Welcome to our final edition of The Cardinal. This edition is particularly bittersweet, as it marks an end to the 20242025 school year, and for most of the editors, it marks our final publication as students of Bishop Allen. Thank you to our peers who continue to submit their beautiful work, allowing us to produce these publications. Thank you to Ms. Conroy for continually providing guidance and support. Thank you to our wonderful administrators for continuing to fuel our creative vision. Finally, thank you to all our readers for your time, interest, and continued support. We hope everyone has an amazing summer, full of warmth, friends and family, and joy.
Sincerely,
The Executive Editorial Team
Angelina, Charlize, Grace, and Pietra
Table of Contents
Poetry
“Summer has Begun” by Pietra Melo - Page 3
“Verão” by Pietra Melo - Page 5
“I Met My Younger Self for Coffee” by Angelina Farag - Page 14
The breeze is at its softest whisper, just listen.
The waves are at their strongest crashes, just watch.
The grass is at its newest green, just observe.
The birds are at their sweetest songs, just hear.
The flowers are at their fullest bloom, just admire.
The sun is at its warmest gleam, just feel.
The days are at their longest hours, just enjoy.
The nights are at their shortest minutes, just rest.
The people are at their utter happiest, just smile.
The world is at its pinnacle of glory, just celebrate.
Yes—summer has begun.
Verão
By: Pietra Melo
Everything I live during a Brazilian verão is a memory, a keepsake, a piece of me.
The laughs with family, the blazing South American sun, and the endless music carry me through the months that lay ahead, patiently awaiting the moment I step on the plane once more. The long days on Brazilian soil melt into weeks, surrounded by the people, sounds, smells, and places I love most in this world. To me, there is summer, and then there is verão.
Verão is what I feel when I can smell the salty ocean breeze, and watch the sunset over distant rolling hills. Verão is the taste of pastel, brigadeiro, and my grandmother’s homemade meals.
Verão is sitting by the open window and melting in the sun, then cooling off with a cold sip of fruit juice. Verão is late-night runs for açai or milkshakes by the boardwalk. Verão is surrounded by family on the beach, talking and laughing the day away. Verão is reuniting for dinner, and having dance parties for dessert.
Verão is a never-ceasing moment in time. Verão fills my heart with the warmest, most complex sense of simultaneous longing and happiness.
Verão always comes again.
DarynaPateichuk Grade12
FamilyChanges
By: Victoria Gribe
“I want to be a big brother!”
The following silence was only interrupted by my dad choking on food. I guess it would be a bit shocking to hear a two-year-old girl yell such things at the top of her lungs during dinner. My mother was quick to regroup and shift her attention to me.
“Mi Vida, my life, why do you want to be a big brother?”
Explaining to my parents why I said such a thing was simple: one of my friends at daycare had announced that he would be a big brother. As any toddler would, I decided that was the coolest thing and I also wanted to be one. Bewilderment filled their faces as they corrected me. I wouldn’t be a big brother, much to my dismay. Instead, I would be a big sister. The rest of dinner was spent clarifying to the two-year-old how siblings and gender worked. It all went in one ear and out the other. I was hooked on the idea of being a big sibling.
Looking back, I am sure they were amused, but I was not playing around. Over the next few days, I kept bringing up the same topic at dinner, during car rides, before bed, in public. I was relentless . . . which ended two weeks later. Afterward, that idea was long gone, at least from my mind. My parents, on the other hand, had different plans.
It was a typical day. I had no reason to believe anything special was about to happen. The time for daycare pick-up arrived, but it was not just Papa there for me. Oddly enough, my mother was also present. Every day, it was only one or the other who came to pick-up, never both of them.
“We have buenas noticias, some good news to share with you when we get home!”
To say that my curiosity was piqued was an understatement. I rushed to clean up my mess before we left the daycare. My stuff could not have been shoved in my bag any quicker. I could not wait until we got home.
Once the car rolled into our driveway, I was the first to the door, the first to get rid of their bag, the first to change out of their “day clothes”, the first to sit on the couch, waiting to hear las buenas noticias.
“Haha, quelqu’un a hâte de savoir des nouvelles!”
My dad was right, I was really looking forward to hearing the news. Soon enough, my parents sat down on the couch, on opposite sides of me, with feet flat on the ground, their backs straight and palms sweaty. Wow, the news must be big! Should I be worried? Well, I can only wait and see! That said, Mama and Papa didn’t seem to be able to express what they wanted to say, glancing between each other and my expectant face. Eventually, words started to flow:
“Corazon, what we are about to say might come as quite a surprise, but this is a step your father and I have decided to take, to complete our family… ”
“Ma cherie, we will always love you no matter what, and we know you love us too. But we are hoping you will be able to extend that love to … your future little sibling.”
What? Huh? Am I hearing things right? Me? A sister? Me?!? I started celebrating the news immediately, jumping and chanting around the living room. The room exploded in laughter and smiles as relief filled my parents and anticipation for the baby seeped in. Back then, I had no idea how much my life would change.
The journey to the birth of my sister was an unexpected one, according to my parents. It is expected that a child will feel some dislike that an entire being, growing in their mother’s belly, would arrive and permanently stay in their lives. Furthermore, they could be weirded out by the concept of a sibling, but not me. I was fascinated with the idea of becoming a big sister, and I was so looking forward to it: “When will the baby arrive? Will they be my friend? Will they be a boy or a girl? Will they play with me? Can they feel me right now?” It was an endless train of questions. I am not sure how my mother put up with me. However, through all that excitement, nerves did start to show: Would I be a good big sister? I don’t know how to be a sister. I am just me. What if they don’t like The Little Mermaid? What if they don’t like me? What if they don’t like my purple dress? What if they don’t play with me? . . .
“Victoria, you will be a wonderful big sister. Boy or girl, your younger sibling will be lucky to have you as a big sister. Victoria, just be yourself and they will love you. Victoria, you do not need to know what to do. Mama and Papa are here for you, to let you be the best big sister you can be.”
Yeah, everything is going to work out. I would have an adorable sibling and they would have the most awesome big sister of all planet Earth. I was ready to spoil and love them with all my heart . . . well that would have to wait.
A few months passed before we found out the gender of the baby. Not that I, once again, had any idea. The day seemed completely normal: waking up, saying hi to the baby, going to daycare, and telling anyone who would listen that I was going to be the best big sister. Only when both of my parents came to pick me up did I know something had happened. I was ready to leave daycare and head home. Except, my parents kept getting held up by congratulations and questions from the daycare staff.
“What’s going on? I thought everyone already knew I was gonna be a big sister! Am I gonna have two younger siblings?”
Well, it turns out I was wrong. Who would have known? My parents quickly told me that they found out the baby’s gender and that I was going to have a little sister!
“I knew that. I knew I was going to be a big sister, so I knew it was going to be a girl.”
“Victoria, you were always going to be a big sister, regardless of the gender.”
“Huh?”
Whatever. That doesn’t matter. I am going to have a little sister, a best friend, and someone I can share my life with and play with whenever I want! Now, I absolutely could not wait for my partner in crime to arrive in the world.
The fateful day finally came. Mom had already gone to the hospital, but the baby had yet to come. Mama’s parents had already flown in from Mexico a week ago, and they were spending a lot of time with me. However, everyone seemed preoccupied with the birth. These last couple of days have been quite tense, and I was also worried. However, that did not last long because Papa brought me to the mall to keep me distracted. Then in a moment of genius, I decided to buy my sister a gift. Hopefully, I will give it to her soon. On October 6, 2011, outside my daycare stood my Papa ready to bring me to the hospital.
“Es-tu prête à connaître ta soeur?”
I took Calou, the teddy bear I bought, from my dad’s hands. Yes, I am ready to meet my sister.
The drive to the hospital took forever. Traffic really had it out for us. Even parking near the hospital was impossible. But in the blink of an eye, I was in my mother’s hospital room. Seeing Mama for the first time in a while was awesome. However, when I saw my little sister, time stood still. I tried to hand my gift to her, but the nurses simply set it beside Mama. Even though my sister couldn’t hold the teddy bear I got her, she knew I was there. I love you, Elisa, forever and always.
As the months passed and Elisa grew bigger and stronger, I was there. I desperately wanted to hold her and have fun together, but she was still far too young according to my parents. Still, I knew we had something special: the way I made her laugh, the way she only smiled in the photos I was in and the way she was always so calm around me. I knew I was her favourite person. At twelve months her first word was “Toya”, an abbreviation of my name. Not “mama” or “dada”. After everything, I got the sister I never knew I truly wanted and wouldn’t trade for anything. She came into my life exactly when I didn’t know I needed it. Even now, I am proud to say I am a big sister.
By Lauren Mancini
Grade 11
I Met My Younger Self for Coffee
By Angelina Farag
I met my younger self for coffee today, we were both 20 minutes early, punctual as ever.
She asked me if I still loved him. I laughed, telling her of all the loves I’ve found since. She stared with disbelief the idea of being loved back still foreign to her.
I told her to love herself her body, mind, and soul. Too quickly, she asked How? To that, I was silent, still unsure myself.
We ordered our coffees hers warm, mine iced. She burnt her tongue but kept drinking anyway, emptying her mug before I’d taken half a sip.
I asked about school. She beamed, sharing plans with bright hope and possibility. I stayed silent about the changes ahead, letting her face them when she’s ready instead.
I humoured her questions about old friends and new. She was shocked at how much she had changed. Her smile carried a quiet strength and admiration, a gentle reminder that, despite it all, I’d made her proud.
I wanted to give her advice, To warn her away from the mistakes she’d make. But I knew If I did she wouldn’t be sitting across from the same me today.
Creative Soliloquy
By Joanne Kim
To work or not to work that is the question: Whether ‘tis wiser to finish thy assignments
And avoid recurring reminders,
Or to succumb to starting the next episode on Netflix
And, by procrastinating, finish the whole series. To work, to study—
No more and by working to say I end
The scolds and late marks from teachers
That upset mine parents—’tis a scenario
That musn’t occur. To snack, to rest
To rest, perchance to nap. Ay, there’s the catch, For in procrastination what missed assignments may bring, When we hast lost several marks,
Must make us regret. Methinks that’s the reason That drives us to work.
For who could bear 19 pages of labour, Th’ hours of study on a rigid wooden chair, Skipping dinner to calculate, Endless trigonometry, and the pish posh
That nerds chirp when they lay an easy 100, When I myself sometimes toil relentlessly
Only to be bestown a mere 70? For who could live with Everlasting study under such a short life, But that the dread of not doing so, Become a super senior shackled
To life in highschool, thine actions incite distress
And in turn, rather bear ending homework
Than to couch around?
Thus the nightmare of life at secondary hath made workers of us all, And thus the temptation of lying down Is spoiled by the horrifying consequence, And hours of snacks and Netflix in bed. With this regard the urge to give in And lose are now cut in twain.
DariaButenko
COMFORT IN CHAOS
By:Anonymous
The glass shattered as it hit the back wall like a firework, shards flying in every direction. The sound reverberated off the rusty barriers of the dumpster, burrowing into my ears with a baritone buzz and dragging me back to reality. The noise of shuffling as people lifted weighty furniture around me. Someone instructing the movers where to go. I dropped back down onto the dresser that was being thrown out, trying to distract myself once more with my book while waiting for my dad to bring whatever tea cups or glassware we couldn’t take with us. The book wasn’t helping. In the slightest. My mind clung to the noises around me instead of the words on the page below and began to wander. Why is this even necessary?
My parents had, of course, explained the reasoning behind the move to me multiple times already with pitying looks on their faces. I’d smile at them and nod, saying I understood. But to me, the truth was simply that I would never go to my school again or see my friends again or wade through the nearby ravine again or watch a show on the big old box of a TV that produced a staticky hum every time it was on, ever again. To my childlike mind, everything could only go wrong and change for the worse.
The first place I lived after eight years in my childhood home wasn’t a house or an apartment, but rather a hotel where we stayed for two months. My sister and I were both initially distracted by the thrill of what seemed like a long vacation. We shrieked and giggled as we explored the massive building. And it was fairly enjoyable, at first: getting to play in the swimming pool, grabbing waffles from the buffet each morning, running through the big halls and poking at all of the shiny silver buttons in the elevator. When the official move-out date of our first house came and all the boxes that couldn't be crammed into the storage units piled up in our hotel rooms, that feeling quickly vanished. I hated being reminded that this change was permanent, that we would never go back to our home, so I denied it. I stayed out of my room, reading in the lobby or wandering around the floors all day and only returning when it was dark so I wouldn't be able to see all of the ugly brown boxes that littered the ground, effectively avoiding them along with the idea of my permanent new life.
Once the two months had passed, I began anew in Mississauga. I moved three additional times in my two years there but stayed in the same new school with the same new people all the while. My first “official” new home was on the upper floor of a peaceful duplex. A kind elderly woman who lived below helped to take care of my sister and me. She’d bring us to our new schools and tried her best to be welcoming and patient despite my near-perpetual whining and foul mood.
The next was a lanky townhouse and what I’d likely deem my least favourite of all the places that I’d go on to live in. It felt like there would never be peace or privacy in that place with its thin walls. On one side, I could hear the screams from children in the karate class my neighbours ran. On the other, the bass of music from the parties that were commonly held at the house offered no escape.
The third and final of these moves was to what was initially a mess of a house. An irresponsible landlord had left clutter and litter from former tenants behind and us to clean it up. This behaviour continued through the negligence of their other responsibilities. They did not send repairmen when dated but essential home fixtures broke and would enter without permission. Despite its run-down appearance, the house itself had its charms in my eyes even if it was near archaic. My sister would frequently joke about the ancient structure, telling me, “It’s filled with ghosts!” My young mind wasn’t gullible enough to believe her, but the fact that the majority of our things were still stowed covered in blankets, spiderwebs, and boxes did nothing to disprove her wild claims.
The constant migration from one place to the next left me anxious, unwilling to unpack the neglected boxes that had grown to be signature staples in my shifting rooms. Whenever asked to, I would complain: “I don’t want toooo whyyy?” I groaned, unable to adapt to my new situation. What was the point in doing anything if it’d be gone in another instant? I had even actively refused to make friends in school, because again, what was the point? They’d disappear soon anyway, so who cares? I had to practically be hauled by some of the other kids to play tag each day until we finally became friends and I’d go willingly.
This constant preparation for the next move, however, was inevitably a poor choice. It had dragged me into a state of neverending stress, always on edge and “ready” for yet another sudden shift in my situation. Ultimately it only led to unnecessary anxiety over issues that truly weren’t that significant to begin with.
Then, when I was 11 years old we returned to living in Toronto. This time, I adapted to the change in school much more easily than before. I made an effort to connect with others, having come to the understanding that even fleeting friendships could still evoke genuine joy. I also began to notice patterns and constants in the way that the moves happened. Regardless of where we lived, the items in all the houses would be the same brought with us from the last. My family would always be there with me and I realized that everything would work out because whatever the reality of the situation would be, I could accept it, brush it off and keep going.
In our second house back in Toronto, I asked my sister what her plans for her room were. Her response? “What’s the point if we’re gonna move again in like a week?” I stared back at her, covered in paint from decorating my new space. I had grown to embrace the moves, redesigning my rooms to suit me and unpacking as soon as possible, finding ways to establish comfort. I had also gotten packing everything back up down to a science. I only needed about two hours to put my whole room into boxes again. Some members of my family, however, had not. We ended up living there for two years. My sister never did unpack.
My two most recent moves, I’ve actually looked forward to rather than feared. Not that the houses I lived in were bad and I couldn’t wait to leave them or anything, but rather that along with the constants in every house, I now look forward to the benefits that come with the new environments. The opportunity to explore new places, parks, and stores and try new foods from nearby restaurants excites me. When my parents tell me they're sorry for yet another move, I shrug it off and say “Don’t be” and now, I truly mean it. With nine moves and more to come, learning to let go of the uncontrollable, and to create my own sense of stability within it has allowed me to find comfort in the chaos.
Work
by Anonymous
The struggle, the pain. I cannot be sane.
Studying, working, all the endless learning.
Happy or sad, you have to do well, even if it drives you mad.
“Highlight this, pay attention to that, you need the right format.”
Deep breath in, deep breath out; it will be useless to pout.
In the end, all that work may be worth it, even if you'll have to do it all over again.
Zephyrus Grade12
Just Half
By: Kenya Sider
Credit: Humber Polytechnic's Bachelor of Creative & Professional Writing Program
Previously
published in Arrival Magazine
“You’re just half of a black person, so you can only say half of that word,” Ebony sneered. The colour drained from Kenya’s face and for a second, the world went quiet. For her whole life, she had always considered herself to be black. To suddenly learn that that wasn’t the case was a shock.
“I can say the full word, but you can only say the first or second half. So pick one,” the girl continued, her face contorting into a smug grin. Kenya’s mouth wouldn’t move. It couldn’t. She couldn’t just pick one half of the word it made no sense.
She felt stuck. It felt like a part of her had been rejected like she was a newspaper with no ink.
She was no longer black, yet her caramel coloured skin and dark curly hair displayed that she was very clearly not white…So what was she? The rest of that day was spent sitting on the dewy grass, watching people go by as she wracked her brain for the answer to that question. As the sun set and she returned to her cabin, Kenya still didn’t have the answer. “Who am I?” she thought aloud, splayed on her bunk in the empty room.
As the other girls wandered in, laughing together, she curled into a ball alone and wondered what a microscope zoomed in on her would see: just half.
The Unknown
BY GRACE STIDHAM
I ask a lot of questions. For me, it’s not just a simple curiosity. It’s a deep rooted, intrinsic desire to know. To understand. The unknown is deeply frightening, a cliff constantly surrounding me. I am continually getting closer and closer to its edge, intrusive thoughts screaming at me, telling me to dive in and never look back. The temptation is tremendously overwhelming, yet the desire to know prevails. Perhaps I don’t seek to understand. Perhaps I seek to be understood. The complexity of my being is a riddle I have yet to solve, a door that remains locked despite my desperate prying. I fear that, if even I am unable to understand myself, no one else will ever truly be capable. For this reason, the temptation to plunge into the depths of uncertainty is consuming. There is undoubtably a part of me that knows that the answers which I so desperately seek are hidden in those murky waters. I also know, however, that once I make that jump, there is no returning. Everything will be different, and while that is terrifying, it is also sickeningly exciting. The risk is great, yet
be greater.
I realize that, as my path pushes me closer and closer to the edge, I may not have a choice as to whether or not I take the plunge. I am still a baby in many ways, the same one unwilling to sleep, her desire to understand the world around her preventing slumber. I am afraid. Afraid that, if I jump into the abyss, I will never make it out. However, I am utterly consumed by the fear that, if I never take the plunge, instead remaining precariously on the edge, I will not only miss out on answers, but also on a fundamental understanding of who I am. I am utterly unwilling to remain in this stagnant state. I am utterly unwilling to waste my time, my life, stuck on the edge of this cliff. While my decision is clear, I remain terrified. I remain hopelessly stuck, awaiting the right rush of wind to send me flying to where I am meant to be. I need a push, an act of mercy, to set me free from the restraints of comfortable knowledge. By the time I reach the bottom of this abyss, my bones and soul will surely be shattered. But when I heal, I hope to be more whole than I was before.
