 54 minutes of it. And this time I let myself feel everything. I laughed and cried, felt giddy joy and bitter sorrow. It was stupid, I thought, that I was having such a visceral response to what many would consider “bad” music. E•MO•TION led me on a journey of musical discovery. After Jepsen, I found myself listening to Selena Gomez on the subway, dancing to Ariana Grande in my bedroom, and scream-singing to Zara Larsson in the shower. I even revisited

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On pop music, sentimentality, and Carly Rae Jepsen

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Throughout high school, I pretended that I hated pop music and singers—especially female pop artists. I scoffed at my friends who loved Ariana Grande, while secretly spinning Taylor Swift’s Red on repeat. I tried to give off the impression that I only listened to “serious” music. their predecessors, Mariah Carey, Britney Spears, and Hilary Duff. Despite their diverse sounds and images, all these singers had one thing in common—their music conveyed emotions and feelings that I had previously been unable to express. Pop artists, especially female pop artists, have often been thought of as shallow—incapable of communicating the same emotionality as capital-S “Serious” music. I had also found myself in the school of thought that considered female pop artists to be vapid, stupid, and lacking artistry. My own internalized misogyny made me think that liking female pop artists would invalidate my intelligence, and that if I enjoyed pop music publicly, people would stop taking me seriously. This continual discrediting of female pop stars is fuelled by misogyny; their artistry is rendered inauthentic and invalid simply because they are women who want to express their feelings. Unabashedly loving a bubblegum pop princess from Nanaimo, BC was the perfect storm of “girly,” poppy garbage to deteriorate whatever cool girl pseudo-intellectual vibe I had created for myself. As I delved deeper and deeper into my personal pop music awakening, I found that this music, music that I previously would’ve dismissed as “shallow,” was actually able to help me communicate my deepest, darkest emotions. I came to realize that expressing emotions and lis-

tening to music that I genuinely enjoyed was better for my mental and emotional health than whatever bullshit identity I was trying to conform to. Listening to and loving female pop artists has taught me that my emotions are not petty and unwarranted; expressing my feelings shouldn’t come hand in hand with shame. And though I can’t credit my entire emotional awakening—a journey that I’m still on—to Carly Rae Jepsen or pop music, I do owe E•MO•TION and pop princesses for showing me how to be emotional, and that it’s okay to feel every feeling with every fibre of my body. This is something that I am still working on. On that summer day in 2016, as I sat sobbing on my parents’ stoop, the lyric “all that we can do with this emotion,” echoed in my head. I still fixate on that line whenever I hear “E•MO•TION,” and it reminds me that fully feeling my emotions is okay, productive, and healthy. That in my emotions there should be no shame, and only possibility, growth, and life, because there is so much that we can do with this emotion.

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hana nikcevic

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words by ally matas art by belinda hoang

MAD LIBS Terms of endearment I knew I had a crush on you from the moment I _________(past tense verb) you. You had _________(adjective) hair, _________(colour) eyes, and a/an _________(adjective) smile. My _________(part of body) would _________(verb) every time I’d hear your _________(adjective) laugh. I’d _________(verb) thinking about your _________(adjective) arms and your masculine _________(part of body), and how _________(adjective) you smelled. You’d _________(adverb) help anyone in need, and were always there to lend a _________(part of body). You’d always _________(adverb) come up with _________(plural noun) that would make all our friends laugh. I knew I had to get your _________(noun), so on e day I finally _________(past tense verb) up the courage and asked for it. You looked so _________(adjective)! But luckily, we exchanged _________ (plural noun), and began _________(verb ending in -ing) all the time. We began _________(social media, ending in -ing) for months. Every day, without fail, I’d receive a/an _________(adjective) series of close-ups of your _________(body part, something appropriate) with puns typed across. Crush aside, at first I didn’t take them seriously. I figured you were just one of those _________(adjective, something like nerdy) guys who’d found someone he could easily riff off of, and in that respect I was _________(adjective, somewhere between charmed and irritated) to oblige. It was only when my _________(plural noun, a wonderful bunch) pointed out that our continuous _________(verb ending in -ing) probably meant you just had it _________(adjective) for me, and that I shouldn’t get _________(verb ending in -ed, something messy) with someone in our group of friends. But our _________(adjective, maybe something that feels meaningful) conversation never seemed to be able to _________(verb, you

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know, when it gets boring or weird), and I found myself growing _________(adjective, describing cold sweaty armpits) whenever it seemed to pause. Whenever I thought about you, I’d feel _________, _________, and _________ (emotions, choose one extremely positive, one extremely negative, and one somewhere in the middle). I knew then that our _________(noun, what would you call this?) should and would eventually pay off. I’ve always had that frame of mind: every _________(emotion, feeling, instinct, tickle, taste), regardless of its randomness or impulsivity, must eventually be reckoned with, for the cosmic _________(noun, a kind of mess) that’ll build up in your mind will surely _________(adjective, not good). It becomes hard work, making sense of different feelings of _________, _________, _________(what are you feeling?) that without care or notice knock on your door. Sometimes it’d feel like a game, where emotions like _________, _________, and _________ (provide an interesting mix, surprise yourself here) would be comically penciled into my daily perspective of you, landing me anywhere between distress and contentment. Does that mean my _________(noun) for you was borne from reckless emoting? No, at least, it didn’t feel reckless when I compressed all these feelings into my suggestion to you that we _________(verb, as appropriate as you’re comfortable with), nor did it feel impulsive when we then kept meeting up nearly every day of the _________(season, the warmest) thereafter. The least arbitrary I’ve ever felt with you was that night we left that _________(noun, an event) and walked our friend home through sleepy downtown _________(city name), and we saw that lone coyote standing in the park. I was in shock; I wondered if you too were transported back _________(days, weeks, months?) earlier, when we were really just friends, when this relationship was still just a small choir of _________, _________, and _________(what were you feeling, what were you singing?) in my head. Remember? You had driven me home late one night, and running parallel to us under parking lot lights across the street were two _________(probably coyotes, but they were as big as wolves). We were both amazed at the secret wildness that we were fortunate enough to have witnessed, and when you left me at my door I couldn’t help but dream of _________(other quiet moments we could one day share). And now, having had many unnamed quiet moments, at the climax of our courtship, a lonely dog confronts us and the mess of _________(a plural word that modifies a noun), _________(a plural word that is the subject of a verb), and _________(a plural word that typically expresses an action) we’d been using like Lego bricks to construct our fantasy romance. The cosmic sign was clear enough to me: it was time to address it. With our friend dropped off, we took an Uber to my neighbourhood and hung out in a field near my house. Our crossed legs bumping together in the damp summer grass and the air feeling like the temperature of my own body, I couldn’t be sure where my limbs began and stopped. Your face was gentle and dim in the summer night light; I fondly remember the way your laugh kept getting caught in your chest, giving away your shyness like a gift to me. _________(term of endearment, the one I always call you), I _________(verb) you for asking me out first. I _________(verb) you for taking those _________(deceptive), _________(surprising), and _________(utterly ridiculous) moments and turning them into a story with me, making sense of sensation and proving the ever universal magic love inspires. I _________(verb) you for recklessly and impulsively emoting, and choosing to do that with me. We exchanged promises, and couldn’t stop laughing because of all the cool air suddenly filling our bodies, making us float an inch or two off the ground. Since then, I continue to consider every word carefully. I recognize each time I seize up with a blush, a shout, or a shiver, and cherish each feeling dearly for they are all fundamental to the story of our _________(you know).

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We asked 17 people to describe themselves as an emotion words by clare downie art by eryn lougheed

“I must be overreacting,” I told my psychologist. It came from my mouth quickly and confidently, as if I were stating common knowledge. But my anxiety continued to scorch my brain. Why am I feeling this way? What am I doing wrong? How am I going to fix this? The emotion seemed too intense and out of proportion to the moment that triggered it. I sought to dismiss the sadness I felt. “But we can’t control our emotions like that, Clare,” my psychologist responded calmly. “You are experiencing this sadness because something obviously made you feel this way. You can trust your emotions.” Did she just say trust? Trust my feelings? I looked up from my feet, as the symptoms of my anxiety started to subside. I still felt sad, but her words rang true—the validity of emotion resides in the mere presence of the feeling. So, what happens when you decide your feelings are undeniably real and true? That

the good, bad, and in-between are authentic and normal? It can often seem like we don’t have permission to “feel,” in the truest sense of the word. When emotion comes around, we question the grounds of our own feelings, as if we don’t know them best. Today, the words of my psychologist still resonate with me. By recognizing the legitimacy of my emotions, I’m learning to lean into them; the “good” feelings have started to appear more vividly, while the “not-so-good” feel less disastrous. I wanted to open up this conversation to include other women, and trans and nonbinary folks. I wanted the voices of those who are too often discouraged or spoken over to be able to express how they are feeling—I share their collection of responses in the space below. I was curious to see what people would say when given explicit permission to share their emotions in a conversation where everything is fair game.

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TENDER:

But in a productive way. I’ve been nurturing my tender-feels. Taking the time alone that I need. Creating much-needed boundaries. — Willo

FRAYED:

My edges are raw. — Char

LOVED:

This past year has really shown me how much love surrounds me in the form of family and friends. I have never been more grateful for this life than I am today. I wake up each morning feeling, despite all obstacles, that I will be okay. — Rachel

DISCOURAGED:

Feeling discouraged by the way our society is addicted to our devices. We are a nation of addicts and by always being connected, we are losing our connection to ourselves and our loved ones. This is being reinforced in the school system and in all aspects of our society; it is a tool that can be for good and that, indeed, we can’t escape, but we are losing ourselves in the process. I am feeling discouraged as I don’t see it going away or getting easier. — Amy

EXCITED:

“That’s not lady-like” is a statement regularly used in my household. It’s a statement so common in my life that I never used to think twice. As I got older and grew into myself, I began to realize how these statements, said so innocently to me by my parents, were enforcing a construct I do not support. We speak up. We stand up. And with this, we educate. How am I feeling as a woman today? Excited. I’m excited because we are exposing the world to the unfair and corrupt things we experience. I am excited because women are strong and the world is seeing that. But mostly, I’m excited for the future generation. A generation that will not accept the statement: “That’s not lady-like.” — Madeline

COMPLACENT:

I’m always accepting other people’s happiness and satisfaction as my own. If the people around me are good, then I’m good— for the most part. I chose “complacent” because it’s not necessarily the best thing for me: it’s just something I accept and am okay with. I’ve settled, you may say. — Emma

FRUSTRATED:

I feel like I want to do so much, but I don’t feel like I have the time, energy, or resources to make it all happen. I’m frustrated in that sense. — Zoë

OPTIMISTIC:

While emotions come and go (impermanence!) I mostly feel optimistic. Optimistic that everything will be okay. Optimistic that I can handle what comes my way. Optimistic that the future will be a good place, a better place, and we will all be better than alright. — Theresa

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ANTICIPATIVE:

I feel like I live in a constant state of anticipation, which Wikipedia defines as “an emotion involving pleasure, excitement, or anxiety in considering an expected event.” I like that “anticipation” has both a positive side (excitement) and a negative side (anxiety). My mood at this point in my life is either euphoric or uneasy, both coming from anticipation. Most of the time my anticipation is without a cause or from complete fantasy, rather than an actual plausible event or occurrence. — Quinn

GRATEFUL:

I’m aware of what I have and I don’t want to take it for granted. — Nancy

INDEPENDENT:

I feel as though I have the power to control my emotions and rely on no one but myself to generate my happiness. In the past, I’ve relied heavily on other people and my surroundings to create my happiness. I was always seeking validation through various means. About a year ago, I realized that the most important person I’ll ever be with is myself. I started caring less about what other people might think of me and more about how I feel. I create my own happiness by virtue of independence. It’s truly one of the best feelings to wake up and know that there’s nothing and no one who can manipulate and dictate the way I feel. I’m the driver of my life! — Sara

CONTENT:

Overall, I’ve been feeling very content. I feel like I’m in a really good place right now. I came out as a trans man a year and a half ago, and I feel like I’m finally becoming me and getting comfortable in my own skin, which is something I struggled with for years. Although I definitely have my high and low days, this feeling of content continues to stay—like a nice warm belly feeling. — Jaime

CHALLENGED:

2018 has challenged me numerous times. I’m grateful that I’m strong and confident enough to face each of those challenges— to find a way to make the most out of even the worst. Every challenge I overcome empowers me more and makes me proud. Especially because I have daughters, and never want them to give up, or give in too easily. — Mary

AWESTRUCK:

It encompasses a mixture of feelings: distraction and apprehension, fear and surprise, terror and amazement. This feels like the easiest and most complicated way to describe my feelings. Awe is neither positive or negative. For the past three years, I’ve been in awe of how deeply I find myself able to feel things. I’ve been in awe of the implications of emotions and how they affect almost everything in our life—how strong and important they really are. I feel like it’s been my anchor emotion. — Kenzie

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HOPEFUL:

I live in the States, and we had one of the worst mass shootings in our country’s history on Valentine’s Day. The students who survived the shooting are standing up to the NRA and to every government official who accepts money from the NRA (including our president). Something just feels different this time— they refuse to be silenced or intimidated. — Jen

ANGRY:

Angry because I get annoyed when I don’t get support from people when I feel I need it, but also guilty because they probably have their own stuff to deal with. — Paige

PEACEFUL:

I feel complete, like I have come home to who I truly am. — Kaya

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Let us have this words by georgia lin

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“IMMIGRANTS, WE GET THE JOB DONE.” When I first heard this lyric from Hamilton: An American Musical, I was stunned. My passion for Lin-Manuel Miranda’s work came at a crux of accepting my identity as a Taiwanese-American-Canadian immigrant. I sought out interviews, off-Broadway clips, backstage pictures, and everything and anything Hamilton-related I could find. Having recently taken a class on United States history, Alexander Hamilton was often on my mind. For me, Hamilton showcased a racial and ethnic diversity I had never seen before in the performing arts sector. Phillipa Soo, the actress of Asian descent who played Eliza Hamilton, the wife of the eponymous character, made me elated and proud that someone who looked like me could sing and star in a Broadway musical. Hamilton explores the political and personal complexities of America’s foundation, but it is ultimately a layered, whirling tale of the American immigrant story. Having been an American immigrant with a performing arts background, I wholeheartedly threw myself into the soundtrack, researching the cast, and proclaiming my love for the musical. Basking in something under the radar that felt mine was a gift I experienced for several months. My friend, also an immigrant woman of colour, and I would avidly discuss Hamilton’s impact on pop culture and quote our favourite lines to each other. When the cast recording came out and the musical burst into a fullblown phenomenon, it was no longer just our shared fixation. Of course, I was immensely happy and proud that such a unique work was getting the recognition it deserved beyond the musical theatre community. However, when other students at my performing arts high school began to sing, quote, and prom-pose with Hamilton’s songs, I developed an irritating jealousy towards my classmates. Our arts program was relatively small and selective, and many students in the drama department were upper-middle class white teenagers who identified as “theatre kids.” When they began to speak about Hamilton in the same, borderline obsessive way that I had been doing for

the past six months, I would twitch at their chorus of “The Schuyler Sisters” and become increasingly frustrated each time I heard it. In my mind, they had essentially claimed a work of art created by people of colour, for people of colour, as their own. Art like Hamilton does not, and should not, have a restricted audience. My frustration is difficult to articulate, because I don’t own the rights to the musical, nor do I have control over who consumes what media. I cannot regulate people’s reactions to popular and performing arts culture—forms and productions that are supposed to be accessible to all. Yet I was inexplicably jealous of white people who loved Hamilton just as much as I did. My reasoning was that they would not understand its underlying messages—immigration, acceptance, and representation in an industry that is labelled ‘the Great White Way’—the way that marginalized communities do. The audacity to cast only people of colour in a story about the very white historical foundations of the United States was groundbreaking. I was able to see myself on a stage, performing a work with authentic intentions to fully represent and subvert historical narratives. When white people would find affinity with Hamilton’s characters or actors, my pangs of jealousy would always return. “You already have so much representation!” I wanted to shout. “Let us have this!” These emotions extend beyond my personal experience with Hamilton as an Asian immigrant woman. In discussing this subject with other people of colour, I recorded multiple similar instances of frustration at the way in which media is produced for and absorbed by different audiences in Western society. I

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spoke to seven U of T students about their lived experiences: Shailee Koranne, Apefa Adjivon, Angela Feng, Maral Attarzadeh, Erica Sung, Vibhuti Kacholia, and Savroop Shergill. Referencing the recent Black Panther movie, Shailee thought that “white people and nonBlack people of colour [aren’t] necessarily claiming or identifying with [the film], but the hype around it and the general unawareness in white people and non-Black people of colour of their own complicity in anti-black racism is pretty frustrating! I say this as a brown person who was/is very excited about Black Panther and has probably perpetuated anti-Black racism many times as a non-Black person.” Apefa continued the conversation: “I know. People are super racist in terms of how they view Black people and their actions, but [somehow] see Black Panther in some sort of completely alternate universe? Like real life Black people are on one side, and Black bodies here for your entertainment and consumption are on the other. It’s just so funny how [people] can separate the Blackness from something that is clearly Black, and about Black issues.” Shailee agreed, and concluded that “generally all media created by non-white people is co-opted if it’s not overtly political, and even if it’s political, its meaning is warped in a way that white people can convince themselves that it doesn’t

apply to them.” Angela and Maral both touched on how media created by people of colour has been received and altered for certain audiences. In our discussion, Angela talked about her “frustration with people attributing the success of people of colour-led films with [their race] rather than artistic merit, such as Moonlight. There’s also a general exhaustion with live-action remakes of Disney movies, like the upcoming Aladdin film, but I think it’s unfair to place Aladdin in that same boat because it’s a totally new experience for it to be live action versus Beauty and the Beast, for example.” Maral spoke about her problems with socalled “diverse or people of colour-centred media created by people of colour that clearly has a white audience in mind, or that is softened and more forgiving towards white people because of its ambitions to be mainstream. For example, [the TV shows] The Mindy Project and Master of None.” Maral also brought up the show Fresh Off the Boat, with which I have a complicated relationship. It showcases a Taiwanese—not just Chinese, but specifically Taiwanese—immigrant family in America adjusting to new cultures and customs, with the talented Constance Wu playing the family matriarch. It’s arguably the most popular show featuring an

In discussing this subject with other people of colour, I recorded multiple similar instances of frustration at the way in which media is produced for and absorbed by different audiences in Western society.

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Asian family on North American television, and it had the representation I had craved for so long. However, it still has its flaws, many of which I am reluctant to elaborate on; Maral reasoned that “[this is] usually part of the problem. For us, it’s something we have high hopes for and want to be forgiving [towards], because it’s so important just because it’s so rare, but it still refuses to cater to or speak for us and ends up being mediocre. The more insidious way this works is that the people of colour fans are willing to overlook not just mediocrity, but also specifics of anti-Blackness in media made by and “for” non-Black people of colour.” This was a breakthrough for me. We want representative media to be as genuine as possible, but we end up settling for adequacy because we desperately wish for something, anything, that aims for diversity even if it doesn’t fully succeed in its goal. Moreover, Erica expanded on a common “forgiveness” of subpar representation of people of colour in media during our conversation: “There are so [few] Asian characters on TV that you learn to forgive the blatant racism because you’re happy to see them getting work and being included, even if it’s as tokenism. For example, the Vietnamese character Dong Nguyen on Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt was played by a Korean actor, and his storyline revolved around not fluently speaking English and eventually getting deported.” She also spoke about the collective understanding people of colour have about mainstream media: “Certain aspects of culture have to be exaggerated in order to cater to a broader audience; you can’t provide all the context needed without blatantly using exposition. If you so rarely see your culture presented in the media, you want it to be as accurate as possible, but you also understand the exaggeration and the nuances when white audiences may not.” In contrast, Vibhuti spoke of viewing Indian culture as “either Indian media made for white people, or me being mad at Indian creators that make Indian women into a backstory.” When white people overtake media that’s been made with specific marginalized or racialized audiences in mind, it consequently diminishes a very personal experience for people of colour who may be seeing themselves

represented in popular culture for the first time. Entertainment media has been racially homogenous for so long that when “white folks co-opt media made for and by people of colour, it is another form of cultural appropriation where the culture and content of people of colour is distanced from coloured bodies; and from the struggles and nuanced contexts these mediums are meant to speak for,” said Savroop when asked about the topic. In addition, she noted that “[many] white ‘allies’ start politicizing and using their interactions with these pieces of media made for people of colour as identity markers in ways that can be really stressful and draining for those who are just trying to enjoy and celebrate finally being represented in the media.” I understand and respect that I am not an omnipotent decider of what mediums are consumed by select audiences. But I continue to be jealous of white people who sing Hamilton like it’s theirs alone, like they do not realize how striking it was that the 70th Tony Awards was the first time all four musical acting awards were won by black performers, three of whom won for Hamilton. By actively disregarding the musical’s foundations—“a story about America then, as told by America now,” as described by Lin-Manuel Miranda— white audiences scorn people of colour and marginalized communities with ignorance. The choice not to “see colour” or “see race,” especially in the performing arts, detracts from everyone’s enjoyment of the production. Hamilton was not made only to be viewed and appreciated by people of colour, but there was a pointed purpose in casting only people of colour. It gave performers, both Broadway veterans and those making their theatrical debuts, an opportunity to become visible in an industry that often shuns and discriminates against racialized communities. My relationship with Hamilton may appear possessive, but I believe it is warranted, if self-righteous. My convictions stay true: in order to fully grasp the significance of a work like Hamilton, one must recognize the equitable artistic decisions made by its creators striving to serve marginalized audiences who deserve to see themselves thrive.

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A lot of people tell me I look like Zooey Deschanel words by rhianna jackson-kelso art by hana nikcevic Being compared to a beautiful actress is usually a compliment, but the one time that sticks with me most was when it wasn’t. That time, it was clear that the underlying message wasn’t that I had big eyes or cute bangs or looked like I could play a mean ukulele riff, but that I was two-dimensional—a character trope. This one instance sticks with me because, despite my best efforts to be appreciated as a full, three-dimensional human being in my interactions with men, I am often treated like Zooey Deschanel in her most reductive of roles—the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. The term “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” was coined in 2007 by film critic Nathan Rabin. The most popularly cited examples in film include Natalie Portman’s character in Garden State, Kirsten Dunst’s character in Elizabethtown and, of course, Zooey Deschanel’s character in 500 Days of Summer. Some other famous examples, like Scott Pilgrim vs. the World’s Ramona Flowers or the eponymous Ruby Sparks, were intended to critique the trope, but inevitably contribute to the robust canon of female characters designed as vehicles for male wish fulfillment. The essential feature of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl is that she has no depth

of character—her story exists only to further the protagonist’s. She dances into his sad, empty life and gives it meaning, usually by being pretty and quirky and liking cooler music than he does. Then she usually dances right back out, ephemeral, while he lives happily ever after, with his character development. Though she plays an important role in the overall story, her thoughts, feelings, and motivations are rarely more than superficially examined because they are not important to the story. I realized relatively recently that my longest-term boyfriend viewed me this way. Although I sincerely loved him, his feelings for me exceeded the scope of anything I could have realistically reciprocated. He told me he loved me a week after we started dating. He started dropping hints about marriage after a few months. I laughed those comments off, even though he seemed sincere—how do you respond to something like that at twenty? A year into our relationship, I went away to Berlin for a month to study abroad. When I returned, he told me, lovingly, that he had missed me so much he hadn’t talked to a single person face to face the whole time I’d been gone. My true self wasn’t, and couldn’t be,

an equal partner in that relationship. I’m not a believer in love at first sight—it’s just not realistic. It’s impossible to know a person deeply enough to tell them you love them within a week of knowing them. The idea that someone could reach that conclusion about me in such a short span of time cheapens the whole experience for me, and the intensity of this man’s affection did not indicate a person who loved me back, but one who put me on a pedestal.

When our relationship ended ten months later, the volatility of his feelings became apparent. The night I broke up with him, he told me he would never love another person and fled the city to live with his parents for two months. When he returned, he pretended I didn’t exist. I still cared about him and wanted to at least maintain a polite rapport, since we worked in the same office. He refused to even meet my eye. He immediately left any room I entered, and if we happened

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to pass each other in the hall he’d turn away from me. To truly punctuate the completeness of my exit from his life, he entered a (Facebook official) relationship with one of our coworkers less than a month post-breakup. His last interaction with me was a mean text he sent on my birthday. The inherent unhealthiness of this relationship and its fallout is obvious, but looking back on it always feels like a punch in the chest. To love someone earnestly only to realize they loved an idealized version of you—a role that could be filled by any girl—is devastating. I would love to blame experiences like this on my physical resemblance to Ms. Deschanel, but I think the real reason is that a lot of guys really do think a girl can be the solution to all their problems. Unfair expectations of emotional labour hide easily within the context of romantic relationships, since increased emotional support is a conventional element of these relationships. However, I know plenty of women who have experienced a similar level of emotional dependency from men they aren’t even in relationships with—myself included. Recently, someone I was attempting to distance myself from told me, “I know you didn’t ask to be, but you’ve become such an important part of my life.” This person was a friend, not a romantic partner, and I had spent the past several months struggling to get him to treat me like one. He had constantly promised that he really wanted to be my friend

and that he would set aside his unrequited romantic feelings to preserve that friendship. Still, he followed his alienating statement by saying, “I can’t lose you again.” The friendship had been unhealthy from the start. Only a few months after we met, I had to ask him for space because he had been offloading his mental health problems onto me. This crossing of boundaries only escalated the longer

It isn’t romantic when a person looks at you and sees only positive things. It’s willfully ignorant, and it denies you fundamental elements of your humanity. we knew each other, and it evolved from demands of emotional support to appeals for physical comfort and attempts to negotiate with me to agree to date him. Periodically, I would beg him to turn to other friends, family, or a therapist for support, and his replies were always the same: I was the only one who truly understood him, the only person he could truly be himself around, and he didn’t know what he would do without me. I should have cut him off much sooner, but I always relented, because when he was treating me like a human being, not a would-be girlfriend, I truly enjoyed our friendship. The burden of support-

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ing a man who has made you the most important person in his life without your permission is exhausting and terrifying. The onslaught of his emotions left no room for my own feelings. I felt, at times, as though I would lose myself in the friendship. Despite enduring the pressure of standing in for his social circle, his therapist, and (emotionally speaking) his girlfriend on and off for nearly two years, things only recently came to a head when I had an epiphany about how little my emotions mattered to him. One night in early January, I broke up with my boyfriend. By coincidence, I had plans the same night to make dinner with this friend. I was sad about the breakup, but not devastated, so I didn’t bother to cancel. I found myself distracted and agitated, however, so I eventually let him know why I wasn’t feeling my normal self. Armed with the knowledge that I had broken up with my boyfriend mere hours before our dinner, as I walked him out of my house, he stopped and said, “I think I’m in love with you.” It shouldn’t have been surprising, after everything, but the sheer tactlessness of the timing floored me. I managed an awkward “I love you too”—hoping my tone could convey both “as a friend” and “I’m very uncomfortable right now,” because I lacked the emotional fortitude to say much else—and ushered him out of my home. Then I spent half an hour crying over my kitchen sink. Later, over Facebook, he asked if he had made things worse for me, if it had been inappropriate. He was sorry if he had caused me stress but said that I had been “radiating good vibes” that night, so much so that he simply had to share his feelings, right then and there. It hurts so much to genuinely care about a person who doesn’t see you. It isn’t romantic when a person looks at

you and sees only positive things. It’s willfully ignorant, and it denies you fundamental elements of your humanity. A person I used to know once told me they would only say they were in love with someone if the feeling was reciprocated, because being in love is a team effort. Without the consent of both parties, it isn’t really love. I think this applies to all healthy relationships. In real friendships and romantic relationships, both people are equally invested. There is give and take, a gradual development of mutual affection and support that benefits both people. When a guy Manic Pixie Dream Girl-zones you, he denies you a say in this process. When a guy makes you his Manic Pixie Dream Girl, you become responsible for his emotions without being granted the space to assert your own. So many hallmarks of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl Zone are played off as romantic gestures, but in practice, they strip women of their emotional agency. There is nothing flattering about a man who barely knows you telling you that you’re “the girl of his dreams.” There is nothing romantic about a man burdening you with his deepest fears and insecurities because “you’re the only one who gets it.” There is nothing loving about a guy waxing poetic about how “perfect” you are before you can even decide how you feel about him. It has taken me a long time to accept that I am not responsible for anyone’s emotions but my own. After realizing, that night, that my friend would never see me as a real person and would never take responsibility for the way he felt about me, I had a much easier time finally letting go. I don’t know what I can do about people comparing me to Zooey Deschanel. But I have decided not to let any more men cast me as the Manic Pixie Dream Girl in their story.

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SPINNING INTO CONTROL Throwing in the towel on my old habits words by chantel ouellet Pulling at my crop top, I glance down to make sure everything is still in place. I bring one finger to my face and rest it beneath my lower eyelashes. In a sweeping motion, I pull my hand away from my face, and check it for evidence of melting makeup. I can barely see my hand in front of my face in the dark room. The wall next to me is visibly wet. I see sweat dripping off the guy next to me. Everyone around me has glazed eyes that slowly drift closed and open suddenly. I like loud music, but the guitar floating through the air is verging on piercing. Every thought in my head feels scrambled. We are all fixated on the man on the riser at the front of the room. He moves his hand slightly, prompting the lights to go down and we hear a build in the music. The pulsating EDM is building to a crescendo and when it finally drops, so does everyone in the room. People hoot and holler. They all lean back and forward on the beat. Towels are waved in the air. But this isn’t a rave, or a club: it’s indoor cycling. Some people call it SoulCycle. Others call it a cult. I call it spin. I’ve written the same intro paragraph a million times. I’ve spent three years at music festivals, rock concerts, punk shows, and warehouse EDM raves for the

purpose of music journalism. My love for music and partying go hand in hand. I am drawn to an atmosphere that is outgoing and social. I crave loud music and moving bodies; but this environment has not been the most conducive to my health. I thought that it was worth it. I knew theoretically that not sleeping and partying would have an impact on my overall health, but that impact is hard to see. I thought that the effects of not sleeping would be feeling tired. I didn’t realize it would make me agitated and depressed. I didn’t realize that subsisting off coffee and ten dollar pitchers would cause my mental health to spiral into shambles. I didn’t think that the thing I loved was causing me to live a life that I hated. I moved to Toronto when I was nineteen. My parents said to me: if we pay for your schooling, all you’ll do is party. They decided that if I had to work then I would learn to value my education—or at least I would be too busy or broke to go out. Instead, I saw it as a challenge. I wanted to go to school, work, and go out. I was going to do it all—so began the whirlwind cycle that would shape my four years of undergraduate studies. I would wake up before the sun and head to work. There, I could study and get

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I realized that just because there are 24 hours in a day, it doesn’t mean you need to work all of them.

paid. I would fulfill my study and work commitments before most of my friends had woken up. I would then head to class or to an interview with a musician. After class, I would head back to work or to meet up with friends. I would then head to whatever event I was writing about or whatever club had piqued my interest. I would get home and crash for a few hours and then wake up again. For a brief period, I almost felt like I was living my “best life” in the city. Except I felt trapped and unhappy. Every time I felt like this, I would text my friends and we would go out dancing. We would drink in excess, dance, and hit on guys. Then I would wake up, drink more coffee, and do it again. I love clubs. I love dancing. I love loud music. I crave this environment. Yet these environments were also where I would have horrendous meltdowns. After a particularly bad night, I spent a couple months in bed crying. I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know why I had done many of the things I had done in the past few years. It all came crashing

down and I realized that by not practising self-care, I had created a version of myself who was incapable of caring for others. Using every bit of energy I had to keep myself together meant that I wasn’t putting energy into my relationships. I called my mom and we started on a two-year journey to find a solution. I realized that just because there are 24 hours in a day, it doesn’t mean you need to work all of them. I realized that toxic environments can lead to toxic actions and mentalities. I realized I needed to start taking better care of those around me. I realized that I needed to start taking better care of myself. When I first met with a psychiatrist, he suggested that I start working out. He explained that reconnecting with my body and giving myself a physical output would really help me deal with all of the emotions going on in my brain. So this fall, I started running. I also made a friend who was happy to try workout classes with me. One day, we worked up the courage to try an intro-level spin class at Quad on King West.

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I can connect with my body, I can work out aggression and work through emotions, I can listen to loud music and sing along, I can swear, and I can scream. In one of my chaotic summers, I had worked briefly at a gym above Quad. I had seen very fit people walking out of the studio absolutely drenched in sweat. I had heard the music pulsating through the windows as I walked on the street. I was terrified. I thought that there was a legitimate chance that I would puke on the bike. I thought it was just a class where you sit on a bike and someone yells at you and you peddle as fast as you can. It’s not. Spin is considered a group activity where you are supposed to move as a unit. There are three positions that you shift from: sitting (first position), to standing straight up (second position), and a position where you push your hips back over the saddle, hover above it, and lean forward (third position). There are a million things to think of when you spin: Are my shoulders pushed down my back? Are my elbows in? Can I wiggle my fingers? Am I holding my abs tight? Is my chin up and are my eyes facing front? While your mind is cycling through these thoughts, music is pounding in your head and the instructor is telling you to turn up your resistance every few minutes. You don’t have time to wipe away the sweat dripping into your eye, let alone to fully process how hard of a workout it is. Then it’s done. Frank Ocean

comes over the speakers. The instructor smiles. You are filled with endorphins. Needless to say, I fell in love. As I continued going to Quad, I began to feel more confident in my spinning abilities. I had heard that certain spin studios (like SoulCycle), had cult-like followings. I had seen the branded clothing. I had heard about the instructors and the candles and how swanky it was. My friend and I tried SoulCycle in Yorkville and Ride Cycle Club on Ossington. Both companies take the average spin class, like those offered at Quad, and make it an experience. This is where riding in the pitch black and weird candles come into play. I ended up falling in love with Ride Cycle Club because it provided me with the social and physical output that I craved without destroying my physical and mental health. Spin didn’t solve my problems, nor did it instantly improve my well-being. I am not part of some weird cult, and all my underlying mental health issues didn’t completely go away. Rather, spin gave me an outlet. It gave me a place where I know I can make myself happy. I can connect with my body, I can work out aggression and work through emotions, I can listen to loud music and sing along, I can swear, and I can scream. I don’t like going out anymore. I don’t like hangovers. I don’t like drunk texts. I don’t like feeling exhausted. I really don’t like waking up to see that I picked up McDonald’s or Pizza Pizza on my way home from the club. I still like dark rooms and loud music. I like putting on clothes that make me feel good. I like meeting up with some friends after a long week. I think what I like most though is that spin makes me happy—genuinely happy.

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amy jiao

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Theorizing emotions to understand the ways bodies are shaped and controlled words by shailee koranne photo by hana nikcevic

Emotions as political, emotions as theoretical I’m 21 years old. I can feel my stomach twisting and turning as the meeting progresses and my agenda items get closer. I feel myself sink a little bit lower in my chair. I tightly cross my legs at my ankles, trying to look as unimposing as possible as I try to maintain the perfect tone of voice that says, “I’m talking, so pay attention, but please don’t think that I’m being hostile.” It’s the result of a lifetime of being expected to be kind, articulate, and unemotional in my delivery. I’m hyperaware of my surroundings as I start to talk, and I see someone in the room fall back into his chair with exasperation, roll his eyes, and check out of the discussion, all in one second. I’m not angry with him and I know he doesn’t hate me, but I think about it for weeks afterward, taking extra care to always smile at him when we pass by each other for the next little while. I’m 18 years old. Two guys from high school, who used to be my acquaintances, are aggravated when I become more outspoken, always giving me shit for sharing feminist

ideas. They are quick to turn any Facebook post I make into an opportunity to make fun of me. Seeing their names pop up in my notifications window makes my heart race. I realize that I shouldn’t be expected to take their bullshit in jest, and delete both of them as Facebook friends. For months afterwards, both of them occasionally try to get me to engage with them online, publicly commenting on my Instagram posts or tweeting at me, “Shailee, add me back on Facebook!”—not because they care that I deleted them, but because they think it’s funny to try to get a rise out of me. All I want to do is send off a long string of tweets at these guys, but I’m forced to be the bigger person. I’m 13 years old. I’m tasked with doing a class project with a guy who has publicly bullied me all year, making fun of my facial hair and brownness. When it’s just the two of us, he acts human, and talks to me with more respect. I amp up the kindness and manipulate my own feelings so that our interactions

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aren’t stressful, and eventually I end up doing the whole project myself. We both get an “A” and he goes back to making fun of me. I still feel an intrinsic need to impress the men in my life, even when they’re overtly terrible. I’m eight years old. I’ve been living in Canada for less than three months, having immigrated from India with a thick accent in tow. I go up to my teacher’s desk to ask her for help and say, “I don’t understand the opposite question.” She furrows her brows at me, and says, “What?” I repeat myself. She says, “I don’t know what you’re saying.” All that’s happening is that I’m saying opposite like “uh-paw-zit” instead of “opp-uh-zit,” but she doesn’t have a clue. At this point, I feel utterly tiny, and am one second away from giving up the question. Something finally clicks for her and she laughs ridiculously loudly, her laugh bellowing through our small third grade classroom. She says, “OHHH, opposite! I couldn’t understand you!” I go home and practice saying the word “opposite” the way she said it. Seeing or hearing the word makes me cringe, because it’s connected to this memory and the feelings that go along with it. I’m six years old. We visit my aunt’s apartment for a cup of tea and her husband tries to pick me up. I step back, looking up at my parents with big eyes, hoping that they’ll pick me up instead. I don’t like this uncle, because even as a six-year-old child, I have a strong feeling that I don’t want to be there. My parents laugh and nudge me towards him, saying “hug your kaka!” I sit stiffly on his knees for a minute while he coos and cuddles me, feeling primal disgust that no child could

properly articulate with her limited vocabulary. I jump off, resigning myself to sitting alone in the next room until we can leave. — It exists in all our interactions, relationships, homes, and workspaces; in education, entertainment, and sports; between you and everyone you know. Emotional Labour can be defined as slowly taxing and under/unacknowledged acts of expected, repeated work that people do to modify or hide their feelings so that they can more easily navigate life. It can be conscious and deliberate, or unconscious and learned. The term was coined by Arlie Hochschild in 1983, and has since been heavily discussed as a feminist concept in the essentialist notion that “women perform emotional labour for men.” Emotional labour, however, is a practice felt and carried out by most people based on their environments. Black men perform emotional labour for white people. Disabled people do that work for able-bodied people. Trans people do emotionally laborious work for cis people. And, it’s not so easily categorized into a binary; women of colour do emotional labour for white people and men of colour, for example. When expectations of labour are internalized within people, they can impose them onto their own groups. Another example of a subtle but everyday mechanism that builds up negative messages over time are microaggressions. A sociological term as well, it was coined nearly fifty years ago by Chester M. Pierce to give language to the daily, regular insults and slights

I tightly cross my legs at my ankles, trying to look as unimposing as possible as I try to maintain the perfect tone of voice that says, “I’m talking, so pay attention, but please don’t think that I’m being hostile.” It’s the result of a lifetime of being expected to be kind, articulate, and unemotional in my delivery.

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that he faced and saw imposed upon other African-Americans that created negative internal and external perceptions of Blackness in them over time. Some people would say they experience microaggressions on a daily basis. Microaggressions can be applied to any group of marginalized people in our society and have a profound effect on individuals over time, because each microaggression sends an implied message that is much more aggressive. For example: a white person clutches their purse as a Black or Latino man approaches or passes them. Hidden message: you and your group are criminals. Or: two gay men hold hands in public and are told not to flaunt their sexuality. Hidden message: same-sex displays of affection are abnormal and offensive. Keep it private and to yourselves (Derald Wing Sue, “Microaggressions in everyday life”). In the deeply emotive text “The Fact of Blackness,” Frantz Fanon provides insight into the way that some people can come into the world already designated as objects based on the ideologies that predate them. Fanon analyzes the knowledge systems and assumptions that are all in effect when he experiences racism to suggest that there is no expression of personal identity that is objective or unaffected by histories, various emotions, societal hierarchies, and dominant gazes. All the seemingly small actions and behaviours that form the white gaze, such as “the movements, the attitudes, and the glances of the other” and “a thousand details, anecdotes, and stories” have created a pervasive, harmful idea of Blackness in the world Fanon is born into; thus, his Blackness is not self-defined,

but rather, is defined and fixed upon him by the white man (418). Blackness is a fact that he is born into, instead of an identity that he is able to shape. U of T Equity Studies professor Anne McGuire says, “The meaning of the body is constituted relationally; we are in our bodies only insofar as we are around other people, other objects, other environments.” Microaggressions and emotional labour play heavily into each other, and in most scenarios can be talked about concurrently as ways that emotion can shape and control our bodies. Many of the arguments that devalue those concepts as legitimate theories of critiquing and understanding our societies are rooted in the belief that those things cannot be “scientifically” or “objectively” studied; that these things are not real, but rather, are perceived by people as part of a culture of “victimhood.” To those who are skeptical of the impact emotional concepts like emotional labour and microaggressions can have on people, I remind you that diminishing people’s lived experiences and silencing them when they speak about their own emotions—anger, exhaustion, sadness, tiredness, bitterness, and more, as a result of discrimination—has long been the way that important voices have been systematically kept out of conversations to create conclusions that favour those in power. Just because we can’t necessarily measure or outlaw them, or create direct one-to-one comparisons, doesn’t mean we should not discuss those experiences to try to understand them. Let’s read everything emotionally. Let’s talk about emotion as a tool of power, a currency, a political concept.

Further reading: Arlie Hochschild, 1983. The managed heart: commercialization of human feeling. Berkeley: University of California Press. Derald Wing Sue, 2010. “Microaggressions in everyday life.” PsychologyToday. Frantz Fanon, 1952. “The Fact of Blackness.” In Black Skin, White Masks. 109-139. Trinh Minh-Ha, 1989. “Write your Body” and “the Body in Theory.” Excerpts from Woman, Native, Other. 36–44. Sara Ahmed, 2004. The Cultural Politics of Emotion. Routledge. Shailee Koranne, 2015. “Me, My Hair, and My Brownness.” In The Aerogram.

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Everything hurts words by mattea roach art by melissa avalos

A lot of my memories of 2017 seem to have vanished into the ether. It was a rough year for me, so maybe this was a subconscious attempt at self-preservation, to avoid having to recall every sordid detail of all that occurred. This fogginess causes certain memories to pop out, almost violently, from the haze in my brain. There’s one such memory that I want to recount here: One day, I paid a visit to my local pharmacy, prescription in hand. I had just been given a new diagnosis, “bipolar disorder,” by my Designated University of Toronto Health and Wellness Professional. While talking to Dr. Straight Male Psychiatrist was always exhausting, visiting the pharmacy was usually simple. It was a four step process: 1. Drop off your new prescription. 2. Peruse the selection of Vitamin Waters while you wait. 3. Listen to the pharmacist tell you things you probably already know, like “take this before bed because it has a sedative effect,” and “watch your alcohol intake carefully.” 4. Leave. This visit, however, was not so painless.

My pharmacist was an older woman with a thick Italian accent. She looked over my prescription slip and asked if my new medications had been prescribed to help me sleep better. I corrected her, and then she hit me with the quote that would lodge this encounter so firmly within my often selective memory: “Ah, when you have bipolar, everything hurts, but this will make it hurt a little bit less.” I didn’t know how to respond, so I thanked her and went on my way. Since I was so skilled in the art of forgetting, I thought that this incident would fade away until I was barely aware of it. It didn’t fade away. I still think about it on a daily basis. Before I was diagnosed with bipolar, I was pretty sure I had what some people call “garden-variety” depression. The severity of clinical depression should absolutely not be minimized; like any mental illness, it has the capacity to be debilitating and life-altering for people who suffer from it. That being said, I think we’ve reached a point where a good chunk of the general population is able to wrap their heads around what depression looks like.

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Depressed people feel a sense of emptiness or lack of meaning that impedes their ability to function. It’s understandable to many, and those who don’t understand can usually at least sympathize. Although living with what I thought was depression was subpar, this general understanding meant that I didn’t feel a sense of ostracism, and I was secure in the sense that things would get better—they had to, after all! Bipolar, however, seemed much more nebulous to me. The word “bipolar” itself often gets misused as a shorthand for “crazy” or “unstable,” and now a medical professional was telling me that it also meant “existing in a state of constant pain.” I didn’t see myself in any of those conceptions of bipolar, but looking through WebMD, I began to see some uncanny similarities between what I read on the page and what I saw occurring in my own life. Did I not sometimes speak so rapidly and loudly that I had to be reminded several times to calm down? Was I not sometimes quick to become angry in response to minor setbacks or irritations? Did I not sometimes make impulsive decisions and purchases with no regard for future consequences? I realized that the answer to all of this was yes, and I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t the woman I had thought I was. To misquote my favourite Reductress headline, I wasn’t like other girls—I was much, much worse. When you have bipolar, everything does hurt. Your emotions can never be completely insulated from the risk of a swing into depression or mania. Your low points hurt, of course, in that aching, numb, and empty way. What you don’t realize right away is how mania, which is often framed as a positive thing, can hurt you too. It hurts when you find yourself strung out after being awake for thirty hours straight and you start to wonder whether your neighborhood is really a simulation. It hurts when your impulse control is absolutely shot and you end up drinking more tall cans of PBR than anyone ever should. It hurts when you write papers in a state of delirium and later realize that nothing you’ve said makes any

sense at all. Worst of all is when mania and depression decide to coexist within you, and you find yourself feeling all of the self-loathing needed to fling yourself off a building and all of the energy to actually get up and do it. Even when you’re feeling good, at no point can you truly be secure in knowing that your emotions won’t take a sudden turn for the worse.

Since I was so skilled in the art of forgetting, I thought that this incident would fade away until I was barely aware of it. It didn’t fade away. I still think about it on a daily basis. My pharmacist was right, in a way. Bipolar is the albatross around my neck that will bog me down forever. That being said, with each passing day I learn more about how to live with myself, and things have started to hurt a bit less.

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WHAT DOES HOME FEEL LIKE? words by gabriel calderon photos by molly kay and hana nikcevic

“Home” is an emotionally charged word. It is not just the walls, roof, furniture and windows of the house in which we grew up, or the exact geographic coordinates of that house. Those of us who’ve moved around a lot or who come from different countries know that the concept of “home” is at times more abstract and emotional, rather than anything strictly concrete.

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sickness—carries its own set of emotional resonances and spaces. I recently noticed that the past twelve months of my life had been haunted by a recurring motif of homesickness. Unconsciously or not, I had surrounded myself with things that induced the anxiety of being away from home. My motif of home first appeared last summer when I worked as an executive for Vic’s 2017 Orientation Week. Early on, our team decided that the theme would be “Home is Victoria.” We wanted to build an image of Vic as a new home for incoming students—not just as a place where they ate and slept and went to classes, but a place where they could also create meaningful inner lives. This was easier said than done—not all incoming students are able to easily adjust into the rhythms of university life. Most students are away from home for the first time, and the intense energy of orientation week can make the transition harder rather than easier. When I put together the commuter orientation this year with one of my co-execs Melinda, I used my own emotions about Vic as a home as a guide for the experience that I A home is not just a place where we wanted to create. After two years of miserable structure our daily and physical lives—it’s commuting, I’d finally managed to make Vic also where we structure our emotional and psychological lives. It’s where we feel the most feel like some sort of home by getting more comfortable and relaxed. It’s where we’re told involved. I sought to channel this feeling of belonging as best I could, and I feel like I that no, we can’t go to McDonald’s because there are leftovers in the fridge. It’s where we succeeded to a good degree—my work on the commuter orientation created a strong group can feel the happiest or the saddest and be our weirdest and truest selves, away from the of friends that I still see, every day, hanging out in the atrium. My effort to channel the judgment of the world. It’s where the Wi-Fi positive emotions of home that I felt at this automatically connects. The experience of being away from home—the feeling of home- school resulted in something that I am very

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proud of. At the same time, over the summer I was participating in a small group one of my professors put together where we read portions of Homer’s Odyssey in Greek. In the section that we read, Odysseus says there’s nothing better than when everybody gathers to share a meal and listen to music. Vic, if anything, felt like this banquet—a hospitable party where strangers became friends, partaking in and enjoying all the riches it had to offer, until it was at last time to leave. But however much the banquet felt like home, Odysseus still longed for his sunny Ithaca: “I know no sweeter sight on earth.” I realized that however happy I was at Vic and proud of my work, my feeling of it as a home could only really be temporary. It provided a space for me to organize my daily life, but I felt the anchor of my psychological and emotional life was elsewhere.

The longer I live in Toronto, the more I realize that it’s not necessary to attach an exclusive significance of home to just one place— home is both my family and being by myself in Toronto, and as I get comfortable with one, homesickness always arises for the other. As soon as orientation week ended, I moved out of my family home. I felt nervous moving to Toronto from Newmarket—it’s not very far, only an hour-long bus ride away—but it would be the first time I’d be on my own and away from my family. They were my most reliable and comforting structure of support, but I still needed to pursue my own need for independence. I felt pretty homesick the first few weeks—I missed my

mom’s cooking, talking to my sister, the car rides home from the train station with my dad. But at least in Toronto I was free to do whatever I wanted—free to come and go at any time, decorate my apartment however, or eat whatever. As I continued to make my Toronto apartment more into a home where I felt an inner, individual sense of ease, I was also reminded of the significance that family contributes to my idea of home. Home is not just a space where my emotions and psyche are structured, but also the people that make it possible for that structure to crystallize. In order to attain the feeling of freedom and confidence that living by myself would bring, I also had to be prepared for some of the isolation and loneliness that came with it. Six months later, I’m much more comfortable living by myself and I’m not as emotionally reliant on my family. But visiting family still gives me an ease of mind that I can’t find anywhere else. The longer I live in Toronto, the more I realize that it’s not necessary to attach an exclusive significance of home to just one place—home is both my family and being by myself in Toronto, and as I get comfortable with one, homesickness always arises for the other. School began right after I moved in, and for a seminar I read a book called Mimesis by Erich Auerbach. It’s a five hundred-page book of literary theory, but somehow it reads more like a novel. The writing at times becomes so personal that it seems like Auerbach was writing an autobiography. And in a way, he was—Auerbach was a Jewish professor who was forced into exile in Istanbul by the Nazi regime, and Mimesis, which charts the development of realism in literature, became his way of of preserving the spirit of his European home. It’s not hard to see a type of homesickness in his book that runs so deep and intense that it appears more like a desperate cry for help. As he witnesses his heritage being destroyed, he still clings to the hope that he might see his home, friends, and family once again: “I hope that my study will reach its readers—both my friends of former years, if they are still alive, and well as all the others for whom it was intended.” Auerbach eventually moved to the US, but his book

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remains a homesick elegy for Europe—it captures the emotion that comes with belonging to a culture or heritage larger than oneself. For my final project in that seminar, I decided to write an essay on Chronicle of a Death Foretold by the Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez. Although I’ve never been in a situation as dire as Auerbach’s, I was inspired by his method of writing about one’s own literary homeland, however distant it might be. My family moved from Colombia to Canada sixteen years ago, and although I’ve only been back once since then, I still feel a sense of homesickness for Colombia. I was raised with its culture and traditions, but in a different country. Being away from Colombia meant being away from a history that is also mine—at least I get to hear certain stories, such as my dad’s story about a guy who had a hit placed on him by a wizard, or my uncle’s account of how the windows of the bus he was riding in shattered when Pablo Escobar’s truck bomb blew up a government building a few blocks away, or how my great-grandfather built up a fortune mining gold that he wasted

on gambling. Not having grown up in Colombia, I had to experience it vicariously. Through writing my final paper on a book about Colombia, I can’t help but feel like I’m trying to bridge a gap that I can’t quite reach across. In this case it feels like what is called saudade in Portuguese—a memory and desire of something that may not come back. Homesickness became for me not so much about missing a place or family, but about missing a larger culture that I was born into, but cut off from, and may not be able to fully return to. But as insurmountable as this feeling about home may feel, I remember that home (and missing it) is made up of so many other feelings—happiness and pride, anxiety and fear, loneliness and freedom—that it’s only one colour in the emotional palette that “home” contains. How “home” feels varies on how and when we think about it, inviting different emotions depending on our points of view. “Home” may as well contain a whole spectrum of emotions that can be complex and dynamic, yet completely known, intimate and familiar.

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jay bawar

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