BAA's Literary & Arts Magazine: February/March 2022

THE CARDINAL Bishop allen's literary & arts magazine

February/March 2022

A Note from the Editors Welcome to the second issue of The Cardinal for this school year! We are so excited to be introducing the new spring edition. It is filled with lovely content from our submitters, including poems, short stories, and spring-themed art. Our team worked hard to bring this chapter to life, and we are glad to be giving students a creative outlet. Thank you to our teacher moderator, Ms. Conroy, for supervising and assisting the club!

On our Instagram page, @balitmagazine, we’ve been posting polls where anyone can submit various recommendations—so far, movie and book recommendations.

We hope you enjoy the special segment in this issue highlighting these book recommendations submitted by our very own BA students! Be sure to check out our Instagram account if you would like to participate in sharing your recommendations with the Bishop Allen community.

We would also like to thank the Bishop Allen community for the positive feedback we received for our previous issue. We are so grateful to be a part of such a creative and supportive school! Our final thanks goes to all of our talented creators.

Each and every one of you poured your hearts and souls into your work, and it shows! We can’t wait to see what else you have in store for us!

Enjoy the magazine!

- Jenna Kim, Nina Popovic, Sophia Lezhanska Executive Team

Table of Contents Short Stories

Driving Volume II by Yohanna Ostrowski (pg 3) The Ghost of Dulai by Anonymous (pg 12)

Poetry

A Poem For The Brokenhearted by Maja Bavcevic (pg 1) A Poem by Yaryna Kozak (pg 14) Self-Care by Yaryna Kozak (pg 15)

Book Reviews

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo reviewed by Megan Das (pg 4)

Written Pieces and Special Features

The Journey to Self Definition by Cassaundra Lui (pg 5) The Secret Ingredient by Alessia Cataudella (pg 10) Book Recommendations - Designed by Jenna Kim (pg 18)

Artwork

Cover Art by Katie Kim Artwork by Emily Neto (pg 2) She by Genieye (pg 9) Calculator Art by Yaryna Kozak (pg 16) Truths of Cavetown by Kain (pg 17)

A Poem For The Brokenhearted

By Maja Bavcevic Though it’s been a while and the wound’s started to heal, you’re still dealing with emotions that you try to conceal.

You’ve put on a front, forced yourself to moved on, but in reality, you just don’t feel that strong.

As you think back to that day, that final goodbye, the memories flood you and start to flow by in the front of your mind and it’s all you can see.

You wonder, ‘Why is this still happening to me?’

You feel weak as the emotions take control.

It's like when he left, he took part of your soul.

And ever since then, with all you’ve been through, the times that you shared still seem to haunt you.

The things that you did now all make you sad and they remind you of all the happy times that you had.

You had laid in the grass, looking up at the stars, now those perfect moments, they all seem so far.

The twinkling memories dance in your head As you sit there alone, crying in bed Your friends say, “You're better off on your own” How can that be true when you feel so alone?

They tell you these wounds heal as time passes by And now you don’t miss him, but sometimes you still cry Like the Grinch, his heart was less than half its size, And only now do you start to realize: There were never any butterflies.

They were all just pretty lies.

You were nothing but another note in the song of girls whose hearts he broke.

Trust me, my dear, I know your pain It was not all that long ago that I felt the same.

Eventually you’ll learn, that with all you’ve been through, The only thing you’ll ever need, is you.

-1-

Emily Neto

-2-

Driving Volume II

By Yohanna Ostrowski The knuckles on my left hand were white as I held onto the steering wheel for dear life. My right hand hunted savagely through the glove compartment in search of a pack of cigarettes that I was slowly starting to realize were not there.

“C’mon,” I mumbled to myself, speaking around the cigarette that I already held between my teeth. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” The only thing my hand made contact with was empty candy wrappers followed by old receipts and occasionally a used tissue until I finally accepted the cruelty and unfairness of the world and abandoned my search.

“Shit!” I spat aloud, slamming the glove compartment closed. The sound of my frustration was enough to wake my rottweiler, Laika, who had been napping peacefully in the passenger seat. She opened her eyes and raised her head from her crossed front paws to look at me curiously, wondering what could have been so important as to disturb her slumber.

“My bad, Laika,” I soothed, giving the dog a scratch behind the ear. “You can go back to sleep now bud. The subs are still a long way away.” Some dogs make you think that they’re incredibly intelligent, and Laika was one of them.

As if on command with my words, she rested her head back on her paws and closed her eyes again.

“Good girl,” I muttered to myself, finally getting both hands back on the wheel and my full attention focused on the barren road in front of me. “I wish I could nap, but instead we’re visiting the people who taught me that naps are for the weak and those that aren’t trying to make it far in this world.” I blew out my cigarette smoke in a light sigh. I hated talking about my family. They were the worst. Running away from home was the best decision I had ever made, but man did it make reunions awkward.

I humoured myself by wondering if they would recognize me now. My hair, dyed black and cut short into a buzz cut, would be unfamiliar to them, and every piercing and tattoo would be a new source of shame to be discussed behind closed doors when I was gone. I was the family's Prodigal Son, and who was to be blamed for it? Me for becoming this way, or them for making me this way? I would let myself contemplate it over the long car ride to the outskirts of the city, with my only friend sitting beside me on a trip to visit the family that had pushed me into being the disappointment I was.

-3-

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo Reviewed by Megan Das I recently read The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid, and I really enjoyed it. This historical fiction novel revolves around Evelyn Hugo, an old Hollywood star who, at the age of 79, is giving her final interview to up-and-coming journalist Monique Grant. Throughout the book, we hear Evelyn’s story, from her leaving Hell’s Kitchen to becoming one of the richest, and most famous people in the entertainment industry. We learn of the sacrifices she had to make to reach her goals, and we learn about her seven marriages and how each of them influenced the person she became.

Evelyn’s character is beautiful, intelligent and extremely ambitious.

We see her start from the bottom and work her way to the top, using her physical appearance as an advantage.

She makes her choices based on what benefits her, even if they aren’t right for those around her. Seeing her insecurities become more prominent as she ages makes her seem less like an untouchable star, and more human.

This book makes for an interesting read, and I would strongly recommend it.

“Don't ignore half of me so you can fit me into a box. Don't do that.” ― Taylor Jenkins Reid, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

-4-

The Journey to Self Definition

By Cassaundra Lui My mother is Black. My father is Asian. That makes me half Black, half Asian…right? Growing up, it was always my mom, my dad, and myself.

From a young age, I was exposed to situations that initiated my struggles with racial and ethnic identity. Evidently I inherited my father’s Chinese genes more prominently than I did my mother’s Trinidadian genes. With my dark hair that is often worn straight, my nose that lacks a defined bridge, and my droopy eyelids, at first glance, it is understandable to assume I am fully Asian, however this is hardly factual. When I was younger, I remember strangers mistaking my mother as my babysitter and assuming my Asian aunt was my guardian instead. I recall several people asking me, “Are you Filipino?”, which only heightened my confusion. Being from such a diverse family, it was inevitable to have people judge us.

However, the judgment only progressed when my family of three became a family of two, and so did my skepticism about who I truly was.

-5-

At the age of nine, my parents got divorced, leaving just me and my mom. Though the pain of my father leaving was profound, my relationship with my mother flourished beyond expectations. We began doing everything together; from spending Saturdays at the mall to running errands every Sunday, we became inseparable. However, with my father out of the picture and the visible discrepancies between me and my mother, the severity of my identity crisis began to consume me. As I grew older, I took notice of the way my mom and I were treated compared to other single-mother families. To this day, when we go out in public, we continue to receive inappropriate remarks regarding our relationship. At restaurants, it is typical for waiters to ask if we want two bills instead of one, which could be because they assume we are not related.

Furthermore, when I go to the liquor store with my mom, she gets asked for proof of identification to ensure she is of age to consume alcohol, yet she never gets carded when she is alone. Presumably, this occurs out of the assumption that we are friends rather than mother and daughter. We commonly get mistaken and occasionally asked if we are “sisters” or “friends”, and though this may appear as a compliment, we both know it has nothing to do with how young my mother really looks. Gradually, as my struggles with racial identity intensified, I was left questioning my relationship with my mother. I recall asking her if I was adopted because I found it impossible to believe someone who looks like her could be related to me. It hurt my mother to discover that her only child was struggling to believe we were related, and it hurt me even more to have such doubts running through my mind.

The way my mother and I were treated not only affected the way I viewed our relationship, but the way I perceived myself too. As I developed, so did my insecurities with my physical appearance. In addition to coping with the strong disapproval I had for my facial features and body image, I undertook the stress of trying to make myself appear more “mixed” to convince those who were doubting my ethnicity, that I was biracial. Having people tell me, “You’re not Black” and “You’re fully Asian” did not seem to bother me at first, but later began to agitate me beyond my control. Receiving this disrespectful commentary from people who had no real significance in my life was painful enough, but hearing it come from friends who had met my family in the past was beyond me.

-6-

Additionally, I had trouble dealing with others’ perceptions of me. I was well aware that people referred to me as “Cassaundra, that Asian girl”, which was incredibly aggravating. Similar to many other people of colour, I have experienced a considerable amount of racism in the past. Looking back, I remember someone telling me they were going to call me “Cassandra” instead of Cassaundra, because Cassaundra is too Asian to pronounce. I have had people use anti-Asian racist stereotypes against me, such as asking me to do their math homework for them because supposedly all Asians are successful in the subject. Noticeably, all the racism I have encountered has been centered around me being Asian, not Black or mixed. It came to a point in my life where the influence of people’s perceptions of me was so powerful, I was left asking myself, “Am I even Black?”, “Am I fully Asian?”. With forceful determination to have my Blackness acknowledged, I drove myself mad attempting to prove myself through my physical appearance. I would spend a fortune on curly hair products, aggressively scrunching my hair until my fingers were sore to enhance as much of my curl pattern as possible. I would sit out in the sun for several hours during the summertime to acquire the perfect tan. I would try to emphasize the fullness of my lips by pouting and pushing them out as far as physically possible. I would even compare myself to other Chinese people to demonstrate that I look different from them. At this point, it was recognizable that I was not only attempting to convince others I was mixed, but myself too. Every time someone would disregard my Blackness, I would cry out of frustration, as it seemed nothing I did could be enough to convince people to believe me. Correspondingly, when people would acknowledge my Blackness, it felt like I won the lottery.

A common problem among biracial people is feeling the need to switch identities between certain groups of people. Growing up in a predominantly White area, it was difficult for me to meet other people of colour. Instead, the majority of my friends were generally White. As a result, I adapted certain customs and habits that could be considered “whitewashed”. When I am surrounded by White people, I often feel excluded and find myself playing it safe by avoiding certain topics during conversations to bypass any possibility of awkwardness. However, when I am around people of colour, I still lack that sense of inclusion, feeling like I am too whitewashed to associate myself with them.

-7-

Similarly, once my parents got divorced and I started visiting my extended families separately, I noticed the divide between myself and them. It felt as though I was not Asian enough for my father’s side and not Black enough for my mother’s. With my mother’s family, it was hard for me to feel like I belonged, as it was apparent that I looked and acted so differently from them. With my father’s family, I repeatedly felt neglected.

I have observed that my half White cousins receive kinder treatment than I usually do. Likely, this relates to my relatives' biased opinions against Black people and their preference for White people. Such incidents enhanced my disorientation, as it only made it harder for me to establish my true identity while it was constantly changing.

In our contemporary society that seemingly encourages diversity and inclusivity, I find it absurd how we continuously and unconsciously pick and choose how to identify certain people. The ignorance of society has influenced us to internally assume people’s backgrounds solely based on their physical appearances. The colour of our skin or the texture of our hair should not be evidence enough to determine who and what we are.

When it came to me and my mother, I knew we would be treated differently if we looked otherwise, given that factors of anti-Black and anti-Asian racism were involved. I knew that if a White mother and Asian daughter were seen together in public, people would assume she was her adoptive parent and not her nanny. I knew that if a White mother and White daughter who lacked a resemblance were seen together in public, people would still assume they were related and not “friends”. I knew that if I was always with my father instead of my mother, no one would insinuate we were anything but that of family, simply because we share more visible similarities. It was important to me that people acknowledged the entirety of my mixed race. When people chose to ignore it, they chose to ignore me. I allowed others' words and opinions to overpower and control my dignity. After years of struggling to define myself, I still continue to face difficulties with understanding who I truly am. Despite this, I have begun to realize that I am not the problem; society and its flawed system is. It does not and should not matter what others believe to be true, because the only person who knows the absoluteness of my life is me. My mother is Black. My father is Asian. That makes me half Black, half Asian, and that is indisputable.

-8-

She

By Genieye

-9-

The Secret Ingredient

By Alessia Cataudella

They say the secret ingredient to any dish is love, so maybe that’s why Nonna’s pastina not only warms the mouth, but warms the heart. Sitting at the small wooden table, my brother playfully sticks his tongue out from the other end. He squirms from side to side, and the slight squint in his green eyes is enough to communicate his frustration with the tea towel tied tightly around his neck. If it was removed, Nonna would lecture us in broken English about how he would get sporco (dirty). That would further distract her delicately scattered mind from scooping her soup of love into the bowls —so he simply sits there squirming. The orange pillow covers the tears of fabric on the chair, created by the rough bouncing of my five older cousins from years before. As I stare at the pillow, it dawns on me that all my cousins could probably recall this exact moment the same way I could, except mine would involve a lot more “dai, mangia!” (come on, eat!). They would scarf down their pastina, while I savour the taste — that’s where our stories would differ. Ladle in one hand, wooden bowl in the other, Nonna dips into the deep pot that rests on top of the old white stove. Slowly, the ladle rises and the soup streams into the bowl. Steam resembles smoke from a cigarette, while the sporadic plops of the pastina echo in my ears. Heads turn, eyes widen, mouths water: “Ecco” (here). Nonna’s shaky, wrinkled hands gently place the bowls of soup right underneath our noses; the little pastina balls are swimming in the deep red broth.

- 10 -

The bowl is filled to the brim, which is no surprise considering that Nonna is constantly trying to expand my petite, bird-like appetite. The cold metal spoon instantly becomes warm as it is carefully lowered into the bowl of soup and raised to the mouth. Blowing on the pastina, the broth shakes, while my eyes gleam like those of a little kid who just found out they could have McDonalds for dinner. . . except pastina is way better than McDonalds. The warmth starts in the tongue, slowly seeps down the throat and then into the whole body. Comforted, as if I were sipping hot chocolate, next to a fireplace, covered in blankets. The mind picturing a desolate world without pastina, as if it were the secret key to life. Although my heart smiles, the full eightyear-old stomach is going to kick and scream if one more bit enters it. Pushing the bowl aside, Nonna doesn’t allow departure from the table until every last drop is finished. The once steaming soup is now cold, forcing its way into my stomach and Nonna’s “You need to grow big and strong” speech comes to a close. As I head back to the Nintendo DS that rests on the living room table, the classic saying is tweaked — the secret ingredient to a dish is love and eating it when it’s warm. . . too bad old habits die hard.

- 11 -

The Ghost of Dulai

By Anonymous

Word around town is that the stars never shine on the grounds of Dulai.

Fitting, it seems, that even the ever-growing, ever-gaining universe knows not to venture near the infamous gates of the once beautiful countryside manor.

“When God blessed the world, he meant the world excluding Dulai,” the villagers often say. “There is no good in Dulai—not even a breeze. Everything, from the roses to the raindrops, has been made tangible from a deep and ancient evil.”

No one who dares to walk the gardens of Dulai Manor ever returns the same. Though they appear to be fine, one look into their eyes can confirm their demise; what once held the glimmer of hope, the glimmer of life, becomes empty. Empty and desolate and dark and pained—the eyes of one who has seen and heard far more than they ever needed to know.

The children of the village have known all this about Dulai from the day they were old enough to listen and understand.

“Do not go to Dulai. Do not speak of Dulai. Do not so much as look at Dulai.”

This is recited like a prayer, like a mantra by which to live one’s life.

So, it is impossible for the villagers to understand why you stand so boldly at the entrance of Dulai’s forbidden gates. Impossible to understand how you refrain from flinching when you take your first step onto the starless walkway.

At first, their shock is all you can hear, and you are surprised, for you expected something much more exciting to occur when you crossed the border.

You continue walking, and as you do, the murmuring voices of the astounded villagers slowly fade, mixing in with the whispers of the wind.

Soon there is nothing but darkness and quiet. The trees sway gently to a soft breeze that you cannot feel. No sound is made as they rustle. No sound is made as your feet sink into deep snow. The absence is eerie; shivers run up and down your spine without relent. You pull your coat tightly around your arms, but it is useless against the invasive cold.

You feel her before you see her. All of the sudden, you cannot remember the last time you felt happiness. You cannot remember the last time you felt warmth.

Inside you, there is a tiny hole growing. At first, it is the size of a pin prick, but you can feel it growing larger. In that hole is nothing; a hole of nothing is growing within you.

Dulai is a black hole, you think. Not a forgotten wasteland—a black hole. A black hole that sucks in the light that the world has to offer, and destroys it, because that is the closest thing it has to having light for itself.

- 12 -

A dark cloud drifts across the sky almost aimlessly, and it tells you that you are correct.

And then you see her. She stands under the shelter of the trees, her form as uncertain as the shadows of a lightless forest—but she is there. She is tall and translucent white, with long, weak, black hair. Her dainty white dress hugs the outline of her thin legs as an invisible wind pulls it this way and that. Every visible bone of her body—her cheeks, her wrists, her collars, seems to glow faintly, further contrasting the dark inevitability that makes up her eyes.

She stares, devouring the essence of you with a feral hunger. What life you have, she claims. With time, your curiosity and wonder abandon you, and you fall to your knees on the soft snow.

Ida Dulai. As your heart grows numb and your soul grows dim, you ask her name with a joyless murmur.

And so, she tells you her story. Ida Dulai, the beautiful maiden daughter of the wealthy Lord Dulai. The girl who was once young and bright and curious, with an infinite infatuation with the stars.

Ida loved the stars, until they watched her die and didn’t so much as blink.

One winter night, many years ago, Ida fell ill with terrible pneumonia. The doctor warned her not to leave her bed, and especially not to go out into the bitter cold.

Ida did not listen, for her love of the stars was so great that she was convinced they’d heal her.

Out there in the cold, under the watch of the stars, Ida’s life slipped from beneath her grasp and she passed the border between the land of the living and the land of the dead. But Ida loved to live, and so she refused to die. She stopped at this border, pressed herself flat against its wall and planted her feet firmly into the snow.

How terribly paradoxical, how terribly sad, that ghosts long so badly to live that they tie themselves to the Earth, never moving forward, never moving back.

And so they wander, searching and searching for the one thing that can never be found: light. They are not quite alive, and not quite dead. They are anomalies of existence that will never know what it’s like to be illuminated. This, Ida resents.

You watch all your light as it swirls in the air, soaking the ghost in a small pool of fire. You darken, and think how ironic it is that Ida darkens too.

When you can no longer discern her from the night, or yourself from her, you stumble back to where you came, wondering if this sad, sick tale is all that will become of you and of Ida Dulai.

But that will never be known, for that secret has died with the stars.

- 13 -

A Poem by Yaryna Kozak Spring is like an artist, Painting beautiful flowers That bloom in the fields, Giving them a sweet aroma That attracts butterflies That flutter happily in the Sun.

- 14 -

Self-Care

by Yaryna Kozak Life is like a star, Full of heat and fire.

But when it becomes dark, You become tired, burned out.

This is why you should embark On a self-care journey.

You will find your spark But it will get stormy.

But you can push through, Find your way, discovering yourself On a self-care journey.

- 15 -

Calculator art

By Yaryna Kozak

- 16 -

truths of cavetown

Part 3

By Kain

- 17 -

BA'S BOOK RECOMMENDATIONS OUR FAVOURITES OF SPRING 2022

- 18 -

HIGHLANDERS WITHOUT KILTS

BY D. DAUPHINEE

THE TATTOOIST OF AUSCHWITZ

BY HEATHER MORRIS

- 19 -

IT ENDS WITH US

BY COLLEEN HOOVER

A MIDSUMMER'S EQUATION

BY KEIGO HIGASHINO

- 20 -

BESTSELLERS BY MADELINE MILLER

THE SONG OF ACHILLES

CIRCE

- 21 -

SIX OF CROWS

BY LEIGH BARDUGO "Six of Crows has the best world building and character development I have seen in a YA book. Reading the pages feels like falling into a whole new fantasy world."

- 22 -

THE KITE RUNNER

BY KHALED HOSSEINI

PERCY JACKSON SERIES

BY RICK RIORDAN

- 23 -