an anti-oppressive publication about feminism, anti-racism, queer identity, anti-poverty, mental health, and (dis)abilities
Volume 4 2016|2017
acknowledgments Social Issues Commissioner: Lea Keren Deputy Commissioner, and Editor-in-Chief: Rylan A. McCloskey Editorial Team: Queen’s Feminist Review: Alex Lloyd CultureSHOCK!: Asantewa Nkuah OutWrite: Jen Gleason BaseLine: Hayden McKnight HeadsUp: Jordana Waserman Able: Haley E. Kenna Printing: Dan Graham and Allan Graphics Cover Artwork: Untitled by Brittany Giliforte _________________________________________ We acknowledge that Queen’s University sits on the traditional lands of the Haudenosaunee & Anishinaabe peoples Ne Queen’s University e’tho nońwe nikanónhsote tsi nońwe ne Haudenasaunee tánon Anishinaabek tehatihsnónhsahere ne óhontsa. Gimaakwe Gchi-gkinoomaagegamig atemagad Naadowe miinwaa Anishinaabe aking
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editor’s note Collective Reflections was created four years ago with the purpose of uniting the voices of marginalized people from all backgrounds across Queen’s campus. Collective Reflections was meant to be much more than several sections on disparate social issues, but rather a whole publication which utilized the shared space to demonstrate that our identities do not fit neatly within a single category. This year, inspired by the original mission, we focused on creating a publication with intersectionality as its framework. We are sharing content which speaks across social boundaries and recognizes how experiences differ, even amongst those who share an aspect of their identity. We also created BaseLine: An Anti-Poverty Review, because we sought to highlight that poverty is a systemic struggle, and a feature which can further oppress otherwise marginalized members of society. In this fourth volume of Collective Reflections, I hope that you will see the inaugural vision: a publication which collects the thoughts & experiences of our community, and amplifies your voices in solidarity with each other. Our editorial team has worked with the community to share thought-provoking and awe-inspiring works of written and visual art. This year I was able to experience the profound passion and skill of 6 amazing editors, who dedicated a substantial amount of time and energy to develop the publication before you. I want to thank Alex, Asantewa, Jen, Hayden, Jordana, and Haley for their commitment, and I want our readers to know that they made this volume possible. I would like to thank the Social Issues Commission team: Aniqa, Lauren, and Claire, for your inspiration and for your rationality when I came against tough decisions; and Lea, for your ability to be both a mentor and a friend, and always knowing which one I needed the most. I would also like to extend sincere gratitude to Dan Graham and Diane Milina, who are the everlasting features of Collective Reflections. Both Dan and Diane work with the new editorial team each year and help to ensure that our publication carries on. Finally, I want to share my appreciation for everyone who contributed their work to be published in this volume. We have all benefitted from your creative talent, and we hope that you remain inspired and determined to use your creative expression to challenge oppression. Truly Yours, Rylan A. McCloskey
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table of contents Acknowledgements 2 Editor’s Note 3 Table of Contents 4
Queen’s Feminist Review
She is Her Mother by J. Chasse She is Her Mother by J. Chasse Origami by Jessie Read Day #81 by Darlene Perry Earthrise Sydney Simpson You. by Adriana Sgromo You like? by Leigha Stiles Artist Statement by Leigha Stiles Do you like me now? by Leigha Stiles Fading by Chelsea Hollidge What is Woman by J. Chasse Collective Exasperations by H.S Daily Grind by Sonya Fesiak Day #50 by Darlene Perry The Bear Woman by Da In Ann Choi Open Doors by Oshaen-Lynn Swartz
9 10 12 12 14 17 18 19 19 20 24 25 26 27 28 32
CultureSHOCK!
Eye of Tiger by Darlene Cousineau Confetti by Lucia Yeon Su Park Sirens by Vanessa Ajagu Untitled by Brittany Giliforte Mixed Chick by H. S I Wonder What You See When You Look At Me by Marissa K Chicoyne
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35 37 38 39 40 44
table of contents
Appropriation by Anonymous First Daffodils by Jennifer Schnarr Risto Inherited Insecurity by Sana’ Richards Spring Rains by Tanya Gwen Minnick The Struggle of the Mixture by Anisha Phillips The Limits to White Privilege by Ishaan Selby
46 46 47 49 52 54
OutWrite
Liberté, Égalité, Bisexualité by Ramolen Laruan Untitled by Hope How It Felt to be Loved by You by M.S. Language by L.M. Never Alone by Morganne Blackwell Remember When by Jenna Vasiliki Finley To Thelma From Louise by Julia Carrie Acceptance by Morganne Blackwell How to Love Someone in Four Easy Steps by Steph Keilhack Orlando by M K Allan Elegy for Delia’s Memory by E. Boothby Miracles by Jessie Read Plant Seeds of Love by Tanya Gwen Minnick
59 60 62 64 65 66 68 69 70 72 73 74 78
Artwork Against Oppression
Lost by Sonya Fesiak Tears of Hope by Tanya Gwen Minnick Fragility of the Body by Lee-Ann Taras Aphrodite 80 by Benjamin Murray Love is Victory by M.C. Does this please you? by Leigha Stiles
80 81 82 83 84 85
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table of contents
How about now? by Leigha Stiles Night Of by Sonya Fesiak Morning After by Sonya Fesiak Day #59 by Darlene Perry Day #95 by Darlene Perry Asexuality by Julia Carrie Asexuality by Julia Carrie Holding Back The World by Ashlyn Fieldhouse Exp by Benjamin Murray Two Forward One Back by Sonya Fesiak St. Nick by Matthew Baker
85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95
BaseLine
Untitled by Hope Dear Professor Choice by Anonymous Hay Daze by Samual David Wilson Hay Daze by Samual David Wilson Enough by A.N. Happy Place by Nicole Belanger Untitled by Hope Imagine by Sonya Fesiak Making Queen’s a Food Secure Campus by Cole J Smith Poor Pain by RMC Locked Out by RMC
99 100 101 102 103 104 106 107 108 110 111
HeadsUP Untitled by Chelsea Speck I Won’t Talk About it by Nicole Belanger To Plan a Death by K.C.B
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113 115 117
table of contents
Untitled by Chelsea Speak Punica Granatum (Grenade) by Morgan Sterling Selfish by Jessie Read If Milk Cartons Could Talk by Stophe Foster Untitled by Hope Life in a Plagued Mind (Schizophrenia) by Stophe Foster What I Could Say by Nicole Belanger What are you so afraid of? By Chelsea Speck On Revealing Self-Harm by E. Boothby Recovery by Jessie Read July 2014 by Andrea Howard Wolves by Sarah-Louise Ruder
118 119 120 122 123 124 125 128 129 130 133 134
Able
Deepsee by Benjamin Murray Vulnero, The Wound by HEK Untitled by Ramolen Laruan Able by Taylor Katzel My Love of Books by Courtney Weaver Treeple by Benjamin Murray Fragility of the Body by Lee-Ann Taras Mall Walker by Anonymous Untitled by Brittany Giliforte Fragility of the Body by Lee-Ann Taras Unexpected Beauties by Sofia Melendez Untitled by Brittany Giliforte Hi by Benjamin Murray
137 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 147 149 152 155 156
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Feminist Feminist Review Review
She is Her Mother J. Chasse
when her eyes narrow and she sucks air through her tiny lips she could be her mother when she wears anger like a thick layer of makeup she could be her mother when she takes his sweaty hands off of her skinny throat she could be her mother when her fingers cover her pretty face and her eyes close so he is no more she could be her mother when she says she will kiss again but only after she cuts up one dozen new men she could be her mother and when he looks at her with red eyes and says you remind me of your mother
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Editor’s Note I am very proud to be able to share with you volume 25 of Queen’s Feminist Review. Feminists have always used various forms of artistic expression to come together over shared experiences of gender inequality, and I am grateful that Queen’s Feminist Review gives students and members of the Kingston community the ability to engage with different forms of creative emancipation. With the events of the past year, I feel strongly that creative spaces such as these are needed more than ever to highlight intersectional voices that society tries to stifle. Moving forward, having an inclusive platform like Collective Reflection that elevates the most marginalized voices in our movement will be even more important. I would like to thank each contributor which made this year’s publication possible, who sought to raise their voice about injustice in a culture that so often tries to silence them. To all of the 2016-17 Collective Reflections Editorial team, thank you; this publication would not be possible without your dedication and passion to social justice on campus. To the Social Issues Commission of 2016-17, thank you; this campus would be a less accessible and inclusive space without your hard work. To the reader, thank you for choosing to read and engage with the ideas contained within this chapter. Alex Lloyd QFR Editor, 2016-2017
Trigger Warning This section’s content contains themes that may be triggering for some. Please be aware that there are discussions pertaining to disordered eating, depression and self-harm (“Origami” and “The Bear Woman”), as well as content related to sexual violence and victim blaming (“Fading,” “You.” and “The Bear Woman”). “The Bear Woman” also contains depictions of childhood sexual assault. Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 11
Perry
Day #81 Darlene Origami
Jessie Read i felt the most powerful when i wasn’t eating folding my body into origami, trying to fit smaller like a paper crane, wasting away it was the only time i truly felt beautiful i try to tell myself that my stretch marks are stitched together illustrating my lineage, like zebra stripes, raw broken flesh a glistening sunset on skin, a horizon saying you are here my survival felt like cremation because what is cremation if not shrivelling up into powder i loved my power loved the fragility i felt when my weight was the only thing i could control because the sky may wrap its arms around me like hot chocolate mornings hold me in a bear hug, screaming words too holy for my ears kissing my creaking hollow bones every night singing me to sleep but i mistook control for shackles 12 | Queen’s Feminist Review | Collective Reflections
my weight used to fluctuate based on how much i hated myself i would binge into nirvana, then ignore any morsel of glowing salvation of floating pearly gates food too eloquent for sinners pining for scrub heavy felt like dying prying i am a crying, crackling, submissive woman bred to be small bred to be nothing because real women don’t take up space we’re just rust, and bone, and shrivelling shrunk into ash after kindling has run out my crackling spine knows my sorrows when bone taste like longing and after recovery how beautiful it is knowing that eating doesn’t feel like a land mine anymore every calorie an explosive how beautiful it is knowing that showers won’t feel like the morgue waiting to be put into the ground like my body’s seen bloodshed, like the tiles are a battlefield i felt claws ripping me open wearing myself like broken porcelain, wanting so desperately to be what’s expected of me and what are expectations if not something you were taught fuck what we’ve been taught i am unlearning what i’ve been taught because i am so much more, than origami
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Earthrise
Sydney Simpson Mother Earth arose to the familiar beauty that had surrounded her since her birth. While the life in her began to follow its tedious rituals, she admired the planets that surrounded her, as she did every day. She envied Mars for its striking ruby shade, and Jupiter for its ability to take up space unapologetically; but of all the celestial bodies, she admired the Sun most. The Sun was a mystery to her; a massive, golden, spherical beauty, flowering with more radiance than Mother Earth would ever be capable of. It seemed to her that the Sun was content with its place in the universe, and nothing more. Mother Earth, however, was in constant search for her place, as she had always felt different. For years, she puzzled over what made Life, she concluded, her different from the other planets; was that had betrayed and it the way she spent her days constantly mistreated her. Life revolving her life around the others? Was that had destroyed it her mediocre size? She believed she what could have been did not hold the wisdom needed to fix beautiful. her endless problem. For many days and nights, Mother Earth nearly thought herself into madness, until the day she realized that she was the only planet that supported life. Life, she concluded, that had betrayed and mistreated her. Life that had destroyed what could have been beautiful. Mother Earth became angry and full of resentment. She decided to do what she wanted most in her life: she decided to belong. Suddenly aware of her overwhelming control, she began to starve herself of that life. Almost instantly, those who had created powerful civilizations had their centuries of history taken away by roaring tsunamis, thousands of feet high. As each disaster suffocated, drowned, and burned what was in her, she felt happier, as she was one step closer to belonging to something much bigger than she ever imagined. Finally, after the oceans had dried into nothing, she found herself becoming happy. Despite being clouded by the ashes of all that once was, Mother Earth began to see herself in a new light. It seemed to her that the surrounding celestial bodies were celebrating her newly found beauty. The moon shined brighter, and the stars became more clear, but the most important of all, the Sun, remained the same. Despite her newfound happiness, there was still a tiny voice, almost a whisper, inside 14 | Queen’s Feminist Review | Collective Reflections
Mother Earth. “Impossible,” Mother Earth thought, “nothing could survive the storm I created.” She was ignorant to the fact that this voice could not be created, nor destroyed: it had always been there.
Finally, after the oceans had dried into nothing, she found herself becoming happy.
Though the days were bright and filled with possibilities, the nights grew cold with loneliness. She missed hearing the laughter and the music she had become so familiar with. She reminisced the love and joy that existed in her. “No,” she stopped herself. “This is the one thing I have searched for since the beginning of time, and now it is mine. I should be grateful.” And with that, Mother Earth found an uncertain peace with the void. Then one night, as all the planets had gone to rest, Mother Earth could no longer ignore her hunger for life. “Please,” the voice pleaded, “one more chance.” Mother Earth felt an anger in her rise. She was supposed to be happy, stronger than she was before, but this voice made her feel weak; it brought her back to the Earth she no longer was. The voice was soft now, “give yourself one more chance.” “This is my chance,” Mother Earth cried “This has been it from the beginning. I’m happy.” Everything had become quiet, and for the first time since the disasters, Mother Earth felt her dissatisfaction with who she was creep from the emptiness in her. Afraid of returning to the place she had been, Mother Earth let her false security go, and simultaneously, the emptiness that had haunted her from the beginning had disappeared into the vastness of space. The voice had returned, growing more familiar with each word. “This land was yours, and despite what you think, it still is. It is dirty, brown with the ashes of the beauty you had cared for, and it needs you. It needs you more than ever, and only you have the power to fix it.” Mother Earth, still unsure of the strength within her, felt hopeless. The voice aided Mother Earth in the only way she knew how. “Please,” the voice pleaded, “one more chance...Give yourself one more chance.”
“You didn’t feel isolated because of the life in you, Mother Earth. You felt isolated because all this time, you believed something was wrong with you. The life that was in you was your strength. It still can be, but you must feed it. You must treat it with the admiration you hold for everyone else.” Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 15
Mother Earth was entranced by the power the voice had. It had spoken with such confidence, with such certainty and beauty, and as the voice grew silent, Mother Earth had decided her first step to recovery was to uncover the strength that had been in her all along. The challenge of rebuilding her ruined land had proven to be the hardest thing Mother Earth would ever face. She had to rediscover who she was, and how she would use her strength to better herself and those around her. The change in herself wasn’t noticeable to any of the planets, but she accepted that; she no “The life that was longer had to prove herself to anyone. She in you was your was who she was, and she would only focus strength. It still can on how to learn to love that. As it was, Mars be, but you must still glowed crimson and Jupiter remained feed it. You must colossal. However, the Sun began to shine treat it with the brighter; its warmth and radiance engulfed admiration you hold Mother Earth, and became a reminder for everything else.” of her ability to rise from the ashes of yesterday. This time, as she admired the surrounding celestial bodies’ beauty, she felt a sense of confidence arise. It was then that she felt the first form of life grow: a tiny, green sprout, the first of many colourful things that would take its rightful place once more. She was finally certain in her beauty, and it was then that she discovered why the voice had been so familiar: it had always been her own.
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You.
Adriana Sgromo “How could you let that happen?” Were not the words I had expected to find tumbling off your tongue triggering the dynamite in my ears that set the fine hairs on the back on my neck to attention “How could you let that happen!” Were the words you spat into my lap where your head rested a moment before you jolted up, like you had just jumped into a getaway car, accused of being an accessory of my stolen body. “How could you let that happen?!” “I’m sorry. I thought you already knew.” Were the words I spoke as the dynamite imploded, boulders landed in my gut. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, like a slab of broken cement: a useless, broken thing not even worth stepping on. But I am sorry. For both of us. It’s these moments that turn three months of violence into six years of trauma.
Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 17
Leigha Stiles You Like? 18 | Queen’s Feminist Review | Collective Reflections
Leigha Stiles Do you like me now?
Artist Statement Leigha Stiles
These works question the role social media has placed on women by emulating photos seen on social media platforms, such as Instagram. The prints include the text “Yours”, implying that women are giving themselves up to the viewer. Women will often post these types of photos for the objectifying approval they receive on social media, and for those who view them as sexy or attractive objects. The prints ‘Does This Please You?’ and “How About Now?’ featured in the intersectional art section are a part of this series.
Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 19
Fading
Chelsea Hollidge Late at night, while walking home I saw my breath make clouds of fading smoke. I watched the air that filled my lungs Rejoin the world as crisp and clear as it had felt inside me. Late at night, while walking home My nose was cold and hands were rigid. I held my head high to glance around the empty streets, Looking at the beams of light shining down from sparse lampposts. With each step I took, I felt the warmth of my destination beckoning, Letting the thought of a comfy bed and cup of tea Fuel the increase of my pace. With each step I took, I shed the worries of the day And felt the joy of my accomplishments, Letting the strain carried on my shoulders relax, at last. Snap. A branch. Behind me. My head spins. I see nothing. I feel everything.
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Just like that, My heart begins to race, Knees begin to shake, Eyes wide with fear, Each cloud of breath now thick and tainted. Just like that, Sinister laughter comes creeping into my mind like a fog, You thought you were safe? They snicker. Taunting me, testing me. I turn around and keep walking, Rushing to safety past the light of each lamppost, Trying to ignore the feeling of hands all over me As my head sinks back into the black mud of defeat. I turn around and keep walking, But my mind is captured by a dark presence, One I know too well, One I have fought before. I thought you were fading I respond, feeling the sting of tears forming in the cold, The memories resurface Like the steam of a kettle billowing out the spout, hot and unrelenting. I thought you were gone My soul aches and my chest tightens. I sense them keeping pace with me, Nipping at my heels, coaxing more emotion from my tired soul.
Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 21
Don’t they know I gave them all I had? All the tears, The shame, The agony. Don’t they know I feel it everyday? But it was fading. As I try to ignore the thought of rough hands around my neck, The deafening voices of my past keep calling me. Don’t you remember? They ask, in their deep, sickening tones, We were your friends, remember? Your lovers, remember? You trusted us. Don’t you remember? We were strangers, remember? It was our birthday, remember? You were drunk. They keep talking, Retelling each story, Like I hadn’t replayed them a thousand times, Like I could ever forget. They keep talking, Their chatter is so loud, I can barely hold myself together, Barely stop myself from dropping to the ground and screaming.
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Just like that, I’m 16, Staring at myself in the mirror in a stranger’s bathroom, Wondering what just happened to me. Just like that, I’m 19, Trying to convince him to let me leave, Wondering if my neck will be bruised the next day. With each step I took, I was brought further back into my darkest days, When I wanted to give up, When I thought I was worthless. With each step I took, Another tear froze to my cheek, My heart was cold, My mind was boiling over. Late at night, while walking home My shadow grew ten times its size. My demons broke through the ground I had buried them And once again dug their claws into me. Late at night, while walking home A dead branch fell, snapping, hitting the pavement. Though my pain was healing and the fear was fading, Old wounds tear open with one simple sound.
Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 23
J. Chasse What is Woman J. Chasse
she is not made of water she is not made of milk our flowers grow in blood, darling that’s what makes them strong as silk 24 | Queen’s Feminist Review | Collective Reflections
Collective Exasperations H.S.
I am walking A male approaches He says hey and winks I gasp in horror and fly into the sun I am dancing At a club It’s lit Hands on my waist I turn And throw a right hook My night is amazing The wind It howls as I walk downtown I hear something I turn Men from the curb They whistle I am not a cat But I am a tiger I eat them for dinner Chatting With friends Talking about politics A guy speaks He explains what I just said But slower He must have a different sense of time and understanding
Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 25
In class Chillin’ I hear chatter And laughter There is a joke That women are only good for cooking I grin as well My knife skills are impeccable And I know how to cut open an ignorant person Haha
Daily Grind Sonya 26 | Queen’s Feminist Review | Collective Reflections
Fesiak
Day #50 Darlene Perry
The Bear Woman Da In Ann Choi
99th day. I’m so close. Stella feels for the dry, brittle grass close to the plum tree. She had knelt on the same dying grass every night for the past few months. She chose this spot because she could lean onto the rough, prickly bark of the plum tree, which helped her to bear the cold as she thought of the bear woman in her storybook. On the 100th day of the bear woman’s trial, the bear woman attained the human body she wanted. Stella closes her eyes, wondering whether something special will happen because she is so close to the end of her own trial. As she steadies her breath to count each cut of the wind against her face, something startling cold touches her lashes. Stella opens her eyes. A sheet of white falls upon the ground, becoming steadily stronger. She closes her eyes again: Darkness. But with each touch of snow upon her head, lashes, and lips, she feels comfort in the darkness. *** In the closet, the darkness is stifling. Stella can’t breathe. When she On the 100th day of hugs her aunt’s fur coat, imagining it’s her the bear woman’s blanket, Stella merely sees the fur coming trial, the bear woman to life, clasping her throat. She waits. attained the human They’ll go home soon. body she wanted. “Stella? Stella! Where did she go?” Stella closes her She hears her dad’s voice. eyes, wondering “I can find her for you.” Another whether something voice, her uncle’s, intercepts her dad’s. special will happen “No, Andrew. I should look for because she is so Stella. It’s my fault for not disciplining her close to the end of well.” her own trial. “I don’t mind. You wait here, okay?” Stella wraps her aunt’s coat around her head, her hands trembling inside the fur. “Stella, I know you are here.” The voice is a lot closer now. Stella knows he must be approaching the closet. She closes her eyes and buries her head deeper into the coat, knowing that he can see her even if she can’t see him. 28 | Queen’s Feminist Review | Collective Reflections
“I found you.” She hears a creak and sees the light filtering in through her closed Her skin would eyelids. “Come out.” The door swings open also follow the and she feels a hand groping around her bear-woman’s chest. When she refuses to budge, the hand transformation and lifts her into the air, and its hard surface toughen into the moves from her chest down to her stomach bark of the tree. to a place between her legs. “I found you.” *** In the washroom, the darkness is more open. Stella crouches against the tub; its cold, plastic surface burning against her shoulder. “Stella, come out!” “Does she always do this?” “No, Andrew, I’m so sorry. She’s normally well behaved. It’s just when we visit here that she runs away and won’t come out of the washroom.” In the washroom, Stella could use the lock. She hears the pounding of the door becoming louder and louder, but she doesn’t budge. She’s safe. *** Another day. After dinner, Stella locks herself in the washroom, and forces her hand down her throat, as a deep burning moves from her stomach to her tongue. The inside of her surges, as the emptiness fills her head until it… comes out. It’s always like that. The suddenness. A fall that seems to involve her whole body. The shame that drives her head to scream. Yet the joy of letting go marks the strongest moment of shame, as a thick liquid of deep yellow, mixed with blood, exits her mouth. Now there’s nothing left except bitterness. She lifts her eyes to the mirror over the sink. The eyes of the woman she sees scares her. The woman’s eyes look scared too: her wide, black pupils are tinted with grey. She stands up on her tiptoes to look at the woman’s upper legs and hips. There’s flesh, but only the bare minimum. Her legs look more like a wrinkled trunk of her plum tree. She thinks of bear woman’s fur smoothing into the curve of the human bones. Her skin would also follow the bear-woman’s transformation, and toughen into the bark of the tree. There would be nothing appealing in her body - nothing to invite a touch. She takes out her mascara to paint a thick line running across her eyelids. She’s strong. Her legs, like the plum tree, can only command respect. People would look up to her, instead of viewing her as an object, as they do Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 29
with fleshy women. I’m strong, Stella whispers to herself, as she convulsively dabs mascara on her lid instead of her lashes. The black colour helps her to forget many things, but her hand falters as she remembers this afternoon; when her dad, his hand trembling over his mouse, turned to her and said, “I’m sorry, Stella.” Stella knew what it meant. She asked her dad to stand up against him, and believed that because this was her 100th day, the day the bear woman became human, her dad’s support would complete her trial. “Dear Andrew: My daughter, Stella, told me today of all that happened and I wanted to say on her behalf…” She remembers how her eyes paused, glazed over the words on the screen when her dad stopped typing. “I’m sorry.” His apology echoes in her mind as her she moves onto her silver eye shadow. The woman in the mirror, despite the heavy blackness of mascara, doesn’t look so strong anymore. I’m strong, she repeats, but her lips tremble as something wet burns her cheeks. *** Michael was her first friend whom she opened-up to. When she arrived at his doorstep, her face stained by sweat and tears, he took her in his car and drove to an empty parking lot. “What a bastard,” he says. They sit apart, he in the driver’s seat and she in the passenger’s. Stella looks out the window, thinking of her plum tree. It was her 100th day. She should have knelt in the garden if she wanted to complete her trial like the bear woman. It was the bear woman’s story that helped Stella to sustain her years of shame when she couldn’t talk to anyone about what happened. But she needed someone’s comfort, even more than she needed the I’m strong. Stella bear woman’s story, or the vision of her whispers to herself, as perfect body, tough and impenetrable she convulsively dabs like the bark. mascara on her lid She’s sitting still when she feels instead of her lashes. warmth by her left shoulder, coming closer. She shudders. When she turns, she only sees swift darkness moving towards her, and something soft and wet touches her lips and forces itself down her throat. She stretches out her arms, and pushes against the fleshy hand pressing down at her breast. What are you doing, she wants to ask, but nothing comes out of her mouth. She can’t breathe, and only sees her aunt’s fur-coat 30 | Queen’s Feminist Review | Collective Reflections
pressing upon her mouth in the darkness as it did before. Stop, she wants to say, but she feels his body harden above her stomach and legs, as his hand moves to her cervix, unzipping her jeans. “I love you.” She hears a whisper against the darkness. I found you, the voice returns. I knew you’d be here. Then She can’t breathe, and only sees her the warm, sweaty aunt’s fur coat pressing upon her touch over her cervix, mouth in the darkness as it had done running up towards before… She feels the forest of fur her empty stomach. tying her hands and legs. She can’t move. She feels the forest of fur tying her hands and legs. Desperate to breathe, she lets her head fall toward the back seat, so she can see beyond the lump of his body on top of her. Instead, she sees a dab of silver shimmering against the black cushion. Its shimmer reminds her of the way the snow fell in flakes upon her lashes. Why was she here, when she was supposed to be going through her final trial in her garden? She closes her eyes, as she wills herself to navigate through the wet turf towards the dying grass, her feet light upon the ground. She breathes. She’s in the snow. But the body over her vibrates and she feels a sharp pain as something hard forces its way into her cervix. She gasps. Where is the silver dab that reminded me of the snow? She opens her eyes. She tries to find it but the silver blurs and she wants to weep. It’s just a silver dab. Nothing but the eye shadow she put on this evening. The strong, black line of mascara couldn’t strengthen her. Not even the tree-like texture of her body helped her to become immune to his touch. The tear-stained face of a woman in the mirror, her head lowered into a splash of thick yellow liquid, comes back to her mind. She sees herself in the closet again. Its darkness remained the same. Before she can cry out, as another pain spreads through her body, both the silver and the snow melt from her lashes.
Collective Reflections | Queen’s Feminist Review | 31
Open Doors
Oshaen-Lynn Swartz
It is a frightful thing to step out of a man that you have worn like a suit of armour for twenty-something years Even harder than forgiving that man for heaving the smoke from the fire that blistered inside himself into your clean lungs and then walking away Take down the dust-ridden curtains and open your eyes as wide as doors stop confining yourself to his four wall-living. try to forget that he was your first home
It is not about the first home you built it is about building your own stable framework wearing your own suit of armour and washing the charcoal from your wholesome lungs And on evenings when longing clings to your clothes like the smoke from old cigarettes unpack the happy moments you shared with him Hang them up like photographs on your own walls Think about how wonderful a thing it is to be happy
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Resources
Sexual Assault Centre Kingston 400 Elliott Avenue Unit 1 (Rockcliffe Plaza), Kingston, ON 24 Hour Crisis and Support Line: 613-544-6424 or 1-877-544-6424 Sexual Assault/ Domestic Violence Unit in Kingston General Hospital 76 Stuart St, Kingston, ON 613 549: 6666 ext 4800 Barbara Lotan, Queen’s University Sexual Violence Prevention and Response Coordinator B502 Mackintosh-Corry Hall, 68 University Ave, Kingston, ON bjl7@queensu.ca 613.533.6330 Sexual Health Resource Centre John Deustch Centre, 99 University Ave, Kingston, ON 613 533 2959
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Editor’s Note It is 2017 and the world no longer makes sense. Or perhaps things have always been this way, and only just now have we cared to pay attention. At any rate, I’m not particularly interested in discussing the economics of awareness. I simply have this to say: now, more than ever, we need to amplify marginalized voices. We need to listen to what they have to say, and understand that no experience or identity exists in isolation. There is a continuous interaction that shapes how one interacts with the world, and how the world interacts with them. I speak of course, of intersectionality. It is a concept we took great care to convey in this volume of Collective Reflections, so I hope it finds you well. As a POC, I find that the need for representation is an issue I have grappled with often. Being Section Editor of CultureSHOCK! was so rewarding because I finally had the stories I so desperately sought out and it was up to me to determine how they would be presented. No decision reflected in this volume was made lightly. I thank all who helped make it possible: my fellow Editors, Dan, all contributors, and you, my dear reader. I encourage you to engage with this publication. Write on it, be confused, ask questions, and please, feel something. Emotions and personal investment will be great assets in the days to come. Of this, I am certain. Warmest regards, Asantewa Nkuah CultureSHOCK ‘17 Section Head
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Confetti Lucia Yeon Su Park Let’s talk about white privilege. I mainly get two types of responses. Group A: Symptoms (including but not limited to): flushing of the face. Increasing and occasional cracking of voice. Listing of oppressions one faces despite being white. Repeated use of the phrase, “reverse-racism.” Treatment: studying the concept of “intersectionality” and Halls. Group B: They agree. And this is where my piece begins. They agree about the existence of white privilege on systemic and institutional levels, shortly followed by silence. My face is now the concentration of their study; they carefully inspect my every muscle movement (or lack thereof). It is evident that I am expected to react, but I do not. Perhaps in a parallel universe, I would have cried, “thank you!” as I threw the confetti I carry in my back pocket for their acknowledgment of white privilege. But unfortunately, it is 2017 on earth, and I can no longer pretend to be satisfied with the mere observation of inequality. I will no longer prematurely celebrate the slightest hint of allyship. Credit will not be thrown at those who refuse to do more than simply admit that there is a problem. When our own pavements are soaked with the blood of our Black friends, I can no longer afford to tolerate passivity when it comes to racism. Acceptance of white privilege is not an accomplishment. It is the least I expect. I remain unapologetic for my stoic face. I remain unimpressed at half-hearted allyship. I have stopped asking whether or not one believes in the existence of white privilege. The real start of the conversation begins when we ask “what are we going to do about it?” Collective Reflections | CultureSHOCK! | 37
Sirens Vanessa Ajagu
I had a dream Just like MLK, I saw a clear picture But mine was tainted with blood, and held in the hands of a man who was secretly a ghost, underneath his blue uniform With red splatters dripping along the photo, to colour the Black vs. Ku Klux Klan white, Bang Bang The boy in the hood The boy who popped his hood Six shots to his chest In a chokehold, even after he was laid to rest
Bang Bang He who ploughed cotton His son, still a slave to Ferguson Two ropes around his neck They mock his rights, to keep him in check With gloves systemically carved to fit, The racist cops laugh, “the nigga surely did it” Died yesterday, dying today, Prepare the placards, Death’s sirens are blowing again
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Untitled Brittany Giliforte
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Mixed Chick H.S. I can never speak for others; I can only speak of my experiences. I feel a dear kinship to the town I grew up in: small, quaint, and Caucasian. I love the place dearly, and I thought I fit in quite seamlessly. I knew I had emigrated from South Africa but I felt comfortable and confident in my friends and myself. I realized I was different from my peers when we would go swimming; their hair would dry in a sleek curtain while mine dried in a cloud. My hair is one of the things that greatly separated me from everyone else, and in the summers it went hand in hand with my easily tanned skin. I would like to say that my older sister had fair skin and light wavy brown hair, so she didn’t have the same problem of looking different to everyone else. No one was ever discriminatory or rude towards me, not at all. People were more fascinated and curious that my hair (to my chagrin) seemed to defy the laws of gravity and sit in a dense curly bush around my head. This hair type was just an anomaly in my small town. I felt weird, awkward, and uncomfortable “I felt weird, awkward, and uncomfortable when when people would look at me or people would look at me comment on my hair. or comment on my hair.” “Wow it’s so frizzy!” “How do you get it so poofy?” Regardless of intent, these didn’t seem like compliments to me, and all I wanted was to have straight hair like everyone else. When I finally had my hands on a flat iron, I was ecstatic! I straightened my hair and I looked like everyone else, it was so magical! I did this throughout middle school and high school. But on the odd occasions where I didn’t have time to straighten my hair or I was out swimming, it seemed to cause a bit of a scene. It was like everyone thought they could just touch/grab/play with it whenever
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they wanted. Sidenote: I would just like to point out for those of you who may not realize that no, you cannot touch/grab/play with someone’s hair whenever you want. I didn’t mind this when it was my good friends, but I don’t think the general population understood that. And they didn’t even ask! I couldn’t believe it, I felt like a dog. Of course, I never said anything (thanks to my non-confrontational manner), but it made me wildly uncomfortable. I would just chuckle along, because what else can you do? It still seems strange to me that people actually would come up to me and pet my hair. Is that not odd? It would be totally bizarre if I went up to someone with straight hair and stroked their head and said “Wow it’s so limp!” Besides being completely rude that’s just wildly inappropriate. I hated my hair because it drew such a reaction and I wished for so long that I could have straight hair permanently. I hated that I knew I would never truly fit in with my friends because 99.9% of the school was White and I knew I was not. My attitude changed when I went to university in the city, a much more diverse place. It’s like my life did a 180° turn. Instead of being the odd one out I was completely anonymous. There were lots of people who looked like me and even more that did not at all. Cultures of every kind were represented and not one of them even looked twice at me. I absolutely loved it. I felt comfortable enough with myself to wear my hair natural instead of straightening it. I felt liberated and free to be myself, and in a place where diversity was celebrated I felt confidence that I had not felt in years. But it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Being in such a diverse place meant I had a lot of new people to meet and a lot of introductions to make. It usually goes something like this: “Hey! How are you?” “Oh hi, I’m good, how are you?” “I’m good as well. Say, where are you from?”
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Let’s stop here for a moment. This question can be understood a couple different ways, but usually I answer with the following: “I’m from a small town about an hour from here.” “But where are you from?” Ah, there it is folks. So the question wasn’t where I used to live but what my background is. “Oh, I’m from South Africa.” Usually this is enough for whoever I’m talking to, but one guy actually said this: “Yeah, but what are you? Like you’re not White, so are you half Black half White? Mixed?”
“Yeah, but what are you? Like you’re not White, so are you half Black half White? Mixed?”
It took my brain an agonizing minute to realize this guy was serious. And I didn’t really know how to answer, so I just said: “Uh, yeah, I’m mixed.” Fortunately our conversation was cut short and I made a swift exit, but it got me thinking. What am I? What is my background, really? I knew I wasn’t White, but I’m not Black either. I’m a vague shade in between. I’ve had many people over the years ask what my ethnicity was, and a few have even tried to guess. I’ve been asked if I was Greek, Portuguese, Columbian, Turkish,
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Latina, etc. I asked my parents what our family history was, and they weren’t too sure themselves. My Mum in particular was adamant about not labelling me as anything. My parents both grew up in South Africa during apartheid, so I understood her feelings behind her answer. My Dad is less concerned with that, but he doesn’t know for sure, either. To this day I am left with a vague answer: my ancestry has roots in Africa, Spain, England, and maybe even more places. I can’t confidently trace my roots the way other people can, and I am still looking for the answer. I feel like without a clear answer I’m in this limbo of uncertainty. As such, I don’t feel like I belong to any group. I constantly wonder if donning a head wrap or sporting cornrows is acceptable. On one hand I want to be proud of my South African heritage and its culture, but on the other hand I don’t want to appropriate anything from anyone. I think about these things from time to time, but I try to not let it affect me. I know there are many “I’m proud other mixed race people out there who may also of who I am; struggle with fitting in, and sometimes that gives my curls me solace and hope that I’m not alone. I’m proud are not my of who I am, and the place I’m from; my curls are curse, but not my curse, but my crown. I don’t get frustrated my crown.” anymore when people try to guess my ethnicity, I’m flattered that people think I am from such amazing places. I’m still on the hunt to find my ancestry and get a definitive answer, but even if I don’t, I know that doesn’t make me any less of a person. I know I am kind, I am creative, and I am strong. I’m proud of who I am, and I encourage anyone who feels similarly to be proud of themselves too.
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I Wonder What You See When You Look At Me Marrisa K Chicoyne I wonder what you see When you look at me Does the pigment of my skin make you angry? Am I racist because I’m White? Do I project negative with no light? Am I a prisoner to my own history? Growing up it was always a mystery Do I call you Black or Brown? Would that spark a smile or elicit a frown? Do I pay for my ancestors’ mistakes? Even when society presents them as ‘greats’ I refuse to build a wall And stand by to watch another minority fall I wonder what you see when you look at me
Are we really the “True North Strong and Free”? Do I reside in a land of hate? This really isn’t up for debate I feel confined by your constraint I’m not the perfect picture that you paint Mama said “hold your head up high” Don’t mistake their kindness, it’s all a lie My life matters, I don’t wanna die Are you listening now? Do you hear my cry? I wonder what you see when you look at me Do you see my whole entity? The pain and the sorrow The struggle of today and tomorrow The hurtful comments and slashing eyes
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I don’t want to live in disguise I want to be who I am Not add light filters on Instagram I want to embrace all I can be But first be sure that you see me What do I see when I look at me I feel as though I’m the one that holds the key To not see myself how others do How would you feel if I oppressed you?
If you had to walk a mile in my shoes Please tell me, what are you willing to lose? My people are still out here dying And for some reason you can’t hear us crying But I am more than what you make me My roots are dug, you will not shake me Here’s hoping one day you see me as Black And treat me equally just for that
I wonder what you see when you look at me… Are you willing to see what I see
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Appropriation Anonymous Nourishment taken With or without Whiteness grows Sustained by the Earth daughter
First Daffodils Jennifer Schnarr Risto 46 | CultureSHOCK! | Collective Reflections
Inherited Insecurity Sana’ Richards My smiling lips, joined by sad eyes, are only the tip of the iceberg for this person that you see Beneath my everything that makes me, me Is my inherited insecurity Melanin has rendered my skin darker Subjecting me to the darkness of humanity The depths of how devastating misinterpreting differences can be My people were kings: they were proud, they were strong, they were warriors And they were classified as savages deserving of slavery Seeds ripped from the soil that had reaped prosperity, And planted in stolen land among weeds Ravaged by parasites that took the life that they breathed Because watching my people wither was akin to a need We became cargo, we became slaves, We became property, dehumanized to our graves I am every person on that slave ship, every person on that field,
Every person who has been whipped, flogged, beaten, and killed Because if I had been there, it would’ve been me; that’s the destiny I would’ve fulfilled My inherited insecurity is embedded in the fact that I’m Caribbean Canadian, or African Canadian, or African American, or is it only just African? And now I know why no matter what countries we find ourselves in, we call ourselves Black, Because having more melanin in our skin has revealed all the light that humanity universally lacks Now you still have time to go away, turn, and never look back Because this iceberg goes much deeper than just the fact that I’m Black I’m a Black female Yes, this is different, Yes, this is distinct, Yes, we are more marginalised than you would ever think Lesser than the Black man, lesser than the White woman, struggling to figure out how we fit into the mould being human Are we the Mammy, or the Jezebel? Too masculine, or just invisible?
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I believe we have been defined as E) All of the above
Gone in the wind with no remnants in the air
Denied the right to raise our own but being forced to raise our future masters by whom we would be owned Raped and brutalized, but it was never criticized, because the curves of our body clearly meant that we were oversexualized Forced to fight, so not demure; forced to struggle, so not patient; forced to be both parents because our men internalized the lies the White man had suggested Forced to take the background in the movements the world celebrated, and we wonder why in the media we’re rarely represented? Romantically we are the least sought after, of all demographics. Amongst all groups and gender combinations, we are the least attractive
Ignoring the weeds only allows them to grow You only continue their spread by pulling out the tops with your ignorance Making a wish out of your tolerance and giving it a big blow of air with no substance There is a root that needs to be dealt with But pulling out weeds takes a lot more than new legislation and political correctness
And so these inherited insecurities dictate the course of my existence: How I see myself, how I am seen, and my much needed resilience And so I try to say this truth in love, but I will not apologize: Saying all lives matter is actually devaluing mine Saying that you didn’t ask to be white doesn’t change the fact that I’m Black And saying racism doesn’t exist anymore doesn’t make it suddenly poof and disappear
It takes getting down on your knees in humility Getting your hands dirty in the mess that has been created And pulling out the stereotypes at their very roots with all of your strength And with a commitment that says no matter how long it takes, this task will be accomplished Who is actually willing to do that? My people of a different race, Are you willing to get in the mess that your ancestors helped create? And that by turning a blind eye, you have helped perpetuate? My fellow Black people, are you willing too? This state is comfortable for you
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Spring Rains Tanya Gwen Minnick
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We have become too used to being used There are stereotypes we’ve adopted, as traits of our race We’ve adapted to the environment of the weeds and have called this success My goodness, our society has a flawed view of progress
Because we planted ourselves in this imperfect soil, which was not meant to be our home
Who is truly willing to do all of that? Who?
This soil was soiled, and it perverted who we were meant to be And established the weeds of racism, sexism, and every other ism that plagues humanity Our Creator witnessed this and would’ve been righteously justified, To let us bear the consequences of our choice of Him being denied
And this is why I struggle with standing at the altar beside a White man, saying I do And believing that he would say it too It’s more than just culture It is the whole iceberg of my identity It is the roots of my inherited insecurities And yet, someone already did all of that for me I am a part of the most epic love story in all of history Science tells me that we are “X” percent different and “X” percent the same But that’s because we all have origins in the one who introduces Himself with I AM as His name We inherited the identity of being made in the Imago Dei But we are unable to escape this weeded mess on our own
We chose our slavery to an evil that corrupts And by the time we realised the condition of our chosen soil, we realised we were stuck
And yet the Creator became our Gardener, and got down to His knees, In humility He chose to pull out our self-perpetuated weeds And then He changed the soil by the perfection that He shed A new life would replace the death we lived instead When we encounter the iceberg of our identities, we crash like the titanic Not a situation that we were prepared for, not something we can manage And then there’s death and despair and unbearable tragedy Because we are unable to handle our
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inherited insecurity Look in the mirror, be honest with yourself about your inherited needs We bleed the same colour because we share the same weeds I shared with you the insecurities that underlie my eyes, my smile, my hair But recognize that there is an inherited insecurity that we, humanity, all share This insecurity is only abolished in security In the love, sacrifice, and grace that has fully set us free This is the power to change our souls and our society What I’m saying must offend, but I know it is the life, the way, the truth, and the end. You ask me how? Let me tell you It changed me, and I know it can change you
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The Struggle of the Mixture Anisha Phillips Internal conflict. Built a wall. Strength to crumble. Reluctant inside, Unwilling outside. The struggle of the mixture. The flesh, signifier of those lost, Colonial reminder. Movement. The blood, signifier of the oppressor, Pulsing reminder. Animosity. All a legacy of India, South Africa, England, Canada. Body, a contradiction. Space, is never home. Result of historical agonization. Let these hands not erase this, Present reshaping. The struggle of the mixture.
Action, an inconsistency. I taste rage in my mouth, Yet privilege keeps it within. Depending on the gaze, Half limbs, confined The rest, liberated. A betrayal of one, Is the liberation of the other. The snow hides the dirt. Impurity. On the edge, Of acceptance Of exclusion. Belonging is longing. The struggle of the mixture.
Beauty, impossible negotiation. Inside, a “pure� physicality. Trapped. Hindered by the rust of colour.
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Wanting to access the liberation of within, This tint like bars. Sure, my aggression can scare you. If you were caged by genetics, Anger could consume you. Your purity is comfort. Warm blanket of clouds, While I feel the storm. Over again. Over, Again. The struggle of the mixture.
The argument within my body. Took one half away, When freeing the other. Together forms pain, United a change. Blood and flesh in conjunction. This is what it is like, To struggle with being a mixture.
“Exotic” “Unique” “Fetish” I am a contradiction of stereotypes. Impossible to pin, Is a resistance to your narrative. Yet you keep me within. Once again, Just the struggle of the mixture.
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The Limits to White Privilege Ishaan Selby Thesis: The term white privilege is no longer useful, if it ever was. Caveat: This is not to say that White folks don’t benefit from whiteness. I am also not saying that we should stop anti-racist education and activism. Rather, this piece hopes to serve as an immanent critique (a critique from the “inside”) of anti-racist discourse with the hopes of making it more effective and capable of addressing the contemporary concerns of people of colour. Terms and Conditions Before we get into the main argument, it is helpful to lock down the definition of the central critical concept: white privilege. A common definition comes from Peggy McIntosh, who says white privilege is “an invisible package of unearned assets that I can count on cashing in each day, but about which I was ‘meant’ to remain oblivious.” This definition covers a theory of privilege in general, and whiteness in particular. In other words, this definition includes the unearned assets that a white person accrues by virtue of their whiteness, since whiteness is prized in Western society. This piece is not solely about the limits to this theory, nor is it directly responding to McIntosh’s essay, but rather it focuses on how white privilege operates. I am less concerned about the meaning of white privilege, and more concerned about how it is utilized in discourse. 54 | CultureSHOCK! | Collective Reflections
White Privilege Discourse and the Lesser-Evil: They Are Both Worse The concept of white privilege is often deployed by supposedly progressive political parties to tell POC (and other progressives) how they should vote. In the time before an election, the so-called progressive party will say something like “if you don’t vote for this candidate, then you’re privileged.”
The logic is something like the following:
1.
Our candidate is good for POC
2.
The other candidate is bad for POC
3.
You should vote for our candidate.
But what if, White progressives, your candidate (and their opponent) both fund a dictatorship that kills Yemenis? What if your candidate is endorsed and funded by the prison-industrial complex
“It is empirically clear that this radicalism has been stripped away by the appropriation of the white supremacist state.”
that makes it lucrative to keep said prisons full of Black and Indigenous people? This is the moment in which an anti-racist politics of privilege faces scrutiny. My contention is that there is a tendency for White allies to appropriate privilege discourse in order to make themselves feel better and consolidate white supremacy while performing anti-racism. Even if the term had some radical potential in its original inception, it is empirically clear that this radicalism has been stripped away by the appropriation of the white supremacist state. A “lesser-evil” party cannot claim to be so while at the same time praising police officers and supporting wars abroad. Collective Reflections | CultureSHOCK! | 55
There is not -- nor has there ever been -- a candidate in a settler-colonial state that is good for people of colour. To suggest otherwise and accuse those who do not support this rhetoric as being “privileged” is both irresponsible, and inaccurate. This is an example of appropriating vernacular common in social justice circles, but to an end that shows a lack of regard or concern for people of colour. The use of the term “white privilege” in such a context is insidious, and comes with the suggestion that all should support a candidate whose political agenda boils down to enforcing a white supremacist ideology. There is no actual concern attached to the usage of the term, and thus the sentiment comes across as performative and manipulative.
What Is To Be Done? To be clear, I am not making an argument against the idea of White people having privilege; to deny the existence of white privilege is empirically and historically incorrect and absurd. Rather, we must read whiteness as coming from a very specific history of colonization and imperialism and combat it with something more meaningful and substantive than buzzwords. Much of the theory will be generated by struggles against white supremacy, since meaningful concepts can only come from real political activity. Previous theoretical frameworks should operate in a dialectical relationship with action, where we combine theory with what has worked & will work, and discard what has not. In addition, here are some ways we can begin to think about alternatives to the discourse of white privilege: 56 | CultureSHOCK! | Collective Reflections
1.
Study whiteness. Examine the history of white supremacy as
coming from capitalist accumulation and the related mechanisms of
settler-colonialism coming into being as genocide and dispossession.
It is by keeping this formation of whiteness in mind that we can see
how it manifests today. By seeing what whiteness really is, and the
history whiteness has, we can see when the forces of white
supremacy use it for their reactionary ends.
2.
from any terms which center whiteness and present it as the default,
either in intent or effect. So we should, in generating our terms,
actively listen to colonized people involved in the struggle for
liberation. This is not to present identity as some grand source of
knowledge but rather to develop a keen ear for the resistance to the
forces of white supremacy that has always been and will always be
present until we win.
Following from the previous point, we should move away
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Untitled
by Hope
To thrive against adversity, we must resist, grow, and bloom in unexpected places.
EDITOR’S NOTE OutWrite, now in its thirteenth year of publication, explores matters of gender and sexuality in order to promote a freedom of expression and provide a platform in a world that seeks to silence us. We are here to let each other know we are valid, wonderful, and deserving of justice. We are here to raise our voices, be heard, and shatter the oppressive silences. LGBTQIA2S publications are a platform for self-expression and allow us to see ourselves represented through the voices of others. The poems, artwork, and photography you will encounter in this volume may resonate with you, dear reader, even though our experiences are unique there are often commonalities in our shared experiences as members of the LGBTQIA2S community.
This year has been filled with heartache and the community has been wracked with grief due to the injustices committed against us. This year’s publication reflects the difficulty of living in a world that constantly rejects, belittles, and murders us; however, we need to stand united and together, to share our stories and experiences more than ever, and put the shattered pieces back together and resist systemic and institutional oppressive norms. It is my sincerest hope that you connect with the voices in this volume and carry them forward as an ally or LGBTQIA2S individual. Continue to express your heart and your love for yourselves, and be proud of who you are. Jen Gleason Editor of OutWrite 2016-17 TRIGGER WARNING This section includes sensitive subjects and the content may be difficult. Please note, there are mentions of emotional abuse, physical abuse, physical violence, and negative representation in the media. There is also specific mention of the Pulse tragedy in “Orlando”.
How it Felt to be Loved by You by M.S.
I was in winter a world of bare branches hands shaking and breathing frost A blazing sun rose bringing me into spring snow melted trees bloomed in my wake We soared through our days as clouds raced by us never reaching our height We were full of light hands tracing constellations over skin and we lit the night in technicolour brighter than any moon.
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Icarus has nothing on me I dove straight into your sun heedless of consequence blinded by the intensity of your radiance but under the magic was scorching heat and at first I didn’t even realize I was burning until my charcoal hands left stains on my flesh and I fell apart as so many dying embers while your flames danced over me. I had faded my world was hidden in fog though the fire has died down my core remains molten fueling my own brilliance And I see myself rising again.
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language
by L.M.
Black on white, pen on paper, mind on display: We are drawn to the power of words to describe how we feel and how we have come to these feelings; and yet, words can never truly capture the abstract, for they are real and defined, unlike our sense of self. Words and language are part of who we are as humans and originated thousands of years ago. Language continues to grow along with us; however, it cannot keep pace with the urbanization of our world, our inner minds, and concepts of self. Language was not built to match the current heartwarming and fortunate explosion of openness to gender and sexuality. The English language has only known of binary sexes and the conflation of gender and sex as one and the same. This language is part of our world, part of our culture, part of us, and part and the people we know. To be happy, you must be willing to change your dialogue, and the words you put into the world around you; however, you must also be willing to accept that previous dialogues are still relevant and real to others. Someone who is accepting of your dialogue but does not wish to participate is not necessarily your enemy, and they can be an ally in love and respect.
Never Alone
by Morganne Blackwell
Remember When
by Jenna Vasiliki Finley
Her back arches smooth and fluid and dark Her fingers mixing into my hair till skin cannot separate from inky strands Lines leaking onto the white pillow scratching out the words I wanted to say Lines crossed out on love letters Lines in the sand spun and twirled around Twirled like arms, twisted around my back tangled sheets on an unmade bed when the giggles of two girls filled the room stacked with stress and sex and term papers fingers trace the ridges of my spine a gasp slips through like an avalanche burying the mounting memories six feet under
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Kisses repave the road taken only in memory filling the potholes caused by potshots back when her set of lips was the loaded gun alcohol on her breath, a hair’s breadth away the trigger on my tongue was taken away swallowed like the red wine we sipped the night when I became target practice She practices the moves, once second nature sliding down against the rising moon her breath blows gently across my thighs ripples carving out paths back up my sides sensitive skin begging to be touched again to be tasted and caressed and loved a nip of her teeth, love nipped in the bud Teeth and tongues clash, searing and strong the battle once waged, rehashed tonight our last stand marked by breath on my neck a quick flip of our bodies and the tables turn she captures my freckles with a knowing caress her chest rises against my falling inhibitions the white bed sheet waves happily in hand.
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To Thelma from Louise by Julia Carrie
Cheap Chicago sunrise colours running down your wrist she melts in your mouth like that gas station dust and paper hands
Cotton candy, Ferris wheel gun jammed in the motel shower rack “Keep driving,” I tell her “Just go sweetheart, it’s a long way to the coast.” How big and beautiful the sky How small and imperfect her palm against mine in the dust.
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Acceptance by Morganne Blackwell
How to Love Someone in Four Easy Steps
by Steph Keilhack
In the beginning before I really knew you you gave the “fuck me� eyes and every edge and curve of your frame was a plane for my viewing pleasure I appreciated you for your body and I lavished in your attention and detail but I have learned that this is not enough After we went skating I watched you sip homemade sangria and waited for you to make a move finally, you kissed me on the pool table and we made pancakes for breakfast the next morning I appreciated you for the way you made me feel but it was infatuation and validation and I have learned that this is not enough
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You told me you were a “lone wolf ” I found out we weren’t what I hoped we were and I howled and cried and I asked myself - how can I love someone without romance, commitment or time because, I thought, without romance I cannot appreciate you at all I distanced myself from a creature I could never understand but I have learned, Hannah, you have taught me that even romance is not enough You have taught me that to love someone you must love them independently from yourself and from your own needs I know now that instead of loving the way you look at me I must love you for the way you pick up plastic from the ground the respect you have for everyone around you and your dedication to your own happiness and well-being and I wanted to love you for the way you made me feel but I have learned that it is not enough I know you have more to teach me, Hannah you always keep me on my toes but for now I have learned how to love someone properly Loving you in the way that you want to be loved is the greatest respect that I can give you This, and more, is the love you deserve. Collective Reflections | OutWrite - A Queer Review | 71
Orlando
by M. K. Allan
I turned twenty on June 13th, 2016 I woke up next to the girl I loved it was the morning after the Orlando nightclub shooting When the investigators came to remove the bodies they could barely hear over the ringing of fifty cell phones they tune out the nightmarish sound of constant ringing as loved ones try to contact them but they just keep ringing And it reminds me I will never have the luxury of a non-political existence I am living in a world where being alive as a queer person is a rebellious act And the worst part is I bet many people have already forgotten it’s just another piece of queer history that won’t make the textbooks a history I know almost nothing of there are so few people left to teach me because they murder us They do nothing when we die in the thousands from AIDS and when they can’t do that anymore they write out their fantasies of killing us on primetime television creating worlds where no queer person gets a happy ending Maybe I’ll work up the courage to come out to my family someday or maybe the next time my mother phones me it’ll just keep ringing.
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Elegy for Delia’s Memory: by E. Boothby What you do not realize is that fiction leaves an echo reality blurs on our laptop screens they are us, we are them and they are gone now
We, your expendable niche sit propped against our bedroom walls hugging our knees, feeling a furrow between ourselves and the world ploughed raw by your nonchalance How can we clamber for each other with blind hands through the thick darkness of a whole world’s hatred? After the heterosexual happy ending we drink tea in a silent, cold kitchen hiding our hearts from the television’s eye. We reinforce our ribcage faith with sugar cubes and toothpicks atop a daisy tablecloth. By now, we are master architects of such soluble ruins of repairing those snow-forts the big boys kick over in the schoolyard while laughing Like Sisyphus, we rebuild again and again. Maybe all this would get easier if we were amnesiacs too.
Collective Reflections | OutWrite - A Queer Review | 73
Miracles
by Jessie Read
I have been told that otters hold hands when they fall asleep so they don’t float away from one another I want to believe in miracles and maybe that’s that closest we’ll come to true love in its purest form I want to believe in miracles that when people die their intricate minds never fully leave this world that heaven is not wilting above us it’s all around us in the shorelines dancing back and forth in the sun rising after dawn when the moon sets like a beautiful god
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I want to believe that it’s possible to see my life flash before my eyes even before I die I want to see everything from the black to the blue to all my conversations I’ve had pouring out of my tornado head when my heart feels like the weakest muscle in my body beating like butterflies flap their wings when anxiety says nobody will understand but wanting them to so bad I want to believe in miracles, that my Grandma’s stage four can run out the open door trailing pools of doubt behind it I never want her to catch up with it, I want hospital beds to turn into river beds to give me a level head washing all the tragedy away I want to know our corpses will not rust that my bones will decompose into dust for wishing upon stars I want to wish upon stars with you I want to believe in miracles, so badly
Collective Reflections | OutWrite - A Queer Review | 75
So war-torn families carrying themselves like tombstones will be given an answer to where their son is praying that he’s not a corpse I want them to find him I want the American dream to not only be a white picket fence family of four, with a mom and dad stay-at-home wife engulfed in chores I’m praying that people are okay with diversity like two fathers or someone who does not subscribe to the gender binary because fuck gender flows with fluidity I want God Bless America I want “It’s okay to be gay” written in rainbow in the sky, next to Westboro Baptist parades of hate every time they try to preach the sin of homosexuality so that once people come out of the closet they cannot shove them back in tell me: if they’re so holy, why do they only talk about hell? I want to believe in something holy like how the outside of some prisons can look a lot like a church how the moon on its side can look a lot like a grin these things remind us even the darkest nights give us reasons to sing
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I want legs like gospel homes a voice like a guitar string playing melodies that will fix broken angel wings I want everyone’s definition of success to be - happy I don’t mean wealthy I mean waking up everyday happy knowing the moon will never fall into the sea I want to be as righteous as the Buddhist monk who burned himself alive in order to protest tragedy I want that kind of fervor. I just want to believe that there’s something more unexplained following us to the grave but maybe the fact that we’re here shinning in this broken world we call home wearing nothing but the skin on our back, flesh and bones is miracle enough. Tell me, is our humanity all of us coexisting in centricity miracle enough for you? because that’s miracle enough for me.
Collective Reflections | OutWrite - A Queer Review | 77
Plant Seeds of Love
by Tanya Gwen Minnick
“Plant seeds of love and watch them grow.”
RESOURCES Queen’s Pride Project 51 Bader Lane, Grey House, 3rd Floor Education on Queer Issues Project-EQuIP 99 University Ave., John Deutsch University Centre, Room 342
Artwork Against Oppression Our editorial team has approached this volume with an intersectional mind from the outset, and this next section truly reflects our commitment to move beyond organizing race, gender, class, sex, and ability as exclusive categories. We have curated 19 pieces of art which speak with a unified voice against oppression, in whichever form it appears. We have placed this section in the middle of the publication because we wanted to demonstrate that intersectionality is at the centre of this volume. The editorial team wanted to present artwork in a way that transcends categorization, so that a person with multiple aspects of their identity does not have to choose which chapter their work belongs in. For example, on the fifth page you see a POC in love with someone of the same gender, who can identify as black and queer, and not as more of one than the other. We have also excluded the running-text identifying an associated chapter, because we want to leave the artwork to your interpretation of what it represents. In the first artwork, you might focus on a genderless figure ‘coming out’ from behind a stack of papers, or you might focus on the cogs from a set of machines that exacerbated economic class systems. For another piece, you might focus on the wine being spilled by someone who battles an addiction to alcohol, or you might focus on the wine glass being placed over a pair of pants referring to someone who was sexually assaulted while they were intoxicated. You can focus on any aspect of the artwork that speaks to you, and tells you a story about marginalization. You can uncover these features of identity, and the tale a piece of art may tell, but don’t let them define how you see the artwork – resist the urge to narrowly define which section the image belongs to, and resist the urge to narrowly define people you meet within a single identity. Enjoy this artwork, and the remainder of our publication, with a mind as open as the pages before you. Collective Reflections | Artwork Against Oppression | 79
Lost #81 Sonya Fesiak
Tears of Hope Tanya Gwen Minnick Collective Reflections | Artwork Against Oppression | 81
Fragility of the Body Lee-Ann Taras
Aphrodite 80 Benjamin Murray
Love is Victory M.C. 84 | Artwork Against Oppression | Collective Reflections
Does this please you? Leigha Stiles
How about now? Leigha Stiles
Night Of Sonya Fesiak
Morning After Sonya Fesiak
Perry
Day #59 Darlene 88 | Artwork Against Oppression | Collective Reflections
Day #95 Darlene Perry
Carrie
Asexuality Julia 90 | Artwork Against Oppression | Collective Reflections
Asexuality Julia Carrie Collective Reflections | Artwork Against Oppression | 91
Fieldhouse
Holding Back The World Ashlyn 92 | Artwork Against Oppression | Collective Reflections
Exp Benjamin Murray Collective Reflections | Artwork Against Oppression | 93
Two Forward One Back Sonya Fesiak
St. Nick Matthew Baker Collective Reflections | Artwork Against Oppression | 95
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Volume 1
Collective Reflections | BaseLine | 97
Editor’s Note I would like to acknowledge all the hard work of those who contributed to BaseLine; your support in the first year of this section has been phenomenal. I would also like to thank the whole editorial team who contributed to Collective Reflections, most of all our Editorin-Chief, Rylan. Your support as a reader is very much appreciated and important in creating greater awareness of the issues surrounding poverty, both within and beyond the Queen’s Community. Unfortunately, food insecurity is a very real issue on Canadian campuses and goes overlooked far too often. Poverty, homelessness, and food insecurity are also growing issues in Canada and around the world. As such, BaseLine
was created to draw greater attention to these issues, and combat any associated stigmas. Food insecurity is an especially important issue to me, as I recognize the deep-rooted emotional connection that we have with food, and the potential it has to bring joy to our lives. Food can provide far more than sustenance and can offer a sense of comfort and security. Life and university can be very expensive and no one should have to struggle to eat and survive. Working together, we can try and change current circumstances for a brighter future. Thank you for your support, I am truly honoured to contribute to Collective Reflections through the first publication of BaseLine.
Hayden McKnight BaseLine Editor 2016-2017
Trigger Warning Within this section there is sensitive content regarding the topics of poverty, homelessness, and food insecurity; some material may have the potential to elicit strong emotional responses.
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Untitled Hope
Dear Professor Choice. Anonymous
I once asked for an extension on a paper because I was anticipating a 40-hour work week. The professor said to me, “Your choice to be at work instead of writing your paper is not my problem, it is your choice.” My dad lost his business in 2008, lost all of his investments in 2010, and my family has been in debilitating debt since. My choice to attend university means $26,000 of debt for me by the end of my four years and still not enough to keep the bills paid and the fridge stocked. So, when my classmates are at the library I am selling shoes, I am pouring drinks, and I am tending to other people’s children. Dear Professor Choice, I did make a choice. My choice was to attend university despite my financial circumstances. I chose to learn, I choose to not allow monetary circumstances to inhibit my access to education and enrichment. But Professor Choice, I absolutely did not choose to be selling shoes, pouring drinks, and tending to children in the hours of the day that I should have been writing my paper. I did these things to pay the difference in tuition to stay enrolled in your class; I do these things to pay the rent on a room close enough to class, and to eat enough to keep me alert in your class. I would prefer to be sitting in the library with my classmates, having such an abundance of time to work on a paper that I am taking breaks on Facebook and Instagram. Instead I am often writing my papers in bed while dozing off intermittently, because eight hours in class and eight hours at work leaves a mere eight hours a day for me to sleep, eat, and write this paper.
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So, Professor Choice, isn’t it unfair of you to assume that I am choosing to work rather than to learn, when really, I am working to learn? Isn’t it more than likely that your classroom of 200 students holds an array of life circumstances that allows certain privileges to some that others don’t have? And isn’t it your responsibility as an educator to acknowledge these dynamics and accommodate your students, such that your classroom is accessible to all? I choose, everyday, to do my best despite the strain I feel on the hours in my day and on the dollars in my bank account. So while I choose to learn, I hope you choose to see the multidimensional lives of your students that hide behind the eight digits of their student numbers. I ask you choose to accept that; educating entails recognizing the diversity in your classroom. Sincerely, 10061336
Hay Daze Samual David Wilson Collective Reflections | BaseLine | 101
Hay Daze Samual David Wilson
Enough A.N.
when all false idols crumble still It will remain green, gold, platinum plastic and paper the withered hand reaches out to be grasped by The Machine dark wine from raisins water struck from rock the mouths cannot beg for they cannot feed and they cannot drink they know nothing but agony and toil to suffer and suffer again die a thousand deaths even the earth gives herself over she bleeds and so do her children
Collective Reflections | BaseLine | 103
Happy Place Nicole Belanger
Let’s run away to the happy place Where there are no troubles for us to face A place where tears stop streaming And people keep dreaming A place where people conquer their fears Wipe away their tears, and seize the day A place people do things that make them glad Where no one feels rejected, or alone, or sad Where people are educated But nobody gloats or brags And everyone is praised for their success Where the weather is exactly the way you like And everything is full of life Where music makes people sing and dance And everyone has the chance to live the life they’ve always wanted Somewhere where there is no demand, And people understand what it’s like to different A place where gay and straight don’t exist, there’s only love And no skin colour or style is above any other A place where no one is selfish or cruel And the definition of being cool is being yourself A place where people don’t feel pain and don’t suffer Where people can disagree, but still love each other Where everyone is considered beautiful
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And where there is no pull to be a certain size or look a certain way A place where hate and malice are non-existent And where hope and love are infinite A place where every smile is sincere And you join in on every laugh you hear Where you don’t have to worry about heartache and pain And you can go outside and dance in the rain A place where the stars shine brighter Where you feel lighter as if there is no weight on your shoulders Where there is no rich or poor And everyone is happy and no one needs more Somewhere everyone is accepted just the way they are And each person shines like a shooting star Where we can be ourselves without being judged And every day we wake up feeling loved Where discrimination doesn’t exist And race and religion could be dismissed A place where people are generous and kind A place where things aren’t “mine” but ours Where people hug, and children play Where babies are born, and people grow old together A place where friendly faces are everywhere And when you’re different people will only stare in awe and delight of something new Something beautiful that makes you, you. A place where we can wear what we want And say what we please And where people’s reactions to your opinions don’t bring you to your knees A place where being yourself is the point of the game called life No one can stop us, except for ourselves
Collective Reflections | BaseLine | 105
Make a difference, put your pride on the shelf Use your own mind, and make your own choices Don’t let others bring you down Just ignore their voices This place is a place in everyone’s mind There’s not a person who doesn’t want to find that peace in the world Let’s make this place happen one step at a time Together our world can be the place where we all shine
Untitled Hope 106 | BaseLine | Collective Reflections
Imagine Sonya Fesiak Collective Reflections | BaseLine | 107
Making Queen’s a Food Secure Campus Cole Smith, AMS Food Bank Manager
The AMS Food Bank was established by the 1996-1997 AMS Executive, marking 2017 as its twentieth year of operation. When the Food Bank’s fee was first put to referendum in 1997, it was recognised that “students are battling not only to stay in school, but to survive while at school.”1 Far from eliminating food insecurity on campus, the Food Bank has struggled to keep up with increasing demand and increasing costs of food. Queen’s is not alone in facing increasing student food insecurity. As Meal Exchange’s recent “Hungry for Knowledge” report recognised, nearly forty percent of university students surveyed at five Canadian institutions (Dalhousie, University of Calgary, Lakehead, Ryerson, and Brock) face food insecurity. Of a total sample size of 4013 valid responses, 30.7% (n=1232) were identified as experiencing moderate food insecurity while 8.3% (n=332) were identified as experiencing severe food insecurity.2 Unsurprisingly, the level of food insecurity at each institution varied, though not drastically. The University of Calgary had the lowest rates of food insecurity in each category with a total of 29% of respondents reporting some form of food insecurity while Dalhousie University had the highest rate of total food insecurity at 46.0%.1 Under conservative extrapolations from Meal Exchange’s data, thousands of students at Queen’s may be experiencing food insecurity and its detrimental effects. Indeed, food insecure students reported that their physical and mental health had been affected (23.7% and 20.1% respectively) along with 13.5% of respondents reporting that their grades had been affected.3 The study also found that vulnerable groups including Indigenous and racialized persons experience higher rates of food insecurity. 37.3% of students from white/European backgrounds experienced some form of food insecurity compared to 56.4% of Indigenous students.4
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With more students seeking assistance from the Food Bank each month, the need for long-term solutions to student and faculty poverty is urgent; poverty is ultimately the source of food insecurity at Queen’s, rather than, for example, limitations in supply and physical accessibility. Fundamental to the successful execution of any policy changes, and monetary support, is the comprehensive assessment of the state of food security at Queen’s. This initial investigation, in order to be acted on in a timely and serious manner, requires the official backing of the University – a commitment to take the findings and recommendations of the investigators seriously. Following this process, an implementation committee comprised of equal representation from students, faculty, and administration must be ready to act. The precarious position of students and postdocs facing food insecurity cannot be overstated: Swift action is critical. Each day, members of our community face immense challenges to maintaining the basic necessities of life while pursuing the fundamental human right to education. I echo the sentiments raised on this campus twenty years ago: the health and wellbeing of our community members is at stake. Silence and inaction will continue to serve as the official policy on food security until such a time that the University acknowledges the need to act. I will look forward to the twentieth anniversary of the dissolution of the AMS Food Bank – a marker of a time when poverty and food insecurity on campus finally came to an end. Such a vision is possible, but each day we delay is another day of hunger on Queen’s campus.
Bourne, Katy. “Queen’s to get own food bank.” The Queen’s Journal 11 February 1997 Silverthorn, D. (2016). Hungry for knowledge: Assessing the prevalence of student food insecurity on five Canadian campuses. Toronto: Meal Exchange. Retrieved from: http://mealexchange.com. 15 3 Ibid., 18 4 Ibid., 16 1 2
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Poor Pain RMC
Grab those CEO bastards Take them to the projects, a homeless shelter, or the worst part of Canada Have them open their wallets Showing the poor Their incredible wealth Make them feel like idiots Make them realize That selfishness is not OK! Have them told... That instead of that new Ferrari They could have saved thousands of lives! Buying food, clean water, and providing health care Show them that money has a whole ‘nother purpose When you don’t have a lot Give them a reason to give.... Show them the smile on a poor boys face When he is given a good hearty meal Or a mother Happy as can be When she is given even a few dollars Drag those rich snobs From their big shiny buildings Throw them to the dirt On even ground With the rest of the world And maybe then they will see Our pain
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Locked Out Sonya Fesiak
General Resources Good 2 Talk 1-866-925-5454 Raise the Roof 263 Eglington Avenue West, Suite 200 Toronto, ON M4R 1B1 416-481-1838 Website: http://www.raisingtheroof.org/ Email: info@raisingtheroof.org The United Way Phone: 1-800-267-8221 Website: http://www.unitedway.ca/how-we-help/poverty/ Email: info@unitedway.ca
Queen’s Campus Resources Peer Support Center Location: Room 34, John Deutsch University Centre, Queen’s University Hours: Noon-10 PM, 7 days a week Phone: 613-533-6000 ext. 75111 AMS Food Bank Location: Room 343 of the John Deutsch University Center, Queen’s University Hours: 10:00 AM-11:30AM, 5:00 PM-6:30PM 7 Days a week Website: http://amsfoodbank.com/
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Editor’s Note It is with great pleasure that I present you the eleventh volume of HeadsUP, a publication committed to voicing experiences and perspectives from the Queen’s and Kingston communities. With this, and every volume, our hope is to de-stigmatize and bring awareness to mental health issues by publishing matters of the mind. I would like to extend my gratitude to each member of the Collective Reflections’ editorial team for their dedication to engaging with antioppressive work. I hope that their surrounding sections will encourage you to view mental health as an intersectional and dynamic entity. Moreover, thank you to each and every one of our wonderful contributors who embraced their vulnerability and shared their truth in order to make this publication possible. I was blown away by the volume and quality of work, as well as the eloquence and honesty of submissions. I hope that the artwork, photography, and poetry in the next pages will resonate with you as much as they have with me. The experience of mental health can be an isolating one, but in reading through our contributors’ work, I could not help but think, “me too.” I am optimistic that you will identify multiple shared experiences, and recognize that our mental health journeys are all tied by experiences of humanness, emotion, challenge, pain, hope, and resilience. Whether you experience mental illness or not, this publication is for you. Always remember to keep your head up. Sincerely, Jordana Waserman HeadsUP Section Editor 2016-2017
Trigger Warning: This section includes sensitive subject matter that addresses topics such as suicide, self-harm, death and bereavement, disordered eating, anxiety, mood disorders, and psychosis. If at any point you feel distressed by this material, I encourage you to reach out to one of the crisis lines listed on the last page. Your feelings are valid, and you deserve to feel well. 114 | HeadsUP | Collective Reflections
I Won’t Talk About it
Nicole Belanger
I’m not going to talk about my fears Because who wants to hear that I had a nightmare about mermaids once and now, I can’t watch Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire without crying because those water bitches are scary I’m not going to. Because the list of spiders and clowns and bugs and heights and murderers is too long Because who cares that sometimes I’m more scared of life than I am of death And that I couldn’t shower when I was home alone until I was 18 years old. I’m not going to talk about the insomnia. I won’t talk about the dreams I don’t have and the nightmares I live. About the nights I don’t sleep because my thoughts don’t stop racing Or my brain doesn’t stop worrying Anxiety I’m not going to talk about anxiety About how I change thirty times in one morning because who knows what people will say? About how I talk too much when I start to get nervous And push people away because, maybe they don’t actually want to be my friend… Or how about the first time I sat on the school bus And felt sick to my stomach out of nowhere, But I didn’t know why or what it was, because what 8-year-old knows what anxiety is?
Collective Reflections | HeadsUP | 115
I’m not going to talk about my eating About the monster who told me I wasn’t skinny enough The monster that told me to stop eating Or the monster that told me to eat it up but not keep it down The one who first came around in 8th grade and took its time to grow from a mere Mike Wazowski, To a hungry beast that’s sole purpose was to keep me hungry as it ate away. I’m not going to talk about my depression About the feelings that came along when I was only 12 And became so unbearable that they were no longer feelings Because all I could feel is numb I’m not going to talk about self harm How I upgraded from eyebrow scissors To a razor blade From scratches to slits I’m not going to talk about the attempts The night I laid in the snow in -50 weather until I almost fell asleep And had to say I was okay and just looking at the stars, because my friends found me. I won’t tell you about the bottle of antidepressants I swallowed. But I also won’t tell you about how I puked up the pills. Or how my friends saved my life. Or how the scratches and slits are now only scars. How I feel again, or how I can eat properly and know that it’s okay. I won’t talk about how I don’t worry as much, Or how I’m sleeping again, Or how I’m not so scared. I won’t talk about how I got help. Or how I helped myself. I won’t talk about any of it Because I was always told you’re not supposed to talk about any of it.
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To Plan a Death. K.C.B Today I woke up and I wanted to die This is something that happens often from time to time I picked up the knife placed the blade on my skin Swift back and forth motions but no blood appeared on my wrist It’s a horrible feeling to think someone isn’t sad enough to be sick Because these suicidal thoughts in my head feel so real and thick So closely intertwined, these thoughts of dying and I They cloud my vision like a shadow and follow closely behind But when I open my mouth to express this out loud To concerned friends, family, doctors, counsellors trying to help and reach out There is always one question that seems to come up: what are your plans? Are you going to kill yourself soon? this week? today? when? where? what time? Rather than helping it appears they have another priority in mind Not to be responsible for another young adult’s death, to stop it in time Frustrated, I want to scream and shout even I don’t know! How can I tell them that even I don’t know Collective Reflections | HeadsUP | 117
Untitled Chelsea Speck
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Punica Granatum (Grenade)
Morgan Sterling
seeds small hardness sometimes, so bitter between bites of flesh sometimes, overpowering sweetness stuck between bleeding gums to become delicate we take the risk we eat as fast as we can you sometimes, devour me the way I want you to piece by piece like a pomegranate fingertips stained crimson teasing flesh from husk juice and bits of me in your hair across your face flecks of spine and tissue
palms so red I wonder if you slipped when pulling me apart and bit your hand instead does it hurt? will you still digest it binge on what you’ve done? rest not a residence but a waiting room a short term stay in the long term ward in apprehension 1 hum sickly warm fermenting I wonder will you suckle at what’s fetid? can you get past the taste?
I wonder if the stains on your shirt will attract hummingbirds or flies I wonder how much of me is starch and sucrose or rot
Collective Reflections | HeadsUP | 119
Selfish
Jessie Read
some tonic and gin, fifteen clonazepam in my mind is steel toed boots into carcass my mind is blood shot eyes turning back my mind is weighted down by gravitational pull, gravity pulling me underground when you say suicide is selfish you need to ask yourself if you’ve been there before that maybe their reality is different than yours that saying suicide is selfish is like telling an artist they cannot paint that they have to colour in-between the lines to only see things as black and white when the only colour that fits on their canvas is grey their reality is ankles chained to the floor, pulling down squeezing so tight jackknife flesh, cracked out and torn do you know how many survivors are sitting around you? do you know that suicide is never a choice? do you know how many times i’ve shrunk myself so other people could feel bigger? Robin Williams hid behind the tears of a clown felt the world so heavy like Atlas on his shoulders he let his world fall down some people can’t hold themselves together because they’ve been split in half too many times because staying alive, is not a measure of strength sometimes the stitches break because gravity has weighed down on them one too many times 120 | HeadsUP | Collective Reflections
i have learned the nights when i am hanging on a star i’m seeing things clearer than in the light because some say the moonlight is what keeps them alive knowing the sun will forever fall and the moon will forever rise i feel like the sun trying to rise after it has fallen because i have fallen so many times stumbling on my toes, we all owe it to ourselves to make sure others don’t direct us where to go i got in a fist fight with the moon last night telling it that it falls too soon because on the nights when i need a break when i’m not ready to face the next day those are the nights that teach me living, living is okay and i want to live, because all this breaking has made me more whole i wanna be stretched out like a quasar the biggest star in the galaxy continuously growing stronger let’s burn into oblivion, create a meteor shower let’s get bigger and brighter because we have every right to be here because on the nights you don’t feel like you have the strength to stay the milky way is continuously shouting in your ear there is a future and living, living is okay Collective Reflections | HeadsUP | 121
If Milk Cartons Could Talk
Stophe Foster
If you seek to find lost mind, Hold the light and look behind, If it still remains away from you, Go to the closet and look in a shoe, Not there either, a mind of plunders, Where must be is what one wonders, Perhaps it’s been gone since the other day, Look under each rock that lie in the way, Remaining lost while still so near, Up to thin walls do press your ear, Sound of none with light so strong, Climb high the rope that reins so long, Compass spins and eyes then shake, A team of many this search should take, Finding false and coming dry, Turn your eyes toward the sky, Still no mind can be found, Tilt your head and search the ground, Out of turn and time so lost, Forget the mind and then the cost, Finding mind most never does, Perhaps your mind then never was.
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Untitled Hope Collective Reflections | HeadsUP | 123
Life in a Plagued Mind (Schizophrenia)
Stophe Foster
I close my eyes and attempt to dream To see things as they never seem As I rest, my soul does too So much to me, and more to you I hear the voice so very clearly inside my head Sometimes makes you wish you were dead, instead A machine lacking oil, and more a soul This highway so long, and always a toll I see things as they’ve never seemed A hole in the heart so deeply reamed I continue forth. and much more still A house with a window upon a sill It hurts so much just to make it through the day I wish that the voices would just go away Once again, I close my eyes My soul keeps pushing as it tries The tears in my eyes are sparkling so clear Alike a car in the wrong lane did veer The skies turned from blue to dark grey These feelings are fleeting, but always shall stay I work so hard just to stay alive Alike a queen inside a beehive I keep moving forward, and shall always do so I am the arrow that gets shot from a bow
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What I Could Say
Nicole Belanger
Someone once told me “I wish I could have an eating disorder so I could be thinner. But I am not lucky enough to have that kind of courage” I do not know whether it was a joke or not but what they did not know was the girl they were glamorizing eating disorders to had an eating disorder And I stood there for a second not knowing what I could say I knew what I wanted to say... You think it’s brave? Or maybe a good time? Because when I am sitting on the bathroom floor with tears in my eyes and two fingers shoved down my throat I am not considering myself lucky When I am eating dinner and planning when, where, and how I will expel this food later on I am feeling weak When I am sitting on my bed saying “tonight I won’t do it, tonight I’ll be strong” but I still end up hunched over the toilet Collective Reflections | HeadsUP | 125
I do not feel courageous I feel like a coward When I watch the little girl I babysit dance and all I can think is that one day she might end up like me I feel scared because I don’t want her to start losing her hair in chunks at a time and I don’t want her throat to burn or her muscles to ache and I don’t want that voice to be in her head the one that tells her she will never be good enough mostly if she keeps eating mostly if she keeps anything down If you think it’s lucky to hate yourself, every moment of every day to hate yourself, because you ate too much and then hate yourself, because you vomited it up to never make a right decision when even one bagel for breakfast can no longer stay down because all calories are bad calories? You are wrong It does not make you feel strong when your mom hears you because you forgot to turn on the fan and lock the door and she finds out your secrets and later you find her crying wondering what she did wrong. and you want her to know it’s not her fault but she doesn’t believe you either way 126 | HeadsUP | Collective Reflections
It does not make you feel strong it makes you feel small but not the small you want to be When the only thing you feel you have control over is what goes in, and what goes out but still somehow you feel out of control Every time you eat or puke and your head is constantly aching and you get dizzy out of nowhere when you stop wanting to be around people and you start feeling less like a human and more like a corpse and you want to tell someone but then you don’t then you do then you don’t then you do BUT YOU DON’T You will no longer consider yourself lucky That’s what I wanted to say But instead I shook my head And told her she was crazy Even though at that moment I felt even crazier.
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Chelsea Speck
On Revealing Self-Harm
E. Boothby
Don’t think that I don’t see you watching me
I do not deny I fear this also.
The look in your eyes is a ghost
The look in your eyes is a rope
that follows me around and I have seen it in classrooms and bedrooms in offices and hospitals in parks and snowy forests everywhere for seven years
that both saves and strangles me. Stop. Don’t stop. Stop.
watching me like I am a trick of the light, insubstantial, threatening, ephemeral my wry wit my dark humour my smile my as though you are afraid if you blink just for one moment let the weight of caring overwhelm your beautiful heart when you open your eyes again I will be gone
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Recovery
Jessie Read
i have been taught that my panic attacks are my body’s way of fighting back an anaconda tugging at my throat it’s a miracle i don’t choke on all the things going on inside of me but this is recovery recovery, isn’t always rainbows and white calla lilies it isn’t always wishing upon dandelions seeds sometimes it’s being able to carry yourself out of bed when your head is a tornado, mind is a volcano scratching the truth that the salinity scraping your cheeks is the dead sea our tears have salt and maybe one day all this crying will help you float, float with me everest may be the highest point and i may be the dead sea but underneath i am waiting to climb back up not to prove that i did it but to prove that sometimes gravity works in our favour
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it is not poor behaviour to show the world that sometimes life can make you feel like lotus flowers don’t bloom from the dirt that diamonds weren’t coal once too that all the cartwheels we do in our mind won’t be gone someday soon unravel my mind it’s spinning like a rubik’s cube you are trying to solve lay me out sliced like a map open me up, sharpie all the places you’ve wanted to go and let’s go to a place where the stars shine in our favour because recovery is knowing even the days when i feel like i don’t have the strength to stay there are constellations for me to see stars for me to reach stars that will align in my favour maybe i’ll feel the sun hot and heavy on my shoulders the moon kissing my cheeks singing me sweet lullabies to sleep saying goodnight let me say goodnight to all the wishing i’ve done on the stars to be a crack on the sidewalk because maybe embracing our true authenticity is the only way to live i wanna live and i wanna live unapologetically Collective Reflections | HeadsUP | 131
let my wings span out across the globe let them know that angels like lucifer who have fallen from grace can rise back up, and someday we will too i wanna leave my mark like scars on a lover’s heart after someone died the ancient greeks, immortalizing gods placed their immortality in the stars the native americans, mourning loss used to cut off the tips of their hair after someone died this summer, i cut the mossy frizz at the end of my hair waist to shoulder length it was almost like the scissors took away my suffering losing so much with no pain and that, that’s recovery
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July 2014
Andrea Howard
Comfort from the cradle of your sheets is all that you feel now. The only warmth that lingers, and everything is the same. Impossibly cold and inconceivably hollow. A bedroom placed into cardboard boxes, left inside of its echoing skeleton. Tearing your sullen eyelids apart, peering through yellowed residue which distorts your vision, good. The world looks so much better when you can’t see it clearly. The clouds don’t look as soft as they used to anyways. The grass on your bare feet doesn’t feel quite as young. Uncomfortably perched on your couch, holding back tears. You did it. You stopped the crying. And from the kitchen, bashing fillets of chicken with a tenderizer, your mother is silent. You encase yourself in your shower, a warm, watery casket. Your splintered hair hangs like browned and crunchy foliage upon your scalp. The streams don’t make sense, they hurt. And you aren’t reborn, and you’ll probably never be reborn. You just might never grasp warm earth again, never knead its joyous familiarity into your skin. You might be trapped in this dim well forever. Your skin is translucent and ravaged with abscesses. You just avoid your reflection. You simply don’t look. But you’re weak. Flipping through travel books and reading about saints who share his name. And you cry. How could a saint ever do this to you? Leave me alone. Finally, you object yourself to the ravage of sunlight upon your body in the kitchen. Finally, you eat a handful of green grapes. They slither down your gullet and make you want to peel off your skin and turn inside out. A blood bubble ready to pop. And you can’t sleep alone anymore, you just scratch and pick at yourself. You sleep with your mother, how sad. Turned on your side, your blistered back exposed, trying to subside the violent current of tears. If only for tonight, you can do it, you can stop.
Collective Reflections | HeadsUP | 133
Wolves Sarah-Louise Ruder 134 | HeadsUP | Collective Reflections
Resources and Support Services Addiction & Mental Health Services – Kingston, Frontenac, Lennox & Addington Kingston Crisis Line: 613-544-4229 Kingston Information Line: 613-544-1356 AMS Peer Support Centre 613-533-6000 ext. 75111 Good2Talk: Post-Secondary Student Helpline 1-866-925-5454 Hotel Dieu Hospital Urgent Care Centre: 613-546-1240 K3C Community Counselling Centre 613-549-7850 Kingston General Hospital Emergency Care: 613-548-2333 Ontario Mental Health Helpline 1-866-531-2600 Queen’s University Student Wellness Services Student Health Services: 613-533-2506 Counselling Services: 613-533-6000 ext. 78264 Telephone Aid Line Kingston 613-544-1771
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DITOR’S NOTE
After seven years of publishing, Able continues to be a vital part of Collective Reflections, always growing and always mirroring the many amazing abilities of Queen’s. Like the human body and mind, the ways in which creativity adapts and expands to overcome and celebrate experience are what we have tried to encompass within this chapter. Those moments which catch us by surprise, and turn our world inside out; those experiences which often feel lonely, misunderstood; those moments which make us proud, unique, and essential. Those moments in their own time become the scaffolding for all of the many identities held within this chapter. While it can be difficult to live passionately in a world that does not cease to show you that how you feel and who you are is not enough, we at Able believe the awareness of accessibility, of intersectional identity, and the fight for equity for all those influenced by this structural and social oppression, deserves any passion we can muster. We hope you take from this chapter as much courage as what was put into it. And we hope it inspires you to believe that your voice matters, no matter how you share it. Thank you for taking the time to engage with us.
nna
Haley E. Ke
THANK YOU’S
To our contributors, a most sincere thank you for taking the time to engage with your passion. Continue creating whenever you can, because what you create is a constant reminder to this campus and our world that ability can be redefined. You make this publication everything that it is. It’s hard to find a group of people who exude compassion, critical thinking, and commitment to seeing the world change. It never ceases to amaze me that the editorial team of Collective Reflections – and the SIC at large – show these qualities every day. Thank you for all that you do. (And thank you for bearing with me, even when I’m as challenging as finding people like you.)
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HEK
Vulnero, The Wound Collective Reflections | Section Title | 139
Ramolen Laruan
Untitled
Able, Able sweet and sour and sour, and sweet
you are nothing you are everything
Able, Able stripped of power yet on your feet
Able, Able when you’re gone the whole world shakes
you are nothing you are everything
and cracks the crust into a quake and pushes my tectonic plates
Able, Able help me out, but leave me be Able, Able Mother Earth, it’s you, not me
into new mountains Able, Able sweet and sour and sour, and sweet
Taylor Katzel
ABLE Hear the full song on the artist’s YouTube Channel
Collective Reflections | Able | 141
ooks have been an incredible source for words and knowledge for me for as long as I can remember. I have always been intrigued by them and find them engrossing. The look and feel of them, smooth in my hands. My Mom likes to tell me the story of how I was so obsessed with reading that she could not even bribe me out of the bathroom with Smarties when I was a small kid. Talk about dedication. What consistently appears to be the case for persons who have socalled autistic/Aspie traits (with or without an official diagnosis) is that these are also persons who thrive on gaining knowledge in their favourite topic areas, becoming human encyclopaedias in the process. For me (diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome at four years old), it was through reading that I obtained
B
Courtney Weaver
My Love of Books 142 | Able | Collective Reflections
History and English knowledge beyond my years. Before I was in high school, I was already reading classic Greek myths and works like Little Women in my spare time. As a result, I was reading a lot of works that many people wouldn’t come across until later in life, maybe even at a university level. I became acquainted with speech patterns that are not particularly contemporary and had reading skills at an incredible level. But it wasn’t until university that I felt my knowledge was genuinely appreciated by my peers; my abilities certainly never got me any friends in elementary or high school. It was probably because my reading priorities were different from what a lot of my classmates engaged with. They definitely did not include any of the examples I mentioned earlier. I could very well have been the only one in my classes reading any classic literature. That would leave me on the outs of book conversations since none of my classmates would know what book I was talking about.
In my senior year of high school, I was voted “Female Most Lost in Books”. But I think that label misrepresents what reading meant to me. When my high school classmates would fool around in class, if a substitute teacher was in for the day, burying my nose and face in a book was a way for me to get mental quiet. It was an adapting alternative since telling them to be quiet would have them see me as a “control freak” and “bossy”. Furthermore, it was, as mentioned earlier, a way of learning which I reveled in for as long as I can remember.
Nowadays I balance my reading with a lot of other activities such as colouring or going to the gym. I also balance my reading with job hours or academic work, sometimes both. However, I still like to read and I’ve got a long list of books on my huge list of gift ideas for me over the next few years. I’m sure that this list will expand for I do not see my passion for reading diminishing anytime soon. Here, here to books - where the written word and, sometimes, illustrations, are kept!
Benjamin Murray
treeple Collective Reflections | Able | 143
fragility of the body Lee-Ann Taras
Fragility of the Body is a mixed media project that examines the vulnerability of the physical human condition. Themes of impermanence and injury juxtapose with those of strength and durability. “What is your wound?” and “Where is the wound?” are the questions posed to prod the viewer to consider their own afflictions. Collages of organic shapes evoke bones, cells and scars floating ghostly and broken on the canvas. 144 | Able | Collective Reflections
his is about a trip to the mall, a trip taken by a man, a woman and their two children. It’s a Saturday afternoon in 2001 and it marks the first trip this family has taken in months. After weeks and weeks of struggling and encouragement, the woman has finally convinced her husband that leaving the house for a few hours would be good for him. Reluctantly, they loaded up their late eighties Nissan sports car, filled the trunk with the necessary tools and began making their way to their destination. The car is somber. The two kids are pretty young, seven and four. The seven-year-old wants to, but understands that right now isn’t a very good time to talk. I’m that seven-year-old.
T
We pull into the parking lot and my mother maneuvers our car into one of the designated parking spots. She rummages through the glove compartment and pulls out an envelope. When my mother pulled out the crisp accessibility parking permit, my father didn’t look at her or the permit in her hands. He just looked the out front windshield and suggested, “we can park in the back, it’s fine.” There was no response. You could feel the defeat radiating from him at the placement of this new badge on the dashboard. Mom probably spent more time adjusting it than necessary but this was the first try.
Anonymous
mall walker Collective Reflections | Able | 145
“Can you open the trunk?” I was sent out first. I walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk open. Inside sat this new device, one I had only ever associated with the grandmothers of the world. This was my father’s walker and it was going to assist him. It folded up neatly in the trunk and had a rusty orange finish. This was my father’s walker and it was going to assist him. My father was already painfully self conscious about it so I’ll never understand why he chose a walker that glowed like a highlighter. I leaned into the trunk, not entirely sure how to go about getting it out or setting it up. My mother was still in the car offering a pep talk to a man who would, who she needed to, accept his new difference today. I had to figure it out. This was my job. I wheeled it over to the passenger seat of the car, clicked on the breaks and waited for the start of today. Today was the first day that he’d be seen with his walker. Today was the first day that my father would openly accept his new position as a disabled man. My parents are humble people. My mother was a medical secretary raised by Portuguese immigrant parents who taught her the values of hard work and gave her the ability to continue in the face of adversity. My father was an optical technician who spent his childhood bouncing around the foster care system. As soon as he could, he joined the military in the hopes it would provide him with the skills necessary to get any sort of profession. At some point, those two found each other and lived happily in their Starter Home, with their two small children, as casually functioning members of the middle class. There was no excess and there was no struggle. They were fine. Years went by and my father was scheduled for a routine surgery. He needed to have his gallbladder removed and it was going to be done laparoscopically. Nowadays, that’s the normal way this procedure takes place. You’re sedated and on your way a half hour later, at most. 146 | Able | Collective Reflections
Brittany Gilliforte
Untitled
For my father, it took seven hours. He had the misfortune of being one of the first 10 people to lose his gallbladder laparoscopically. My mother had the misfortune of sitting in a waiting room for those seven hours only to be greeted by a doctor who would inform her that a mistake had been made. One large incision in the wrong spot. They had miscalculated and severed several nerves in my father’s legs. The damage didn’t show up right away. The wounds healed and he went back to work at the little optical boutique. He made glasses again for another three months. Until one day he fell. Something just gave way in his body. The theory was that his nervous system did its best to hide the impairment for as long as it could, but eventually, it caught up and my father lost his center of balance. It wasn’t so much the fall. It was the moment when it was time to get up and he couldn’t muster the strength.. It was the moment when the leg just shook defiantly, uncontrollably instead. Then came the doctors and specialists. The lawyers and paper work. Money marts and government assistance. A man hidden in his home. He didn’t talk much. Once the loud, goofy figure-head of our family, he had become an echo of who he was. Crippled not only by the mistake of a budding medical professional, but by the idea of an able-bodied, confident man he should have been. He would sit alone in our basement in a fold-out lawn chair. Using whatever strength he could, my father began throwing out the reminders. The high school trophies that once cluttered the shelves had been wrapped up and put into garbage bags. The collection of weights and exercise equipment had already been impulsively sold, contributing to the adjustment period where only one income came into the house. The room was bare and only had my defeated father as decoration. This is why the mall trip was so important. Dad had become so stationary 148 | Able | Collective Reflections
Lee-Ann Taras
fragility of the body
that a thin layer of dust began to accumulate overtop of him, like a photo album full of things you couldn’t look at anymore. Bitter and static, almost connected to the house by his feet and the fold-out legs of the chair. Dad had become so stationary that a thin layer of dust began to accumulate overtop of him. He finally opened that car door and took hold of his new vehicle. He wrapped his hands around the ends of the walker and used all of his energy to balance the weight while making his way to the door. “Push the button.” We all stood back and slowly watched the automatic door open. No one uttered a word. No one moved a muscle. Not “open sesame”, or the gentle wave of a child’s hand mimicking a wand. It wasn’t time for fun. I was a goofy kid, who grew up with a goofy dad, but I had spent a lot of time lately recognizing that my parents weren’t in the mood for laughing. As the door gaped open, we all waited patiently for my father to make any sort of movement. As he finally motioned toward the door, it started to slide gently closed on him and he stopped. The door sealed itself. His timing was off, his body different. “I got it,” he said. This time our entrance went a little more smoothly. My father tells this part of the story very simply. “Growing up I got into a lot trouble, did a lot of stupid things with my buddies. But I’d never been looked at so strangely before in my life. It was like someone forgot to invite me to the staring contest.” This was day one of the sneers and snickers. Day one of passerby mumbling a variation of “get a job.” This was day one of the ignored excuse me to the aisle blockers. Day one of the eye rolls. We had been in the mall all of 20 minutes before we were sitting at a center table in the food court. Dad had defeat in his eyes and sweat dripping down his forehead. These weren’t the legs he remembered. These were new and fearsome, they were swollen and they shook. He looked at my mom and quietly asked if she would mind grabbing the car.
I tagged along behind my mother as we quickly voyaged through the parking lot, only to remember it would be placed right outside the exit. Simple. Easy. She unlocked the door and invited me to sit in the front – a small treat for a kid. That’s when the siren went off. A police officer made his way toward our car, instantly initiating a deluge of harassment on my mother. He spoke of irresponsibility. Of the make of our car and how it would never be able to accommodate a “cripple.” He continued his bombardment as she broke down, without a flinch or hesitation. He only paused to follow my finger, as I gave up a small, “excuse me officer, that’s my dad.” His eyes rested upon a tired and beaten man trying to keep hold of his young daughter, unable to walk over to us, unable to confront the officer, and more importantly unable to console his wife. The officer left without another word. There was no apology and no nod of respect to the husband. He saw his error, or he saw our difference, and fled. We took another silent car ride. It’s been over fifteen years since my father reintroduced himself to life. Life’s still hard, but he’s adjusted, moved, dusted himself off. People still stare at him, but he chalks that up to his poor taste in fashion. Walking still tires him out, but he only jokes about those last few pounds. Life’s still hard, but he’s adjusted, moved, dusted himself off. When I asked him if he remembered this trip, if he remembered the stares and the silence, he looked down and thought for moment, landing upon a set of words I’d heard for the first time when we had finally pulled into our driveway. We had all sat there. Mom was looking at dad, struggling to find the thing to say to unpack this miserable first try. My father held onto her words, carefully, and listened. When the flood finally dried up, he simply looked over at her, and then back at me and winked. “You know, that cop is pretty lucky. I ran track in high school.” Collective Reflections | Able | 151
It’s funny, so funny Life is funny All the twists and turns Life takes what you took for granted It gives what you never expected It shows you who you should be without telling you who you could be
Sofia Melendez
Unexpected Beauties
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It’s the lessons life teaches you Lessons we can only learn through action Lessons you can be told a thousand times over Told by the wisest, the bravest, the best But never really understood until experienced Something so special about experience Your mind Every cell in your body An intricacy you could not begin to comprehend Like the loneliness of a crowd Like a friendship most unconventional Like an unexpected love Like the loss of a brother In part losing myself Realizing how important the unimportant can be I just can’t express the subtle beauty in life The absolute grace of chance Mourning with the promise of a new day Dark nights – mystic and unforgiving The curious adventure of learning The instability of questioning a long held belief
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The ability to find piece in tragedy The beauty I see – Reflected in a vulnerable embrace Reflected in the warmth of her laughter Reflected in my mama’s eyes Crying with my father
Through joy and pain Through space and time These people are who I want to share my beauties with
Never taking one second for granted Those seconds we are given are limited What will you do with yours? Will each one have worth? Will each one make an impact? Will you enjoy every last one? Find the beauty in them Realize that beauty surrounds you – especially that sobering beauty, Masked by words Masked by judgment Masked by you and me They are funny These unexpected beauties.
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Brittany Giliforte
Untitled
hi Benjamin Murray
res 156 | Able | Collective Reflections
I.
Accessibility Queen’s accessibility@ams.queensu.ca
II.
ASUS Equity Commission equity@asus.queensu.ca
III.
Accessibility Services (QSAS) accessibility.services.queensu.ca
IV.
Equity Office equity@queensu.ca
V.
Human Rights Office hrights@queensu.ca
VI. InvisAbilities invisabilities.queens@gmail.com VII. VIII.
Access Art accessartqu@gmail.com Queen’s Accessibility Hub queensu.ca/accessibility
ources Collective Reflections | Able | 157