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An anti-oppressive publication about identity, personal experience, creative expression, and their interrelations.

@CollectiveReflections

@collectivereflections_sic

sic.editor@ams.queensu.ca

Volume 8 2020 | 2021

speaking joy Rachana Peddakotla

About Collective Reflections is a non-profit, student-run, anti-oppressive publication operating out of Queen’s University, in Katarokwi (Kingston, Ontario). The origins of Collective Reflections date back to 1993, with five separate publications existing before it: HeadsUP, Queen’s Feminist Review, Outwrite, CultureSHOCK!, and Able. In 2013, all publications were amalgamated, creating Collective Reflections to further encompass the intersectional nature of identity and the experiences that come with it. Over the years, BaseLine: An Anti-Poverty Review was added and all six sections were used under the publication to maintain their unique aims and continue structuring the publication. This year, it was brought to our attention that the previous structure of Collective Reflections did not reflect our aims as a purported anti-oppressive publication. As rightfully noted, the experiences and identities of people cannot be neatly categorized into sections. That said, we are happy to announce that starting this year, Collective Reflections is operating as a fluid publication and all work submitted is published without structural boundaries. We continue to draw upon the previous sections to guide our approach and our team’s structure, as they continue to represent the core of Collective Reflections. We thank all previous teams for making the publication what it is today, and we only hope to honour your work by making these necessary changes. The purpose of this publication has always been to provide a safe and empowering space of expression, and to be a platform to showcase creative, anti-oppressive work. With this year’s publication and its changes, we hope to continue that legacy.

Marsha P. Johnson

Meenakashi

Acknowledgements Editor-in-Chief Brooke Dewhurst

General Editors Fatima Baloch Alysha Ahmad Shannon Swift Ella Blondin Fred Hook

Design Editor Supriya Malik

Publishing Dan Graham and Allan Graphics

Social Issues Commissioner Angela Sahi

Cover Art K. J. Creelman

Previous Sections

Cover Art: Whiteout 1 5

Whiteout Series

K.J. Creelman

When we think of statues from ancient Rome and Greece, we tend to picture them presented in white marble. This depiction is seen across numerous mediums such as film and photography, but, in reality, it is not entirely accurate. Technology has shown us that, historically, polychromy (meaning a lot of paint) was the standard in sculpting when these statues were created. However, the paint is said to have worn completely away over time. Because of this, the presentation of white marble statues contributed to the belief that Western society was built solely by those with white skin, excluding Black, Indigenous, and people of colour from the narrative entirely. They present beauty standards that place traditionally white features at the forefront. The fact of the matter is that history has slowly been whitewashing these ancient statues along with the time they originate from. With the Whiteout series, I wanted to create a collection that celebrates and acknowledges a Black history that is so often forgotten. Whiteout #1 mirrors the collage style of layering an actor or model’s face on top of a marble statue, with many examples celebrating subjects who may be considered “traditionally beautiful” by vapid Western standards. They present those with sharp bone structure, muscular features, and, as you may have guessed, pale skin. Tying into the theme of recontextualizing history through a more intersectional lens, Whiteout #1 places a black woman at the centre of this style to play off of the damaging beauty standards we have been taught over time. I invite those viewing the pieces throughout this publication to explore these topics in more depth and reflect on how your perception of the world has been shaped by them. I, for one, have benefitted from this phenomenon all my life and am now working to educate myself and others on the true depths of its destructive nature. My hope with the Whiteout series is that it can be a step towards acknowledging and dismantling racist standards of beauty and reflections of history.

Brooke Dewhurst

Fatima Baloch

Shannon Swift

Alysha Ahmad

Ella Blondin

Fred Hook

Editor-in-Chief

Editor

Meet the Team

Editor-in-Chief’s Letter Over the past year, we have seen a considerable shift in how we create, connect, learn, and organize. With physical distancing measures, much of our lives have been moved online, making it incredibly difficult for artists and organizers alike to continue their important work in anti-oppressive spaces. When I started my position at Collective Reflections last summer, these changes were in full-swing and we were unsure what the ensuing year would bring. For the past eight months, I have virtually met with our general editors on a weekly basis, and it has been an absolute pleasure to work with each of them. They have graciously endured my awkward ramblings, Zoom incompetency, constant questions, and together, I believe we’ve made a pretty great team. This publication has always fostered physical and virtual spaces for collaboration and artistic expression, and we only hoped to continue that. That said, Collective Reflections has undergone some necessary changes this year, and I am grateful for the support and contributions of both community members and our general editors. We launched our From the Archives content cycles and the CORE Campaign, created an Instagram, and restructured the publication, removing the sections to make it more fluid and intersectional. We came into this publication hoping to continue its anti-oppressive legacy, and I believe we would not have been successful without the insight and support of everyone involved in these changes. As for the publication itself, we have received beautiful and powerful work from contributors who haven’t stopped writing, painting, drawing, and creating, despite the global pandemic. Working with the contributors and putting this publication together has been a silver lining for all of us, a chance to collectively create something at a time when collaboration is difficult. I believe this publication is a testament to the resiliency and power of everyone involved, and I hope you enjoy it. To everyone who touched this publication, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Collective Reflections has been shaped by each of your hands, and it is better for it.

Brooke Dewhurst

Editors’ Notes Being a part of the Collective Reflections team has been a truly enriching experience. I have been continually inspired by the dedication and adaptability of my team members; even within the unusual circumstances of this year, their passion has been infectious and invigorating. I would like to thank the contributors for the trust they have placed in the editors and in this publication to create a safe place to showcase their ideas. Each piece within Volume 8 is a testament to the enduring power of creative work, reminding us that art has the unique ability to translate across distance and bring people together, even in a time of isolation. Thank you for choosing to read our publication, and for taking the time to engage with the work that our contributors have so courageously put forward. Shannon Swift Working on Collective Reflections alongside an amazing team has been an incredibly rewarding experience that I am so grateful for. It is wildly important for marginalized folks to experience liberation and Collective Reflections brings us a step closer to this – whether it is through prose or visual arts. Most importantly, I am pleased to see Collective Reflections develop drastically from its previous editions – to wholly encompass intersectionality and truly reflect marginalized voices without contributing to their oppression. Ultimately, I am thankful to be part of a team that has helped empower marginalized voices and will remember my experience with Collective Reflections fondly. Thank you for reading our publication! Alysha Ahmad

I am a firm believer in the power of art as a medium through which to share our experiences with the world, resist oppression, and strive for change. Working on Collective Reflections as an editor for the past year, along with five other amazing editors, has given me the chance to put this belief in practice and to amplify the voices of marginalized folks. I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to work with this team and to view, read, edit, and enjoy the pieces that have been submitted over the course of the year. I hope you’ll take the time to go through the pieces in this publication and laugh, cry, weep, yell, dance, and continue to fight oppression.

Fred Hook Working on this publication this year has been a rewarding experience. it has been an honour looking through people’s contributions and seeing how they are able to express themselves so powerfully, whether it’s through art or writing. I am also happy to have been part of reorganizing the magazine’s framework in order to better represent the significance of intersectionality and anti-oppression. I am excited to see how the publication will evolve in the years to come. Fatima Baloch My favourite thing about art has always been its ability to bring people together. I truly believe that creative pieces speak to people in a unique and personal way. For that reason, putting together this publication has been so rewarding. I am so grateful I had the opportunity to help others share their stories and ideas through creative pieces. Being a part of the Collective Reflections team is an experience I will always remember. Never stop bringing your ideas to life! Ella Blondin

inside my brain Jenna 11

Content Warning This publication contains personal accounts, experiences, and stories that grapple with difficult issues. These include but are not limited to: sexism, racism, patriarchy, colonialism, queerphobia, mental health issues, body dysmorphia, and disordered eating. These are important topics and we encourage you to engage with them respectfully. That said, we do not provide individual content warnings moving forward, so please be mindful as you go through the publication.

12 12

Contents speaking joy, Rachana Peddakotla

About the Publication

Marsha P. Johnson, Meenakashi

Acknowledgements

Whiteout 1, K. J Creelman

Cover Art Description, K. J Creelman

Meet the Team

Editor-in-Chief’s Letter, Brooke Dewhurst

Editors’ Notes, Various

9-10

inside my brain, Jenna

9-10 & 11

Content Warning

untitled 3, Jenna

Flotation Device, Sophie DeFreitas

17-18

My Language, Jad Ghazali

Blurry Sights, Lackshana

Love Letters to Susan Huntington (Prior to Revision), West Ambrose

21-23

suburban day dreaming, Jenna

mount rushmore, Jenna

i’ll prove you wrong, C. H. Wessel

25-26

king princess, Jenna

Warm Nights, Lackshana

Boreal 1, Andrew O’Dea

Pynk, Alyssa Vernon

career Woman, Claudia Rupnik

Charlie and Rebecca and Bec and Charlotte, Emma Evans

31-36

from turtle island to palestine, Jenna

the gift of imagination, Jenna

intentionality, Rachana Peddakotla

Bentley Apostasy, West Ambrose

Whiteout 2, K.J Creelman

whose gender is it anyway, Jenna

41-42

Autobiovelloire, anonymous

43-64

Never give up, Never give in, Simran Dhaliwal

Self Portrait, Miriam John

Wakanda Forever, Alyssa Vernon

Whiteout 3, K. J Creelman

Regal, Jordana Leilah

Black Trans Lives Matter, Alyssa Vernon

69-70

Black Trans Lives Matter, Meenakashi

The First Pride Was a Riot, Meenakashi

We Can’t Breathe, Alyssa Vernon

GODDAMNIT, Stephanie Fung

73-74

dare we dream of something more than this?, v

75-76

Reminders to Myself, Miriam John

Prince(ss) Sasha, West Ambrose

untitled, Jenna

Visual and Written Autism Rainbow, Courtney Weaver

Seafoam, Jordana Leilah

inbetweenness, V. Chung

Representation, Brenna Swift

this pussy don’t pop for you, Jenna

Self Portrait, Mariam Atnasious

Whiteout 4, K. J Creelman

Whiteout 5, K. J Creelman

Dancing to Misunderstanding, Jad Ghazali

i thought i was in love, Jenna

When I Said Jo March, I Meant..., West Ambrose

87-88

society, who?, Rachana Peddakotla

Cough Syrup, C. H. Wessel

layers, Jenna

shifting, Rachana Peddakotla

Whiteout 6, K .J Creelman

Soaring Heights, Lackshana

Despair, Jordana Leilah

Boreal 2, Andrew O’Dea

DRACULA, CHAPTER XI, West Ambrose

93-94

To be Held, C. H. Wessel

Where Am I, Lackshana

A Letter to The Nile, Yara Hussein

97-98

liberation, Alyssa Vernon

we affirm the radical nature of art, Jenna

99-100

untitled 3 Jenna

Floatation Device “Your total is 15.73,” I said.

Sophie DeFreitas

“Cool,” he said, “Do you wanna go out for coffee sometime?” He tapped his credit card on the machine as he said it, so I felt the pressure of the cash drawer snapping open at the same time I heard its clatter, same time as I realized I had no idea what to say in response because a boy had never asked me out. There was a pause, and I knew he knew what my answer would be because of that pause, because of how I let the cash drawer hang open. It opened for every transaction, whether the customer paid for their vegan meal by cash, card or gift card. Normally it annoyed me, having to close it when the customer hadn’t even given me anything to put in it. Unnecessary. But now I was grateful for it, pretended to organize something within that pause, then felt cruel so I slammed it shut. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I have a girlfriend.” I think now this is probably the best way to let a guy down, because it doesn’t really have anything to do with them. I suppose you run the risk of them making a gross comment, but all things considered it’s not the worst thing to say. Better than just saying no, because then it is their fault, then it is just them. Girls get killed for it just being them, for saying no. He blushed when I said I had a girlfriend, and the blush made me feel safer. People who blush after getting rejected aren’t usually the kind of people who kill you out of rage. “Oh,” he said. “Okay I didn’t know that. Sorry.” I said sorry then too, for no real reason as I hadn’t done anything wrong. But he was a customer and I had a logo on my apron, so I had to be nice to whomever walked into the restaurant.

In customer service and being a girl, nice and apologetic are practically interchangeable. We made awkward, blushed eye contact and I realized I still had to make him his meal. He was the only customer in the restaurant, and my co-worker Nicolette was on her break. Rarely did I wish for more customers, but I found myself praying one would walk in, and I would have to say sorry I have to help the next customer sorry (sorry sorry) and then time would speed up and Nicolette would be back from her break and she’d make his food and bring it out to him and I’d never have to see him again. Sorry. But no one else walked in and time stayed the same and Nicolette was on her break, so I moved towards the kitchen half of the restaurant and the boy said, “I’ll actually get it to go thanks. Sorry.” And I said of course, no problem, and also sorry. I remember reading a tweet by some guy who said when he’s walking behind a girl at night, and she’s alone, he’ll sing a Lady Gaga song so she knows he’s gay and not a threat, knows he’s not going to attack her. I thought it was funny at the time but the more I think about it the more fucked up it is. I remember when I was 13, my mom made me and all my siblings get our lifeguards license. I saw no point to it at the time, but you do get to sit on those highchairs and no boys could ask me out from up there, probably. Anyway, I hated the taking the lifeguard course, mostly because we had to pretend to be paralyzed in the water, and our classmates had to practice spinal holds on us. I hated when people did that, when they grabbed my head, rolled me over and pulled me through the water. I wish when humans passed out in the water, we naturally floated face up, so we could breathe, but we don’t. We float face down, and then we drown. Kind of an evolutionary slip I think, but if we did maybe we wouldn’t need lifeguards. I told my mom how much I hated it, how much it made my skin crawl when people grabbed me in the water, and she said don’t be so dramatic. Maybe if I’d been more dramatic then I wouldn’t be so apologetic now.

My Language Jad Ghazali My language is that of a never-ending poem I write it and recite it though it can never be complete It depletes all languages then turns to music Singing phrases & melodies My language is made of love With no barriers to be seen Only the sight of you in my dream My language is that of a never ending poem Whispered into the waves of the Caribbean Sea A symphony of ripples crashing onto your feet Waves that travelled through all the seasons to greet you Like the calls of soaring pelicans migrating to new lands My language is made of vivid images Painting a scene of no earth below nor sky above Only the deep blue and my breath, amongst the stars My language is that of a never ending poem Taught by the lips of a lover & captured in the eyes of the other Engulfed in a moment so brief it is infinite My language is made of dementia and rediscovery Of memories and hope Of life and dreams Of days and lifetimes I converse in only one language That of freedom Where words die Canaries fly

And one more moment passes by

Lackshana

Blurry Sights

Love Letters to Susan Huntington (Prior to Revision)

West Ambrose

Dear Susan/today I saw a bluebell patch so beautiful I almost cried on the spot/someone should tell Thoreau he’s a crackhead/but he’s right about the foliage. Dear Susan/today my father yelled at me again/groundbreaking, I know. Dear Susan/well, at least, out of the two of them/he still talks to me. Dear Susan/another one/bites the dust. Dear Susan/So I was up late reading with/Da Vinci/Austen/Homer/Plato/ Dante/Milton/Dickens/ De Troyes/Shakespeare. Dear Susan/I was up last night reading with/Shakespeare/again. Dear Susan/do you believe in fate/I don’t/but I think that’s because I’ve been reading too much Ovid/ he’s such a fucking push over. Dear Susan/disregard that last part. Dear Susan/please only lay eyes on me/and please don’t take me out dancing/unless it’s under the lilac trees/ in the graveyard. Dear Susan/I am in love with Death/I am in love with You Life. Dear Susan/in Death’s blue carriage I held my breath and I held your hand/I tried to tell Death but she didn’t understand me/like you do/so I said/ I had to go home now. Dear Susan/is it still considered polygamy/ if you’re fighting over me/with supernatural forces? Dear Susan/can we run away together/ in our own house? Dear Susan/I play tricks on the neighbors/they think I am a ghost/well, I am a ghost/I am haunted by/my own will to live. Dear Susan/is there a religion based on losing/I think I have built a book of hymns/from the hours I spend missing you. Dear Susan/when you bury me in thirty years/burn it all/so they don’t turn us into/a tacky YA couple on Apple TV. Dear Susan/I have loved you/in so many different lives.

Dear Susan/my dead dog says Hi. Dear Susie/you looked smokin’ today/Dear Susan/my brother is in a lavender marriage/and he doesn’t know it/but you do/don’t you? Dear Susan/when you say you want to come home/where do you mean/Is it here/is it Me/Or is it someone else? Dear Susan/can I be your man? Dear Susan/you have perfect hands/ Dear Susan/since the body is asham/I’ve declared/my sexuality is Prince/my gender is Knight. Dear Susan/last night I almost tripped getting a glass of water because I saw my tutor who kicked it from the flu near the daisy patch/we had some tea and then I woke up on my kitchen counter/I know this doesn’t make sense/but you’re good at deciphering me/at least you still make the effort to try. Dear Susan/have you read the latest/Whitman, that scoundrel … Dear Susan/I want to be a scoundrel/I want to be a bee/to be or not to be/ but the bees don’t have to think about death/only honey and queens/Dear Susan/I would work forever to sit at the foot of your magnificent throne. Dear Susan/how are you so damn good at math/it’s otherworldly/uncanny/and totally sexy. Dear Susan/do you think the ghosts I see/ghosts of flowers/and ghosts of friends/ghosts of fathers/ghosts of you/ghosts of neighbors/now carried out in husks/ghosts of crickets/turned over like/turtles/or little wicker bassinets/when a baby had died … Dear Susan/last night I saw my old professor/my new neighbor/before they moved in/a dressmaker in town with a bloodied handkerchief/a boy of ten who loves wooden trains/I make them all dandelion stew and dark red mead/and mashed sweet potato pie/From the end of the table/I wondered/do you think they all want to go home, too? Dear Susan/hours are sometimes days/can you walk a path of violets and tell me their fears/their hopes/the sound of their growing/the color of their blush when I talk about you…/can you imagine the mushrooms sighing/or the heartbeat of a common-clothes moth?

Dear Susan/can you come over next Wednesday/how about Friday/or the Monday after? Let’s garden/and eat each other out/while reading sonnets/then listen to spooky radio dramas. Dear Susan/Dear Susie/Dear You/Dear Cleo/Dear Hamlet/Dear Beatrice/Dear Persephone/Dear Orestes/Dear/Darling/Caro/Bliss/Dear Dearest Heart/Dear Anonymous … Dear Susan/if you (don’t) write me back/I will die/surely/young and horny/and Forever yours, E. Dickinson

suburban day dreaming Jenna

mount rushmore

Jenna

i’ll prove you wrong

C.H. Wessel

that’s what is supposed to motivate me i’ll prove you wrong. never mind the “what if you are right” that is a different poem a different anxiety a different issue the problem comes from how constant it is i’ll prove you wrong it is how all consuming this task becomes and how your voice rings in my head if i dare to stumble it is exhausting to prove you wrong to change your mind i feel like a dog doing flips just to try to impress my owner but you don’t own me or did you forget that you are not my master you are not above me i am not some creature to be locked up what if this were flipped? prove me wrong instead you are not supportive as you claim prove me wrong you are unloving prove me wrong you want me in a box prove me wrong you are untrustworthy you are power hungry your actions and words do not match prove me wrong please

prove me wrong

but that won’t happen. for now i will curl up in my ball until i find the energy in the end i will prove you wrong until it k i l l s me

king princess Jenna

Warm Nights

that are not equated by the temperature

but by the company we keep by our side.

Lackshana

Andrew O’Dea

Boreal 1

26 12

Pynk Alyssa Vernon

career Woman

Claudia Rupnik

Did you think you could stir up your worth in a pot of mung beans and rice? Lighting incense in the evening and speaking French around the fringe of academia. Saturday hikes on popular trails. A vague interest in American politics, though you think there couldn’t be anything worse than one’s worth hinging on American politics. A CV saying you were in the meeting when it was all decided. This morning, you think you need to know Calculus and Masculinity or you’ll die, store-bought smoothies and expensive health food. A career Woman to kiss and hold, a man who can spell INTERSECTIONAL FEMINIST. Reservations. A single condom wrapper in the trash can, a photo of your boobs online—tomorrow, the knowledge no one online has seen your boobs, femininity. An anecdote about high school that isn’t sad, a healthy denial of your eating disorder, and the nerve to share an embarrassing story. Snapchat notifications. Professional sports teams and a houseplant, veganism. Dripping Italian culture, blushing. Restraint.

Charlie and Rebecca and Bec and Charlotte Emma Evans In films, snow is so wondrous that even Scrooge can’t help but smile. Look out the window! Children and adults alike scoop up fistfuls of the stuff to lob at each other. Look out! Snowflakes fall from the white sky. Look! “Look, mom!” A boy points at me and the swollen thumb of his mitten becomes a spotlight. “Why is she walking like that?” His mother shushes him. She whispers — albeit not very quietly: “Aaron, that’s not polite. It’s rude to point.” As if pointing is the problem here. Aaron scowls. As we approach one another, his brow furrows. “Hey!” he shouts. “What’s wrong with you?” “Aaron!” His mother is aghast. How could she not see this coming? “Nothing.” I whisper. I pick up my pace, one clumsy footfall in front of the other. Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall. My feet feel heavy, heavier… Thud. I trip over my toes and tumble onto the sidewalk. My hands burn from the cold. I feel the snow seep into my boots and pool in my wool socks. “Hey! Are you okay?” A businessman wearing those ridiculous plastic shoe covers runs towards me. I hold out my hand to stop him: “I’m fine, thanks.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m fine.” I ignore the looks as I scramble to my feet and dust snow off of my jeans. I push my hair out of my eyes and attempt to re-comb it with frozen fingers. An elderly woman steps towards me and says: “I will pray for you.” She touches my hip. It’s about level with her arm.

“What the —? Get off!” I move away from the woman, begrudging the snow that slows my progress down the sidewalk. Each step is a gamble with the ice underfoot. “In 200 metres, turn left.” Siri’s mechanical instructions lead me on. She claims Max’s place is a twenty minute walk from my apartment, but I know better than to abide by those estimates. Thirty minutes of sidewalk roulette later, I turn the corner onto Avenue Road and see the sparkling metal of a new build. Of course Max buys his first condo in Yorkville. I step into the lobby and nearly wipe out on the lustrous marble floor. I paw at the glass walls on either side of me in a feeble attempt to stay upright. “Miss?” The concierge’s voice carries from his post beside the elevators. “Miss, could I ask you not to touch the glass?” “Sorry.” I mumble. Could I ask you to get a doormat? The thirty seconds I spend waiting for the elevator seem to go on for hours. The concierge can’t stop staring at me. He thinks that I don’t notice, but I’ve developed a sixth sense for this. Ding! Finally, the elevator doors open and I stumble inside. I press the button labelled PH just for fun and then find the button for the fourteenth floor. As the car jolts upwards, I think about the horror of descending all of those stairs in a fiery panic. Stop thinking about that. I shake my head as if to banish the thought. The hallway between the elevator and Max’s apartment is still unfinished, and predictably, I trip over an errant power cord. Whack. My body slams into Max’s front door. He opens it almost immediately. “Woah — steady,” Max says. “Happy housewarming!” I shout. “Come in! Come in!” he squeals above the thunderous EDM. He throws my coat in a pile on the floor and beckons me to follow him. “This is the kitchen, the dining area…” I tune him out as I observe my surroundings. There’s a man I remember from Max’s last party not-so-secretly snorting cocaine off of a glass table. His work friends mix drinks at the kitchen island, tossing the cocktail shaker

back and forth like a football. An older woman lights a cigarette. Is that even allowed in here? “And this is Devon.” I blink, but when I open my eyes he’s still there, this muscular god-man draped across Max’s sofa like a throw blanket. “Devon Carlisle.” He extends his hand and pumps my arm so hard that I start to sway. Although it doesn’t take much. “Someone’s already had a few,” he laughs. “Ha, ha. Very funny,” I reply. Max leans down and whispers in my ear: “Bec, there’s someone I want you to meet.” I roll my eyes. “Not this! Devon, tell him to quit playing Cupid. It never ends well.” “Come on, Rebecca! Trust me on this one!” Max implores. “Max!” I moan as he pulls me down the hallway. We step into a den off of the kitchen. Its walls are painted a cheery pink that definitely didn’t come with the condo. “Nice colour, Maxy. I like what you’ve —” And then I see her. She’s perched on the edge of the sofa with a beer bottle clenched between her thighs. A Canon camera hangs from a thick black strap around her neck. “Rebecca Cohen, meet Charlotte Flaherty.” “Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft and a little husky. My legs feel more like jello than usual. “Hi,” I reply. I struggle to keep my voice steady. “Charlie and I met on set last month. I thought you two would hit it off.” “On set?” I ask. “Charlie’s a model,” Max clarifies. “Please, Max! You say that like I’m a Victoria’s Secret Angel. I just do some part-time gigs,” Charlotte groans. “And when you’re not modelling?” I question. “I’m a photographer.” “What do you photograph?” She lifts the camera off of her chest and clicks. “You.” “Ooh, that’s a keeper. Look, Bec!” Max says. I come around to the other side of the sofa and peer over her shoulder.

She smells like grapefruit and lemon. It makes my nose quiver. “Wow, that’s…. That’s…. Thank you,” I stammer. “You’re welcome,” she replies. “Okeydokey,” Max says. “I’ll leave you to it.” Max ambles off to Devon and his sofa. “And you?” she asks. “What do you do when you’re not partying?” “I’m in law school.” “Cool.” Her voice belies her disappointment. Why couldn’t I have become a graffiti artist? A dancer? Even the ex-frat boys in the kitchen have cooler jobs than me. “I’ll be back in a sec,” Charlotte says. She walks out of the room before I think of a response. That went well. I bury my face in my hands. “Hey, Bec!” I throw my head back so quickly that there are stars in my eyes. My friend Dean sits down beside me on the couch. “How are you, darlin’?” “I’ve been better,” I sigh. “Well, what you need is a little love,” he replies. “Come on.” He pulls me up from the couch. “No...” I try to sound frustrated but I can’t help my laughter. “ABBA fixes everything, Bec. You know it’s true.” Dean’s already humming under his breath as he plugs in the aux cord. The first few bars make me giddy despite myself. “Turn it up!” I shout. “As the lady wishes,” he chuckles. We dance our way across the floor and into the hallway. Dean prances around me as I lip-sync. “Digging the dancing queen!” I sing into an imaginary microphone. Dean suddenly picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. “Dean! Dean!” I shout. “Put me down!” He sets me on a barstool and it takes a while for my head to stop spinning. As my vision clears, her face comes into view feature by feature. “Uh, ah, hi again,” I choke out a hello. “Nice moves,” she jokes. 34 I blush.

“It’s all Dean.” I look around but Dean is gone just as quickly as he appeared. “You want a drink?” she asks. “G and T?” “That’s my favourite, too!” We cheers to that. “I’m sorry about that,” she gestures back to the den. “I just can’t imagine you would want to talk to me after finding out that I play with film for a living.” “Are you kidding? I study dusty old case files all day. Besides, it looks like you do a lot more than just ‘playing with film.’” I gesture to the camera lying on her chest. She blushes. “Thanks.” “My brother’s a photographer, too,” I add. “It seems I’m destined to love photographers.” There’s an uncomfortable pause. “Photography, I mean. I’m destined to love photography.” Nice, Bec. She just smiles and replies: “Me too.” After a few minutes of back-and-forth, it’s clear that both of us know where this is going — namely, beyond Max’s kitchen island. We slide off of the barstools — well, she slides, I wobble — and walk to the front door. Max spies us from the living room and shouts: “Leaving already?” “Thanks for the party, Max,” Charlotte says. “Great music.” She winks at me. Behind her, Max gasps. “Look at you!” he whispers in my ear. “Bye, Maxy,” I laugh. We step into the hallway. Beyoncé’s beat accompanies us to the elevators and down to street level. We step out onto the street, already holding hands. “My car’s a few blocks away. Are you okay to walk?” She studies my legs for the first time. “Yeah, I’m fine.” “Can I ask what’s wrong?” I’m surprised it’s taken her so long to ask. The words come quickly. Better to just rip off the Band-Aid. “I have a disability. It just makes me walk differently, that’s all.” “Okay.”

Her response is so simple. It takes me by surprise. “Okay?” “Obviously,” she replies. “It’s more than okay.” She stops walking then and steps in front of me. “Rebecca, I like you.” She looks down at my knobby knees, my skinny calves. “Every part of you.” She grabs my shoulders and pulls me close. “Even your awful taste in music.” “Hey!” I cry. “Don’t do ABBA like that!” My heart races in time to her giggles. “This is me.” She points to a rusty Honda Civic parked beside a massive snowbank. My face must betray my worry. “Do you want help getting in?” she asks. “Thanks.” With one leg in the door, I feel my foothold slipping in the snow. “Woah!” I exclaim. Behind me, Charlotte mumbles: “I may have overestimated my helpfulness here.” With that, I fall face first into the car. “Well, at least I’m in!” I start to laugh, and she quickly joins in. I turn around so that I am lying on my back across the passenger seat. Her blonde hair tickles my face. Her cheeks are rosy with cold. Above her head, the roof of the car is smeared with what looks like silver eyeshadow. “What’s that?” I point. “Ha! Casualty of my last modelling gig. Pro tip: don’t try applying make-up while driving.” She adds: “Multitasking is not my strong suit.” Her eyes are gleaming, even without the eyeshadow. “Maybe not,” I agree. “But this is.” I reach up and pull her lips closer to mine. We have our first kiss sticking halfway out of a car in the driving snow. It’s perfect.

from turtle island to palestine Jenna

the gift of imagination Jenna

intentionality Rachana Peddakotla

Bentley Apostasy West Ambrose Would you teach me how to feel the word Spilling? Would you keep a light on so I can burn with it? Did Death’s white fingertips stain just for you? Did Siren’s chamber music hush to a din so that your tiny boat could pass? Might you have been a darling once; who’s darling were you? Was it Lysander, flared nostrils filled with seawater, who gazed up at your lighthouse until the end so that no harm would come your way? Or was it Augustus, ordering his fine hours around just to brush your hair at evening’s first bell, sprawling out the ink and silken scrolls, so you could lay your bare hands down by dawn? Who was your Master and who was your Slave? Who fought your wars and who wore your perfume? Who made your armor and who stayed in your spare room? Which serpent’s tongue protected you from Aesop’s wretched fables? Who swatted at the wolves and kept your quaint cottage stable while you slept? Who gave you freedom to tend to your dreams? Who tended to you in a dream? Where was the ashes of once sacred letters, tended by the desperate poker to retrieve? Whose sobriquet was buried in your faded ivory pillow, lips touching a tender spot of laced-hem too late? Where did you tend to a garden once, primrose and pale fern, dahlias and dune lilies, dragonflies and Daphnes? Are you quite sure you’ve never been turned into a tree? Or was your patience unyielding as you waited to hear, low and stealthy, the whisper of footsteps on a cobblestone at dusk? Did you walk for hours just to meet them or did they come to you? Did you stop and pluck a daisy? Did you catch a moth landing on your shoulder? Did you swat or extend a finger? (I know trouble loves to linger. I am made of that same damned ache.) Were their wings atop a violet or did you fetch a silver jar lid? Did you leave the porch light bright on purpose? Do you do this very often? Might you have been a darling once; who’s darling were you?

Whiteout 2

K. J. Creelman 40

whose gender is it anyways Jenna

Autobiovelloire

anonymous

54 50

61 57

Never give up, Never give in Simran Dhaliwal I am following my own path and wherever it takes me, I do not know where it will lead, Even when I feel like giving up, I know that GOD is everything-- my friend, my mentor, my need. Everyone used to tell me- Never give up, never give in, Even when I did not know what it meant, It was only after I lost hope, that I learnt to be resilient. Always keep in mind, to follow your own heart. Make sure that success does not make you blind And failure does not make you fall apart. The future will look much brighter, You should not wait to see what is in store, You should always be a fighter, And beyond should be the place to explore. So, in short Never give up on your hopes and dreams, they will come true whenever the time is ripe and right, The trick to that, it seems, is to NEVER GIVE UP THE FIGHT.

Self Portrait

Miriam John 66

Whiteout 3

K. J. Creelman

Alyssa Vernon

Wakanda Forever

Regal Jordana Leilah 68

Alyssa Vernon

The First Pride Was a Riot

Meenakashi

Black Trans Lives Matter

We Can’t Breathe

Alyssa Vernon

why I can’t stop breaking my own GODDAMN heart!

For a long time it felt like I was healing for my whole family. That it was my responsibility to take it and take it and take it and take it and take it and take it and still wonder,

What is it like To not feel like you take up too much space? To be loved without condition?

To not be from this land and feel like you belong, what’s that like?

And even when the hand left, I didn’t know how to breathe without necessity.

It always used to feel like I was choking.

I’m in a place of growth rather than survival. a place where you can go out for air instead of fighting for your last breath.

Stephanie Fung

GODDAMNIT

generational divergence,

cultural dissonance

But we talked of romanticizing pre-contact,

But I just think if colonialism didn’t exist, a whole lot of people would hate themselves a whole lot less.

That we’d like to think everyone was on their respective ancestral lands Naked and free, Eating fruit, with the wind in our hair.

No one had answers:

A professor once asked the class what we thought a post-colonial world could or might look like.

I have stopped looking for the light and decided to become it instead.

And yet

I have been on this Earth too long

And I am lonely in a way that chews.

My heart’s been breaking since before I was born.

But I was lucky! I’m just not sure how I had access to all that and was still deprived of so much

Chalk it up to irreconcilable differences,

dare we dream of something more than this? — v never so clearly have I understood longing as when I first held your gaze staring without permission, I never saw you coming. tell me all that there is to be known about you and I’ll rewrite my plans, maybe there’s safety to be found in this taboo love after all late august flush, your name kept secret on the tip of my tongue all summer long do we dare watch what will become? because your hands hold just enough empty space and I can see myself making a home. and I can see you giving me your secrets, my mornings in your t-shirt, your fingers slipped beneath could bring me to my knees do these thoughts follow you around too? and I’ll admit I brought you fruit just to watch the soft shape of your mouth and I’ll admit the thought of out strikes fear in my core but I want visions of your skin under morning glow I want time beyond borrowed, our moments no longer stolen

yes, there’s safety in this invisibility but there’s also complacency my love, this love is once in many lifetimes, let’s let it stop them dead in their tracks.

Reminders to Myself Miriam John 76

Prince(ss) Sasha West Ambrose Now a woman/now a man/now a model posing naked/now the scaled dragon/scorching/now the white unicorn/languid/now Eros; delicate wings splayed into rose petals/blinded/striking a canvas, someone paints a beast by the name Lover/someone says Strip for me, I know you’ve been wanting to/someone plays God with a towel’s fraying/grasp on lean, bony hips/recreates Original Sin in a Brooklyn art studio/ stains kombucha on satin/asks Are you there Satan, it’s me, The Artist?/asks Is this what Basil Hallward died for/asks Is this why Persephone goes willingly/is this why she begs so loudly to be untied/smirking/knowing the response already/knowing pomegranate seeds; dripping ruby-hot from the flesh of the fruit are always meant to be swallowed/tongued/peculiar sweetness in the hollowed darkness/ knowing Desire before Form/Form before Light/Lust before Lingering… /In a native tongue/in a foreign love/someone will whisper that evading temptations might as well be evading the MTA or a sunset during late summer or the clichéd ice skating scene in even the best of novels/ someone will laugh/lounge in your room as though it’s theirs/lounge in your arms as though you’re theirs/lounge in the violin string prison of your dreams as though it’s their misery/which slices and supercuts/ sonata to rib cage/carnage to bloom/baby, it’s the oldest rock n’ roll song known; now a woman/now a man/now a model posing naked/now the scaled dragon/scorching/now the white unicorn/languid/now Eros; delicate wings splayed into rose petals/blinded

untitled

Jenna 78

Visual and Written Autism Rainbow

Courtney Weaver

*The rainbow infinity symbol is one of many autism symbols being promoted particularly by self-advocates [Muzikar, D. (2019, April 20). The Autism Puzzle Piece: A Symbol That’s Going To Stay Or Go? The Art of Autism. https://the-art-of-autism.com/the-autism-puzzle-piece-a-symbol-of-what/) *The first letter of each word is a colour of the rainbow and each line of positive words relates to persons on the Autism Spectrum.*

Jordana Leilah

Seafoam

inbetweenness V. Chung The way I am Making my way through the cracks in the mass Searching the crowd for any vary in tone When all the tops of heads indicate no, You won’t find yourself here Enough time unseen my laughter takes its last gasp for air It subsides to a breath All of a sudden I see myself to well A transparent being, a wisp of an outline of a shape Floating and observing midair, Reduced to a pair of eyeglasses Viewing only How can they see me when I can’t even see me Is this self diagnosed Self observed A crazy illness that you’ve concocted It takes over like cancer, spreading like mould Infecting every ligament, every vein And either they don’t like me or they do- too much Wandering eyes creep all over my body and threaten to expose my insides My organs wrap their arms around themselves trying to hold themselves together cowering My skin disintegrates into thin air All these moments should break me into a million pieces But a string of in between can’t let go Has me hanging over a chasm Barely there I hang tight

Brenna Swift

Representation

this pussy don’t pop for you Jenna

Self Portrait 83

Mariam Atnasious

K. J. Creelman

Whiteout 5

Whiteout 4 K. J. Creelman

Dancing to Misunderstanding

Jad Ghazali

Your thoughts I have made mine Your fears I have courted Your explosion rings in my ears & yet love remains unclear. In the darkness I rise, Awake Unaware of my space & fearful that I no longer recognize my face. Scattered into figments, rarely palpable Pieces pulling away, distant Put together, too heavy for one to hold Separated, too light to obey gravity.

In speech, my footsteps leave a mark

In silence, I float with the laxness of a butterfly & the precision of a sharp rifler.

Words unspoken

Untraceable Drifting away as time passes by.

Jenna

i thought i was in love

When I Said Jo March, I Meant… West Ambrose

at the bayside theatre; narrow, dirty teeth of auditorium chairs were picked clean by the dental floss width of the screen, children fidgeted with their tie-dyed hands, bleeding rainbows stained from m and m’s and like a comb through the greying audience, slicked back with the smell of popcorn grease the balding head of someone’s husband grumbled his question loud enough that it draped itself over the slim wrist of the ticket boy’s watch and I said “Nope, not even halfway there yet.” I said “They still need to have a wedding, then another, and then someone dies. Probably.” I said “Have you ever thought up a better movie in your own mind, with your legs flopped over the edge of a hardwood arm as though it’s an overstuffed, cat hair covered attic chair of a throne and have you ever snuck out with your hair cut off past your chin, cut past your mother’s disapproval, cut past the stench of darned, wet wool and into the damp frenetic path of lightning?” I said “Do you ever build a family out of a circus and a circus of out of an ink quill and an ink quill out of a family drama where the word Daughter is drowned under newsboy caps and city skylines and strangers with touches softer than country rain who follow their own ruin the way they used to follow your steady hand at the helm of an imagined ship?” Captain, that boy used to call you. Captain. Never like it was a bad thing, just like it was natural and you loved him for it. You did. Maybe you just didn’t know the name for it back then. Or

maybe you thought reading Walt Whitman meant the road ahead was still wider and the bodies you had yet to try on were more plentiful than a prop box backstage at an old community Christmas play. Or maybe there is a sore, splintered secret inside all of us, the way there is the silhouette of an object inside a carved book. “But only the silhouette,” I said. “The object long gone.” (Or never there in the first place.) Only the silhouette; the archetype of longing; the starched hem; the patriarch, the outlaw, the protector; Thessalian traveler to that forbidden picaresque. The rapscallion. The soldier. The catalyst. The boyhood lover. The boy. “But only the silhouette,” I said. Only the silhouette.

society, who? Rachana Peddakotla 88

cough syrup C.H. Wessel i have to start by saying i hate change just as much as i hate the taste of cough medicine, or maybe more. but there comes a time when i need both. although, i’d rather take a bottle full of Buckley’s

layers 89

Jenna

shifting Rachana Peddakotla

Whiteout 6

K. J. Creelman

Soaring Heights Lackshana

Despair Jordana Leilah

Andrew O’Dea

Boreal 2

Mina Murray Cont.

May 27th, 1893

I have a husband, but I don’t love him. Well, I’m about to have a husband who is indefinitely away on business and you might have a room full of suitors hanging themselves on your jeweled wrist the way tarot cards beg for an audience on a silken tablecloth before they’re flipped over. Lucy; one will say your name like a mystery, the other an inquiry, the third, a gift. Lucy; How many times have I said your name since girlhood: smiting embers, flaming corals, tongued ropes of pearled syllables wept on pillows, kept in purses, breathed soft and sinuous under the corner of butterfly sleeves and sung in the arpeggios of corset laces? Lucy; Tell me I am a jealous wretch. I am. Tell me it’s because you have what I have always wanted. Go on, tell me, and I’ll tell you I have always been jealous of the world that pulls back your velvet curtains and forgets to ask me if I ever wanted to share.

West Ambrose

DRACULA, CHAPTER XI

in the handkerchief drop of

Tell them I found you just in time

a lie

and I will show you

how to live Forever

Are you, are you having trouble staying awake? I have had trouble staying calm lately. I have been troubled. I have been trouble, only since the day I was born. Tell them you’ve been sleepwalking again. Tell them I found you just in time. Tell them ‘Talk of choosing makes me nervous. It upsets my already poor constitution.’ Tell them to reconsider. Tell them there’s another suitor; a man; describe him as a monster; fanged, unholy, striking as a Summer moon. Tell them of fragmented nightmares fragrant as damasks or the folds of your new dress; powdered pink, fine as a petal; ruined; Ravaged. Describe his hunger: at the base of your exposed throat, the curl of your unpinned hair, the honeyed meeting of your warm thighs, the torn wildflowers from your garden bed; trampling the serenity of a well-manicured estate. Distract them with some lurid myth about the creature that leaves abruptly; bruises blooming, screams curdling, gashes wide open and flowing under the insistence of teeth; some beast who is hungry enough to drink Your Blood and then tuck you back into your four-poster after.

II.

To Be Held

C.H. Wessel

what do you do when you are just longing to be held to be held and rocked a comfort that brings you back to your mother holding you after scraping your knee to your first love telling you they will never leave right before they do to your abuser singing Bob Marley in your ear “Every little thing is going to be alright” the desire is innate human contact it is a reminder you are not alone in the loneliest headspace but it is dangerous vulnerable like a cat stretching out in front of you exposing their stomach falling asleep knowing that they will be safe these two instincts fight against each other the need to be held knowing it will bring comfort the need to protect yourself knowing that two out of three times lead to heartbreak and now you’re too old to be held by your mother

Where Am I

Lackshana

I have been: On walks that are familiar Near the horizon Many moons away, from Your smile Over the years With people who have grown with me Next to the garden and lone tree Yet, I haven’t been: my Self.

A Letter to The Nile Yara Hussein To the Nile in my veins, I heard you’ve been hurting. You’ve given so much life, and yet you’re treated so poorly in return. Your history flows in my body. Your history is mine, and I know what you deserve. I know I left you and went far away, but I’ve grown on my journey. I hope to someday be able to pay you back with what I’ve learned. You deserve far better than this, as do your people, the people of the Nile. My people. I’ve migrated to a place whose people rely on water to live. I’ve been submerged in the waters of Turtle Island, and the Lake has whispered to me the stories of her past and of her people. In my 12 years of swimming in Lake Ontario I’ve learned of the colonizers who flooded the waters with their ships and have displaced the Indigenous peoples of Turtle Island. The waters here are not as clean as they may seem. They’re riddled with a bloody past, strife with conflict and injustice. And a present, pierced with prejudice and restraint. Similar to your waters, dear Nile, the waters of Lake Ontario and Turtle Island have been stolen from her rightful people. Do you recall, Nile, the days we’ve spent together on your shores? Now that we are apart, I worry for you, as I am certain you worry for me too. I recall my first days here, so soon after our parting. In this strange land that had yet to welcome me, I faced discrimination from the descendants of the colonial settlers. At only seven, I already knew this place wasn’t going be synonymous with you. It wasn’t going to be my home. I was lucky enough to have been taught about the history of this land by my third-grade teacher within a year of living here. At such an impressionable young age, I began to learn how this land rightfully belongs to the Indigenous Peoples. And that the very people who made me feel like an outcast, weren’t truly from here either. My faith teaches me to be spiritually connected with nature. That’s why I’m writing and confiding in you. I hope this letter sails across the Atlantic safely and reaches you.

I pray to live through a time where bodies of water, like you and Lake Ontario, can feel liberated once again. Where there’s an overflow of fish that can be supplied and eaten by the people. Where you are rightfully cared for. Where you can breathe. I hope to see you soon. Dearly, Your Daughter in Lake Ontario Yara Hussein I wrote this poetic letter to my homeland of Egypt, more specifically to the Nile river, from the perspective of my current positionality as an immigrant settler on Turtle Island surrounded by Lake Ontario.

liberation

Alyssa Vernon 98

we affirm the radical nature of art Jenna

100

@CollectiveReflections

@collectivereflections_sic

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