E W H T VIE E R C U
Untitled. Aisha Ali.
CONTENTS UNDERGRADUATE Poetry
Prose
Visual Work
Foldout
Open Sea. Rachel Schloss.
10
Light Years. Rachel Chiong.
13
Letter to a dear friend. Anna Bianca Roach.
14
thank you note. Anna Bianca Roach.
15
Horses at Dusk. Lauren Peat.
16
Lucid Dreaming. Carys Fisher.
17
Meditation. Rachel Schloss.
18
XO. Lauren Peat.
20
Meeting. Lauren Peat.
22
Forgotten. Annie Long.
24
Barefoot Heart. Emily Morton.
26
Weight. Victoria Alvarez.
30
Drop. Ezra Shanto.
32
Clean Hands. Victoria Beales.
36
Just Visiting. S.H. Shim.
40
Untitled. Aisha Ali.
3
Untitled. Aisha Ali.
11
Sharbat Gula. Maryam Hassan.
21
Cells. Aisha Ali.
25
The Look Out. Kristina Knox.
29
Freedom. Maryam Hassan.
31
Naked. Kalina Nedelcheva.
34
Untitled. Aisha Ali.
47
Neon Ghosts. Taryn Parker.
ALUMNI Poetry
Prose
Visual Work
Goldfinches. Susan Ioannou.
46
His|tory. Lance Nizami.
48
Desire. Barbara Kramer-Zarins.
49
Edge of the World. Nima Khodabandeh.
52
MAINTENANCE. Eva Eliav.
58
Painting in the Rain – Yuen Long,
12
Hong Kong. Vivian Lo. Painting in the Rain – Oakville, Ontario,
16
Canada. Vivian Lo.
Foldout
Prayer Flags , Sonoma. Lance Nizami.
19
Boundary Lines I. Julia E. Pfaff.
33
Repeat. Julia E. Pfaff.
42
View from the F train. Kiat Yi Tan.
50
Angel Baby Hoodie. Minhee Bae.
51
The Rocks. Lance Nizami. Apparition , Battery 129. Lance Nizami. TangZhen Pines. Matthew Ramcharan. DongLu Rd Village. Matthew Ramcharan. ShiGu JiaZhai Bridge. Matthew Ramcharan.
Letter from the Editor
5
Contributors
58
Masthead
60
Acknowledgements
61
“Trust me, this will take time but there is order here, very faint, very human. Meander if you want to get to town.�
Michael Ondaatje, UC 1965
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, I will not pretend to know exactly what I anticipated entering my role as Editor-in-Chief this year. In September of 2015 the UC Review was still a mysterious blind spot bordering on urban myth. As time went on, I realized that its history was much larger than myself or any cycle of undergraduate students from a given generation. For the last 42 years, the UC Review has reflected student responses to societal shifts with the production of evocative content. Each year, the works showcased have been both of the time and timeless. For students attempting to juggle their identity as a scholar and an artist, the continued production of the Review is evidence that when students explore and share their work, spectacular results are archived. Despite coming off a hiatus, this year we were overwhelmed with applications, submissions and an overall interest from our peers. All the content included in the UC Review was chosen through a blind selection process. I would like to advise readers that some of the works included depict raw, uncensored experiences with difficult issues. Among the letters of support from both students and alumni, one comment that stood out in particular came from a ‘94 editor who urged me to “continue the tradition of the UC Review in my own voice.� It has remained a deeply humbling reminder of the esteemed company that I keep and led me to realize that developing my own voice meant that the UC community had a platform for theirs. I can only hope that the future of the UC Review encourages the continued representation of narratives as diverse as our students and further experimentation of what it has the potential to become. Big things are on the horizon; the future awaits. Sincerely, Melissa E. Vincent
5
UNDER
8
Painting in the Rain – Yuen Long, Hong Kong. Vivian Lo.
Light Years
I am an eastbound commuter, chasing the rising sun, watching milkycolored skies with sleeping, dreaming eyes still hazy with starry residue layered like delicate tiramisu, with little lights hiding behind icing twinkling, thinking that I might be missing Mississauga While the moon’s phases stamp the sky searching for me, seat belts secured on Islington pillars far away from the yellow horizon twin stars of the front car point to a university universe downtown Poetry
Claustrophobic caves sleeve the subway The blackness an expanse of starless galaxies This is us racing at Light Speed, heavy highschool years melt off our shoulders, old school Pluto tumbles off the radar This is us racing at Light Speed From Kipling to Spadina And I sigh on creaky knees, with heavy eyes St. George rolls in with its green tile Eden We wait for the doors to slide apart, and the air smells like dusty galaxy, They say my destiny is a lie But look at me now I have arrived Rachel Chiong
9
Letter to a dear friend 7:19 on a Friday evening
look, i know you don’t love me. i know your heart is sore from being stitched back together so many times that it is now more thread than flesh. i know you’re busy carrying affection; it’s heavy, and i know you’re too tired to hold in your chest any longer. you don’t need to tell me you’re exhausted.
Poetry
i know it’s been beating so hard for so long that it has bruised your ribcage from the inside; i know how it has crept into your bones and replaced your marrow with lead. dear friend, i’m not asking to be the person you smile for at night. i’m just saying: i can hold your heart for safekeeping until you catch your breath. i promise not to take it from you. my palms are warm and tender; my fingertips are kind and soft and i can let you rest. i’ll sleep next to you to keep the dark away; i can curl around you to help ward off nightmares. look, i know you don’t love me; i’m not saying i want you to. i’m just telling you i don’t mind touching you by your edges; they aren’t as sharp as you think they are. i’m just saying that you’re safe here. Anna Bianca Roach
10
thank you note 11:32 on a Sunday morning
when did you learn to turn the sun to syrup? i ask because it rolled off your tongue one day and i don’t know how else i could’ve swallowed it whole. my smile is warmer now and i think it must be because there’s a star between the veins in my gut. i didn’t know laughter could grow but you planted it in my stomach. it burgeoned like ivy in the crevice between my hips, coiled around my spine and crept towards my ribs. it usually helps keep me upright but it wraps around my lungs when i fall asleep alone.
Poetry
i’m not sure you ever saw any of this happen. i myself only noticed the first time i woke up at four and found you reaching for me between dreams. i realized there was a garden inside my body the same way you notice the season’s first snow when it catches you by surprise, with quiet awe and newfound kindness. when i speak now there’s a taste in the words on my lips that i never noticed before; i think it’s a sunsyrup stain, and it’s bittersweet like gratitude and seeyousoon. it’s hard to name though because it, like us, never really started; it simply began existing fullyformed without ‘how’s or ‘why’s. it just moved into my mouth as though it were coming home. see, affection when it comes from you isn’t heavy like i’m used to. so when i understood that all you wanted was the honey in my breath, that all i could give you was soft palms and kind fingers, the ivy on my bones turned to jasmine. i said ‘thank you for everything’ but what i meant was: thank you for showing me how to fill up with summer from the inside. Anna Bianca Roach
11
Horses at Dusk
The fog envelops me takes me in and educates me about the quiet of the world In the near darkness I become part of this quiet become another great, reticent watchman exhaling hot, wheaty air through teeth
Poetry
Drinking the milk of these shadows I move among ghosts
12
A meaty harvest moon hangs like a peach—dessert to all this inner peace Lauren Peat
Lucid Dreaming
A dream is a Heaven inside your mind, A paradise of your own creation. It allows you to leave your life behind, Surrounding you with blissful sensation. At times the dream can get out of control, And you wake feeling upset and despair. How quickly the unpleasant takes its toll, And leaves you gasping and groping for air. But dreaming so much could lead to the day, And you start dreaming during light, not dark. Confusion begins to lead you astray, And Heaven turns to Hell with a short spark.
Carys Fisher
Painting in the Rain – Oakville, Ontario, Canada. Vivian Lo.
Poetry
If always dreaming, you are not living, And that can often be unforgiving.
13
Meditation
Bent before the word of the poethero, I’m caught, writing at once of God and Man.
Poetry
I’m younger than I used to be, when I found necessity in object and thing spun from my hand alone– I’ve absorbed enough to know I’ll never know enough. That Saturday on your couch I wanted to dissolve myself into your mind, slip my hands into yours, like gloves, and feel what it’s like to write a poem from your own pen. Rachel Schloss
14
Prayer Flags , Sonoma. Lance Nizami.
15
XO
“...an inscription: the other is inscribed, he inscribes himself within the text, he leaves there his (multiple) traces” —Roland Barthes I carry the knowledge of you inside me, like a cited secret, delicious to share and delicious to keep You staked this shifting territory into the pulp of my heart, and still you have not come to claim it
Poetry
I have taken to tracing my own circles, I have marked a riveting X to save your place (There is a space at the end of this poem blankly waiting for you to sign your name) Lauren Peat
16
Sharbat Gula. Maryam Hassan.
17
Meeting
I imagine it now: you’re offering a closed fist at our sole meeting— a clenched palm hoarding vulnerable flesh, stories from which I might have read of far paradises overthrown—
Poetry
I see this now. Still, I might have learned womanhood from the scent of your skin, might have borne out my Polak roots, taught my mouth to form thick vowels, my lips to drop tragedies of my own—villages flattened and mossgrown. I recall it now: your greeting stale like history, removed like distant territory.
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I know this now, as I pass you in thoroughfares and by landmarks made of mortar, virgin stone; as I pass you unawares, your eyes cloudy with wardust, my feet stumbling over pavement, my mouth over sounds
but I might have known.
Poetry
you draw from me alone: Może mam was umiłowałem (I might have loved you),
Lauren Peat
19
Forgotten
The feverish sun awakes from its slumber, A mad man glazed in intoxication the night before, Washing away the grime left behind by A thousand little hands that stem like roses From a wasted crumpled ball of peeling paint.
Poetry
As the searing light fights to break through the cage, A web, spun from the thin shallow breaths of man, Bonds together the differences between black and white; Unflattering stories painted with rouge, doused in perfume and Presented to the sardonic one who solders them together. Etched in spiraling ladders, the tales Painted on stained glass, scraped off and repainted Until it’s pulverized and eroded by the tears shed By Time, a beauty uncorrupted and indescribably whole, Unlike the forgotten black holes that ripped at those seams. The red strands binding our wrists; how can I Procure them from her hands and retie Their ethereal ends close? When I leave, cut that Muffling unflattering whiteness and find your Way this time. Annie Long
20
Cells. Aisha Ali.
21
Barefoot Heart
The ocean in my eyes once dragged my wary legs and scrawny arms to and fro beyond the tangles of lessons and laws But you and I have been patched right together ever since our bare feet tore up every inch of pavement between the highway and our avenue
Poetry
Our barefoot, ravenous hearts stole the stage to take our stance among the cookiecutter clouds and treetop triumphs As we plunged head first into the mazes of sunlight which were sent to us from one million miles away We made our palace in the heights of the trees, named ourselves rulers of every leaf We gorged ourselves on daylight with feasts of fresh summer air And proclaimed our hands and feet as equals with the shadows and sunbeams But what I liked the most of all was how our hands were the very same size how they matched as we held our scruffy, pink stuffed animal rabbits and put them in their very own decorated cardboard house that scratched my wrists with its pointy edges Because even after the autumn leaves crowded our avenue and the snow sank deep into its pavement We would still always be matching
22
Our fingers trailed madness through the air as we ran from nothing in particular And the danger we dragged behind our stride burned our footprints in the grass stubble We tore down our avenue with urgency and delight Fleeing from the night caving in from above Even long after our sun had set we would twirl and glide beneath the heavy glow of the moon and the stars that delivered their presence straight to our doorstep Their light melted away the scrapes on my knees and the dirt beneath your finger nails and gently lifted the smudges and stains left on the bottoms of our feet Poetry
An finally after all the years we spent running in our scruffy bare feet down our worn and torn avenue I can’t help but hold onto the faintest of details Like the colour of the sky as we fled down the street chasing the sunset summoning the ice cream man with shrieking lungs and footsteps made of thunder And the taste of dry oatmeal as we sat in your treehouse spitting dares like darts welcoming the danger into our hearts like the stains on our feet Or the burns on my toes after I ran across the freshly paved tarmac that invaded our avenue and left pebbles and gravel in its wake of new life
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But after that our feet couldn’t carry us any further than goodbye the sunsets had all been chased away the trees too weathered to climb and our feet too busy to run
Poetry
The oceans that once swam in my eyes tore too far and too deep until all the sunny Saturdays we shared long ago drifted far off into a clump of all our yesterdays Chasing after the innocence we dropped while running from the autumn leaves With muddy new shoes we burst into a batch of fresh tomorrows headed straight toward science projects and poster boards Our avenue became vacant and the sturdy maple we claimed as our home now belonged to a strange woman and her cat My new avenue was different it was too rough to run in bare feet and my bike didn’t match the tarmac the same way it had before My new friend was funny and his eyes were blue like yours but he cried too much and he only liked me because my hair was curly and his was not I’ve since found that it’s dangerous: The barefoot hearts we wield down the avenue because somebody always gets left behind or forgotten
24
All the bug bites and toe stubs and black eyes and skinned knees could never amount to the tarmac stained underbellies of our wild and fearsome feet bare to the bone. The memories we shared in all our yesterdays have sworn their permanence on my scarstained knees and my barefoot heart. Emily Morton
Poetry
The Look Out. Kristina Knox.
25
Weight
The weight of this thumping organ Keeps me grounded Outweighs me This burden weighs me down, Is a freight, precarious cargo
Poetry
My heart is heavy With the weight of it It’s dualistic nature, rhapsodic, Frees and confines Weightless or too heavy The white elephant on my chest isn’t lucky It weighs down Until the flickering flames vaporize Its grasp is fickle, triggered by irrationalities known to be improbabilities In the grand scheme of things These neurotics are inconsequential, Essential To my making, Critical to why I’m faking them, burying them, under the weight Of these stares Contents under pressure Flee from any pleasure The weight holds and is Unrelenting, crushing
26
The weight isn’t sturdy, reassuring It’s a sickness A heaviness in the chest: Disquietude, though loud, though heavy Like a ton of bricks To a carefully assembled wall Victoria Alvarez
Poetry
Freedom. Maryam Hassan.
27
Open Sea
I like to imagine Rumi as a whale, spouting words like water. I know air is what whales breathe, and Rumi, did he breathe the water he wrote? On Friday, I saw a man dive into the subway tracks. The approaching train sung out like a whale. It was the C train; labeled C in a blue circle that blurred into an image of running water.
Poetry
I watched it flow and fled. Today, I read Rumi on the subway. It is warm, I swim in the words– a relief, not in knowing how things should be, but how they are. Rachel Schloss
28
Untitled. Aisha Ali.
29
Poetry
Drop
Shredded paper lies on the floor Blood spread across it I pricked my fingers Wrist Hands Trying to let the images and hopes flow through me Appendages become tools Blood becomes paint Let me bleed my heart a little harder for you Let me dilute it with retained water And spread it across the dashed hopes And lost fears Come on hit me a bit harder A little adrenaline is good for blood flow Bleed me dry I love being creative for an audience I just love showing off Come on crimson is the new black And my body is a ready canvas Give me a willing ear And I’ll talk and show Till it bleeds Give me a knife and a stage And I’ll carve fresh canvas into any caricature you want Give me a bridge and I’ll jump off it Just to please you. Ezra Shanto
30
Boundary Lines I. Julia E. Pfaff.
31
32
Naked. Kalina Nedelcheva.
33
Clean Hands
Prose
Victoria Beales
34
Mother wouldn’t budge from Katie’s childhood home until the young woman had settled, with at least temporal permanence, into her adult life. Sentimental about people, but never about things, mother had only stayed so long in the big, empty house because she had wanted it to be there for Katie to come home to– in case life in the big city didn’t work out as planned. But now, with a degree, a job, and a lease of her own, Katie was able to make a strong enough case for mother to put her own desires first. So, convinced of Katie’s security, and finally willing to move on to her own next phase, mother was moving on up—to the sixteenth floor of a beautiful two bedroom condo overlooking the lake, with a guest room that would always be Katie’s. The lawn at mother’s house was expansive; a beast that required taming. Dethatching it was a task that needed to be tackled early in the spring season, so that the grass could begin to flourish as soon as the weather turned nice for good– after all of the freak, flash snowfalls of April had finished for sure. The rakes were rustled out of the garage and doled out. Mother would complain about being too old for this job, but would outshine Katie by far with her efficiency at the task, anyhow. Having grown up on a farm, mother was always handier, faster, and more clever with practical tasks than Katie would ever be. If mother had expected Katie to pick up these traits by observation in childhood, it was too late to learn them now. Katie was a wizard with words and could argue almost anything until the cows came home, but put a wrench in her hand and she was utterly useless. For that reason, Katie’s primary job on this visit was to take care of cleaning out her own bedroom for the big move. Mother was a much faster packer, and much more ruthless when it came to throwing away and donating unused items. Katie’s physical presence during this packing phase would prove to be more of a hindrance than help, as she would try and save everything that crossed her path. “Take care of your own bedroom, and help me with the lawn when I ask you. That’s all I need,” mother had insisted.
Prose
“This is your holiday, after all.” It was true, actually. She was taking her vacation time to visit her mother, who still lived only an hour away, and help pack up the house and move into the condo. And because mother understood that Katie needed to take her time in everything she did—that was, after all, why mother had kept the house for so long—Katie was left to take two whole weeks to clean out and pack up everything that she still wanted out of her childhood bedroom, while mother sorted, packed, and threw away everything else in the house. The walls of the bedroom were a cheerful lavender. Somewhere under about three coats of paint, the message T.H.+ K.E. = FOREVER had been painted sloppily with a wide brush near her headboard. Within the purple walls were the piles upon piles of old magazines, which, like a hoarder, Katie kept, just in case she ever needed them. The magazines overwhelmed any useful item that might be hiding in the room, like her high school diploma, a pair of lost sunglasses, or a borrowed book that needed to be returned. She was a collector of everything, she realized. Even if it was only a collection of one. As the hours rolled on she would find she had done nothing but organize little piles of useless garbage. Whatever was accomplished, it was worth nothing in the end. Still, her room was a jumbled assemblage of papers that would never be read again, bookmarks that outnumbered the novels on her shelf, and little stones from some forgotten beach. All of these things had at one time or another seemed important enough to store away. At one time, they had been a treasure. Despite pictures coming off the walls and furniture being moved over slowly to the new space, mother kept the garden looking in perfect condition. “Why would I give up my last spring of gardening, for any reason?” So at least once a day, Katie was called outside to help with some kind of task in the sun. There was very little real dirt in the city... for such a filthy place. When Katie had first told her friends, at the age of seventeen, that she planned to move to the city after high school graduation, one of her closest friends had voiced unmasked disgust, “Why would anyone want to live in the city? There’s no air. There’s no grass!” Ironically, international friends that Katie would meet in university would comment on how clean Toronto was. Everything was relative.
35
Prose 36
When it was time to move out of the campus residences and into a place of their own, Katie and her girlfriends had hoped to find a place with a lawn. Despite her lack of a green thumb and incompetency with any kind of gardening tool, this was the small suburban comfort that she missed. The bustle and convenience of the city was so appealing –but this small thing, she missed. Katie expected herself to be sad as the rest of the house was packed away. It did not escape her that mother was taking her time with this project for Katie’s sake. Gradually moving furniture to the condo while still living in the old house was not the most efficient way. But it was the way Katie liked to do things—to overlap, to take her time, to look at things carefully. When she was a teenager this trait had infuriated mother. “Why on earth would you do it that way? Can’t you see there’s a better way? Let me do it.” But now that they were both adults, and Katie was using her vacation time to spend these last two weeks in the old home, mother realized that really, there was no rush. They spent their evenings in a happy, leisurely routine. At first they would make dinner together in the old house, and then go for a walk around the neighbourhood and along the lake. Then they would come home, play cards, watch a movie, or read together. As the kitchen, the living room, and the television were packed away, they ordered in, unplugged, and spent more time entertaining themselves with just each other’s company. As time wore on, Katie began to carry piles of magazines to the blue box in the garage. She drove to the library to donate books. She brought bags of clothing to the Salvation Army. She packed a few boxes of things that would come back with her to her own home, to go in her storage locker. Katie reflected on this state of transition. The shaggy layers reaching just past her ears were now the remnants of what had been, months ago, a stylish pixie cut. Sitting on the top of the toilet after getting out of the shower, Katie stared at her own naked body. She appeared an absolute pear. If I were an artist, she thought, I would paint myself as the star of the fruit basket. I am the perfect still life. Wide hips, small waist. Beauty is not necessarily a collection of harsh angles. Becoming adult reflects itself in your own body as well as the objects you keep. On the last morning, Katie and mother had nothing to do but
tend to the garden. Mother wanted the new homeowners to feel like the lawn and its gardens were welcoming them. Katie helped with vigor, digging, watering, raking. Washing one’s hands after a day in a garden is just like making ink, she thought. Dusty earth, caked on your palms, is thickened by tap water and gentle soap. The bubbles and dust. It dripped from her fingers and swirled in the bottom of the sink, circled and thinned, before eventually disappearing. This was a different experience than washing one’s hands in the city. The grime of the subway, just like the soil that dirtied your hands while gardening, needed to be washed before preparing or sitting down to a meal. But subway grime leaves no visible trace as it rushes down the drain. City filth is sneaky—you could never tell if you’d really rid yourself of it until you’d scrubbed so hard your hands were dry and sore. Suburban dirt is tactile. There is comfort in turning off the water and drying these hands to see them visibly cleaner than before beginning the ritual.
Prose 37
Just Visiting
Prose
S.H. Shim
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They stopped the car. They made us get out. They stripped the car down, tearing pillows out. They scanned us for our heat. They glanced at our books. We had to switch cars. We finally crossed the border. We drive around in a little minivan, we seem lost. The city was supposed to have fifteen thousand people now it has five million. We are playing chopsticks in the back seat behind my parents. Sam, my brother is eleven and I am seven years old, and sometimes I still do not know why everybody seems to know what they’re doing and why they are doing it For the first time in my life I finally seem home. As we pass factories with plumes of smoke each breath seemed more and more difficult. Someone in the van jokes that everyone in China inhales two packs of cigarettes a day, one smoking one breathing. No one laughs. We look at the cryptic map, my grandfather has drawn it for us. The last time he was here was in 1976 and Mao was alive. We maneuver our way past condominiums and rice fields, past open sewers and shopping malls and into laneways and through ditches. My brother and I pronounce the names of the village we are visiting. “Yuuuuuuu Gatttthhh Pooooo,” says Sam, we giggle. We get to my mother’s great grandmother’s house. This is China, the juxtaposition between the modern and the ancient is stark. The houses were over 300 years old and crumbling yet in the shadows of modern condos. “Conndoo, Cheapoo Americcano,” shouts Sam, we giggle again This village my great grandparents lived in is now so different, utterly transformed after free trade came in 1980. A family of craftsmen and rice farmers: now working in factories. Like Mao said, “Some classes triumph, others are eliminated. Such is history; such is the history of civilization for thousands of years”
Prose
A man asks in broken English if we are Canadian. He points to the small flag on Sam’s backpack. He asks us if we know Dr. Bethune. I shake my head, my brother nods. He says “Everyone knows Bethune, Mao Loved Bethune. I love Dr. Bethune.” He pulled out his little purse which had an ancient photo of both Mao and Bethune as well as a newer, glossier photo of Jiang Zemin, the president. It is hot and yellow and dry in the north. It is 2003 in Beijing. Many of these people now have certificates, and degrees. Marketing, Power Mechanics, Carpentry, Electrical Technology, Factory Tooling. This is a dump site for certificates that did not send you anywhere, at least people of all classes have them. We visit a former colleague of my mom’s. She is on the third ring road of Beijing. Her family owned the land when it was all farm fields. The Japanese marched through here in the early 1940’s. Mao marched through here during his long march during the Communist Revolution. Capitalism marched through here in the form of condos, highways and cars. It feels as though the ideas, these flowers of revolution have failed. They have failed to blossom into new ideas. The ideas of egalitarianism & progress. Her architecture office was 15 people at the millennium; it’s now 15 000. Her company has won the competition to build the “Water Cube.” She describes it as the jewel box of China; even Mao loved to swim. There are hawkers left and right. Attracted by my tall white father, they seem to gawk, and proceed to huddle around him conferring their special one time deal. A old frail is selling old cans, and tins, drums and all other manners of containers. Another is cutting up tires and selling stripes. There are piles of corrugated iron sheets. Piles more of concrete covered iron rebar. My mother’s architecture student and translator explains they insert them into the concrete, when the inspector come, they take them out for resale. They are structural.The boy scraping the concrete off the rebar smiles with a cold toothless grin. I later wince about this moment when I see the reports in 2008 of the Sichuan earthquake. It must have been the same issues, buildings not safe, corruption. I feel confused, the place seems familiar, the people seem familiar yet it is very distant. It is so different from anything I have
39
ever experienced. To many white people I am not white, to many Chinese people I still look foreign. People outside our stopped car talk about us, talking in languages I know the sounds of, but do not understand or speak, Mandarin, Hakka. It is the third week, I have adapted to China. I feel okay, as though I have been here forever. I don’t know what comes over me. I was fooling around in the state run hotel room, a novel in hand. I stand, then walk, past the rooms, and the security rooms, past the gates, past the consequences, past my parents. I walk into town, eat chips and drink a cold orange Fanta, I take a taxi back. Nobody is in the hotel. I decide to climb into the hotel room through the small open window. Mum finds me asleep in my bed. She sits there, runs her hand through my hair. I can hear her there, I’m quiet, and I am not afraid; I just want her to keep her hand right there. Her hand. I keep my eyes closed for the longest time and listen to her breathing.
Prose
We have a tea and cake; I gulp it all down. “We have to take you back to school you know.” I nod. “Do you want to go back?” I nod. “It’s time.”
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Neon Ghosts. Taryn Parker.
Top: The Rocks; Apparition, Battery 129. Lance Nizami. Bottom: TangZhen Pines; DongLu Rd Village; ShiGu JiaZhai Bridge. Matthew Ramcharan.
Repeat. Julia E. Pfaff.
41
ALUMNI
Goldfinches
Through early morning light outside the bedroom curtains thubthubthub awakens me, halfdreaming raindrops shaken off tall leaves are pelting the window glass.
Poetry
—No, it’s a yellow flurry rocking the giant sunflowers: goldfinches plucking out seeds with tiny orange beaks. And after, I discover thubthubbing was not water, but in the next room black and grey blurs pawing the pane, two frenzied cats high on hind legs slavering, so close to an unreachable feast. Susan Ioannou
44
Untitled. Aisha Ali.
45
His|tory
I hear the whiz of the electric toothbrush: domesticity Tell me that I’m not too tame a man Tell me that a young man lives within me Tell me that, from time to time, the younger man emerges, strong And how, from time to time, can I be sure And how, from time to time, can I look straight at my reflection, say: I know you, not just know of you, young man And now it’s time for us to move the world
Poetry
Similar to this, I wasn’t always Once upon a time there were the forces beating down upon me Beaten down, I took too long to grow Too long, a man can gaze below, and see himself look upwards – And there’s his pleading image, in a puddle But slow and sure he learns to turn his eyes away from earth to atmosphere And gradually, achievements come And gradually, a purpose comes And gradually, a marriage comes And one day, just as if he woke, he hears the whiz of the electric toothbrush. Lance Nizami
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Desire
I want the whole elephant, Not just the tail or trunk or tusks; Not the lumbering splayed feet, Or heavy wrinkled hide; Not the wide waving ears, nor The graveyard clutter of sunbleached Bones and hollow sockets Loving eyes once filled. I want the whole redblooded Beast to feast on – the trumpet Roar and beating heart – the heft Of it, marking its path with deep Impressions through my life.
Poetry
But what I have is the long, lucid Memory, the endless recall of Your tall, fierce frame Squared against the Dark jumble of our life. Barbara Kramer-Zarins
47
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View from the F train. Kiat Yi Tan.
Angel Baby Hoodie. Minhee Bae.
Edge of the World Nima Khodabandeh
Prose
This work of prose tells the story of what happened after the end of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.
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It was their bickering that woke me. “Leave him alone, he’s not harming anyone.” “He’s harming me. And he’s harming you, if you knew any better. He’s arrogant. Arrogance is a sin. It’s corruption. I don’t want to live near corruption.” “Then leave! All the better for us, too.” “Why should I leave? This is my home! If the place he preaches is anything like he says, then he can go there for himself and let us sit here in peace. But he doesn’t want to. Do you know why? Because he talks rubbish. Absolute nonsense! There ain’t nothing behind us but the light, and he knows it.” Dysmifo ended his rant as Technes looked away in disgust. The world had little changed since the era before my last slumber. The stone pillar that held my back stood firm, the brown dirt beneath my ass held solid, and the shadows on the wall still danced to the tune of the cosmos. No, nothing at all seemed different. But then I saw Falsifia off to the side, back against stone, but not his pillar, rather the stone wall that stood before us all. The wall where the shadows danced. Why was he over there? When had he moved? Why did he not face the wall? Had he gone mad? I decided it was best to start from a place of calm. I acted as if only now had I awoken. “Greetings and salutations from the realm of dreams. I rise again.” The ones closest to me answered in standard replies. Dysmifo and Technes, Gonas, Akevon, even some of the older children. Falsifia, too, with a warm smile. “What’s your ploy, Falsifia? Why do you face us and not the wall?” I asked. He continued to smile as the shadow of an aetos flashed across his face. But Dysmifo took to answering the fastest.
Prose
“Indeed, your ears joined you in slumber! I’ll tell you his little fiction. I’ll even make it enchanting. He doesn’t know how to knit a good yarn.” “Let the man tell his own tale,” Technes jumped in. “I suppose you’d know a good yarn by sight. Very well. Speak, Falsifia.” I eagerly awaited the tale that had led a chain to my resurgence. Falsifia took his time as if he was gauging whether we had really attuned our ears to his words. He kept his smile and turned his gaze towards the light that emanated from the back of the cave. Finally, he was ready. “While you slept, I ventured back there. Out there. Outside the cave, where I learned the bright light truly emanates from a ball in the sky. Where I saw the real aetos mock those on the dirt with their powers of flight even as they fed on the skouliki upon it. Where––“ “Where he saw fantastical things. Stuff of dreams.” “Dysmifo, let him tell it,” Technes scolded the man to my right. “He’s not telling it right. He took a step outside the world where he saw things beyond it, creatures with sharp mouths and flat arms and beasts with a shade to their skin beyond the known spectrum, and––“ “It was beautiful,” Falsifia ignored him. “And it’s all nonsense! A feverish nightmare.” “If you come with me, I can show you––” Falsifia directed his words towards me, but Dysmifo broke in again. “There’s nothing to show.” He lifted his hands and acted as if to stab at the wall of shadows. “This is the world. This right here.” “There’s more to be found out there.” “There is no out there! Only right here. The world right in front of our eyes, and yours too if you had any sense left to turn around and admit the truth. You’re not special, Falsifia. You don’t see things that others don’t. There’s nothing else to see.” “What is it that makes these shadows on the wall?” Falsifia asked. Dysmifo seemed surprised. Or perhaps I would better describe it as a loss for words. “These shadows, of course.” “But, don’t you see? We must distinguish between these shadows and the things that they are shadows of.”
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Prose
“Another nonsense. I see no such distinction.” “But these shadows cannot merely exist of their own accord.
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Don’t you see they must have a cause? For what other purpose is that?” Falsifia nodded his head towards the back of the cave. Dysmifo thought about it for less than a moment. “It seems you speak of the light. Of course, the light allows us to see the shadows. A wall without points of contrast devours our sight. But nothing makes these shadows, as you say it. Such talk is nonsense, again. Literally has no sense, do you understand?” He turned to Akevon. “You know more about these matters than I do. Enlighten Falsifia.” “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m the expert in this cave. But I know some interesting things.” Akevon looked to the children and spoke to them rather than Falsifia, who had turned his gaze back towards the light. He began his speech in his usual, enthusiastic way. “See, kids, Dysmifo is right, the light offers a contrast with the shadows on the wall. And that’s how we get to see them. But it gets much more interesting. You see, we can now recognize that not all types of shadows appear all the time. If you look at them, they show a different pattern from one moment to the next.” I also looked at the shadows as Akevon spoke, as curious as the children who sat within earshot. “Now, this tells us that the shadows ain’t permanent. So they don’t come from the wall, but from behind us. When an aetos walks past the light, or an elafi, or whatever may be the case, we see them on the wall of shadows. And when these shadows don’t travel past the light, we don’t see them at all.” “Cool!” the kids chorused. “And tell us, Akevon, is there such a thing as a creature with a sharp mouth? Or a shade that does not fall someplace between black and white? Has anyone ever observed such a thing?” Dysmifo fashioned an unfashionable smile. “Not to my knowledge, no.” “Then it’s settled.” Falsifia did not protest the end of the discussion. He had fixed his gaze on the light that only he could see as he sat against the wall opposite all those who sat against the pillars. I remained curious of the matters we had just so discussed, but did not seek to elicit a new rant
Prose
from Dysmifo. I let the myself wait on the matter. Time passed us by and nothing much of note occurred. I retained my eyes on Falsifia as he occasionally murmured under his breath and rubbed his eyes. When sufficient time had passed, I asked the question that intrigued me the most. “Say, Falsifia, you never finished relating your yarn. What happened after you stepped outside the cave? How did you return here? Why did you…” I felt the eyes of everyone within earshot train on the man, and me in association, so I trailed off mid-sentence. He once more took his time to answer. Dysmifo, too impatient to wait, began, “He has no answer…’ Yet, finally, answer he did. “I stepped back into the cave, as simple as that. And I came here. To sit. To tell you of all that I’d seen. To ask if you want to see it too.” A silence followed. But of course, Dysmifo was the first to break it. “All this time…I held the thought you were merely speaking nonsense. But it seems that you…actually believe your own lack of sense. To step out of the world and then step back in, as simple as that? What madness has afflicted you?” “Dysmifo…” Technes spoke a warning tone. “I felt anger because I thought you were seeking to deceive. Now I only feel…pity.” “Dysmifo, lay off!” “Stop defending him out of some misguided infatuation, Technes!” Dysmifo spat back. “How dare you presume something so unfounded? As I’ve said many a time, he’s not harming anyone, so let him be.” “He’s a harm to himself. Don’t you remember, after he pretended…or now it seems, after he hallucinated to have left the cave and come back as simple as that, how he lost all his senses and forgot how to walk? Don’t lie. Recall how he tripped to the ground and hurt his arm.” “I recall only you ridiculing him for it in petulance!” “I wasn’t the only one!” And with that, the cave erupted into all manner of talk. Dysmifo and Technes continued their babbling as Gonas spoke to anyone who would hear, “I told him and told him and told him leaving his pillar to walk around would do him nothing. He should have listened to my advice for a life like the one of his father and I, but did he? When do they, ever?” as Akevon spoke to the children around him, “My advice
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is not to bother with Falsifia and his methods. Focus on the shadows on the wall. Okay? His ideas will just mess with your head, and you don’t need that,” as… “Enough!” I strained my voice. I looked at Falsifia. “Show me.” As I focused on his face to avoid looking at those beside me, I saw his smile return, and we stood at the same time. I hesitated for a brief moment, yet my curiosity did not relent. I wanted a peek, at the very least. As I turned to look at the light for the very first time, my eyes grew small and enveloped in pain. I felt a hand take mine as Falsifia led me on our way. The more we walked the more my pain diminished. We stepped out of a threshold I did not know existed, and a sudden warmth enveloped my entire body. I could finally hold my eyes open and gaze upon the sight Falsifia had led me…And what a sight it was! My eyes still returned only blurred images, but even so, I could make out the fantastic creatures and hitherto unseen colours that painted the landscape in, what we later agreed to name, bright orange, red, green, and blue hues. All the sights Falsifia had described. All the sights, blurred. “Was your sight this hazy? Your first time out…” “No.” I held my hand over my eyes to reduce the intensity of the brightness emanating from on high. I could recognize a mixture of colours far off in the distance, but could not determine exactly to what they belonged. My hand still over my eyes, I turned to Falsifia with a smile. “So. Ready to explore?” As my words registered within him, I saw a sparkle in his eyes that could have held for an eternity. But then he turned back to look at the mouth of the cave. He took a few steps towards it. “Are you coming?” I took one last look at the landscape. “Yea,” I replied. The trek back inside was not any easier than the one the other way. Once again, Falsifia took my hand and led my steps. As his eyes had adapted long ago, they had a clearer grasp of the subtleties of the cave. I did not anticipate we reach the wall of shadows so soon and Falsifia failed to warn me in time, and so I bumped my head against
the stone. The children erupted into laughter, and I could sense the adults were stifling some of their own. As I rubbed my forehead and sat down against the wall beside Falsifia, I put on what felt like a sheepish smile and looked to view all those sitting against the pillars. The light shone forth from where they did not ever think to look. A thought occurred to me. “Did I ever tell you the story,” I began, “of the man who wasn’t afraid to sail off the edge? The edge of the world?”
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MAINTENANCE
Prose
Eva Eliav
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“You look worn out,” said Jon. Alice blinked, surprised, pen suspended. “Have you been sleeping well?” “No…not really.” Alice slipped her notebook into the drawer. That was enough for one day. She didn’t like keeping a journal. Never had. She wasn’t really sure why she’d begun. She wondered how Anais Nin had managed. Year after year, scribble, scribble, scribble. All of it so beautifully expressed. Just thinking about the effort made her tired. Alice shut her eyes and massaged her neck. She supposed she’d feel better if she ate. She had the same thing for breakfast every morning: whole wheat toast with a scrape of butter, a smear of jam washed down with milky tea, an Indian blend. After breakfast, the day stretched out before her, a vast expanse. How would she manage to fill the endless hours? But she knew she’d feel differently by evening. She’d feel time had rushed by. A few errands, a little housework, sewing, reading, answering mail from friends, making a few necessary phone calls. She disliked the phone, but of course you couldn’t avoid it altogether. Once a week, she and Jon visited the children. Jeffrey’s babies were very sweet and she enjoyed them. But they didn’t fill her life as Jeffrey had. Entire years were passing. She squandered time, and then had the audacity to complain there wasn’t enough of it. She thought of their old dog, Buster. He was always so eager for his supper, trembling and yelping as his dish descended, food piled high. And then, in less than a minute, it was gone and Buster looked woebegone, bewildered. A couple of licks to make sure nothing was left. Not much for him to do between meals except curl up and sleep. Alice frowned. Keeping a journal made her painfully aware of how little she accomplished. Maintenance. Nothing people would call an interesting life, a life well-spent.
What a bother, she thought, getting up each day, showering, brushing teeth, deciding what clothes to wear. Making sure she looked respectable. She almost envied the bag lady on the corner. “No,” she said, “I haven’t been sleeping well.” Wistfully, she added, “I’m not too good at being awake either.” Jon didn’t answer. The newspaper engrossed him. But then he lifted his head and saw her expression. “Don’t be silly,” he said, caressing her cheek as if shooing away a fly.
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Undergraduate Contributors Lower Year Rachel Evangeline Chiong Major in Linguistics, double minor in Near and Middle Eastern Studies & East Asian Studies, Year 2, University College
Annie Lowng Double major in Molecular Genetics and Psychology, minor in Sociology, Year 2, University College
Emily Morton Major in Architecture, double minor in Visual Studies & Forestry, Year 1, Daniels Faculty of Architecture, Landscape and Design
S.H. Shim Contributors
History, and Literature and Critical Theory, Year 1, University College
Taryn Parker Sexual Diversity Studies Major, Women and Gender Studies Minor, and Sociology Minor, Year 2, University College
Maryam Hassan Major in Sociology, double minor in Visual Studies & Near Middle Eastern Civilizations, Year 2, Victoria College
Rachel Schloss Double Major in Archaelogy and Visual Studies, minor in Classical Civilizations, Year 2, Daniels Faculty of Architecture, Landscape and Design
Kristina Knox Neuroscience & Cognitive Science, Year 2, University College
Upper Year Victoria Beales English major (minors in Philosophy and Drama), Year 4, Victoria College
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Victoria Alvarez English Major, with a Minor in Writing & Rhetoric and Book & Media Studies, Year 3, Victoria College
Kalina Nedelcheva Books and Media Studies and Philosophy, Year 3, Victoria College
Ezra Shanto Double Major Jewish Studies and English, Year 4, University College/New College
Carys Fisher English major, Year 3, University College
Anna Bianca Roach Major in Peace, Conflict, and Justice, double minors in History & Human Geography, Year 3, Victoria College
Lauren Peat Contributors
English Literature, French Literature, and Philosophy, Year 4, Victoria College
Aisha Ali Visual Studies, Year 3, Trinity College
Alumni Contributors All alumni contributors are from University College
Minhee Bae
2013
Eva Eliav
1968
Julia E. Pfaff
1982
Nima Khodabandeh
2015
Matthew Ramcharan
2003
Susan Ioannou
1966
Kiat Yi Tan
2015
Barbara Kramer-Zarins
1974
Vivian Lo
1995
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UC Review 2015-2016
Editor-in-Chief Melissa Vincent Upper-Year Editor Mariam J Sheikh Lower- Year Editors Albert Hoang Jack Osselton Denton
Masthead
Archivist Felipe Estevan Vicencio-Heap Design Editor Melissa Mendes Senior Copy-Editor Alexandra Grieve Copyeditors Adina Samuels Mitchell Jaramillo Jocelyn Mui Gloria Liu Emmy Fu Avneet Sharma Clara Osei-Yeboah 60
Acknowledgements The UC Review owes its success to the tireless efforts of each member of the masthead team. I remain in awe of your willingness to take initiative in all aspects of your role, adapt immediately to new changes (there were certainly several) and most importantly remain critical in order to ensure we are accurately reflecting our community. They are an integral part of the reason we were able to revitalize the Review for you this year.
We could not have put together this year’s Review without the of the wonderful individuals working on design during all steps of this process. Thank you to Meimenat Mohajer for her insight in helping us recognize the potential of the Review during its earliest conception. All our love to Kate McDermott for being an irreplaceable member of our team this year; our anchor in the midst of high winds and rockstar in shining armour.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to all the students at the University of Toronto who helped us bring the UC Review to life. To all the members of the University College Literary and Athletic Society, thank you for being some of our most vocal cheerleaders and for your generous financial support. A special thanks goes out to Amanda Stojcevski, Ramsay Andary, Snow Mei and Hesham Hassan . We couldn’t have relaunched the Review without the tireless support and advocacy of Jon Liang who helped us turn an extended phone call into what we hope will be a fruitful future for the publication.
To John De Jeus at Coach House Publishing, thank you for your invaluable advice and assistance in helping us piece together the puzzle of Review’s unique and storied history. To Sebastian Frye at Swimmer’s Group Publishing, thank you for sharing our enthusiasm in adding a fresh chapter to the story of UC Review and introducing us to new ideas that we would come to fall in love with. Thank you to the administrative staff at University College; Mike Henry, Lori MacIntyre, Scott Clarke and Margaret Fulford who have provided their patience and expertise whether it be digging through 61
archives with us or fielding endless emails. To all the alumni and past editors of the Review who have reached out to us, thank you for your support, advice and warm wishes. We are honoured to be able opportunity to continue your legacy. We owe much of our success to the family, friends and partners that incurred hours of questions, pondering and a few tears over the past several months in order to ease some of our load.
Acknowledgements
And to all of our contributors, thank you for your spectacular submissions that flooded our inbox faster than we could keep up. To the University College community, you were our inspiration and guiding light every step of the way. This edition of the UC Review belongs to you.
This edition of the UC Review was printed with Swimmers Group Publishing.
Lorne Michaels Quote: Coyle, Jake. “New Cast Members Playing Big Roles for ‘Saturday Night Live’” Http://www.tmz.com. EHM Productions, 2 Feb. 2006. Web. 18 Mar. 2016.
Michael Ondaatje Quote: Kakutani, Michiko. “Books of The Times; Order and Disorder.” The New York Times. The New York Times, 06 Sept. 1987. Web. 18 Mar. 2016.
Front Cover: Nursing student, Lenore Mathers, in the Operating Room, 1949, A1987-0024/001P (18), Archives and Record Management, University of Toronto.
Back Cover: School of Library Science video demonstration, Jack Marshall, 1968, A1982-0028/002 (20),
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Archives and Record Management, University of Toronto.