Volume 51 Issue 7

Sudoku on page 15!

Enjoy spooky fiction from our staff

Opinion: Trent lacks diversity in courses

A look at catalina’s!

INside:

Volume 51 | Issue 7 | October 31, 2016

Halloween Issue 2016

Editors-in-chief Yumna Leghari & Zara Syed editors@trentarthur.ca @TrentArthur /ArthurNews

Photographer Samantha Moss @MossWorks

Copy Editor

CONTENTS Volume 51 Issue 7

Feature

Opinion

• Pg 3: Editorial • Pg 3: Montréal french fries: a review • Pg 3: Diversity in Trent courses • Pg 4: Trump in the media

Campus

• Pg 4: SAAT presents Diwali

Board of Directors Chair: Anthony Moniz Secretary: Josh Skinner Member at Large: Ugyen Wangmo • Jordan Porter • Jeffery Moore • Shannon LeBlanc • Zach Muto

Contributors • Yumna Leghari • Zara Syed • Shanese Anne • Scott Maufront• Anjul Arora • Samantha Moss •Marina Wilke • Berfin Aksoy • Holly Stark • Felipe Cazar • Mauricio Interiano • Derek NewmanStille • Jordan Porter • Anthony Moniz • Fredy Rodriguez • Tyler Majer •Victoria Belbin • Matt Jarvis • Kate Story • Elijah Gwayumba

Pg. 8 & 9: Zombie shoot feat. Catalinas!

• Pg 5: Hackathon at Trent!

• Pg 10 & 11: Shattered Porcelain

• Pg 5: Marrakesh Conference

• Pg 12: CentroAmericano folklore

Halloween

• Pg 12: Monsters aren’t scary

• Pg 6: Latin American legends • Pg 7: Monsters if not Human

Turkish Coup Plotter

October 31 2016

• Pg 12: The story of Duende

Community

• Pg 13: Trent Radio • Pg 13: Murder Mystery at TTOK

• Pg 7: The Call Back

Are you a student? A writer? A passionate, creative soul? We need you! Apply to Arthur Newspaper if you are TWSP or TIP student and you could be a reporter for the best student newspaper in Canada

Submissions due Thursdays at 12:00 pm Issue 8: November 3 Issue 9: November 10th Articles should be subitted via email as *.rtf, *.odt, *.odt or *.txt attachment | word limit: 800 words.

Letters to the editor | word limit: 100 words Listings, annoucements | word limit: 100 words Images should be submitted via email, Google Drive, Dropbox or other firesharing site. Images should be sent as attachments in *.jpeg and *.tiff formats with a dpi of no less than 300 pixels Arthur reserves the right to edit for length and clarity.

Opinions expressed in this publication do not reflect those of Arthur staff, volunteers or its Board of Directors.

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Cover photo by Samantha Moss Image of the mad scientist on Pg 7 sourced from DeviantArt: AshleyCope Image of the rotary phone on Pg 7 sourced from DeviantArt: gazproffesser Keep your ear out for Radio-Free Arthur, every Wednesday at 12:30pm!

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A big thank you to Catalina’s for donating such a lovely vintage wedding dress and shoes to our Halloween shoot. We couldn’t have made this issue what it was without their generousity! We encourage those with an affinity for vintage clothing, furniture and other miscellenious things to check out Catalina’s.

Editorial: a tradition of horror at Arthur

Yumna Leghari & Zara Syed

We were very excited that Issue 7 would be printing on Halloween, and quickly set to recruiting spooky, creative works from the community. Our writers were eager to take part in creating this issue, and we’re eager for you to read their work. We are also excited that, with this being our second year publishing creative fiction for our Halloween edition, it has become a tradition that challenges the identity of the newspaper.

Arthur can be a newspaper as well as a source of creative content, and as writers ourselves, nothing makes us happier than for this issue to have scary stories in it.

The quality of writing in the paper is going to be quite a treat for you readers, such as Derek Newman-Stille’s piece, which weaves poetic imagery into his horror tale on pages ten and eleven.

Halloween has a fascinating tale itself, and it is interesting to note that even in societies that do not celebrate Halloween and

Berfin Aksoy

explore horror as a cultural day of dressing up and trick or treating, there are still vast amounts of spooky folklore and scary stories all over the world. Some international storytelling is explored in this issue.

Humans have a strange affinity for all things creepy. Perhaps it is the unknown, abject parts of the universe that appeal to us just as much as they scare us. We enjoy the hair rising on our skin and the tense feeling of being frightened, but the moment the unknown facets of the universe become too close for comfort, our survival instinct kicks in and we exit the situation as soon as possible.

Reporters Mauricio Interiano and Holly Stark both shared Latin American horror stories in Arthur this week, and we were reminded of the horror stories we heard growing up that are classic in our homeland of Pakistan.

Similar to Western horror’s association with Biblical themes, Pakistani horror stories are most often wrought with

jinns. Jinns are creatures made of “smokeless fire” and are mentioned in the Qu’ran.

If you can’t wrap your mind around what a jinn could possibly be, think of the jinn in Aladdin’s lamp from One Thousand and One Nights, or perhaps Robin William’s genie from Disney’s Alladin. Jinns are sinister tricksters who enjoy confusing humans and changing shapes. This narrative is quite similar to Irish fairy folklore, where fairies, unlike the benign and cutesy ones from Disney, are mischievous tricksters who can be quite scary and terrorize humans for pure enjoyment.

Children of superstitious folks are told not to buy anything depicting an owl, as these harbour jinns. As well, very ancient trees are to be avoided, as jinns lurk in the shade of old trees and prey upon passersby.

It is interesting that some horror stories are gendered, and reflect the time in which they were conjured. For example, a succubus is a female demon that comes into a sleeping man’s room and has sex with him.

A review of Montréal french fries

In a week full of Halloween-related Facebook posts, gifs, videos, memes and most importantly Snapchat stories, I’ve been thinking about death too much lately.

Making fun of scary things in life and enjoying their spookiness must be a great way to forget about being yourself and act as weird as you can on a day like Halloween. Finding happiness in something so simple as dressing up and painting your face to commemorate the walking dead is interesting to someone like me, whose culture of origin has no comparable holiday.

I went to Montréal this reading week and could not believe that Halloween was taken even more seriously there compared to Peterborough! Halloween is a fun holiday, therefore I decided to cover the only fun thing I know that always succeeds in making me happy: potatoes! Here is a review of the potatoes I have tasted at 5 restaurants in Montréal while travelling.

Brasseurs This is a microbrewery-restaurant with

a European atmosphere that offers beer brewed on-site and traditional brasserie fare. I ordered the Beer Battered Maxi Fries. They were absolutely delicious for their cheap price. Loved it. Best I’ve had in a while. They were thick-cut, beer-battered (you can never go wrong with this) and deep fried to a golden brown. The whole crispy pile was served with Dijon mayo and it was not as salty as I expected it to be. There are a few of these establishments in Montreal; the one I went to was at 105 Rue St-Paul E., in Old Montreal.

Five Guys I am sorry. I’m just a big fun of Five Guys’ fries. They are perfectly spiced and always cooked right. They also have the best staff every time I’m at a Five Guys, always fun and extremely friendly. Furthermore, they are not expensive and very fast. The only thing I don’t like about Five Guys’ fries is that they are sometimes too greasy—but that’s what makes it so delicious too, right?

Upstairs Jazz Bar Okay. This place was my spirit restaurant. I am one of those people who dream

about owning a restaurant of their own one day, and this place was exactly how I would like mine to be. If you appreciate jazz and enjoy a relaxed atmosphere, this is your place too. Upstairs Jazz Bar is located at 1254 Rue Mackay. Their sign sports the word ‘Upstairs’ upside down, and the bar is located downstairs beneath a duplex. They had the cutest waiters and the friendliest owner helping out the musicians set up their instruments. I got the Upstairs Burger with their fries which are described as ‘famous’. However, contrary to what they were promising, the fries were very ordinary. It was not the worst meal though, plus the prices were reasonable. I must add that they were super salty.

Reservoir This was a nice little bar on 9 Avenue Duluth E, recommended for some latenight drinks on a Tuesday by my high school friends who are studying in Montréal. They make their own beer and they offer five different brews every few days to their customers. I ordered the fries at Reservoir after a few too many samples

OPINION

The succubus is a common theme for a demon in many regions of the world. In jinnlore, a young, unmarried girl with flowing hair should avoid going near old trees as they may tempt male jinns. Again, it is remarkable how the horror genre explores the subtleties of the human psyche. Creepy stories exist all over the world!

An old Persian tale goes: A woman attends a private bath-house and is very alarmed to see that the women have hooves instead of feet. Frightened, she runs to the orderly who runs the bathouse and tells her “I saw women with hooves! They had no feet.”

The orderly lifts her skirt and asks, “like these?”

There is no shortage of spooky tales out there, so for this week, enjoy Arthur’s authentic tellings and retellings of scary stories and enjoy your Halloween. November is kind of boring, and Christmas is a while away, so take your time reading, it’s an issue packed with fright!

of these. The portion was served in a classic bar basket with “chipotle” sauce which tasted nothing like it. I admit it is possible that their brewed beer, which tasted so lemony and minty, might have affected my taste buds, but I really cannot say I enjoyed that sauce. The fries were old and dry, but they were potatoes, so I was happy with them. I would recommend this place for beer adventurers and for friend groups who wish to dress a little bit fancier to a bar for cheap beer.

Avesta This is a Turkish restaurant located at 77 Sainte-Catherine St. W. They had everything a Turkish person could have asked for in a foreign country. If you are a meat lover and enjoy eating Mediterraneanstyle, this is a good place to visit for some cheap, delicious international food. They had halal meat and everyone in the restaurant was either Turkish or a Middle-Eastern who spoke Turkish. They had the best fried potatoes served next to all of their main course meals, and a traditional Turkish potato salad.

Trent University has a diversity problem Shanese Anne I’m sure you’ve seen them. Trent’s propaganda videos and posters, each with a different student showing what Trent has to offer. These promotional pieces also highlight Trent’s diversity, depicting students of various races and genders. The problem is that Trent is not as diverse as we like to pretend. In fact, we have a race problem, and it’s more than just the micro-aggressions black students have to face on campus— it’s on an institutional level, and the reality is that we’re not much different than the schools we try to separate ourselves from.

Coming to Peterborough and enrolling at Trent, I knew there wasn’t going to be a program on black, African or Caribbean studies, and I was also aware that there wasn’t going to be a plethora of courses available on the various intersectionalities of blackness. Despite this, I was hoping that there would be some courses available for me to explore the history of my ancestors and community both in a global and a Canadian context. Over the duration of my four years at Trent, I have yet to experience a comprehensive exploration of the Black Canadian identity, diaspora or homeland that lasted longer than a week and a handful of readings. This has always left me frustrated. I couldn’t understand how an

entire community’s perspectives, differentiating cultures and histories could be condensed into such a small frame for students to engage and learn from.

This year, however, I decided to stop searching for courses that had a specific week dedicated to these topics and instead find an entire course that highlighted them.

Trent University has a total of 38 programs to choose from, each ranging from around four to 137 documented courses. Out of those courses, each program offers a handful per year level for students to register in. Like many other Trent students, I read through the academic calendar and crosschecked the courses I was interested in with the academic timetable. While going through the 2016-17 academic calendar, I was shocked to find there were only 10 courses that specifically focused on various black-centered materials. That means that out of 38 programs with hundreds of registered courses, only ten had a syllabus dedicated to either the continent of Africa or the diaspora. Nonetheless, I began to read course descriptions, looking for a subject that grabbed at me, until at last I found one. Unfortunately it wasn’t available this academic school year, and even more disappointing was the caveat that it was only being offered on the Durham campus. The other troubling issue was that the course I

had chosen, HIST 2421H: Slavery and Freedom, stated in its description that in just four months (including a reading and winter break) we would be covering “a historical survey of slavery, slave trading, and the contested meanings of freedom in Africa, Brazil, Cuba, the United States, and the Caribbean. We examine revolutions, revolts, being bought and sold, representations of blackness, slave cultures, health, belief systems (Voodoo, Santeria, Obeah), abolition, post-emancipation diasporas, and reparations.” Black history and culture, in all of its variations, cannot possibly be properly examined and understood in a half-year course, let alone a full year one. Especially when a course states that it will be covering the entire Caribbean, the whole continent of Africa as well as the United States and South America. With one avenue clearly not feasible without creating a reading course, I was left with nine remaining options. Three of the remaining courses ANTH-AHCL 2201H: Introduction to Egyptian Archaeology, ANTH-IDST 3010Y: African Culture and Society, HIST-IDST 3401H: Southern Africa in the Nineteenth Century, currently are not offered for the 2016-17 academic school year. This leaves interested students with six options, two of which are only offered in Ghana (IDSTANTH 3770Y: Society, Culture, and De-

velopment in Africa, ANTH-IDST 3781Y: Ghana Seminar). That means that Trent Peterborough Campus students are left with only four courses (ANTH-AHCL-HIST 3275H: Cultural Identity and Ancient North Africa, HIST-IDST 3402H: Southern Africa in the Twentieth Century, IDST-2401H-A: Modern Africa Before 1880, IDST-2402HA: Modern Africa Since 1880), from 38 programs to choose from if they wish to explore blackness, the diaspora and various African histories and studies. This leaves no options for the exploration of the complexities of the Caribbean or even a chance to explore the African-Canadian narrative.

Canada itself has a rich black history and yet even the Canadian studies department does not have a course available for undergrads.

While not every program can integrate black history/culture courses into their programs, many of them can. The question is why aren’t they? If Trent truly wishes to be as diverse as they promote themselves to be, more of an effort needs to be made.

If international students from the African continent and the Caribbean are good enough to exploit for promotional materials and marketing while they see their student fees increase, the least Trent can do is offer courses with content that teaches their histories and narratives.

Volume 51| Issue 7 | October 31, 2016

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OPINION

Donald Trump and the media

Scott Maufront In the weeks following the October 7th release of an Access Hollywood recording that shows Donald Trump boasting of sexually assaulting women, the Republican nominee has launched an all-out assault against the “mainstream media.” While he is not the first republican candidate to criticize the media’s bias against conservatives, and although it has always been an integral component of his anti-establishment campaign, Trump has doubled down to make this the focal point of recent conversation.

In short, the Republican candidate raises some important questions about where allegiances stand among media outlets.

Similar to theories laid out by Antonio Gramsci, the famous Italian neo-Marxist, Trump claims that hegemonic or Clintonesque ideals are reproduced largely by the media and then absorbed by the public consentingly, albeit subconsciously. While I am certain Mr. Trump would spit up his lobster claw-frittata and morning grapefruit just at the thought of being compared to a Neo-marxist, one can see how his stance against the media is quite congruent with that of Gramsci’s skepticism. It fits perfectly with Trump’s “anti-establishment” campaign rhetoric.

Business Insider conducted research in 2011 which found that 90% of all consumed media (what is read, watched, and listened to) is owned by six organizations.

Comcast, News Corp, Time Warner and CBS are among the four largest. These six conglomerates directly control the media diets of over 277 million Americans annually. Trump continues to claim all mainstream media is biased because they all seem to have one thing in common; they are all critical of his egregious behaviour.

While Trump justly earned the condemnation of the mainstream media, his arguments against them do warrant some thought and should not be dismissed.

There is most definitely potential for collusion and bias among American mainstream news.

Hillary Clinton received the endorsement of eighty newspapers with over 20,000 reader distribution during the Democratic primaries, and has over one hundred endorsements post release of the Access Hollywood tape. It is apparent that Hillary has the support of the print media at large. This can potentially exert significant media bias. Does this legitimize

CAMPUS

had published where Rachel Crooks, a former Trump receptionist, claimed to have been sexually assaulted by Trump himself. Trump has claimed that the media is fabricating stories in an attempt to smear his name, which is quite the statement, as eight other women in addition to Mrs. Crooks have since come out and accused the self-proclaimed billionaire of sexual assault. Perhaps the media is really dedicated to destroy him? Perhaps he simply has an extensive history of sexually assaulting women? As a person who has referred to woman as dogs, slobs, bimbos and has toted the size of his penis on national television, I would be compelled to believe the latter of Mr. Trump.

The point is that freedom of press, protected by the First Amendment, is an integral component of a functioning democracy and attempting to silence a newspaper is something expected of a tyrant, not a US presidential candidate.

This begs the question, why is he doing this? Better yet, are his intentions genuine?

A man who lacks respect for women, immigrants, ethnic minorities, and who has offended everyone but his white male base, is certainly not attempting to take down the media because he genuinely cares about the integrity of the American democratic apparatus. He is simply attempting to deface a body that is calling him out for his proclivity for the absurd. Trump, infa-

Everyone is welcome to SAAT’s annual Diwali festival

Anuj Arora

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Trump’s claim? I argue no.

We cannot overlook that Hillary has received endorsements from traditionally conservative newspapers that have never endorsed Democratic parties before such as The Columbus Dispatch, The Cincinnati Enquirer and dozens more. Not only do we see traditionally red newspapers turning “blue”, we are also seeing red states like Utah, Alaska, Georgia, and North Carolina going blue as well.

In addition, since the release of his genital-grabbing gasconade, many prominent Republicans have since “dumped Trump,” most notably Speaker of the House Paul D. Ryan, the highest-ranking elected Republican. So it would appear that not only is the main stream media (both left and right) who are critical of Mr. Trump, but also prominent republicans and traditionally red states as well.

This in part debunks the Trump myth that the media is advancing Hillary’s interests. As it would appear, this goes far beyond the media, as even those who were once supportive of him have been turned off by his behaviour. If Trump’s proposals were factual, it would require a collusion between the Hillary payroll staff, highranking Republican officials, and entire states. Who knew the Illuminati were Democrats all along?

Trump recently threatened to sue The New York Times for libel due to a story they

mous for persecuting nearly everyone, in his dying days is now attempting to play the victim card.

By propagating that “the Hillary Clinton-backed media” is out to get him, he is attempting to save face by insisting that losing a race in a fraudulent contest does not equate to actually losing. Because, of course, Donald Trump never loses (he sues or settles until the verdict is so convoluted that no one really knows who has won).

The real issue with Mr. Trump’s extreme denunciation of the press is that his slavelike pundits are following suit. On October 14, NY Magazine reported that “Traveling press were called ‘whores’ and ‘presstitutes’ at [Trump’s] rally in West Palm Beach”. At his rally in Cincinnati, the press had to be escorted out the back door of the event to a heavily guarded motorcade after being greeted with boos, middle fingers and seemingly arena-wide chants of “Tell the truth!” and “CNN sucks!” This is emblematic of how his manipulation is resulting in such hostility.

Completely discarding his dysfunctional moral compass, Trump is attempting to take down the validity of the entire democratic process instead of accepting defeat.

This has dangerous and long-standing ramifications, as his base of loyalists believe it wholeheartedly. We are now seeing a turbulent acceptance of an inevitable democratic presidency. Let the record show that the United States has had an uninterrupted peaceful transition of power since 1789, whereby the Articles of Confederation were superseded by the American Constitution.

Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, but historically the loser grants legitimacy to the victor and in the case of a presidential election, respects the democratic process. Donald is attempting to completely excuse his absurd behaviour and obscenities by slandering the main stream media.

While he has accidentally stumbled into a conversation that does possess merit and requires further investigation, he is doing it all in the name of saving his ego and brand. Mr. Trump has ridiculed anyone who has spoken out against him and the media is now facing his wrath. In his last dying hours, Trump is attempting to take down anyone and everyone with his sinking ship, even if it comes at the expense of the American people he claims to care so much about.

Director of Finance (SAAT) Atithi devo bhava means “The guest is equivalent to god”.

Diwali, also known as the Festival of Lights, is around the corner. It is one of the major festivals of South Asian culture. This festival spiritually signifies the triumph of light over darkness, good over evil and hope over discouragement.

Since I was born and brought up in India, it is an honour to give an insight of how this festival is celebrated in South Asian countries. Devotees consider it an occasion for the arrival of divinity in their lives for establishing health and prosperity.

A celebration of this festival involves lots of preparations and rituals commonly stretch out over a five days.

Before the Diwali night people clean, renovate and decorate their homes and offices with decorative lights. People light their houses with lots of oil lamps as this signifies burning of our ego. The day begins with exchanging of gifts between friends and family in order to strengthen

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the relationships. Also, beautiful and colourful designs of rangoli are created inside the houses to encourage the homecoming of the guests. A rangoli is created near doorways using material like sand, chalk, rice and grains. Throughout the day a lot more rituals take place including the pooja (a form of worshipping the deities in South Asia).

As dusk covers the horizon, people dress up in new outfits and enjoy the festival by burning firecrackers. The explosions can be seen everywhere in the sky and brighten the night. The festival concludes with a Bollywood touch as people dance to popular songs and perform traditional dances.

South Asian Association at Trent (SAAT) will be hosting their annual Diwali fest on November 4th in the Great Hall, Champlain College in collaboration with Trent Central Student Association (TCSA). It will start at 6 pm. As usual, expectations for the event are high. The hall will be decorated by candle light and oil lamps known as diya. Our guests will be greeted by beautiful designs of rangoli on

the floor and a Bollywood rhythm.

Following some glorious performances of folk dances and musical instruments, guests will be served delicious South Asian food. After enjoying the firecrackers we will be concluding the night with an afterparty at Shots Night Club where dancing will be accompanied by bhangra and Bollywood songs. Our volunteers and the SAAT executive team cordially invite everyone to be the part of this auspicious occasion and our amazing culture.

Photos by Elijah Gwayumba from last year’s Diwali issue

Cover Volume 50 Issue 11

CAMPUS

Putting Trent on the map for tech with first ever Hackathon Holly Stark It is a busy few weeks ahead for computer science lovers and Trent University’s Computer Science department, from crucial competitions to hosting the first ever Hackathon at Trent. I met with Matt Barnes and Dexter Fichuk, 4th year Trent Computer Science students, and Alex Mackenzie, 2nd year Trent History student, to find out more on what this month has to offer.

The first ever Hackathon is to be hosted at Trent University this week.

Electric City Hacks is a student run, notfor-profit, 36 hour event complete with invention, creativity, networking, teamwork and fun! This November 4-6, students from Trent University’s Computer Science program will host one of the most unique, biggest events at Trent, with over 400 students from across Canada coming together to craft the next great software or hardware innovation.

A Hackathon is a collaborative event where students design, create and demo; it allows a venue for self-expression and imagination through technology. Electric City Hack’s event provides local food to embrace Peterborough’s community, a science fair open to the public, opening and closing ceremonies, numerous beneficial workshops, opportunities to network in the tech industry and designated sleep areas to rest up between hacking.

The Hackathon is an exciting chance for students to showcase their talent to other participants and the public. Despite its

“tech” theme, the event is inter-disciplinary and open to anyone from any major.

There is no experience necessary, just a willingness to learn and think outside the box. Fichuk, president of TCSS says, “Tech can go with any major. We love to see students from other majors. It’s an opportunity for everyone to immerse themselves in tech and learn something new. We’re trying to change the culture at Trent, to encourage students from all backgrounds to go out there, take their skills, and build something new.”

Mackenzie, who studies history, is about to participate in his first Hackathon. He tells me “We need to erase the stigma about hacking. As someone who’s not from a computer science major, you see technology and you’re overwhelmed by it, but I’ve realised it can apply to anything and be

really beneficial. I’m amazed by the ideas produced; even if they’re not successful at the end of the Hackathon, they just blow my mind. Seeing ideas put together and the creation of projects is inspiring.” In past Hackathons, students have created phone apps, games and even alarm clocks.

The number one goal of the event is to make memorable, meaningful connections​ between students and the industry. Electric City Hacks is sponsored by many enterprises, with some sending representatives to help participants and lead workshops.

Barnes, who alongside Fichuk won first place in the Best Use of Amazon Web Services category and honorable mention for Life Hacks at Hack Western, says “Not only do you get all the students together, you make connections, you get companies and professionals who receive your resumes

myriad other Trent organizations, such as TUNA and TISA. Campbell’s message to the conference is focused on environmental racism and nation-to-nation relations.

I am involved in the Trent Nogo-COP22 Coalition (TNC), which is an informal organization of Trent students who are organizing for COP22 and to support Campbell whilst overseas. Step one to our strategy is surrounding outreach; we strive to connect students from different backgrounds to gain a plurality of perspectives. This, thus far, is in motion through contact with student and community organizations. Step two is the “stand up, speak out” notion, whereby we have focused much of our attention on the #LoveTheLand Campaign.

This campaign will allow for students and community members to connect with and celebrate the land around them, as well as to reflect on places that they cherish and want to protect. The idea is to snap a photo of the location and write a little bit about why you #LoveTheLand. I am calling out to all of you readers to accept this challenge and share why you want to protect

this land. It could be because this is your home, your happy place, a place where you can go and cry, or a place you cannot imagine your life without. Share these images all over social media and help us raise awareness about the Morocco talks, as well as the risks that faces our planet, and ultimately human survival. To encourage individuality, we want you to share these images and stories in your own languages! Step three is Bring it Back [to the Community]. A major component of Brendan’s campaign for VPCE was the notion of community.

There has been discussion about the sharing of knowledge that Campbell will have gained whilst in Morocco, to help educate students and to connect global issues to a local context.

Campbell is one of the most passionate, dedicated, hard-working, and incredible individuals, and no one better could have been chosen to represent the Trent community. You can be assured that he will bring focus and energy to the climate talks to ensure that the necessary questions are asked and answered by those who are

and portfolios, and you can potentially be interviewed and hired out of these events!”

Electric City Hacks are currently looking for volunteers to get involved at the event. Check the “volunteer” tab at the website 2016.echacks.xyz to learn more.

Despite applications being closed, the event organizers are still accepting Trent students who wish to participate. Simply register at Gzowski College at 6 pm on November 4th.

Alongside this, the Code/Design to Win competition takes place on Tuesday. The competition, by Communitech, an industry-led innovation centre that supports, advances and celebrates companies at all stages of growth, asks Trent students with a passion for computer science, programing or design, (UX/UI) “Want to make $5k in one day, legally, plus free pizza?”

After writing the preliminary exam on November 1st at Gzowski college, the top students will be invited to the Communitech Hub in Waterloo Region on January 21, 2017 to participate in the finals, meet with some great companies, and potentially take home $5,000. Even those who don’t win the huge cash prize are in which a chance of taking home other, runners up cash rewards.

Learn more about the Code/Design to win competition and register at: https:// www.eventbrite.ca/e/code-design-to-win2016-preliminary-exam-trent-universitytickets-28060319170

Add your voice to the Morocco climate change conference

Victoria Belbin On November 4th, the Paris Agreement will officially come into effect, and at the time of this article’s composition, eightysix countries have ratified the agreement.

This accord aims to bring a strengthened, collective response to addressing climate change, as well as to keep the Earth from warming more than two degrees Celsius.

This November 7-18, leaders from all over the world will be congregating in Marrakesh, Morocco, for the Conference of Parties 22 (COP22).

Remarkably, a Trent student will be attending the climate talks. Brendan Campbell, 3rd year Indigenous Environmental Studies (IES) student will be departing on November 2nd as a Canadian Youth Delegate, one of only eighteen chosen to attend. You may know him, as this individual is hyper-involved within the Trent Community. Campbell is currently your Vice President of Campaigns and Equity, Head Fire Keeper with First Peoples House of Learning, as well as being involved in a

chosen to govern. I want to call out to all of you who are interested in COP22; I am currently compiling questions that students and community members want to ask to the world leaders in Morocco. I am putting together a portfolio for Brendan to take overseas, and I am asking that if you have any questions, please email victoriabelbin@trentu.ca with them. We look forward to connecting with you all and bringing Trent to Morocco!

Volume 51 | Issue 7 | October 31 | 2016

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HALLOWEEN 2016 Arthur writers and the Trent and Peterborough community brings you spooky tales and poems this Halloween. Wrap up in a cozy blanket away from the bare, shaking branches of giant old trees that scatter this land and dive in. Peterborough can be a mysterious place at night with all of its old houses and hills.

Latin American Legends: The Tale of Mariangula

Holly Stark Translated by: Felipe Cazar

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Myths and legends are reflections of the culture that crafted them. They mirror the anxieties, aspirations, and nightmares of their people. They survive to communicate a message to the young or to trick people into what the culture believes is desired behaviour. Despite fantastical associations with the words ‘myth’ or ‘legend’, they give us insight into other times and places, into food, customs, horrors, ethics and attitudes, and ultimately further us in seeing how much humanity had and has in common.

These are the first stories; the primal oral and written tales and the ancestors of all literature that we read today. They permeate through time and across cultures, living on through the permanency of words.

Sometimes, whatever the purpose of a tale is, it may be plain terrifying. Here is a legend from Ecuador, South America, translated from Spanish by Felipe Cazar, an Ecuadorian student at Trent who grew up entranced by sharing tales and experiencing the weird and wonderful world of ‘stories’ through ‘leyendas ecuatorianas’ with his friends. He tells the haunting tale of Mariangula.

This is the story of a 16-year-old girl

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from Ecuador called Mariangula. She lived in Quito, the capital city, where her mother made a living selling tripa mishqui, a traditional Ecuadorian dish made with grilled cow guts.

One gloomy afternoon, Mariangula’s mother, Vicentina, asked Mariangula to hurry along to the butchers to buy the guts for the tripa mishqui before it closed. Vicentina told her “Apura Mariangula anda a la tienda a comprar tripa! Hurry, Mariangula, hurry!”

As Mariangula headed to the door, her mother handed her a knife, telling her as she often did, to protect herself from the unsafe streets and alleys of Centro Historico. But Mariangula was a very naughty child who often disobeyed her mother’s orders. Instead of going to the butchers, she went to visit her friends and spent all the money with them on candy and chocolate.

With no money and the butcher long closed, Mariangula began to panic as the realisation set in of what she had, or hadn’t, done. In stress, the young girl began to shake. Though it was dark and cold in Quito’s high mountains, Mariangula was not feeling particularly cold. She shook in fear, worrying what would happen when she returned home and imagined being severely punished by Vicentina, who could be very

strict with her children.

Concerned and flustered, Mariangula began to slowly walk back home through the streets of Quito, consumed in her thoughts, when she came across a cemetery. Seeing the graveyard gave Mariangula an idea. In horror and hysteria, Mariangula decided to take the guts from a dead body and provide her mother with what she had failed to collect. As her hysteria grew, her hands dug into the soil for flesh. Seeing the first sight of the body quickened Mariangula, her pace quickened and it was done before she could think about it.

Mariangula headed home and, having arrived, put the guts straight in the sink.

She washed up and went to bed. Mariangula awoke to her pleased mother, smiling and preparing the guts to sell her tripa mishqui in the Central Plaza of old Quito.

The guts sold well, and many customers came back for more.

Later that night, when all the food was sold and Mariangula and her family were back in bed, Mariangula heard strange noises beyond her window. A few moments passed and the noises began getting nearer, louder, somehow approaching her house.

Vicentina and the rest of Mariangula’s family were already in deep sleep when a loud banging on the door shocked her bolt up-

right. Mariangula stayed in her bed, sitting motionless, in disbelief and horror. A low, hollow voice uttered “Marianguuuuulaa, give me my guts that you stole from my holy grave”.

The voice, as before, grew closer and closer to her, permeating through the door and all her senses. Mariangula didn’t know what to do and all she could hear, ricocheting from the walls, was “Marianguuuuulaa, give me my guts that you stole from my holy grave.”

Mariangula looked dizzily for a way to save herself from the voices that were calling her, but all she found was her knife. In a terrifying, frenzy-stricken moment, Mariangula cut her own body and gave back what she had stolen.

The spirits entered Mariangula’s room, but all they found was her dying body open, with blood and flesh surrounding them. Horrified by this image, the spirits left Mariangula’s body, untouched, for Vicentina to discover.

The legend says that Mariangula’s mother Vicentina no longer sells tripa mishqui.

Now you can find her selling carne en palito, meat on a stick, in the same corner of the Plaza in old Quito. The sticks, Vicentina says, are for Mariangula—so she can fight against the bad spirits.

Monsters if Not Human #2: They Strike Back

Jordan Porter As many of you have experienced when going through old boxes at your childhood home while moving, you tend to find things from your childhood that stick with you. For me, I was always obsessed with writing stories. Unfortunately, most of them have been lost in the ether of life as many childhood effectsdo. However, this one made it through the madness of growing up. This story is the second installment of a series I wrote called Monsters if Not Human, surrounding the adventures of Nilbog and Alucard, two supernatural beings living in our regular world. Even when transcribing this from my ten-year-old chicken scratch, it took me a while to notice that these names were just ‘Goblin’ and ‘Dracula’ spelled backwards. I thought that this spooky holiday edition of Arthur would be a good way to get the story of Nilbog and Alucard out into the world. I hope you enjoy diving into my ten-year-old mind.

In our last adventure, Nilbog and Alucard became friends and heard about some Monster if Not Human doppelgangers hanging around town. In this story, now that they are both supernatural beings, they think that they can handle it. This is where our story begins.

Night fell upon the city of London, Ontario. Alucard and Nilbog had already started searching the town for the Monster if Not Human doppelgangers. It wasn’t until around midnight when they saw two small dark figures in a closed up mall lurking around. So the boys went up and peered through the window only to discover themselves—well, the monsters that looked like themselves, yeah, that’s it. Anyways, the storekeeper had left the door unlocked so they went in and hid underneath the stairwell. They watched the possessed monsters, or whatever they were, and only noticed now that there was another figure, a taller man holding what looked like a remote control. At first he just stood there, and so did they. It looked like he was waiting for something. Then, just as Nilbog and Alucard were about to make their move…

BANG! The tall man turned a knob on his remote control and the doppelgangers started destroying the shelves, the displays, everything in sight! The boys hung back and watched. Then, just as quickly as it started, the tall man turned the knob all the way back and the monsters fell to the floor, stripped of all their power. The tall man then went up to the monster Nilbog, hit a switch and popped open his chest exposing wires and flashing lights. The boys looked at each other and realized that they weren’t monsters at all—they were androids! Robotic androids, so that would explain what that remote control was. It was a controller to activate and deactivate the androids. Meanwhile, the real Nilbog and Alucard used their super-sight to examine the androids from their hiding spot.

They discovered that on the back panel of the androids, in small print, said “Property of Professor Fuzhou—Made in China”.

They looked at each other and said, almost at the same time, “That must be Professor Fuzhou with the remote!”

The professor then turned the androids on and they began to leave the mall. Nilbog and Alucard waited until they were out of sight and then headed to Nilbogs’ house.

They went right to the computer and looked up “Professor Fuzhou” and “China”.

Up popped a whole page about the professor’s reputation, his work, and much much more. In one hour’s time, the boys figured out that for the last ten years, the professor has been reported as missing, but after he disappeared, the police knew that the last time he had been seen was in London, Ontario but had no proof.

The next night, the boys went snooping around town and found an old abandoned house that you could hardly see through the trees. The boys went in to check it out and thought they could spy on anyone walking by—hopefully professor Fuzhou and his androids. Unfortunately, the boys said that out loud and Alucard felt a soft tap on his shoulder. He turned around to find the professor was standing right behind them this whole time, and there at his side were both doppelganger androids, glaring at them with glowing red evil eyes.

Alucard gulped and shook Nilbog’s arm to turn around. Nilbog, now annoyed, said, “Not now, I’m trying to spy on people!”

Alucard shook harder and said, “I don’t think that will be necessary, man!”

Nilbog turned around, still annoyed, and then saw all three of them standing behind him very still and very silent. His eyes grew wide and he said, with a shaky voice, “Ha—have you been fff...following us?”

To this, the professor smiled and spoke his first words, “I believe it is you two that have been following us.”

The boys looked at each other, confused.

“This is my home. I have lived here for the past ten years, I have been watching the two of you since you were born” The professor continued, “Although I did expect you to come find me sooner or later. You see, I didn’t choose you two by accident, I chose you because you are the last supernatural beings in the world besides your parents who are far too old now to conduct my experiments on.” He stopped and went to reach for the remote control. Just then, Nilorg and Alucard looked at each other and shouted “NOW!” and rushed their own doppelgangers. The professor was startled and dropped the remote control, smashing it on the ground—the boys tackled the androids down, opened up the chest panels and started ripping out the wires and metal flew everywhere.

Once the androids were sparking and useless, the boys closed in on the professor and noticed something on his neck when he started to run away, in small print, “Made in China”. The boys used their super speed and caught him easily, ripped open his jacket and saw that he too was an android! So the boys ripped out his wiring and left the scrap metal in the abandoned house. The boys dusted themselves off and headed home.

The next morning at breakfast, their mother asked them, “So what did you boys get up to last night?”

Nilbog and Alucard looked at each other while eating their cereal and said, “Oh, nothing too much!”

But the question still remains… who created the professor?

Halloween

The Call Back

Anthony Moniz It was just a few days before Halloween and everyone was gearing up for what could be the scariest yet. In the year 2000 everyone in the world went through quite a fright when they thought computers were going to take over the world on New Year’s Day. Fast forward almost eleven months and everyone in the quiet town of Cainsville seemed calm and content with the same Halloween activities they were used to every year. Nothing different and nothing out of the ordinary. It was a typical night for me too, as I would be spending the night at my best friend’s house. Mark Little had been my pal since the first grade and his family was essentially my second family. Mr. and Mrs. Little always brought me along on family vacations so that Mark wouldn’t get too bored. He was the only child and he sure was spoiled.

He lived on the outskirts of town on a quiet little street. At night it would get very dark because there wasn’t a street light in sight. With it being so dark outside, we would make sure we left the lights off inside the house as well for perfect Halloween ambiance. Shortly after dark, Mr. and Mrs. Little had to make a trip into town for some last minute candy shopping. As soon as they left, Mark fired up the VCR with his favourite horror flick while I made popcorn. When I came back to the living room, Mark looked up at me and said, “Hey Andrew! How funny would it be to call random people and scare their pants off?”

I didn’t need much convincing, since it was something we did as kids all the time.

His house had these ancient phones that didn’t even have a display screen, and as dumb kids we assumed other people didn’t have it on their phones either.

Mark went to the kitchen to retrieve a phone book and came back with a silly grin on his face. He had found his mom’s address book and on the first page saw a phone number labelled, “hypnotist.”

Mark and I both looked at each other and immediately knew that we had to prank call this number. I began dialing.

The phone rang once before a voice answered with a deep, “Hello?”

I replied, “Hello?”

“Who’s this?”

“Who’s this?” I asked back.

He kept asking who I was and all my replies simply agitated him since I would only repeat what he was saying. Before this went on too long I laughed and said, “Hey, Mr. Hypnotist! If you’re so good at your job, why don’t you just hypnotize me and make me hang up the phone!”

Before I could even get a response I had already slammed the phone down and hung up. Mark and I burst into laughter and we were already looking for another number to call when the phone rang.

Mark answered. “Hello? Who’s this?”

He appeared to be going through the same spiel I just gave the “hypnotist”. Everything Mark asked, the caller would repeat the exactly back to him.

I yelled at Mark to hang up the phone.

Immediately after hanging up, the phone

rang again and Mark answered only to discover that it was the same person he spoke to before. This went on for about half an hour and since we were both home alone we started to get scared. We both glanced out the window and stared into the darkness as we waited for Mr. and Mrs. Little to come home. In the meantime, the phone just kept on ringing but we wanted nothing to do with answering. We left it ringing and ringing until Mark had had enough and decided to disconnect the phone.

Finally, it was quiet in the house. But not for long, as Mr. and Mrs. Little came home and wondered why we both looked like we had seen a ghost. Mrs. Little went to the phone to make a call and noticed there wasn’t a dial tone. She plugged the phone back in and just before she could lift the receiver the phone rang again. Mark and I just looked at each other hoping it wouldn’t be the hypnotist. When Mrs. Little answered the caller must have hung up, because she got no response. She put the phone back down and seconds later the phone rang again and again and again. This continued every time she hung up the phone. Mrs. Little looked very concerned and at that point Mark and I confessed to her what we had done. The phone rang throughout the night as Mr. Little was sleeping. He had to be up extremely early for work the next day and Mrs. Little was getting annoyed at the phone constantly waking him up.

At around midnight Mrs. Little came into Mark’s room to scold us. She yelled at us for starting this childish prank calling war. In the background you could still hear the phone ringing and Mr. Little upstairs cursing loudly over his lack of sleep. To this day I am haunted by the words of Mrs. Little yelling, “Your father is trying to sleep!”

She was at the point of losing her mind.

Finally, around 3 AM, Mrs. Little picked up the phone and shouted at the top of her lungs, “STOP CALLING HERE OR I’M CALLING THE POLICE! MY HUSBAND IS TRYING TO SLEEP!” To this day I do not know what was said to her, but her face went blank. It was like Mrs. Little was all of a sudden in a trance.

She seemed to forget her anger at me and Mark, making a beeline to get upstairs to Mr. Little. For the first time, the phone wasn’t ringing. I thought that maybe she had gotten through to the hypnotist and he was done proving a point. Mark and I agreed that we had learned our lesson and that we would never prank call anyone again. As we shook hands, Mark and I heard a strange sound coming from upstairs.

We both creeped up the stairs to Mr. and Mrs. Little’s bedroom. The light was on inside but the door was slightly closed.

Mark slowly pushed against the door and saw his mom sitting up in bed, reading a book by her lamp. Next to her slumped Mr. Little’s headless body with his decapitated head sitting nearby on the night table. While we began to scream with horror, Mrs. Little looked at us calmly and whispered, “Shhhhh, your father is trying to sleep...”

Volume 51 | Issue 7 | October 31 | 2016

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FEATURE

Metamorphosis: the pursuit of beauty and change at Catalina’s build something of her own.

The same principal applies to the vintage garments side of her business which she has since shipped out of the Hunter St location to make room for a performance space. The vintage apparel is now sold in the storefront which was formerly Dixon’s Used Books at 393 Water Street. When asked why she decided to take on yet another storefront her response was simple, “I love to work and see my creative projects become viable, so when I see an opportunity I seize it.” The beautiful dress which graces our zombie model on the cover was generously leant to us from Catalina’s vintage collection.

Perhaps the most drastic change in the Catalina’s aesthetic, the addition of the bar, has been brewing since 2011. It was in that year that the provincial government began offering salons the ability to apply for liquor licenses. “I was always holding events in the space and having to apply for special permits to serve alcohol. It just made sense to get licensed once it became an option.”

Just don’t expect an endless selection. The bar stocks classic quality beverages, and is hoping to have two beer taps installed soon.

“One for Guiness and the other something local. I’m not catering to limitless choice.

Everything is quality and not over the top.

It’s things I like.”

On beauty

“A magical, eclectic delight to the senses,” is the response elicited from Catalina, owner of Catalina’s Barbeside Salon and Vintage Store, when asked to describe her space in a few words. Arthur sat down with Catalina to talk about her success, her business philosophy and what she has planned next for downtown Peterborough.

The changing faces of Catalina’s Currently a bar/venue/vintage shop, Catalina’s had seen a multitude of change over the 18 years it has been open in Peterborough. Its initial incarnation as a hair salon was started out of necessity. “I had cut hair for a while, and my partner was pregnant with our son, so I started looking for a place and found this huge space on George Street for $650 a month. Coming from Vancouver, rent like that was too good to pass up.” So it began as a funky hair salon, but it wasn’t long before Catalina realized it could be so much more. As a creative person Catalina was always bringing in “bits

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and pieces” of vintage furniture sourced from auctions or private collections. The transition into selling those pieces happened organically. “My customers were always commenting on how much they liked certain pieces or the style. My response was always “You can buy it!”” So the business grew, slowly evolving over time to include vintage clothing, new clothing, furniture and curios, always evolving and changing as Catalina’s vision and passions did. Over time the shop moved from George Street to its current location on Hunter Street but the philosophy remained the same: “I do what I love. It’s tied to me.” Catalina even jokes that the only thing she is “consistent in is change and transformation.”

Though she still cuts hair, Catalina has sold the salon portion of her business. She had moved it to Water Street when a vacancy arose to make room in her crowded Hunter Street location and finally sold it to her “right hand person.” She explains this as the organic change in her business attitudes, after having built up the salon, to step back and give her former employee a chance to run the business for herself and

During the discussion with Catalina one thing becomes abundantly clear: the driving force behind her business and its many transformations is to create beauty. It is a word and a topic that comes up over and over again in our conversation. When describing the esthetic of her shop she explains that she wanted to, “create a place where beauty is esteemed. The pursuit of beauty is my life. Not in a shallow or obvious way.” Gazing around at the vintage pieces surrounding us she explains, “When you work with discarded objects, clean them up, care for them their beauty becomes obvious. The same goes for human beings in a way. You can give them a fresh way of looking at themselves, not just on the outside, by caring for them and building them up or helping them see themselves the way they always imagined.”

Even in situating the bar Catalina has found ways of bringing elements of design into the process. The stage and speakers are placed in such a way that those who want to be up close and personal with the performance get the full experience while others who would prefer to hang out and enjoy conversations can mingle comfortably in

FEATURE

the bar area. Catalina explains that beauty and design were paramount in creating this curated space and that input from experienced friends and customers helped greatly in the success of the design. The result is the most unique bar in town, the only place you can grab a drink, watch a performance and buy an end table in the same night.

On business Catalina’s main words of wisdom for those thinking about building a business is to take it slow. After all, she has been building her business here in Peterborough for over 18 years. As she pointed out, the addition of the bar to her salon/vintage shop has been coming for six years, ever since licensing became an option. Perhaps the second most important piece of advice she has to offer is, “Don’t invest a lot of your own money! Start small and grow it, as your money grows.” If you reach too far too fast you will simply end up with massive debt and a failed enterprise.

When it is pointed out that she is something of a rarity as a creative person who has managed to build a successful business without losing sight of her artistic sensibilities, she shrugs it off. “As a businessperson I go by feel and intuition; as I develop as a person and explore my interests, the business grows. That’s just my insanity! Or maybe it’s what keeps me sane, always having so much to do.”

Her final word on building a business is this. “You’re never going to feel totally prepared to start a business, but the act of doing it, of making mistakes, getting up, brushing yourself off and learning from them will drive you forward. If you genuinely like it there should be enough spark to bring people in.”

On being “done” Over the course of 18 years, Catalina’s has been in a constant state of metamorphosis, from caterpillar to chrysalis to pupa to butterfly and back again. She even jokes that customers never know what to expect when they walk through the door. One of the questions she says she gets asked frequently is “When will you be done?” Her answer embodies the entire philosophy of her beautiful and constantly changing business: “Being done is not the point.”

We are thankful for that, because Catalina’s in all of its many iterations has brought beauty, style and substance to downtown Peterborough and will continue to do so, in one form or another for years to come.

Volume 51 | Issue 7 | October 31 | 2016

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HALLOWEEN Derek Newman-Stille Whenever I went on a trip, I would buy her a mask—porcelain and paint and feathers and ribbon and glitter swirled together. I used to think they were so majestic, that they were posh (even though I couldn’t afford much, so they were often from dollar stores). Every vacation required that I spend at least a few hours perusing shops to find just the right mask, the one that spoke to my feelings about the trip, my reflections. I wanted to share with my sister those little moments of my vacation, the cast-offs of my face as it froze in potent emotion to express that particular moment.

I suppose that meant that they really had more to do with me than with her, and yet they decorated her childhood room, faces frozen in arcane moments I could no longer remember. I realise now that there was something eerie about bringing back faces, letting her decorate her wall in those moments of faces that I had chosen. I realize that those masks were my masks, the masks that I would wear while I voyaged, the faces I would put on to affect a certain nuance of my personality, a performance of a certain moment of escape (but don’t all escapes really just show us how much we are still here, still unmoving and unchanging?).

I used to feel that those faces on the wall, staring out at me when I walked into her room, were my way of watching over her, keeping her safe. But it can’t help but be macabre—faces painted with someone else’s emotions, someone else’s cultural moments, displayed like ceramic shards of time. I hadn’t thought to ask how much the watchers are watched.

My sister was younger than me by about 5 years, but she knew what I couldn’t discern: she looked into those painted, glittered, porcelain eyes and saw fear. She held on to the masks, each a fragile moment of memory and pain, and watched and waited. *** “Where’s my mask?”

“I couldn’t find anything that really worked and I spent a lot of time in the corn field this trip. I didn’t get much of a chance to go into town. Sorry, I was really hoping I could find a pretty purple one that would look nice with the pink and blue ones beside the window.”

“No, purple isn’t quite right. This was more of a black and white trip. This wasn’t a clown mask or Venetian mask... this one should have been a mime’s mask with dark circles around its eyes, black or grey lips, and a sad gaze. It would have gone with those ones.” She vaguely waved toward a wall of grey and red-toned masks, the red standing out like welts on the sardonic grey-scale faces, eyes becoming droplets of melancholy or arches of sighs.

I couldn’t look into their eyes. One or two looked sweetly sad, making life more precious by looking at them, but together they were a storm that sucked at my breath, pursing their lips only to blow back kisses of ice.

I smiled. It seemed the only defence. It was another mask, a protective one that I would wear to cope. Mom used to tell me after he beat me that if I just smiled I would feel better, that it would go away for a moment. That was what she always did, smiling her porcelain smile... and somehow no one else could see that the paleness of her face was painted with shock, blood drained to the rest of her body for survival.

The smile didn’t seem to work for me.

My lips would inevitably purse too tightly, teeth piercing the edges of my smile that

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Shattered Porcelain

was just a tinge too red. My smile was as much porcelain as the masks, as painted on, and as fragile.

Olivia had a painted on smile as well, but it seemed less fragile, more hard and cold, evoking a chilling hollowness, and it didn’t seem to reach her eyes. It seems odd to say this of one’s sister. I was constantly told that I should love and protect my sister, but I worried sometimes that the barriers I created around her only protected her from developing any real sense of sympathy, any ability to see the suffering of others and the repercussions of her actions. Is it possible that I have spent so much time protecting her from herself?

I would get between them when I saw that darkness rise in Father’s eyes. When he sought a target, I made it of myself. I felt horror at myself every time I thought that protecting her actually gave her the distance she needed from suffering to be able to see it as something essentially other than herself. ***

I should have known that something was off when my cousin Janice showed up with Julia and Angela from down the street. My sister rarely invited friends over and it generally meant problems for me when she did. The sense of warning sharpened as she giggled freely when seeing Janice instead of engaging in her normal circling of predatory passive aggression. She rarely laughed openly and the sound was of tinkling glass, but not the joyful tinkling sound that my books would talk about. These tinkling glass shards were still sharp.

I began to walk toward my room to pick up my book and go into the woods. I know the escape of the woods and paperbacks were only temporary, but I hoped that time would mean that the beating would be less severe. As I turned, I looked up into eyes that seemed filled with a form of liquid anger, brought up from his red face, filled with blood. His facial features seemed to get even harder, made of rocky sharp edges as he became angrier. Rage seemed to pull any softness from his features. This was the face of Father that I knew best.

He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, making a noose of it as he pulled me from the ground.

“Olivia says that you have been bugging her. What the hell were you thinking, breaking her masks?”

More chilling than the horror of his breath and spittle in my face was the continued laughter from Olivia and her friends.

“I—I didn’t break anything. I wasn’t even here!” I squeaked, “I was away all weekend at Aunt Fern’s working at the farm. I just got back.”

“Don’t whine at me. Admit what you did, you pussy.”

Olivia looked me directly in the eyes over his shoulder, making sure that I could see her laughing face. It always astonished me that he couldn’t make the connection between her accusations of “he’s bothering me” and her laughter. I would convince myself that it was because he was so dim, barely even human... but really he actually didn’t need a reason for the beatings. He was always looking for his opportunity.

With every strike, his words seemed to become more incomprehensible. I couldn’t even understand the profanities any more.

It all just seemed like waves of sound. It could have been that he stopped making sense in his rage or that my own ability to understand was dulled by the flood of pain. All I could see was a shroud of blackness and the wall of laughing faces staring back at me, all caught in inhuman grins, an audience frozen in smiles, performing for Olivia.

Blood painted my lips and teeth, blackness bruised in around my eyes. I feared my face would shatter and all of me would come pouring out between the cracks: tears and blood and feeling. *** I don’t know when I realised that I was forgetting things, but it seemed to be around the time when I received the first black box in the mail, wrapped in red ribbon like a slash across the dark surface. I remember opening it and finding the powder inside, powdered porcelain, fine and white but so sharp it seemed to climb inside my fingers when I touched it, and mixed with bits of glitter, paint, and ribbon.

I couldn’t stop running my fingers through the porcelain, seeming so familiar, yet so strange. Sandman piles of sleeping powder sifting dreams through my fingers; strange, half-remembered things that seemed suspended in powdery subconscious. Watching it fall glittering from my hands released little glimpses of familiarity in its shimmering surface, a beach that captured the tides of the unconscious that washed up against it.

There was never a letter with the black box, and it never had a return sender. I guess she didn’t want anything back... well, anything other than what was being taken from me each time she shattered one of the masks. *** “You shouldn’t have had to grow up so fast, you know? You were robbed of something, that innocence that the rest of us got to call ‘childhood’. You were just a little adult. You had to be. You had to learn how to grow up just to survive.”

“I guess. Not just me. I had to always be strong for Olivia and Mom too.”

I chuckled. Things always got weird when I started talking about what had happened to me. About the violence. I tried to avoid it when I could because it meant that people would get a glimpse of something too real about me and they could never un-see it. They would always look at me with that sad look in their eyes once they found out, always through that weird mist of tears. Now was the time when I would add a little joke, to make them feel like it was all okay.

“I guess that’s why I like to play now. I am catching up for lost time.” I winked and grinned my most performed smile.

Even the most unimpressive joke tends to diffuse those sorrowful looks that I couldn’t stand to see on people’s faces.

Richard smiled back, as expected. Scripted perfectly.

“Seriously though... do you think that was what made you so good at reading people? So good at figuring things out?”

“Hey, maybe I should thank my father for it all. The violence really made me a smart cookie!” I grinned wider.

Richard’s smile slipped.

I had pushed it too far. Too many offhand joking comments. He had figured out that my smile was a defensive wall, a little trench that I had dug for myself in the war against my own memories.

“Ah, I’ve dealt with all of this long before now.” I reached to touch him on the shoulder, comforting him for the trauma of hearing about my experiences. “It really isn’t a problem. Not any more. I escaped as a teen and haven’t had to look back. And I have plenty of time ahead of me to play.” I jokingly punched him on the shoulder.

It was weird to jokingly punch someone, an action I had never thought in any way comforting or caring. But I had watched people over the years. I knew the sort of teasing that was expected, the sort of play that people engaged in when

they didn’t think that violence was serious, when gentle slaps and pokes, body checks, shoves, and even punches were signs of affection. I could play the part. I had long since gotten used to the squishing feeling in my chest whenever I had to play the part of the friend who body checks, and I had long since stopped wincing when someone slapped me on the back. Almost no one noticed the sharp gasp of breath as I steeled myself for another performance of normalcy.

“I know, and you know that I love your playfulness. It is just weird to think back on my childhood and the sense of relaxation, the safety of home, and realise that you never had that. You never knew what it was like to be afraid of the monster under your bed and call your dad in to check on it because... because, well, he was the monster and way the hell scarier than anything a kid’s imagination could think up.”

“You’d be surprised. The neighbourhood kids always asked me to tell ghost stories around the campfire because I could come up with some damn scary ones.” I grinned at him again, trying to bring us back to that loose comfortable space away from my feelings and memories.

“But don’t you see, that’s kind of horrifying too. You could scare the shit out of them because you had to take the scary game to the next level, had to create more terrifying monsters than the one that was in your own home. You know, the place those kids would run when your stories scared them too much and they needed Mom and Dad to protect them. Your monsters were your happy escape, your little sanctuary away from the real monsters.”

“Can we just let it go? I spent enough of my life living this shit. I don’t need to live it with you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have asked about all of this, but I felt I should know about your family before I, you know, joined it...”

“He is not my family.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I phrased that badly.

I’m just... well, you invited your sister to the wedding and she seems like as much of a bitch as he was.”

“Richard, she was a kid. Just a stupid kid.

And you know as well as I do that kids are basically all sociopaths. You teach them for fuck’s sake.”

“Yes, and my grade twos have about as much compassion as an alligator... but I don’t think they would purposely get their brother beaten by their father, and definitely not laugh about it while it was happening.”

“I really regret telling you that. You’re never going to be able to look at her the same way now.”

“I think I pretty much looked at her like a rabbit in the presence of a wolf before, so I don’t think that will change. She gives me the heeby jeebies. She always has. It’s like she uses all of that makeup to hide something severely ugly. You know how I feel about clowns, and your sister may not have the big, red nose, or drive in a tiny car with hundreds of other people wearing makeup, but when the floppy shoe fits...”

I had to laugh. Richard always knew how to cheer me up, always knew the right phrase to pull me out of that dark that played at the edges. And Richard knew how to make his own fears fair game for teasing.

But I couldn’t stop seeing Olivia as a clown now. God, I hoped she didn’t rent a small car for the wedding. *** “What about a masquerade? You can borrow some props from the Theatre Guild, and they let you keep the mask from Midsummer Night’s Dream. Plus, think about how romantic it would be for us to lift our

HALLOWEEN masks for our kiss... sort of like lifting our veils without the patriarchal history.”

“Mom wants a traditional wedding.”

I knew I answered a bit too abruptly, but even playing Oberon in a mask had made me uncomfortable and I couldn’t imagine masking again for my wedding.

“We’re two men getting married. Our weddings haven’t even been legal long enough for us to have traditions...”

I laughed. “I guess you’re right. She can suck it up!”

“Plus, didn’t you say that you used to get your sister masks whenever you went away anywhere? She will probably get a kick out of it.”

“I don’t remember. Did I say that? When?”

“Oh shit. Not again.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “You’re having another one of the lapses. This is the third time this week.

I don’t think the doctor’s right. This is more than a depression symptom or some form of PTSD.” “Are you sure you’re not just misremembering? I’m tired of this. What, do you think I have Alzheimer’s or something?” I could feel my blood pressure increasing and the foggy feeling rolling in.

“It’s not that... It’s just—it’s worth checking things out with a different doctor. I just want to make sure you’re okay, that nothing else is going on.”

“If I am forgetting things, the doctor is probably right. It probably is some type of PTSD. I went through a lot as a kid. It makes sense that some of it might be hard to remember.”

“I know, I know... It’s just, well, I worry about you and just want to check. It seems like you’re forgetting all of the good stuff along with the bad.”

“If I could pick and choose, I would. I’d remember every flower, every damn butterfly, every tree I climbed, but that’s not how it works. Let’s face it, my childhood was a quicksand pit of shit, swallowing up everything around it, suffocating all of those pretty little flowers, flittering butterflies, and autumn-kissed trees in a big gulp of brown.”

I could see tears star the corners of his eyes and felt that sick sinking feeling that happened whenever I got angry, the horrifying mirror inside showing me only Father.

“I know” he whispered, “I’m just afraid of how much you’ve changed” *** “Hey, it’s Jaime.”

“Who?” “Jaime.”

I twirled a ribbon around my finger as I talked, shifting the phone to hold it with my cheek.

“Are you calling for Richard?”

“Ha ha, very funny, dickwad. Seriously though, why didn’t I get an invite?”

“I’m, uh, not sure... I’ll make sure Richard calls you back soon. Sorry, I’ve gotta run.

Thanks for calling to... to remind us of everything.”

“You don’t know who this—” *** “You’re home early.”

“Richard, I couldn’t do it. I just... I don’t know...”

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“I totally blanked during rehearsal. I was getting ready for the closing scene and I just ended up staring out at all of the empty seats in the theatre. I started gasping. I was trying to breathe through my Oberon mask and I just couldn’t get enough air. The blackness around the mask seemed to collapse in around me, like the eyeholes were blinking with my eyes under them—” “What? What does that mean?”

“I—I don’t know. I forgot everything; all of my lines. Midsummer Night’s Dream has been my favourite play since I was 15. I

memorized every line by the time I was 16.

I have waited to perform this play, I have wanted it for so long... and suddenly everything is just gone. I could only see black and then the empty chairs of the theatre.”

“Maybe you are just stressed about the performance. Everyone gets performance anxiety sometimes.”

“Not me. You know that. I can just get up on stage and talk the same way as I could in a room of my close friends. It doesn’t bother me. They are both performances.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. You are probably right. It’s just stress.”

“You don’t seem certain.”

He was right, but I really didn’t want to interrogate it any more with him. I just really wish that he could understand, that he could just get it without me having to explain myself every time. I know its not realistic. I know he won’t be able to get it because he hasn’t been through any of this before.

“I don’t know. I remember when I used to be able to just read through a script twice and have it completely memorized. I didn’t have this stress, these slips.”

“You have had a lot on your mind lately.

The wedding and everything on top of the performance may just be a bit too much.”

I nodded. It wasn’t that. It couldn’t be.

The play and the wedding were like the fulfillment of two impossible dreams of my childhood. I wasn’t stressed. I was ecstatic. But things were crumbling around me. It was like rats were nibbling away at the photographs of my past and the memories along with them. Even the memories I could grasp seemed faded, robbed of their vibrancy, their reality. I looked at my past like a reality TV watcher examining the passage of another life that they were supposed to connect with but were alienated from by the TV screen.

My life had become a screen through which I viewed myself.

“Maybe some sleep will help.”

“You can dream your own Midsummer Night Dreams to really cement those lines!”

Richard beamed. *** I turned the mask in my hands, lovingly running fingers across Oberon’s face. His features, written in painted swirls, scrolls, and leafy growth seemed so distant from my own, and yet so familiar. I suppose that was the point—to make the fairy king distant and strange by masking him, by giving him an artificial mask to add to the dreamlike quality of it all. But he seemed to stare back at me, to see something in me that I could no longer see.

I let the ribbon fall between my fingers, feeling its silky texture as it tickled along my hand. The mask even felt magical, fairylike, otherworldly.

I could feel my heart leap as I brought the mask closer to my own face, but it steadied into a dull thrum as Oberon’s eyes were fitted over my own, as the ribbon tied us together and I let myself go, fading into the character.

I stared at the darkened curtains that reminded me so much of the black oppression that I felt around my memories, so light and almost intangible, but so effective at marking the boundary between the worlds of present and past.

The curtains parted and I was Him. I was lost in the sweep of his arms, the boom of his voice, and the feel of his feet against the stage. *** Her face looked somewhat familiar, staring at me across the cast party, smiling and waving.

I looked behind me, but no one was there.

I assumed I must have seen her somewhere before—the friend of a cast member?

Her expression turned confused, a frown clouding her features.

She mouthed “Hi” and there was an inferred question mark at the end of the word.

I smiled, letting myself perform a slight laugh. This had been happening too often, and I had learned how to “fake it” and be welcoming to these strangers who told me that we knew each other so well.

“Let’s invite Father.”

“Are you serious, did you forget—” Richard broke off to try to catch his breath. His face had gone bright red. “...to invite him?”

“No! Did you fucking forget everything he did to you?!”

“No, no, I remember. It’s just... It doesn’t seem significant any more. It was a long time ago. Shouldn’t we let bygones be bygones?”

“No! We shouldn’t. He fucking tortured you. Your whole life, he tortured you. Did you forget this along with everything else?”

“I remember that I love you and I want everyone to know that.”

“There are some people who don’t deserve to know.”

of the celebrants.

As the priest spoke, I could only stare out at the assembled masks, thinking of the bizarre type of initiation all of this evoked.

Even when audience members became bored or uncomfortable with their masks and let them slip, there was still a mask beneath, a face frozen in that still boredom of ceremony. Everyone seemed Matryoshka dolls, nesting faces one beneath the other, each as thin as the last and carrying only emptiness at the centre.

I knew that I was a Matryoshka doll, a nesting doll of empty shells with a hollow core that waited to be filled, and lately that core seemed to be more empty, hollowed out with each black box wrapped in red ribbon that arrived at my house.

I followed my lines and was thankful for my mask and its ability to obscure my horror as I stared out at those masks, each face a cold reflection of something I wanted to remember.

As we left the church, they threw glitter on us, a confetti of multicoloured rainbows to celebrate a queer union, but something about it reminded me of the cascade of crushed porcelain in those black boxes that seemed to appear at so many vital moments over the past few years. I could feel shards of uncut glass in the glittering fall.

***

***

I felt his hand in mine. Warm. Firm. Reassuring.

I couldn’t look at him in his mask. All I could see was artificiality looking back at me: Richard stripped of everything that was Richard, rendered a blank under all of the glitter, gloss, paint, and ribbon.

Why did he insist on us wearing masks?

My university History of Theatre course had revealed too much to me about the tradition of masking, highlighting my discomfort with the strange blank signifiers that spoke so much. They hid the face, blending roles of protection, disguise, performance, and ritual, allowing the wearer to assume identities, roles, and different selves. What self was he wearing for me and what self was I wearing for him? Was either real? Whose faces were we wearing?

We walked through the doors of the church and I could feel the faces turn even though I fixed my eyes ahead. I could see through my peripheral vision a swirling wall of masks, all turning to face me, reversing the theatre so that the audience were performers, watching me with their erased faces, their carnivalesque identities.

Each pew was lined with artificial faces, all turning slowly to watch us with human eyes encased in ceramic orbits. It was a macabre blend of the living and the nevermeant-to-be-alive, of flesh and stone, and all of it seemed so contrived, so artificial, so ritualized.

The masks of the guests in the church seemed to blend together, shelves of crafts artfully displayed to make me aware that I was being watched and evoking a strange familiarity.

People were more creative with their masks than I would have expected. I guess this happens when so many friends are met from the stage and all of them bring their flare for the theatrical into everyday life.

Here masks borrowed from the styles of the ancient Theatre of Dionysus, there a Yoruba mask, here an Iroquoian false face, there a noh mask. It was a sea of cultural appropriation and I had to shut off my mind to the privilege those adorned faces represented, the cultural robbery they wore over their own faces. And, of course, Venetian masks predominated, illustrating everyone’s sense of the traditional masquerade.

This scene would have been different if everyone decided to wear medical masks or gas masks. Maybe then they would see how masks are faces of protection, symbols of self-defence even when they are images of celebration meant to obscure the identity

My mother and Olivia had decorated the reception hall: pillars twined with ivy, tea light candles like fairy lights winking throughout the room, and, of course, more masks, strewn artfully across the table centrepieces, tied with ribbon to bunches of black fabric, festooned around pillars.

Faces painted with emotions from sardonic smiles to horror to teary trauma stared back at me from every corner; blank socketed eyes fixed me in their gaze. All of them seemed to be waiting.

I should have been more involved in the decorating.

There it was, on the gift table at the reception hall, another black box, trimmed in red ribbon. It seemed to have gravity, drawing me toward it.

I approached slowly. Some part of me kept saying that this was grossly inappropriate, that gifts were for the end. But I needed to see that glittering sand of crushed porcelain. I needed to find out why something so meaningless was draped in meaning. I pulled the ribbon, letting it hiss along the black velvet of the box.

Inside I saw myself, or, at least, a mirror image of the Oberon mask I wore. Eyeless, it stared back at me nonetheless. The glossy surface reflected parts of my own mask— Oberons within Oberons. And this porcelain figure was intact.

“It was never really mine,” Olivia’s voice whispered in my ear, “None of them were.

You gave them to me, but they were all your faces and I have been returning them to you, piece by piece. I’ve owned you. I’ve owned every face you wore.”

“What... What do you—?”

“You don’t even remember, do you? I know.

I kept them, selling them back to you in shattered memories and dreams, and for your wedding, I have this last gift for you. I give you your own face.”

She reached slender fingers into the box, gently sliding nails beneath the mask and lifting it carefully from the formshaped base of the container. She swept the mask up into her hands, pulling ribbons along with it and held it gently toward me, letting its hollow eyes look into mine. In those eyes I could see flickers of movement, a cascade of thoughts that seemed to be my own, or at least to have belonged to a me from somewhere else.

The crack of porcelain echoed through me, a split image refracting on itself.

The mask shattered and I could see my face fall to the floor.

***

Volume 51 | Issue 7 | October 31 | 2016

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HALLOWEEN

Centro Americano legends and folklore

Mauricio Interiano Central American folklore is rich. Each town you visit has stories and legends. Many of the legends from Central America are ancient, with origins in the isthmus’s indigenous populations, like the Maya and Kuna. Some others were brought over by the Spaniards or created by them during colonial times. Kirsten Hubbard, a Central American writer and traveler, has been going to different places collecting and translating stories.

Some are terrifying! Some others are stories that try to convince people to behave in a good way according to local, moral guidelines.

Here are four stories that I grew up listening to.

The Sihuanaba

The Sihuanaba (as she’s known in Guatemala; she’s called the Ciguanaba in El Salvador, the Cigua in Honduras and the Cegua in Costa Rica) is one of the terrifying ones. She’s a shape-shifting spirit in Central American folklore who has the body of a seductive and attractive woman when seen from the back; long-haired and often naked, or wearing a gauzy white dress. Men happen upon her while she’s bathing on dark nights. They don’t see her real face, which is a horse face or human skull, until she’s lured them into danger, or gotten them hopelessly lost. In Guatemala, the Si-

guanaba usually appears to punish unfaithful men. It is said that she takes them to a solitary place, then shows her face which makes men so scared that they cannot move. She then proceeds to take their soul.

Freaky, right? However, it’s likely the legend of the Siguanaba was brought to Central America by the Spanish colonists, in order to scare (and control) the local population.

The Crystal Skulls

The legend of Central America’s crystal skulls was popularized by the 2008 film, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, the long-awaited addition to the Indiana Jones Trilogy. However, the skulls most definitely exist. They’re replicas of human skulls, carved from transparent quartz crystal; the most famous, the Mitchell-Hedges Crystal Skull, was found in the Lubaantun Mayan ruins of Belize.

Mayan legends allude to thirteen skulls in total, each possessing supernatural powers. Some say they serve as hubs of energy, predict the future, or have healing abilities, which is where the legend part comes in.

La Llorona

La Llorona, The Weeping Woman, is another spooky female spirit, widespread throughout Latin America: Puerto Rico,

The Story of the Duende

Mexico, the American Southwest, and South and Central America. There are as many versions of the La Llorona story as there are Latin American countries, but the most common tale involves a woman named Maria. She drowned her children so she could be with the man she loved. But he rejected her, so she killed herself. Because of her sins, she’s forced to wander the earth.

She makes horrible and loud weeping sounds as she searches for her murdered children.

The legend of La Llorona is often told as a cautionary tale to Latin American children and men who stay late at night drinking. If they misbehave, or wander too close to the water at night, La Llorona will steal their soul.

Fun fact: It is said that if you hear her near you it is because she is far away. But if you hear her scream far from you, she might as well be only a meter away from you.

his feet pointing backwards. Ever since, when people come across his footprints and try to follow them, they’re led in the wrong direction.

According to legend, El Cipitío wears a massive sombrero and is generally a playful, mischievous spirit, not an evil one.

El Cipitío or Duende

El Cipitío is a big-bellied ten-year-old boy found in El Salvadoran folklore, allegedly the son of an illicit romance between El Lucero de la Mañana, the Morning Star, and the Sihuanaba.

When the Sihuanaba’s husband discovered the affair, the god Teotl cursed the poor boy to wander the earth forever with

Drawing of Sihuanaba

by Orlando Callejas

Monsters Aren’t Scary, University Is Tyler Majer Creepy crawly critters creep While the crawlspace creeks And the creatures moan A voice cries out Another falls inward Papers crash on the floor I laugh, maniacally

Fredy Rodriguez The viejitos, old folks, in western Honduras, especially in Copán Ruinas, tell of a being called El Duende, the goblin. El Duende is referred to as an evil being. It is said that he is a little dark-skinned man, of very short stature, always dressed in an elegant green suit, and always wearing a big hat or sombrero.

It is said that the Duende only appears to single women, either on remote roads to rural villages, underneath the nance trees (a shrub native of Costa Rica, El Salvador, Honduras, Mexico and Nicaragua related to the plant family Malpigiaceas, and which produces a delicious yellow fruit about the size of the fruit of a coffee bean), or when women are alone in their houses.

The viejitos in Copán, such as Don Felipe Aldana who is of Mayan descent, tell that the duende is an enamorado, playboy, who offers many gifts and wealth to the girls so that they go away with him. If a girl does not recognize the duende and accepts any thing he offers her, then she will remain enchanted by the evil powers of the duende.

It is said that because of the tricks of the duende some girls have become mute and even mentally impaired. If the girls do not pay attention to the duende, then he chases

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them about, he throws little rocks to their windows at night, and also throws cow dung on them.

It is said that if the duende appears to a girl, the best thing than she can do is to remain calm, to act in a friendly way, and when the duende offers wealth to her, the girl must ask him to bring her something impossible. The most common thing is to ask the duende to bring a basket filled with water from a river. As it is impossible to fill a basket with water, then the duende will disappear due to the frustration and he will never return to bother the girl who requests such a gift from him.

In Copán Ruinas, families used to sit on the curb in front of their houses in the evenings to converse between family members or with neighbors. Once, when I was very little, I was sitting on the sidewalk with my family as usual, and suddenly there was a blackout and the town was shrouded in darkness. After a while one of neighbors came shouting that we should go inside the house, close the door, and we should be careful not to open the door to anyone because the duende had appeared to a girl in the town. It is because of cases like this that the viejitos do not like it when young girls walk by themselves in the streets or when they spend time alone in their houses, for fear that the duende will appear to them.

There are voices in my head Telling me evil things Deadly things Murderous things And I know now what I HAVE TO DO (I long thought about dropping out of school, but I could never find the courage) But now I realize, That it is not courage that I seek But brute strength, to continue on It is Halloween, and I do not fear monsters But failure As many of us do Monsters aren’t scary University is So count down from eleven And use your mind control powers To convince yourself That today is just one day, And not the end of days Do not be afraid of Monsters Because Searching through the Darkened library shelves Always made me feel More terrified Than a vampire.

COMMUNITY

Become a part of Trent Radio’s growing archives Matt Jarvis Trent Radio wants your music. This is a directed article. I’m writing this to the dorm room producers, the basement jam masters, the cell phone demo singer/songwriters. Trent Radio wants your music.

Local music has always been a priority to the organization. Recently, it has officially become our only archival priority. We maintain a current and historic audio archive with a vision to collect and render accessible all musical artifacts that were produced within our region or produced by artists with a lasting legacy upon our community’s collective imagination.

Being Trent alumni makes you a local for life as far as I’m concerned. I want your music now, because we want to show your music to the future versions of you that are sure to pop up around campus over the coming decades.

One of the practical applications of an active collection of regional art is that the creative history of a community can be accessed to speak to current young minds and say some pretty basic and comforting words: “You are not alone.”

This is a small pond. Some of you students will have come from larger communities, and some from smaller.

Peterborough sits right in the middle.

Too big to have nothing and too small to have everything. We have a bit. A bit of culture, a bit of wildlife, a bit of commerce.

One thing we have in droves, however, is turnover. You, the students, keep Peterborough fresh. Not because you come in and shake up the community, but because you are the community. You are. And I can prove it.

When I look over the past 50 years of recorded music in Peterborough (and I try to do that at least once a day) I see familiar faces. I see current Trent Chancellor Don Tapscott writing hippy ballads as a part of Jeremy Doormouse in 1968, recorded on campus. I see beloved local radio personality Del Crary (after whom our waterfront park and concert venue is named) reciting tongue-in-cheek poems to college failures in 1962. I see the first rendition of Canadian balladeers The Burning Hell.

I see your English professors being punk rockers, I see the student generation before you hitting #1 on the college charts, I see Trent rappers and metal-heads, I see relationships formed between student and local communities and I see the lines blurred until they no longer exist. And I see you, because I probably already have your record (but please call and check!).

We don’t live in a vacuum, and we are so blessed to have a constant influx of new ideas coming through the pipe and also a home guard that wants nothing to change. Because I truly believe it is the tension that makes this place special. We have different ideas and the place is too small not to bump into to each other and be forced to talk about it.

Trent Radio wants your music because we are trying to get a snapshot of Peterborough, and that’s you.

My name’s Matt Jarvis, I take care of music here for the moment.

You can reach me at 705 741 4011 ( 10am-2pm Monday-Friday), mjarvis@ trentradio.ca or just drop by with your records and a thirst for coffee at our world headquarters 715 George St N just north of downtown.

Murder Mystery kicks off holiday season and supports community theatre

Kate Story and Ryan Kerr A loathsome director has been murdered and it’s up to the audience to uncover who did it. Over lunch!

Murder on McDonnel, a murder mystery luncheon, takes place on Friday, November 18 at the McDonnell Street Activity Centre.

Presented by The Theater on King, (TTOK) in partnership with Marianne Vandelinde of Remax Realty, Murder on McDonnel promises an afternoon of great local food, drink, music and of course, mayhem, says Vandelinde. “It’s a great chance to have lunch with friends and colleagues while solving a murder mystery.

This is an ideal way to kick off the holiday season while supporting a community theater.”

A veritable whodunnit, Murder on McDonnel features a cast of some of Peterborough’s most celebrated actors including Di Latchford, Naomi DuVall, Daniel Smith and more.

Evidence as to who the murderer is will be provided between courses. “Is it the disgruntled actor?” asks local theater artist, writer and show organizer Kate Story. “The misunderstood playwright? The former flame? I’m voting for the misunderstood playwright, but maybe I’m just projecting,” she laughs.

“The original script has been written by Simon Turner-Semchuk,” says TTOK’s artistic director, Ryan Kerr. “Simon is one of our bright theatre lights at TTOK.” Now in its fourth year, TTOK, located just behind the Corus Entertainment

building at the corner of King and George streets, has seen over 3000 audience members come through its doors. “That’s quite a feat when you consider it only seats 30-40 people at a time,” says Kerr. “We’ve hosted over 400 separate events, and programming grows every year.”

But for many Peterborough residents, even theatre-lovers, the theatre remains a mystery.

“It’s kind of like Peterborough’s best-kept theatre secret,” explains Story. Kerr agrees.

“If you are willing to go a little way off the beaten path, you’ll find a real treasure.”

The space not only hosts theatre productions, but also literary events, quiet music performances, cabarets, and much more.

“TTOK provides an intimate space that’s accessible to artists and audiences alike,”

says Jill Walker, a volunteer who regularly attends productions at TTOK. “You can rent it, put on a play, teach or take a class or attend one of the many performances taking place throughout the year. It’s a little space with big potential. Art grows here every time the door opens and the lights turn on.”

Vandelinde agrees. “Every performance I’ve attended has been so memorable. The caliber of the work that’s performed is first rate.

Some of the plays were written nearly 100 years ago, but the themes are still relevant today. “ “I am particularly proud of the spirit of openness and acceptance in the space,” Kerr says. “We’ve mentored a number of young theatre artists over the short time we’ve been open, and look forward to continuing that tradition.”

Murder on McDonnel will feature a delicious three-course lunch, wine or beer, and a cash bar. Musical entertainment will be performed by periodmusic stars Chester Babcock, featuring Susan Newman, Rob Fortin and John Hoffman.

Friday, November 18th at the McDonnel St. Activity Centre and Lawnbowling Club.

12 – 3pm. Tickets are $55 or $425 for a table of 8. Seating is limited.

Tickets are available at Black Honey, or contact The Theatre on King at (705) 9306194 or Kate at kstory@nexicom.net. Cash or cheque only.

Check the theatre website for more details: www.ttok.ca Media contact: Kate Story, publicity coordinator kstory@nexicom.net or call The Theatre on King 705-930-6194

Volume 51 | Issue 7 | October 31 | 2016

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ARTS

Alex Bierk, Down the line (bridge scene), 24x18, oil on linen over panel On at Artspace 378 Aylmer St N, Peterborough Join Jon Lockyer for a talk November 22nd

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SADLEIR HOUSE Sadleir House Library: Support the Sadleir House Library! The library consists of literature, popular fiction, nonfiction, textbooks and antiques. All books are by donation ($0.50- $2.00). The book sale will be held at the Lecture Hall Room 106. Wheelchair accesible. October 1.

Sadleir House Science-Fiction & Fantasy Bookclub: Tuesdays 7pm-8:30pm Room 107, Library (wheelchair accessible).

This club meets monthly on the second Tuesday of the month.

OPIRG Free Market: Wednesdays 3-5pm, Thursday & Friday 1-5pm.

Basement (unfortunately this is not an accessible space). The primary goal of the Free Market is to provide a space for the redistribution of donated clothing and other items to everyone. At the Free Market “store” people can come in and take items they can use for free, without donating anything. This is not a bartering or trading system, but rather a space where items that are no longer needed by one person can be redistributed to those who need (or want) them. Everyone is welcome to stop by during the hours of operation and take items free of charge. The Free Market is always looking for volunteers who could donate 2 hours per week to keep the project going.

If you would like to be a part of this project or would like more information, please contact OPIRG at 705-741-1206 or email opirglistings@gmail.com.

Improv Class with Mike Davidson: Wednedays (until Dec 15th) from 7:30-8:30pm Dining Hall (unfortunately this is not an accessible space). Want to try improv? Stop by for a drop-in class on Wednesday nights.

Improv is fun! Come on out and join in!

Adults $10, students $5.

Sadleir House Contemporary Book Club: Room 107 fornightly Tuesday, 7:00pm-8:30pm.

Sadleir House Contemporary Book Club. This club meets monthly on the fourth Tuesday of the month.

OPIRG US Election Self Care Pub Night: OPIRG Peterborough is sponsoring a US Election Self-Care Pub Night at Sadleir House on November 3 from 9:00pm - 12:00am.

There will be drinks, trivia and a speech by the Green Party. The words “Trump” and “Clinton” are not to be used. It will be in the Dining Hall at the Sadleir House, which is not wheelchair accessible. Come out and enjoy a night of fun, and self-care after the US election!

Harry Potter Trivia Night: Let your HP geek out in a night of trivia and themedness! There will be rounds of trivia, with bonus challenges, and an intermission halfway through for you to get some more butterbeer and explore Hogwarts, err...

Sadleir House! Doors at 8:30pm. Opening ceremony at 9:00pm.

Recruiting OPIRG Board Director: OPIRG is

LISTINGS

recruiting a Director of its Board! The role of the OPIRG Board is to support OPIRG’s social justice and environmental projects, and support the work of the Working Groups, and Committees, be part of the planning, visioning and setting of priorities for the organization. be responsible for the organization and be the employer and work collectively with the staff to oversee the work of the organization.

CAMPUS Chocolate Extravaganza at Seasoned Spoon: Join food alchemist Dan Ledandan as he explores the craft of chocolate making and leads us in a spectacular night of celebrating cacao in all its forms! Chocolate making demonstration and taste testing included plus delicious truffle delicacies available for sale! You are encouraged to bring snacks to share, musical instruments or whatever else you wish to contribute to add to the festivities! Wednesday November 2 from 5:00pm-7:00pm at the Seasoned Spoon Cafe.$10-$5 sliding scale.

Crafting Kombucha with Belly of the Beast: Kombucha is a refreshing, carbonated beverage made by fermenting sweet tea with a starter culture or “mother”. In this workshop, Dani Richardson, owner of Belly of the Beast Craft Kombucha, will teach you how to brew, ferment, and bottle this delicious drink. Participants will have the opportunity to taste a variety of brews, as well as take home a bottle of individually infused booch! This fizzy fermented drink filled with probiotics and live enzymes is an awesome addition to your fermented food repertoire and a healthy alternative for carbonated cravings! Wednesday November 9 from 5:00pm to 9:00pm at the Seasoned Spoon Cafe. $5 or PWYC. SAAT Presents Diwali: Join us to celebrate this glorious festival of lights, with a scrumptious 3 course Indian meal; some great performances from your very own SAAT members and fireworks. Tickets are on sale on campus every day up until the dinner.

Diwali will be held at The Great Hall in Champlain College on November 4. Dinner is open to all ages and the after party held at Shots will be 19+.

Long Night Against Procrastination: Trent’s Long Night Against Procrastination (LNAP) is a free event to help students develop essential skills to manage the demanding end-of-the-semester writing and study schedules. On November 9 from 5:00pm to 10:00pm at Bata Library.

LOCAL Presentation featuring Maude Barlow: Maude Barlow of the Council of Canadians will be presenting from her recent book, Boiling Point: Government Neglect, Corporate Abuse and Canada’s Water Crisis. This is a blueprint of what Canada must do to protect our water. Admission is free. Book sales and signing will follow the event. Tuesday, November 1 at Adam Scott Collegiate from 7:00pm to 9:00pm.

Dance Like No One is Watching: Dance like no one’s watching to eclectic sounds [mainly world] in a beautiful hall in downtown Peterborough. No alcohol, no fashion, no steps to follow, just authentic moves to music. Freedom to be yourself, no experience needed. Thursdays, 6.30-8.30 at All Saints Church Hall [SW corner Rubidge and Sherbrooke]. $12, first time free. www. danceyourbones.com.

ARTS Artspace Exhibition: Please join Artspace on Friday, October 14 from 7:00pm - 10p:00m for the opening of Forerunners a new exhibition by Alex Bierk. Then, on Tuesday, November 22 at 7p:00pm please join Artspace’s Director Jon Lockyer for a discussion of the curatorial development of Forerunners. Both events are free and open to all members of the public.

Upcoming events at the Gordon Best Theatre: • Andy Shauf & Chris Cohen on November 26. $20 plus fees. All ages, doors at 7:00pm.

Severed Feathers/Stunspore/Deathsticks/ The Upside Downs: Head to The Spill for some local Peterborough tunes. Wednesday November 16 at The Spill. 9:00pm. $5.00 or PWYC. A Tribe Called Red at The Spill: Don’t miss A Tribe Called Red! December 15 at The Red Dog. Only $25.00 in advance. Tickets can be found online on Ticket Scene.

Trent Film Society Presents Makeup Workshop: Live makeup session with our Beauty Coordinator Cindy Campos. Come out and join us! e encourage everyone to bring their own makeup and mirror so that you can follow along and try the looks on yourself! There will be 2 looks--a natural/everyday look. and a glam/night out look. Things to consider bringing: Brushes or beauty blenders ,foundation, concealer, a face powder, mascara, eye liner, eye shadows (neutrals and shimmers), lipsticks, lip liners, bronzer or darker face powder, blush, facial moisturizer and lip balm. If you do not have all these makeup items. bring what you have! Cindy will be hosting the event and has a lot of helpful information to share for everyone at all levels (pro or beginner). She will go over the importance of each product and provide both high end and more affordable options for each item.

The Workshop will take place at the Sadlier House Lecture Hall from 5:30pm-7:30pm.

There will be treats! This workshop is open to anyone and everyone who wants to know how to do different looks and wants to know more about makeup products (both high end and drugstore makeup).

Kitty Pit/The Brain/Deathsticks: Head to The Spill on Friday November 4 for some local tunes! Kitty Pit is a new local band, The Brain is Toronto Pysch Punk and Deathsticks, if you don’t know by now, is a

listings@trentarthur.ca drunk-crazed garage punk powerhouse. Earplugs are encouraged and available at the door and bar. All ages, $5 or PWYC. The Wooden Sky: The Gordon Best proudly presents Canadian folk band, The Wooden Sky. Openers are to be announced. The event is all ages and licensed. Tickets can be found online at www.gordonbest.ca or in person at The Only Cafe. Doors are at 7:00pm on November 5. Tickets are $20 plus fees.

Common Holly/Television Rd/Prime Junk: Head to The Spill to check out some Montreal tunes from Common Holly and some of Peterborough’s finest with Television Rd and Prime Junk. Doors are at 10:00pm. $10 or PWYC. November 5.

Common Holly/Television Rd/Prime Junk: Head to The Garnet to check out some Montreal tunes from Common Holly and some of Peterborough’s finest with Television Rd and Prime Junk. Doors are at 10:00pm. $10 or PWYC. November 5.

A FAT WRECK SCREENING: Get ready for a special “ONE NIGHT ONLY” Punk rock popcorn party, featuring an exclusive screening of the highly anticipated Fat Records documentary “A FAT WRECK”. Djs will be spinning your favourite FAT Records artists before and after the movie, and there will be popcorn and snacks for sale with adult beverages and drink specials of course. Couches and seating will be set up with a nice big screen and projector in HD. November 10 at 10:00pm at The Historic Red Dog. Bif Naked at The Red Dog: Bif Naked performs live at the Red Dog on Thursday.

November 17th with special guest Jordan Alexander. Tickets are $25 each and are available at the TicketScene.ca website.

WHOOP-Szo/Lonely Parade/ELMS: Head over to The Spill on November 26 for some local Ontario tunes. Doors at 9:45. $8.

Back by popular demand! Enjoy the Sudoku