Evocative Objects 2022

Evocative Essays

Inquiries into Learning, Fall 2022

Dr . Jen Gilbert York University

Table of Contents

Maysun Arcand, The Soccer Cleats……………………………………………………………1

Vanessa Barker, Chlorine………………………………………………………………………6

Mara Boldis, The Swimming Pool……………………………………………………………….8

Katrina Cain Griffin, Hair Tie………………………………………………………………11

Elena Calomino, My University Jacket………………………………………………………14

Isabel Castro, Yashica TL Electro X Camera………………………………………………….17

Gabriella Cesario, Basement Blackboard……………………………………………………...20

Jaedyn Charles, Headphones…………………………………………………………………..23

Sydney Clarke, The Tent……………………………………………………………………….25

Grant Cooke, The Garage………………………………………………………………………28

Arsil Darouiche, Stand Mixer…………………………………………………………………..32

Arthur Ditner, Vinyl Records…………………………………………………………………..35

Brooke Do Couto, My Sister’s Old Straightener………………………………………………38

Kristen Dodds, Papa’s Hat……………………………………………………………………..40

Jacky Duong, Blue Pen…………………………………………………………………………43

Perri Feldman, The Pineapple T Shirt…………………………………………………………46

Caitlyn Fung, Nikon Camera…………………………………………………………………...49

Nicholas Galluzzo, Santa’s Bells……………………………………………………………….52

Nicole Garibaldi, Jar of Tomato Sauce………………………………………………………...55

Merwa Gheddai, Driving……………………………………………………………………….58

Isabella Giorgio, Laptop………………………………………………………………………..61

Arianna Hatzis, Piano…………………………………………………………………………..64

Yendrix Hernandez, Playstation 3……………………………………………………………..67

Zainab Javid, Rollerblades……………………………………………………………………..70

Kaamila Lall, My Home………………………………………………………………………...72

Cristian Lorca, Leather Hat……………………………………………………………………75

Natalie Mandarino, The Yoga Mat…………………………………………………………….79

Thomas Martelli, Playstation 3………………………………………………………………...82

Austin McElroy, Bamboo Net…………………………………………………………………..85

Abigail Mceyeson, The Youth Room…………………………………………………………...88

Diana Mirceta, Tennis Courts………………………………………………………………….92

Brodie Myers, Roll of Tape…………………………………………………………………….94

Andrew Neil, “Let Down” by Radiohead………………………………………………………97

Tracy Noronha, The Ring……………………………………………………………………100 Jacob Pacyga, Laptop………………………………………………………………………….103

Natalie Pavlovic, Old House…………………………………………………………………..106

Lianna Primiani, Johnny the Red Piano……………………………………………………..109

Lexie Rivard, My Plant Penelope…………………………………………………………….112

Nicole Robb, The Cherry Blossom Tree……………………………………………………...115

Arianna Scarola, The Blanket………………………………………………………………..118

Nishtha Sharma, The Scale…………………………………………………………………..120 Karolina Solovka, My Bike…………………………………………………………………..123

Michael Stewart, Paddle……………………………………………………………………..126 Emma Vicencio, BJ The Stuffed Panda Bear……………………………………………..…129

Jia Wang, Violin……………………………………………………………………………...131

David Charles Wells, Toshiba Flatscreen TV…………………………………………….…134

Victoria Wszeborowski, Crutches…………………………………………………………...137 Dalal Zein, Engagement Ring……………………………………………………………….141

The Soccer Cleats Maysun Arcand

Criss crosses tighten. Under the mountain and hide. Over the mountain and around we go. Here’s my arrow and here’s my bow. Double knot. Repeat.

It was always a scavenger hunt trying to find my soccer cleats in my bag. I’ll always start by checking the centre pocket filled with grass stained socks, shirts that always smelt like laundry detergent, fresh cut grass and a slight tinge of hard work. As I run my hand across the bottom of my bag, my fingertips roll over surprisingly large piles of turf and grass. But no luck. I unzip the side pocket and I immediately feel the light glaze of a wet water bottle and the condensation its left against the almost waterproofed fabric of the pocket. But still no luck. My cleats always seemed to be in the very last pocket that I would check. I pulled out my flattened, orange coloured cleats that always appeared to shimmer in the sun. Strategically wrapped in duct tape to keep them from falling apart as these were my shoes and no other pair would ever do. As I shove each foot into my shoes, careful enough to not pull the tape away, each feeling like a second skin as if I were wearing nothing at all. This feeling was the matchstick that would ignite my adrenaline.

Criss crosses tighten. Under the mountain and hide. Over the mountain and around we go. Here’s my arrow and here’s my bow. Double knot. Repeat. Run.

I would run onto the field and take my place, scanning the field with an understanding that this pitch symbolically belonged to me We took our place in the centre, me, and my cleats. Two hops: knees to chest, knees to chest. One big breath. Tweet.

Later I would come to realize that that sound would symbolize the end of an era and the beginning to another journey in my life. Sprint across the field, yell ‘HERE!’, check your shoulder, receive the ball, pivot for the turn and lay off the pass. This was my escape; this was my game. My cleats were my sidekicks, they were my superpower, they made me fly. But they soon transitioned from a reminder of a period of life that was so innate and freeing to me, to a symbol of a sport that inflicted so much pain to my body, mind, and soul.

Criss crosses tighten. Under the mountain and hide. Over the mountain and around we go. Here’s my arrow and here’s my bow. Double knot. Repeat Pause.

Pop.

That is the gruesome sound of an ACL, MCL and meniscus tear. Translation: the sound of a year’s worth of recovery and mental tribulation. If there is any chance of coming back to the field and sport, that would mean mandatory surgery and physiotherapy. Fast forward four tears and five surgeries later, no soccer, no freedom, no soccer cleats. Retirement comes early for some, and the heartbreak always lingers. Not a day goes by without its presence stumbling across my mind. I see it everywhere I go and everywhere I look, but I flinch and turn away as if I’m hiding. From what? I’m not too sure myself. It’s that feeling of seeing an old friend that maybe isn’t quite a friend anymore or that walk of swiftness you have as you pass your parents after doing something you shouldn’t have. There’s a lingering anger, there’s guilt, but that is always followed by a tsunami of sadness and longing. I remember the first time I fell victim to what would be a classic female soccer player’s injury and I find it numbing how although it happened three times after that, the first is the only one I remember. It is as if all those other times I was on autopilot and I had already separated myself from the game I loved so much. When I look back at that tragic moment in time, I come to realize that the power I gave my soccer cleats, the power of invincibility I thought they gave me was never there. A figment of imagination that so quickly disappeared when I was shown how fragile the human body really is. How normal I was and how my soccer cleats were maybe just another pair of shoes

Criss crosses tighten. Under the mountain and hide. Over the mountain and around we go. Here’s my arrow and here’s my bow. Double knot. Repeat. Rewind.

I remember running back on defense as the play had just changed against our favour. I loved running with a pressure that lingered behind me. It motivated me to go faster and inspired this idea that at this very moment, this is an opportunity to change the game. Eventually I would receive the ball and make a pass going forward to my teammate in hopes of making a play that would put us ahead. I would sprint as if flying, the humid air whistling past my ears as sweat rolled down towards my brow. I saw the defender from the corner of me eye but at that point it was already too late.

Pop.

Darkness. Only for a moment. Shocked I was on the ground. All I could see were faces hovering over me and a muffled hum of questions, concerns and worried looks. I heard them but I also heard nothing at all. I looked through them and past their figures into the overseeing crowd for my mom because I knew before everyone else did what had happened. I knew that I soon as I looked at her, she would know as well, what everyone hoped it was not.

Criss crosses tighten. Under the mountain and hide. Over the mountain and around we go. Here’s my arrow and here’s my bow. Double knot. Repeat. Slow down.

A surgeon’s office always smelled eerily clean and was always too cold for comfort. Everything is white or beige and the silence in the room felt like an unspoken law. I sat on that table hoping for news that was different from the reality I already knew had been chosen for me. Anxiously waiting for the doctor’s knock at the door, my future silently hanging above my head. The knock was always faint, but you could never miss it. knock. knock. knock.

I held my breath the whole time until he said it. Until he confirmed what we had all knew to be the case. I can’t remember if I cried but I remember seeing the look of reassurance in my dad’s eyes and the feeling of my heart dropping to my stomach. I got home that afternoon and went straight to my bedroom. I closed the door behind me and slid to the floor, back against my door. Beside me laid quietly and almost mockingly my soccer cleats. I stared at them looking for what? I don’t know. Hot tears filled my eyes and rolled down my cold cheeks. I grabbed those cleats with no regard for their fragility as the game had no regard for mine. I shoved them into my bag and zipped the pocket closed. Rushed down the stairs to my garage and threw my bag beside the garbage bins on a chair. That would be the last time I would have seen my soccer cleats for years.

Criss crosses tighten. Under the mountain and hide Over the mountain and around we go. Here’s my arrow and here’s my bow. Double knot. Repeat. Breathe.

Although I hadn’t touched a soccer ball in years, the game has always seemed to remain in my life. Watching my siblings play what would be a game I once shared with them and my sweetheart playing and sharing with me a love for a game that I feel so complicated about Seeing the love, they kept for it brought me joy and hope that maybe it wasn’t as personal as I felt it to be. The pain that I kept inside of me for so many years was just a segue into a chapter in my life that would have otherwise dragged on past its expiry date. I found my old bag in the basement behind a mountain of boxes and under a few old coats. It looked sad and dull as if it knew it had been forgotten. I unzipped the centre pocket not knowing what I would find but anxious to find out. Jerseys left unwashed and untouched nostalgically smelling of a past that is so easily remembered, shorts crinkled with time, and socks imprinted with grass stains from a moment that feels so long ago. My side pocket disappointingly dry and filled with empty water bottles. I would pause before unzipping my last pocket. Nervously anticipating the meeting of an old friend. They were always in the very last place I would check. There laid my flattened, orange coloured soccer cleats awaiting faithfully for me once again. Duct tape still hanging on strategically placed but withered with time.

Criss crosses tighten. Under the mountain and hide Over the mountain and around we go. Here’s my arrow and here’s my bow. Double knot. Repeat. Once again.

Looking at my soccer cleats now, I have come to realize that as much pain as they may remind me of, they also remind me of a time where the world was mine. My soccer cleats were a pair of shoes that I wore in a chapter of my life that took me to so many places and brought so many people into my world. They are a milestone and were a gateway to so many opportunities

that would have never come to be. That anger, that longing, and that sadness will always seem to linger, but a newfound appreciation for the life it has prepared me for and the people it has brought to me will always stand at the forefront of their memory. For now, my soccer cleats remain in my basement as a token to what was and what has become of that girl who was once invincible but is now unstoppable despite how much duct tape is used to hold her together.

The Last Word

I want to change the way you feel about pain.

I want to show you how not all hurting is bad.

How sometimes broken things are beautiful things and how sometimes you need a little ache to help you appreciate … the gentle poetry you create

with your beating heart.

Robert M. Drake, Empty Bottles Full of Stories,

Maysun Arcand is a first year teacher candidate at York University, Toronto, Ontario, pursuing a career as an intermediate/senior level teacher. She has successfully completed a double major in English studies and Interdisciplinary Social Sciences as these subjects of interest inspired her passions for teaching. She continues to look forward to learning every day and finds pleasure in the art of learning and teaching through this new journey.

Chlorine

Vanessa Barker

My recent lane swims take me back to a time where swimming was the source of the hardest stresses on my arms, legs, lungs, and mind. As I prepare to drive in, my heart starts racing in preparation for what is to come, the cold water and the stress on my body. I must convince myself I don’t have to race, and this is just for fun. The potent smell of chlorine works like a time machine to take me back to the local pool where I spent every day for 6 years of my life. The pungent chemical odor was at one point unrecognizable, though my classmates made a habit of pointing it out. Now like my classmates, the odor hits me in the nose so hard I can practically taste it. It draws me into the memories of my coaches, teammates, competitors, and person I once was.

Through tough practices my coaches preached the messages of what hard work is, how it should feel when you are bettering yourself that no improvements can be made without sacrifice. Their guidance to learn new techniques, pinning teammates against one another, and post workout reflections, motivated me to buying into the messages sold. Teammates were like a second family, spending hours a day with them at practices. We would talk about our interests outside swimming and school, form inside jokes, and even sing together to pass the time during pain staking land trainings. I looked up to the older girls and tried to win validation by training hard to better my race times, and hoped the younger girls viewed me in the same light

During competitions, the objective was to beat as many people on my team as possible, regardless of age or gender. Becoming faster in a few events would maybe lead to some unspoken bragging rights, but in more than a few events would mean leading in practice or switching to a faster lane. What I wanted most of all was to beat myself, crushing my times to show that pain and effort in practices paid off. Beating my times by a few seconds sent shockwaves of endorphins though my heavy post race arms and legs, knowing it was all worth it. Stagnating caused a sense of disappointment that took a couple years to understand, only after a piece of advice from my coach was I able to learn from my shortcomings. After a lack luster race, he told me I should hold on to the emotions of disappointment and anger and use it to fuel my motivation in practices. Stagnating meant that Monday would be a new day to start training harder and smarter. Eventually the hard work paid off the year I qualified for provincial championships, where I swam two individual medley races and 200 butterfly. The sweat and tears directly correlated to a successful outcome, I knew with the sacrifice, attending every practicing and training hard, anything could be achieved. Talking with competitors that weekend, I realized they trained twice as much as I did, in both the morning and night. There would be a slim chance of making anything out of swimming with the once a day practices, switching teams would be my only option.

Already spending 10 hours a week in the pool, the thought of 20 seemed daunting. At 15, my parents saw this as a sign to move on, focus on school and get a job. I struggled knowing I may not love the sport enough to switch teams and commit 20 hours a week. What if I switched teams and committed hours of my life, and I had nothing to show for it after high school? At the same time, I felt like I was giving up on a dream I saw older swimmers achieve, one that could be in my cards as well, closing the door to my own potential. For the first time, the dreams and ambitions to be whatever I wanted with the hard work and

sacrifice, may not be in reach. The dreams I envisioned became blurry, it was now more challenging than ever to know what I wanted out of life. After contemplation, I agreed that moving on to focusing on school and part time work would be the best next step entering tenth grade. The result of my decision was much more time on my hands, a bit of disposable income, and rapid weight gain. With the new part time work, I became a swim instructor, and expanded into running my own swim school. I redirected my time and energy, passing the love I had for swimming on through teaching and combined it with my new school related interest in business studies. This newfound passion for teaching lead to connections with my students, community, employees. The sense of fulfilment from teaching and accountability to my new connections filled the missing piece in my life.

“We can’t be afraid of change. You may feel very secure in the pond that you are in, but if you never venture out of it, you will never know there is such thing as an ocean, a sea.”

C. JoyBell C.

Vanessa Barker recently graduated with a Bachelor of Commerce specializing in management and is now a first year Bachelor of Education student at York University. She founded her own seasonal small business ‘Streamline Swim School’ in 2016, which has since grown to over 100 students and 4 employees. Vanessa’s passion for teaching stems from her transition from competitive swimming to teaching swimming lessons and leadership courses to students with a wide range of ages and abilities. Postgraduation she aspires to teach abroad.

The Swimming Pool

Mara Boldis

“You can’t put a limit on anything. The more you dream, the farther you get” Michael Phelps

Thoughts were running through my head as I walked inside the steamy, humid room that was 17 feet deep with water. The water appeared white because of the sun's bright and vibrant reflection, the echoing in the splashes, and the smell of the chlorine that had filled my nose and lungs. As I am getting ready for my race, I walk behind the block I put on my cap and goggles and double checking that they won't fail me during the race. While attempting to focus on my breathing and meditation in order to ease the anxiety that is starting to sneak into my body, I get on the block. Standing still, lifeless, trying not to make a move. The loud obnoxious blunt sound of the buzzer goes off. I can do it. I can do it. My heart is racing as I hear people screaming and cheering, my coach whistling for me to go faster. My brain's pleas for air as it struggles to get enough oxygen as it is the only thing keeping me from continuing. I keep thinking at the moment, “why am I doing this? I should quit after this race.” As the wet splash’s filled my ears cooling my fast paced body I breathlessly touched the wall glancing at the clock board to see what time I got. I was first with a time of 00.39.45. I came first! I was so proud of myself. I knew this was the start to my swimming career as a student athlete.

Growing up I knew of many people who were scared of the deep end, let alone even stepping in a pool. However, I never let that get to me on my first day of swimming lessons. When moving to the west end of Brampton, my parents wanted my brother and I to be involved within our community, so they signed us up for swimming lessons at a private swim

club. Little did I know that this day would tremendously change me for the rest of my life. The pool at Cobra Swim Club became my new home. I became a part of a new culture, the ‘competitive swimming pack’. Before practice all the girls from the group would crowd around getting ready in the cramped cold change room while blasting “Cheap Thrills” by Sia and Sean Paul off someone’s iPod. When going on deck, it feels like I’ve entered a sauna. The only cold coming inside is from the door that is propped open for our coach so he does not get hot. Although I hated the endless laps I had to swim while struggling desperately not to fall behind the clock. Being a part of this team made me feel like I belonged somewhere. I was able to feel safe and proud.

I noticed that during training, I was always counting down the seconds until my break or the number of laps that would make up my 400 meter freestyle at morning practice. Freestyle was my favorite. I was able to mindlessly swim and let my mind wander at some points during practice While swimming, I was constantly keeping count of something: for backstroke, I counted the ceiling tiles, for freestyle, the tiles on the pool bottom, for butterfly, my kicks, and for breaststroke, the length of time I glided. In both positive and bad ways, the pool took over my life. I have made many fond memories around the Cobra pool.

I gained knowledge about how to be more organized and time effective in this sauna like, water filled space. There was no time for procrastination with such a packed schedule. I always had to be prepared and organizing my daily activities. As I quickly discovered, an agenda, to-do list, and calendar quickly became my best friends, . Although I detested butterfly, it eventually became my strongest stroke. I developed an appreciation for it and realised the value of perseverance.

I was always selected for the 100 meter butterfly races by my coach. I never let them down. I was able to make new friends by spending many hours at the pool before and after school. Friends who recognized and empathised with the difficulties a student athlete experiences when swimming. With them, I made some fantastic memories. But these memories also included times when there was hatred, sobbing, fury, and remorse. Although I did have these feelings, water in the pool almost felt like it absorbed all of these negative feelings from me and cleansed me with positive ones. The waves in the water helped me stay in line and connected to life, reminding me ‘not to give up’. At some points swimming felt like a place where I can release my emotions and relax.

I experienced several of my milestones in the Cobra pool. I acquired my first part time job there, was accepted, and was prepared to dedicate myself to a life as a student athlete. At the pool, I also recognized that I wanted to pursue my passion for teaching young people. My experiences at the pool have had a significant impact on who I am today and how I conduct myself in daily life.

Mara Boldis is her first year of the Bachelor of Education program while finshing up her last credits of her undergraduate degree. Mara has dabbled in many different part time jobs, some of them being as a customer service representative, cashier, lifeguard, swim instructor and HR’s assistant As she is looking forward to teaching in her own classroom, Mara has started to take the role of being a teacher by teaching/coaching younger children how to swim and volunteering in classrooms. Aside from swimming, Mara also loves to play the clarinet, she has been a part of different bands and orchestras since she was fourteen. Mara was born in Montreal but moved to Brampton when she was five and has been living there since then. On her spare time she likes to run, play with her dog, listen to music and make food

Hair Tie

Katrina Cain Griffin

Hair. It may seem like a mundane subject, but it has profound implications for how African American women experience the world. Historically, Black women’s tightly curled hair textures have presented an array of challenged, epitomized in debates concerning Black hairstyles as indicators of racial consciousness, the suitability of Afrocentric hairstyles 9e.g., braids, Afros, dreadlocks) at work, and the extend to which cultural notions of “good” versus “bad” hair continue to privilege Eurocentric standards of beauty. One important implication of such debates is that Black women’s hairstyles choices are seldom just about aesthetics or personal choice, but are instead ever complicated by such issues as mate desire, mainstream standards of beauty, workplace standards of presentation, and ethnic/cultural pride

Lanita Jacobs Huey, From the Kitchen to the Parlor: Language and Becoming in African American Women’s Hair Care

When I was young, I always struggled with my hair. A mixed girl, whose hair texture is not the same as her mothers. My mother was great and did her best with constantly putting my hair in different styles…but man did it hurt. The comb attempting to go through my hair… it STOPS… it P U L L S… its stuck it SN APS…I cry. My eyes become watery. I can feel the water in my eyes build up along my water line forming a tear drop that slowly runs down my cheek. Tear after tear, every hair style I would shed tears. My mom would always feel bad, that her little daughter is in between her legs sitting on the floor, crying while getting her hair done. Often, I would end up falling asleep on my mom’s lap while she was doing my hair. Maybe it was all that crying that led to my tiredness, nonetheless, getting my hair done was better when I was sleeping.

Sometimes I would run away from my mom so that she wouldn’t do my hair. Some days, I would wear my afro so that I didn’t have to deal with the constant combing and pain. This didn’t last long. I remember when I was in grade 2, way before I started doing my hair myself, I had my afro out. I was sitting in class with my other classmates and our desks were positioned in groups of six My desk faced a boy’s desk but when the teacher was talking, I’d turn my body around in my chair to face her. This meant he was now looking at the back of my head. The teacher was sharing something with the class and the boy behind me said

“move your big hair, I can’t see”. I remember going home that day and being mad at my mother for letting me go to school with my big afro. After that, having my hair in a style or preferably tied up was always my comfort.

I got to an age where I was able to attempt to do my hair myself. I’d wake up in the morning, go into my bathroom and look at myself in the mirror, accepting the challenge. The flowing water from the sink, onto my hands then into my hair. I’d reach for my hair tie. I’d always use the same type of hair tie because it was the one that worked best for my hair. It was a black hair tie, dark like a panther. It was as thick as one of your pinkie fingers. It could stretch out to be the length of a size 7 women’s shoe. The hair tie would start off the size of your palm and as I kept using it, it would stretch to be the size of your head. Even at its s t r e t c h e d out phase, I would simply shape the hair tie in an infinity symbol position, fold it over to double it and it now became the original size with double the strength. It was not until I’d misplace a hair tie before, I’d reach for a new one from the pack.

My mom would ask me “Katrina! Did you brush your hair before pulling it back?”. I’d respond, “yes of course!”, but between you and me, that was not the truth. I mean if you looked close enough at the back of my head you could probably tell by the bump. The bump was an acumination of knots from not combing through my hair and just over it. I’d grab my brush every morning and gently graze over the top of my hair, never the inside, and then I’d tie it up with my all time hair tie that never let me down. It was so easy and simple for me. Why would I ever want to use my two little skinny pre-teen arms to brush through my thick, dry hair. Cause myself pain? No way. That idea did not sit right with me and so I’d continue this routine. Add water, slightly brush, grab my hair tie and pull my hair up complete.

Little did I know that I was soon going to have to deal with my consequences of not brushing my hair and instead tying it up. My mom eventually realized that my hair needed attention. We were in Prince Edward Island at the time, and we decided for me to get a wash at First Choice Haircutters. For the hairdresser to wash my hair and style it, it needed to be combed. This gave the hairdresser a very hard task, that we in fact, did not successfully complete. C h O p! My big coarse hair that I once would use my hair tie to pull up in a big puff was gone. It had now become a 4 inch afro that required no hair tie. My once lovely relationship with my hair tie that kept me safe from pain and discomfort, now had no purpose in my life.

I rocked the short afro for a while until my hair grew…I didn’t like this phase. During the time when my afro was small, it was still too “big” for my liking. I wasn’t used to not having my hair typed up. Having my afro out was different, no other girl in my school had their hair like me. I wanted straight hair because that’s what all the girls had. It was long, flowy and easy but not my hair. I got to the point where I could revisit my dear friend hair tie and put my hair in two puffs. We’d call them timbits. My timbits, eventually become one puff again and I was back to regularly using my hair tie. However, this time was different. This time I wasn’t going to neglect my hair.

The hair tie reflects my challenges I had with my hair growing up. As an adult, I can reflect and understand the reason as to why I loved my hair tie so much. It kept me safe from Eurocentric standards of beauty. Without my hair tie, I felt like my hair wasn’t accepted. This shifted with age, I can now associate my hair tie with my love for my hair and its ability to do whatever hairstyle I desire.

As I grew older, I started to learn more and more about my hair type and different ways that I could moisturize and style my hair. I never chopped off my hair again like I did when I was a preteen. I appreciated my hair now that I was older and learned how to take care of it. The hair tie had never left my side and not even now as I am an adult. It symbolizes the journey that I went through as I was growing up and learning about my hair and how I now identify with it. No matter what hairstyle I do, I know I can always depend on the hair tie to help me be as versatile and stylish as I want with my hair expression.

I believe that it’s so important to teach young biracial and black girls that their hair is beautiful. This message was not dominant in my childhood and is something that I extremely value in my adulthood. Today we have child books, movies and tv shows that challenge Eurocentric beauty standards and embrace black girl hair. If my young, grade 2 self who got picked on by that boy in my class could see me now…she’d be proud.

She has an undergraduate degree in Children, Childhood and Youth Studies. She is currently a student at York University, attaining her Bachelor of Education Degree. She will be teaching in the senior intermediate division. Her teachables are family studies and history. Katrina is strongly passionate about children and youth. She believes in using education to positively impact their lives. Her goal is to bring important conversations and projects into the classroom that will encourage critical reflection and civic engagement. Society belittles youths’ voices and as a high school teacher she wants to help youth use their voice in ways that matter to them.

Katrina Cain-Griffin is a biracial woman from Irish and Caribbean decent.

My University Jacket

Elena Calomino

My McMaster University jacket had been unceremoniously shoved to the back of the closet where it had resided for over two decades, unworn, unseen and virtually forgotten. Since I had stopped going to university, I had not so much at looked at it. Then, after 21 years, I decided to go back to McMaster to finish my degree. This made me long to see my McMaster jacket again and maybe even wearing it again. So, there I was tugging at the large lump of bulky maroon leather buried behind a massive tangle of wire coat hangers. I finally shook it free and with a puff of dust, the jacket emerged I held it out in front of me. I was surprised by how familiar it looked, despite me not having seen it in so long. I was also smacked by all the memories this jacket held, as if my past was screaming out to me. I stared at it, stunned. This jacket was me.

It used to be my constant companion. I was in my second year when I got it. Things were still all right in my life at the time. I was untouched and untested by life. The jacket reflected this: it was shiny and new, with hardly a wrinkle in its stiff hide. I wore it proudly, always eager to put it on and parade it everywhere.

Then the problems started. Things became bad for me financially and personally. For a long time, my life was filled with instability and I sought to fix it. Life was a constant struggle and there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. I continued with university during this time, living in Hamilton and working in Toronto. My jacket was always nearby, as if watching me; slung around a chair as I studied; flung across the bed after a long commute; carelessly hurled into a corner; chucked on top of the dresser; peeping out of an overnight bag.

I grabbed the jacket wherever I went during this turbulent time. Therefore, I put it through the ringer. It went from a trophy that I showed off to pure practicality. It was versatile and I could throw it on over a T shirt when the tricky fall weather started, or I could

“And I did it my way.”

Frank Sinatra

take it off and carry it scrunched in my arms when it became warm, as this would not damage the leather. I wore it all winter atop thick layers as a coat. I used the wide collar as a pillow on the subway. It got soaked in the rain and cracked in the sun. I liked that it was thick and strong and I didn’t have to worry about ruining it. It suited my tumultuous lifestyle at the time. The jacket’s tough leather went from smooth and shiny to gnarled and scarred. Yet the thick cowhide could sustain being beat up, and it took on a patina of scuffs and wrinkles that actually suited the leather. It lost its stiffness as it became weathered. The same could have been said for me: I lost my stiff ideas of how my life should unfold and in the process I, too, became weathered but I also became adaptive, independent and strong. I had trained my mind to be invincible, and it worked, but it took its toll, as I was also lonely, sad and morose amidst my struggles.

I suddenly stopped university when I reached my limit of financial and personal difficulties. After this decision, my only concern was survival. Pleased that I could finally support myself adequately, this was all I cared about. I was content to stay at my job until retirement. My aunt, a professor, gently reproached me. This annoyed me. Go back to school? For what? What a crazy idea. Didn’t she realize that now I could finally live decently? University and my jacket became a distant memory, relegated to a former life, a life almost forgotten, as I responded to the drone of work and home and back again. But at least it was a nice home now, and I had no more money troubles, so while my jacket languished in the back of the closet, I relished my newly stable life for many years.

Then I started hating my job, which eventually prompted me to go back to university. Looking at my jacket after all these years reminded me what I can do. It became part of my new life as a returning student as I started wearing it again, this time not as a green girl or as a struggling young woman, but as one who has braved out problems and is a strong person despite these problems or perhaps because of them. I had never intended to wear the jacket again, not caring about it, yet I’ve asked myself why then did I not throw it out? I think because deep down I knew it was a part of me that I couldn’t bear to get rid of.

I graduated from McMaster in spring 2022. Now when I look at my jacket, I think fondly and proudly of that strong, brave girl as she fought to carve out a life for herself. She was always clutching this jacket as she did so, but she would never imagine that this jacket would someday matter so much to her. More than just evoking memories, my jacket is a symbol. A symbol of me.

Elena Villa Calomino is a proud earner of an Honours Art History degree with a minor in English from McMaster University. She is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Education from York University, as she hopes to be a high school Art and English teacher. When she was in

high school herself, she was yearbook editor and recipient of the Art Award and the Drama Award. She loves teenagers and has tutored them in various subjects and lectured Art History to them. She was born and raised in Rexdale, where she still resides. For the past 32 years she has been employed by the City of Toronto at Kipling Acres Homes for the Aged as a Food Service Worker. Her favorite pastimes include cooking and watching WWII documentaries. She takes in stray cats and is currently mommy to her latest furry feline, Houdini.

Yashica TL Electro X Isabel Castro

“I’ve nothing against digital, it’s my bread and butter but there is something about film that I adore. I love the risk, the loading and unloading, the excitement of trying a new stock, the wait for the negatives, but most of all, I love it for its imperfections.” Ian Howorth.

*pull* POP! *insert roll* Swish. Click. *shut backing* Wind. Shutter. Snap! Wind. Shutter. Snap! Wind.

My first SLR film camera was given to me as a gift for Christmas by my friend during our “friendsmas” Secret Santa. But let me backtrack a little. Photography has always been a huge part of my family. My grandfather loved photography and eventually worked in the television industry; my mom works in the creative industry but has always done photography for fun. I was amazed. The way she would carry her Canon on every trip we went on. We travelled a lot as a family, and every moment was captured by her. She had such a talent. She would catch candid moments of my siblings and I, the stunning architecture of whatever building or institution we would enter, any landscape, strangers painting on the street; whatever her eye would catch, she had a way to make everything look magical.

This is how I came to love photography. Living vicariously through my mother as a child.

Now back to me.

When I was old enough, I took the Canon for myself and started to venture into taking pictures on our trips, following in my mom’s footsteps. Where I would be forced to pose for all her model visions, she was now my muse. After a while of always shooting digital and using my iPhone and editing and experimenting with digital photography, I discovered disposables. Disposables were fun for me and made taking pictures easy and candid, exactly

what I wanted. The old, vintage look, the excitement of not knowing how a picture came out. Because I started using disposables, my friend got me my first SLR camera for Christmas. I. Was. Ecstatic.

Until I wasn’t anymore.

At this point in my life, I was going through a bad depression. My life was work, school, church, rinse, repeat. The only thing keeping me sane, from completely losing myself was going to church. I was going through a heartbreak as well and really felt like I had no purpose. Nothing to do that would bring me joy. I was lazy. The smallest task would take all my energy. I did not care to do much to do anything that required effort.

Until one day at the end of March, three months later I get a message.

A friend who knew I had this camera had offered to develop my first roll of film for me because he was developing his own film; therefore, he needed my first roll ASAP. Unbeknownst to him, I had yet to finish shooting my first roll. I had forgotten I even had my camera. I forgot I had my first roll already loaded. I did not even really educate myself on how to use the camera properly. My curiosity and desire to experiment had vanished. But something in me was stronger than my depression in this moment. My pride. I got out of bed that morning, looked up a quick YouTube video for beginner film photographers and finished my first roll. It was mostly of my dog, in my backyard, on a beautifully sunny day. After that first roll that I felt forced to take (even though it was simply for a friend who was offering to do me a favour and save me money, unknowingly putting pressure on me), my curiosity sparked, and I began playing around with my camera again. Easter time came and I started to feel better. My spirits were up, and I began bringing my camera everywhere with me. Offering to take pictures of all my friends and family in any setting.

Yashica TL Electro X. This camera brought joy back into my life. Possibly just a distraction from what I was going through. Regardless, my camera woke me up, and kept me awake.

Learning how to use this camera took me out of my laziness, my constant fatigue. With a film camera, I had to learn how to adjust the aperture, the ISO, what kind of film to buy depending on the hues and undertones I wanted the pictures to have and so much more. I needed to look at the weather when I was taking the picture to adjust the settings so the picture would come out in the perfect lighting. It was so tedious. So much time and effort to take just one picture. And I didn’t know how they would come out until I developed them. I loved it.

Having to change each setting manually in order to capture every moment, made me appreciate every picture that much more. I not only loved capturing moments, I loved capturing those moments, because it was a unique photo, even if I took the same photo in the same spot, it would be different from the one before, and there were limited exposures in each roll so you would never want to waste it on two pictures of the same thing. A picture speaks a thousand words. I was still sad about parts of my life; I was not one to express my feelings or talk much about what I was going through. So, I did it through my pictures.

I eventually started an Instagram account to share my pictures with my friends, family and whoever cared to see them. I connected with other film photographers and began to appreciate film more and more as I received support, tips and tricks and love from the film community.

What brought me back to the world was not just my love for photography, but the physical efforts it takes to take each picture. Suffering with depression is draining, so being able to memorize the steps, do everything manually versus just pointing the camera and pressing the button. It kept me stimulated. Made the whole process of taking pictures more enjoyable.

To finish, I no longer take pictures, I closed my Instagram account and sold my most expensive film camera to someone else who will love and cherish it. Don’t ask me why. I think that phase of my life is over. But I will never forget how it saved me. I have other things going for me now, other things I enjoy, but that Yashica will forever be an evocative object in my life.

Isabel Castro is a Teacher Candidate in the Concurrent Education Program at York University with a major in History. I am half Salvadorian and half Italian but grew up in Vaughan, Ontario. I am the eldest of three. My passion is teaching, but I enjoy many of the arts like photography, painting, and anything fashion. I like to run and read novels on my free time to de stress. My family and I are practicing Catholics. I appreciate this camera for the moment it saved my life, but I know it was God who had his hand over me.

Basement Blackboard

Gabriella Cesario

Ever since I was a kid I loved using and writing with chalk. The sound of it against a blackboard, the endless amount of colour options, the outlet it provides to be as creative as possible, and even the cloud of smoke and speckles of dust that form when chalk hits the board. My opportunities to write with chalk were limited to the classroom and since most of my teachers only allowed students to write on the board with permission, chalk was simply an object I longed to use. Reflecting back, I can understand why I was always that student to volunteer to share their answer with the class; in hopes that the teacher would suggest using the blackboard.

One day this all changed. My parents understood that I had a passion for teaching and thought having a chalkboard at home would be a great idea. It would double as a tool their kids could use for leisure and for school. It was truly a win win for them. However, I was picky with what I wanted. My cousin had a Crayola green chalkboard on an easel and the strong feelings I usually felt with chalk were completely absent when I’d write on it. Instead, I wanted what my teachers had; a blackboard that was the length of four metre sticks along with the multiple bright colours of chalk to decorate the board and bring it to life. And that was how a wall in my basement was transformed into a blackboard. I watched my dad as he opened a can of paint specifically for chalkboards and dipped an unused paint brush into the liquid. Within a few swipes of the brush, the paint covered one of our blue basement walls with a coat of blackboard paint. The painted wall was just a portion of the size of what I was used to seeing in classrooms but it still gave me the feeling that it belonged in a classroom. Waiting the days for it to completely dry was excruciating; but once it was ready to be written on it became the object in my house I’d use every single day for anything and everything. I would use it for drawing, playing hangman, pretending to be a teacher, and even

studying. It made every activity one I could look forward to, including ones that I typically dreaded. And looking back, it taught me a lot about myself and shaped my passions.

I think my blackboard helped develop my enthusiasm for teaching. Though my dream of being a teacher may have started as superficial, pretending to teach an imaginary class or my younger cousins opened my eyes to the beauty of the profession. Everyday I looked forward to hearing the clicking of the chalk hitting against my basement wall and discovering the new uses it could serve me that day. It was where I formed my study habit of writing notes and ideas down, which is something I carried into my post secondary studies. It was where I shared my excitement about teaching with my cousins and friends who had that same passion as me. My basement wall became a place where all of my family and friends would gravitate towards because it was a place to write something and leave a mark, despite the fact that it very easily could be erased or washed away.

Although my blackboard had a huge impact on my life, it no longer is something that is in my basement. A few years ago, when my parents decided their dated basement needed sprucing up, my wall in the basement devoted to serving as a blackboard was painted over in order to suit the modern theme my parents were attempting to cultivate. The wall was no longer for me to write on, so the copious amount of chalk I had no longer had purpose. Despite that, I still have the container filled with partially used pieces of chalk and the dust that accompanies it, waiting to have a purpose once again. Even though I agreed with my parents’ decision to renovate the basement, and by extension the wall, it still makes me sad to remember what I no longer have.

Soon after we covered the blackboard, my parents purchased a whiteboard to replace the blackboard that was no longer in our house anymore. At first glance I was thrilled, it offered basically the same things my chalkboard had; exciting, bright colours, and the versatility of being a tool for both studying and leisure. But after that initial novelty wore off, like it does for most objects in my life, I realized it just was not the same. It was missing one very important piece, which was probably my favourite thing about chalkboards, the chalk. Even though the white board markers had brighter colours than any piece of chalk I had ever seen, they did not have remotely the same effect on me. Removing the clicking sound of the chalk against the board removed a lot of the joy in using the tool. To this day I still get excited when I get a chance to write on a chalkboard, which happens as often as leap years come along in the calendar. However, simply picking up a piece of chalk and tapping it against a blackboard has the power to take me back into my pre renovated basement where I had an entire wall to draw on as I pleased.

“And perhaps we have reason to be very grateful that, both as children and long afterwards, we are never allowed to guess how the absorbing pursuit of the moment will appear, not only to others, but to ourselves, a very short time hence.”

Kenneth Grahame, The Golden Age

Gabriella Cesario is a first year teacher candidate at York University. She completed her bachelor’s degree at York University in April 2022, majoring in Mathematics for Education and minoring in History. She hopes to one day teach high school math and be a teacher that will inspire students rather than discourage them. She has been interested in teaching since she was in junior kindergarten and her evocative object has only helped to develop her passion. Now without a chalkboard at home she often spends her free time listening to music, walking her dog, and discovering new places to travel and explore within and outside of Ontario.

Headphones

Jaedyn Charles

“

Strumming my pain with his fingers

Singing my life with his words

Killing me softly with his song Killing me softly with his song

Telling my whole life with his words Killing me softly with his song…”

“Killing me softly”, The Fugees

If I could tell you about when I got my first pair, I would be able to pinpoint the exact moment in my life when things began to change. That would be great wouldn’t it, being able to say the year, month or even the day when I got my first pair of headphones, but I can’t. Instead, I’ll tell you about the rush to the store to buy a new pair whenever the wires inevitably tangled and finally tore apart. The countless minutes of my life spent manoeuvring the cords into the exact position needed around my phone or iPod for the music to come through. Even the feeling of dread I experienced whenever I left the house without them. I do all this so it can be understood why this is so important to me. While it may not be a specific type or pair, I feel exposed without a set of headphones on.

Like I said earlier, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment this changed. I just know that one day, I put a pair of headphones on, and I have walked around with them like a necklace ever since. I’ve thought for some time though that it began around the period I transferred schools in the 5th grade. I moved around a lot as a kid, but I had always had the same school, that is until the 5th grade. After my brother graduated from our elementary school my mother was determined to move me to a school that she felt could, “keep me busy” so she sent me to school in a completely different neighbourhood and was now a 45 minute bus ride from our new apartment. To say it was different would be an understatement. I went from a school that was full of students who looked like me to one of 20 people of colour within my entire school. From a school where we all shopped at Zellers and could reminisce about our adventure to Orfus road on the weekends to one where the kids all shopped at Abercrombie & finch, Aeropostale, Hollister and TNA. I was uncomfortable and didn’t feel like I fit in. So, I put my headphones in from the moment I left the house until I was forced to take them off during class, and then they went back on until I got home. They have always had this way of calming me down and grounding me. The bus too noisy, put your headphones on. Feel like people are staring at you, put your headphones on. If emotions are just too much in a moment, put your headphones on. They are like a shield from the outside world, protecting me from elements that I am not able to cope with.

As I have always loved music the headphones helped that relationship flourish. I spent a lot of time as a child having this constant weight on me to do more and be better. There was a constant stream of my mother's and aunts’ voices in my head repeating the same things to me. “Your brother doesn’t do that well in school, so you have to,” do better. “You are a girl Jaedyn, you can’t go outside in basketball shorts and a t shirt, are you not embarrassed?” do better. “No one is going to want you when you are older if you carry yourself that way, and don’t know how to clean or cook,” do better. So, I put on my headphones, blasted some angry music because it was the only way to get my feelings out and tried my hardest to "do better". I know that this is where my love for old school hip hop started as a lot of the songs were about struggling not only with yourself but with your environment as well. Although, I loved music the headphones were really what allowed me to escape. I recall putting on my

headphones just to provide my body with a sense of security and almost forcing myself into believing I could block out the noise, even when no music was playing. If I couldn’t tune the voices out in front of me all the time, I could try my best to trick myself into thinking that I was blocking it all out.

As an adult, I see my headphones as freedom. While they have helped me become more comfortable in spaces, they have also helped me to run away from them without ever physically leaving. The way they just cushion in and around my ears and help me escape into any world I want. The sound or lack thereof acting as a closed door to my fears and anxieties. I covet any pair I have because they are my security blanket. When I feel like the outside world has become more than what I can handle I sit back, put on my headphones, and breathe. Letting my problems float away to the tune of silence or the occasional sounds of Etta James

Jaedyn Charles is a first year education student looking to teach law and social science within the intermediate/senior division. Completing her undergraduate degree in 2017 at York University with a major in Law & Society and a minor in Anthropology, she hopes to one day find a way to mesh the two worlds into perfect harmony to better represent both parts of her personality. She enjoys music, documentaries and most importantly her headphones.

The Tent Sydney Clarke

I do not remember my very first time sleeping in a tent, but I do have a lot of fond memories spent in them. For as long as I can remember, my parents would take us on camping trips every summer. On these trips we spent a lot of time in the tents as it always seemed to rain when we camped as a family. I still love the sound of rain falling on canvas, not as harsh as rain on a roof or window, but softer, almost muffled. On those trips I learned how easy it is to remain entertained in a forest; the trees were our jungle gym, the winding paths our racetrack and the tent was our fort. As I grew older, those same trips taught me about the importance of slow living and connecting with family as well as the earth.

As I grew older, I began going on camping trips without my family. I was fortunate enough to be put into sports and outdoor camps that took us camping. I always volunteered to set up the tents because it brought me back to the times my siblings and I would have races to see who could set the tent up fastest while on our trips. The tents on those trips were a place for us girls to giggle and bond, away from our fellow male campers and counsellors. I can recall lying awake for hours, whispering about our crushes, our friends from home and our dreams. Our days were filled with team building activities and hikes. I learned that some of the best memories to be made can be done with people you just met. Friends can be made through the simplest of connections, like a love of camping.

One of my favourite camping trips I took in my final year at high school. The trip was organized by teachers at my school and was open to any senior that wanted to attend. I spent one week portaging through Algonquin park, with people I only knew through passing in the hallways. By the end of the trip though, we were all close. Waking up at 6:00AM everyday, paddling for 6 hours, huddling under tarps in the rain and even dealing with some snow tends to bring people together. I learned so much about myself on that trip, mostly thanks to the new friends I had made. Slowing down, having a meal, and helping each other across beaver damns I got to know people I never would have considered a friendly relationship with before. Stepping out of the school environment allowed a lot of barriers to drop and cliques to fade. On this trip I learned there is always more out there in life than the one you have been leading. Never being afraid to push my comfort zone and being open to new possibilities is what has enabled me to live such an exciting and fulfilling life. I was able to calm my worries of leaving for college the following year, entering a male dominated career and having to meet new people and make new friends.

In my years at college, I did not have much time for camping trips. My days and evening were spent studying with the amazing new group of friends I met and eventually lived with. Through those years I learned how to be independent and confident in my decisions. I believe those years were some of the most important in shaping the person that I am today. I was well prepared for the struggles I would face in my career as a welding engineer in the automotive industry. Upon graduating I had no money to take the big European trip I had dreamed of, but I did have enough for the next best thing; a portage trip with my two best friends.

I had it all planned; canoe rental, park passes, portage route, menu, and our portable accommodations. My fellow campers, however, were not prepared. The concept that fire meant life for us was lost on them, and every time I turned around the fire had died, thus slowing the required boiling of our drinking water. I therefore had to entrust tent set up to the others while I ensured we would survive the next three days with adequate water supply. Other than the wind, our first day was pretty fun; lots of laughter, time spent in the sun and paddling through a gorgeous park. Our second and third days though would test us, rain and changes to portage routes that we were not aware of forced us to turn back and find a site for the night. Once we found a decent site, we again went about the tasks of setting up camp and waited the rain out in our tent. At first, we were silent, huddled together for warmth, contemplating our decisions, my friends probably questioning why they let me talk them into this, then we all burst our laughing. Whether from exhaustion or from the fact that we chose to put ourselves in that position, we could not stop laughing. I do not think any of us knew it at the time, but that trip has and probably always will be one of the best memories we share. We still talk about the smell of that rented tent in the rain, the hundreds of beaver damns we saw and the beauty of the sites we stayed on. We still go camping together to this day, although we drive in and keep things simple now.

As I continued through my twenties, working full time, purchasing, and owning a home on my own, I always grew restless in February. I found the best way to fix that restlessness was to book campsites for the upcoming spring, summer and fall seasons so I would have something to look forward to through the final months of winter. Most of these trips I was able to take with my then boyfriend, now husband and our dog Pink Floyd. You sure learn quick whether or not someone is marriage material if you take them camping! Some of the trips however, I was happy to take alone with the dog. People always ask me how I am not afraid when I take these solo trips, and I always wonder why they would even ask that question. The times I can recall feeling the most at ease and safe were times I spent in a tent. There is nothing calmer to me than lying amongst the trees, listening the sounds of nature, breathing in the freshest air, and not having to worry about an alarm waking me up.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” Henry David Thoreau

Sydney Clarke is a welding engineer, robotic technologist, and a certified metallurgist. She has returned to university to pursue her dream of becoming a teacher in the hopes of sharing her experiences and prepare the next generation of trades people. She is an avid camper and outdoor enthusiast who loves spending time with her family, friends, and dog, Pink Floyd. Sydney believes that if you are ever lost you only need to take a hike to find yourself again.

The Garage Grant Cooke

“Sometimes a certain smell will take me back to when I was young How come I'm never able to identify where it's coming from?

I'd make a candle out of it if I ever found it

Try to sell it, never sell out of it, I'd probably only sell one It'd be to my brother, cause we have the same nose

Same clothes, homegrown, a stone's throw from a creek we used to roam But it would remind us of when nothing really mattered Out of student loans and tree house homes, we all would take the latter”

Back in January of 89, my parents purchased a piece of land. Over the following year and a half, my dad and his friends built what would be our family home. It was a half acre lot in the country outside of town. It was a small street with about half a dozen families living full time and steps away from a lake. The rest of the properties were cottages. Mom and Dad were civic workers. Mom was a nurse and Dad was a steam fitter, turned general contractor, turned firefighter. Back in those days mortgage rates were through the roof, my parent’s mortgage at the time was 16% and financing your own build was expensive. There wasn’t extra money around when you undertake the task of purchasing a property and building a home on civic salary. The home for the most part was built in that first year and a half. We were out of the elements, but had much to do to finish the house. My dad would work away at it when we had extra money. We were living in the house, but had painted subfloor below our feet, no doors hung, no trim, and no finished garage. Our garage had no insulation, or

Stressed Out Song by twenty one pilots Songwriter: Tyler Joseph

even a concrete floor, just gravel. It was a bare structure stuffed with dads’ tools, building material and the family’s things.

When I was 5 my uncle gave us two old snowmobiles. One was a 1977 Arctic Cat Lynx, black with hot pink pin striping and decaling. It was an ugly thing with a big bubble front cowling. The other was a 1980 Arctic Cat El Tigre’ 5000. It was much more refined, sleek, black with lime green pin striping and decaling. It was a weapon on the frozen lake, but take her through the field with that leaf spring suspension and shitty rock hard skid under you, you were half snowmobiler and half bronco rider. It was a fast and wild machine. We never got to ride that one, it was dads. Mom drove the lynx for now until we were a bit older. These are core memories for me. The day my dad picked those machines up I worked all afternoon and into the evening with him in the garage. Cold as hell, we were bundled up surrounded by a cloud of frozen breath lingering. I remember thinking it looked like we were in the smoker’s lounge at Tim Hortons. It was frigid and I couldn’t feel my fingers and toes… like my dad I’m sure, but we were excited to get these old sleds running. They needed a lot of work, but when you don’t have a lot of money you just get to the grind and do it yourself. I would stand there in that poorly lit garage under the single light bulb in the center, holding a flashlight always pointed in the wrong spot. I would pass dad his tools, always the wrong one. But it didn’t matter, my dad was happy I was there with him. Dad would teach me as we went, like a little apprentice, I slowly learned the names of the tools and what they are used for. My dad has skills and can do anything. I am lucky to have been passed the knowledge and skills he had Nowadays I feel like I have the knowledge and skills to do, fix, and build whatever I want. It was in that time I learned that the Garage was more than just a place to keep all your stuff. It was a workshop and a classroom too.

Over the years we did all kinds of things, building a Ski Boos (basically a wagon on skis, to tow behind the snowmobile) or my little wooden Cub Car for the cub races, or a big dining room table for the house. I learned cussing when my dad would smash his knuckles when the wrench slipped. Fast forward several years and the house was finished. Dad being a firefighter, he worked shift work. He wasn’t always there when I needed my bike fixed so I was given the opportunity to fix things myself. If I wanted to ride, I had better fix it myself. At 8 years old I was replacing links on my broken bike chain and patching the tubes in the tires. All learned by watching dad. I knew what tools I needed and how to do it.

The last thing on the house build was finishing the garage. It finally got the concrete floor and insulation and good lighting. At this point I was a late teenager, and it was tolerable to just hang out there, even in the winter. Friends would come over and drink beers and smoke weed, the frozen clouds of breath replaced by the clouds of ganga and darts. It was a good spot because we would just hang out and be social but would start tinkering and trouble shooting. We would be working on my Brother’s snowmobile one day, someone’s truck the next day, fixing a dirt bike and ATV after that. We always had music pounding and laughed our time away reminiscing or poking fun. We took up the art of cussing and used words from our vast collection we had accumulated from watching our dads work in their garages over the years. We would put them into play when busting our own knuckles open on that slipped wrench or when we completely fucked something up trying to fix it, all while the others laughed at you.

Moving forward to when I was 24, I purchased a home of my own. My fiancé and I moved in at 25. The house had no garage, but it had an oversized shed I could work out of, and I was back to standing in a cloud of my own frozen breath in the wintertime. Eventually we put an addition on the house, and I had my garage back. It was bright and full of potential of what it will become. Eventually the smell of fresh paint would be replaced by the smell of whatever I was working on, the smell of gear oil, or fresh cut wood, or the smell of any other thousand possibilities At the time of the build, we had 2 sons, a 3 year old and a 1 year old

Our 3 year old Jackson would walk around like the site foreman asking questions and pretending to be the boss. When the framing was done and the garage floor had just finished curing, it was his 4th birthday. I had purchased his first set of wheels, a John Deere Gator Power Wheels. We had stuck it in the garage and had him go out to look at the work that had been done that day. He was ecstatic when he poked his head around the corner and laid eyes on his new green machine. Jack said to my wife and I, “that’s why you are building the garage… for a place to park my gator!”. Although not exactly true, it was the first of many things that would soon take refuge in the garage, like my prized possessions deemed unworthy of the house according to my wife, and the vast amounts of tools and equipment purchased over my lifetime. The garage is also home to all our camping gear, ATV, sports equipment, and other stuff that strike memories as soon as I enter and lay eyes on them. My garage is also a place of creativity for me. I find myself creating things that are beautiful for our home, myself, or friends. Whether I’m creating something like a charcuterie board while trying my hand at working with deep pour epoxy, or a feature wall piece created out of 200 year old reclaimed barnboard or building a home forge to dabble in the art of knife making, it is a place where my creativity pours out.

Other times it turns into a night club. If my wife and I have a get together at our house, the guys usually end up hanging in the garage at some point. Usually, it starts by someone going out to spark a joint, or to toke on their vape, or we have run out of beer in the house fridge and start raiding the beer fridge in the garage. I always have something interesting sitting on the work bench that we end up talking about. After a while other people start looking for us and join. Eventually everyone is in the garage, usually many drinks deep at this point. We are all happy to be in a spot that is a little more forgiving in an inebriated state. Someone cranks the music, and we get loud and carefree. It is always a good time. The house is great for our dinner party and the tamer parts of the gathering, but the garage is where we really let loose and dance the night away in a space of spilled drinks and laughter.

In adulthood I have also found my garage to be a place of solitude and refuge. It’s a place for me to get away and collect my thoughts or chill out if my tensions are running high. I can decompress and collect myself while I reflect. Whether I am just tidying up the work bench or tinkering with something while listening to music or working on one of my more creative hobby pieces. It is a much-needed place and one I think most people have, whether it’s an art studio, man cave, front porch, or bedroom. We all have that place; the garage is mine. A place to work, a place of refuge, a classroom, a hangout, a night club, a place to be creative, and a place of solitude.

Grant Cooke C of Q 401A general carpenter. DSW. Foster parent with Durham Children’s Aid Society. Dad of 4 kids and husband. Mr. Cooke has a full life with family, hobbies, work and school and coaching. He is Currently attending Teachers College at York University to become a highschool Construction Technologies Teacher.

The Stand Mixer Arsil Darouiche

There is a tonic strength, in the hour of sorrow and affliction, in escaping from the world and society and getting back to the simple duties and interests we have slighted and forgotten. Our world grows smaller, but it grows dearer and greater. Simple things have a new charm for us, and we suddenly realize that we have been renouncing all that is greatest and best, in our pursuit of some phantom.

-William George Jordan

Growing up I was obsessed with watching baking and cooking videos on the “Food Network”, I would find myself waking up early just to catch an episode of Michael Smith’s “Chef at Home” or Lynn Crawford’s “Pitchin’ In”. My parents always found it odd that their 10 year old daughter was thrilled to watch cooking shows as opposed to shows on “Teletoon” like “Johnny Test”. For someone who watched baking shows on a daily basis I definitely wasn’t the best, my brownies were dry and my cookies would come out fluffy and dense instead of soft and chewy. But baking is a science, if you’re only a teaspoon off the whole

recipe could fail which is why my precise measuring and frequent practicing resulted in success.

One of my goals was to challenge myself with new and complex recipes; unfortunately for me, my mom didn’t allow me to use our stand mixer as it was very expensive and I was a 10 year old. She didn’t trust me with such technology which meant that I manually had to whip meringues, heavy cream and form stiff peaks. It would take unnecessarily long and resulted in the worst arm pain ever but the younger Arsil was determined to enhance her baking skills no matter how strenuous it may be. As the years went on my baking skills excelled which drew attention from family and friends and by the time I reached high school my mom bought a new stand mixer and granted me permission to use it. This was probably the best day of my life as I was now able to save precious time and could avoid those horrific arm workouts. I didn’t realize how helpful a stand mixer was until I began putting out baked desserts almost daily with the time that I saved, especially when I baked bread.

Whenever I felt stressed about school whether it was for an upcoming midterm or a project worth a large chunk of my grade I’d always find myself back in the kitchen baking something with the help of my stand mixer. It was a stress reliever as when I baked I didn’t think about my marks or if I studied enough for a midterm or even if I did well enough on that last assignment; my biggest concern if anything was ensuring that I left my brown sugar in an environment where it wouldn’t turn into a solid block of stone. Baking was an escape from school and the demanding courses that followed such as organic chemistry, cell biology or calculus. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my program and the courses within it but at times I felt so trapped and deprived of experiencing creativity or any form of artistry. When I was in high school I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to take electives such as pottery, film and visual arts alongside my STEM subjects which provided me with a good balance. But University was a different story as I wasn’t always able to take electives that allowed me to tap into my artistic and imaginative side. By the time I began third year my friends and family encouraged me to open a small baking business “Sweetercakes” which pushed me to bake frequently. One of my favourite clients are the ones who would tell me the cake flavour they would like and the number of people it needed to feed but would leave the design open for me to decide. I genuinely enjoyed this as I got to sit back and sketch cake designs on my tablet and or even use inspo pictures from other bakers or pinterest.

I remember this one time when I had a cake order and decided to complete it the day of pickup which I never do, I always finish the whole cake a day before just to be on the safe side. And just my luck something went wrong, I was placing the final layer of cake and the whole layer split and crumbled onto my countertop. I stood there in disbelief and began contemplating on why I even started this business to begin with but I had additional ingredients and knew that with the help of my mixer that I could whip up a new batch so I got to baking. The cake was completed by pickup time and the client had no clue on what just happened.

When I think of my stand mixer I used to think of all the baked desserts I’ve made and the smells, textures and tastes they produce. Some baked goods taste rich and decadent while others tangy or salty. They can look soft and fluffy or smooth and shiny, some even look dull. The aroma in the kitchen would vary in smells of sweet, fruity, chocolaty, vanilla and spiced smells that linger around the home for hours. The textures ranged from dry, crisp, crumbly to smooth, wet and thick. This machine brought out happy and calming thoughts and feelings reminding me of the holidays and all the baked goods that come out of that small kitchen. It was associated with all the desserts I succeeded in and the praise and admiration I received from family and friends.

But I must admit that I no longer feel that baking brings me much joy anymore but rather stress. It’s ironic how I used to use baking as an escape from the pressures and stressors I faced in school but now that I run a small business, those stressful emotions have returned. Now all I can think about is: Did they actually like the cake I made? Were they lying about liking it? What if the client doesn’t like my design? I am constantly bombarding myself with doubtful thoughts while simultaneously struggling to balance school, my business and my part time job. It’s such a shame that I now associate baking with a daunting chore. When did my pleasurable hobby of baking become such a burden?

Arsil Darouiche is a 23 year old student currently enrolled in the BEd program at York Arsil University, she also completed her undergraduate biomedical science degree at York. Her hobbies include sewing, cooking, and baking, she also enjoys the great outdoors and partakes in activities such as camping, free diving, hiking and kayaking. She was born and raised in Toronto with her three brothers and is a practicing Muslim of Lebanese descent. She currently works part time in retail and runs a small baking business, she values quality time with friends and sets money aside for her travels

Vinyl Records Arthur Ditner

In the year 2000, I was bored.

As a fourteen year old, I spent most days after school wandering through Kitchener’s thin strip of a downtown. There was very little to do without the expectation of spending money. Café owners were unaccommodating, “unless all of you are buying something you’re going to have to leave” they’d say.

On a flurry, December afternoon I saw a sign parked on the sidewalk, “Fill a Bag! 30 Records for $5”. At home, I had recently set up my first turntable and I had very few albums of my own. Adding another thirty to my collection seemed like a good deal.

I walked into the store dressed like a late 1990s goon; baggy jeans, greasy hair stuffed underneath a backward baseball cap, and a Korn hoodie. The store speaker system pumped upbeat psychedelic music, and it was loud. “Uhh… Where are the records? From the sign?” “Way back, all the way back, champ”.

The store was long and narrow, with a shelf on either side of a single aisle. Mirrors hung on top of a two story ceiling which provided a clear view of any potential shoplifting Despite reflecting all the available light, the corridor was sparsely lit. Past the CDs and the cassette tapes, I continued walking. Homemade twine laced frames hung posters and art prints Further still, along the back of the store was the bargain bin. An overcrowded bin with records piled horizontally in stacks.

I moved to the first pile and started to dig I had no clear indication of what I was looking for, outside of the few bands I’d seen on TV, pop music was still very new to me. Glancing through the records, many of them were destined for the landfill: male and female vocalists from the 1970s and much, much earlier. I started making a pile of records starting around Boston by Boston. I stared at the jacket sleeve of guitar shaped spaceships exiting an exploding planet Earth and thought: “This was either going to be amazing… Or terrible!”.

A man in his late forties sporting round spectacles and looking very much like the late John Lennon appeared out of a back office. “Korn!” he said loudly and with a smile, glancing down at my sweater “you should have been here an hour ago, I gave their latest a spin. Very experimental. But nothing hits like that first album”. We started chatting about music What

immediately struck me was his demeanor. He wasn’t talking down to me, as if artists like Limp Bizkit and Papa Roach belonged alongside the pop music canon of The Rolling Stones and The Beatles. I filled my bag with thirty records, paid the five dollars, and headed home. Not thinking in advance, carrying thirty records for a couple of kilometers in the snow proved to be extremely exhausting. At home, I told my mom all about the store, “That’s Kevin! He’s been downtown forever. He went to high school with your dad”.

Over the next two years I would often visit Kevin at the record store. Combing the aisles, I would carefully ration my allowance, and bother the clerks asking what they were interested in. But for the most part, I was a bored teenager with nowhere else to be. Then one day, Kevin asked me:

“Hey Art, can you count?”

“Uh... yeah, I can count”

“Great! You can come to do inventory for me on Friday”.

On the night of inventory, Kevin brought in all the employees and his extended family Echoes: The Best of Pink Floyd had just been released and the clerks argued over if the track listing was truly Pink Floyd’s best offerings. Then we got to work. I learned that bargain bin records were so unprofitable it wasn’t even worth the time to count them for accurate inventory. We’d run a tape measurer along each artist and multiply by seven (the approximate number of records per inch)

“OK… Barbra Streisand, we’ve got… six inches… times seven… write down forty two and move onto Supertramp.”

“Forty-two copies? That’s a lot of Yentl.” “Lentils?”

“No, not lentils, Yentl” “Oh…”

“Are there lentils? I’m hungry”.

After that night I became a regular employee. I would close on Friday nights and open Saturday mornings; the two shifts that no one else wanted Kevin paid me in cash under the table, but I mostly took my salary in vinyl. I quickly came to know the regulars and listen in on long conversations debating favourite albums over coffee.

Vinyl I learned, is an ephemeral format. Each time a record needle bounces along a groove, the groove degrades ever so slightly. Collectors would seek out thicker gauges of vinyl which yield higher quality playback. For me, collecting vinyl was about the music and the community. I would play my records without the expectation of them appreciating in value. I started to discover the narrative of pop music and identify influential bands. Teachers, extended family, and friends would all receive records from me as gifts, hoping I’d find just the right album that spoke to them during their formative years.

Now and then, a customer would ask: “you the owner’s kid or something?”, casually undervaluing my experience. Kevin would be quick to defend me, “I went to school with Arthur’s dad but, Arthur is working here because I’m friends with Arthur” he’d say. Each time Kevin said this, it held greater meaning.

After high school, I moved to Toronto to attend college and eventually started a career in broadcasting. I would visit the store less and less as the years wore on, usually sneaking in quick visits around Christmas time. I would find Kevin behind the counter, always smiling. Customers would ask me where certain artists were found even though I had long since stopped working there, I’d stop to help.

After a particularly long absence, I came to visit Kevin to meet someone. My son, Felix, had been born a few months earlier. With heavy eyebags from the exhaustion of newfound parenthood, I showcased my swaddled youngster tugged in my arms. Kevin came over and took my son from my arms and cuddled him. Even though he had no children of his own, he instinctively bounced and babbled downwards. He slowed down, looked into Felix’s eyes, and said, “Well Arthur, your dad must be very proud”.

This looks familiar, vaguely familiar, Is that a song there, and do I belong there? I’ve never been there, but I know the way, I’m going to go back there someday. There’s not a word yet, for old friends who’ve just met, Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place? You can just visit, but I plan to stay, I'm going to go back there someday

Gonzo the Great, (Paul Williams) The Muppet Movie (1979)

Arthur Ditner is a teacher candidate with OSSTF and is in his first year of study at York University. He teaches at Seneca College and writes how to articles for several websites including Red Shark News, Motion Array, and Other World Computing. His record collection is 56” deep and he very occasionally plays bass guitar. He lives in Cambridge, Ontario, with his partner and two children.

My Sister’s Old Straightener Brooke Do Couto

“He called you beautiful, for a black girl and you kissed him. It would not be the last time someone would pay you a provisional compliment, nor the last time you accept it. Back then, you had not yet realized, that those who view your beauty conditionally, undoubtedly felt the same towards your humanity.” Rafeif Ismail

My sister's hair straightener was full of old hair spray crusted on its side that sizzled with every pass of a strand. That being said I loved it and as a child wanted a hair straightener just like my sister’s. I would eye it on the corner of her dresser and watch her use it as our room filled with smoke and her hair would emerge silky straight. Growing up as a colored woman among an army of straight haired models projected on tv, I equated straight hair with beauty. Enamored with this look I would sometimes opt to steal my sister's straightener when she was out of the house. On special occasions such as weddings, funerals, or birthdays she would offer to lend it to me. Picture day was one of these times of course, as growing up picture day is the day that will define you as a student be that pretty or pretty ugly. So in grade seven, the night before picture day I had my hair all washed and ready to be pressed out and finally silky straight. I laid out my tools which comprised a thin comb, a wide bristle brush, a hair dryer, and a towel wrapped tightly around my neck. Additionally of course I had my sister's straightener on standby, cranked up to the highest setting possible waiting for stage two of the process. Stage one involved me blowing out my hair with a blow drying as straight as possible, requiring a lot of upper arm strength and determination. While I always began this step with full ambition the process would often be too tedious and draining that it would result in a frizzy heap of hair atop my head. Once this was done however the important part would commence, as I would section my hair into four parts and begin the process of frying my hair section by section with my sister's straightener. After about three or even four hours later my hair was as straight as could be and I was ready for tomorrow's picture day. Unfortunately for me, my hair would almost always frizz up in my sleep which would only get worse with any bit of sweat or humidity that I come into contact with throughout the day. As one can imagine my dream of taking the best picture in class with my silky straight locks never came to fruition. This dream was one that I would carry with me for years persisting even

in my high school years. I would patiently wait for the days my sister would allow me to use her hair straightener, jumping on any little opportunity. When she finally outgrew her old straightener I begged my mother to have the contraction. While my mother initially said no, I pointed out her hypocrisy as she herself would permanently straighten her hair and this was much less invasive.

For years till the end of grade eleven, I would wake up early to refry my hair making sure to get right at the root. As years went on the straighter my hair would get and yet I was still unsatisfied. What once was an object that brought me joy and confidence became an object that left me dry and brittle. While my hair seemed to be holding its straight appearance longer when I would wash it however it would lay lifeless against my cheek. As a child, I equated straight hair with beauty and anything else was other and unprofessional. However, worse than curls was damaged hair that now adorned my entire head. I missed my old hair, its ability to shine and bounce and call attention from any angle. I missed its diversity and the way it smelled of fresh coconut oil and leave in conditioner. I had a choice to either continue the path I was on and leave my hair completely unrecognizable or chop it off and start all over. So I chose the latter and rolled up my sister's old hair straightener around its cord, hiding it under my bed. From grade twelve to my third year of university I wouldn't even look at my sister's old straightener or dare put any heat on my hair. My hair grew and I learned how to not only manage it but get creative with it, learning to braid, trim, and style my hair. Beauty no longer depended on that old straightener or the straightness of my hair but on my health. I say this not to say that natural hair is the only form of beauty but that beauty does not have to look one way. Today on any given day my hair can look a myriad of ways, from its natural curly state to a fire-red wig. Women, particularly women of color should not give in to the pressures of society to conform to what they think beauty is. Today I ask myself if I was able to fry the part of me as simple as my hair to conform to the image of beauty around me how much farther would I have gone? I am happy for my relationship with my sister straightener as it gave me the courage to get to know my own beauty and what that looks like for me. While my sister's old hair straightener is burnt out and long gone, today I have my own newer version of the contraption that I still use on some special occasions.

Brooke Do Couto is a teaching candidate at york university entering her first year of teacher’s college. She finished her undergraduate with a bachelor's degree in English, graduating on the dean's list in 2022. Having studied English and Social Science, she is interested in art and social issues. Do Couto works around her community in various volunteer opportunities engaging in York’s PAWs program for student athletes and volunteering at her local high school. Also, being a proud ally of the Black Lives Matter movement in Toronto writing and involving herself with a myriad of marches and gatherings to support her BIPOC community

Papa’s Hat

Kristen Dodds

“The most introspective of hearts tends to be the most sentimental. We cling to the smallest moments from our past because we fear that emotion will never come our way again.”

Shannon Alder

My grandfather, who I called papa, was very present in my life since the day I was born. He lived around the corner from me so when my parents were busy with work he took care of me, brought me to school, and once a week, he would treat my brother and me to a meal for just the three of us. Being such a prominent figure in my life, I became really close to my papa. We would text each other often when I moved away from school and whenever I came home, we would always see each other. Our closeness never wavered even with the distance.

If you look through the photos of us, just as present as a smile, is a Pete’s Sports baseball hat sitting on my papa’s head. This was a worn out light beige hat decorated with tears around the rim and full of different pins that almost made it sparkle. Whether it was a shamrock, a poppy, or a Vimy Ridge commemoration, he always had this gallery of pins all over his hat that meant something to him. A shamrock represented his Northern Irish heritage, a poppy out of respect for Remembrance Day, and Vimy Ridge because my brother won a contest to be at the 150th Vimy Ridge ceremony in France. When I reached the age of twelve, I also started to add pins to his hat; it made me feel special as I was lucky enough to take up space on his favourite hat. Whenever I would travel, I would make sure to collect a pin to put on his hat. He was definitely running out of space but he would never tell me to stop.

While I loved putting pins on his hat and seeing him always wear it around, I still only saw it as his hat. That is until I took possession of the hat myself, and then it became so much more. I never wanted the hat, I was terrified of the day the hat became mine, as that now meant the owner of the hat was no longer here to need it. The day the hat was placed in my hands was

the day my papa passed away. A couple of days after his passing, we had to go through the things in his house. This was hard for me as this was my first real experience with somebody close passing. His death was so unexpected and going through his things made it too grounded in reality.

I spent a lot of time crying as we went through all his possessions, but then, sitting in his hallway closet right where he left it, I saw his hat. I saw it sparkling and it brought in so many emotions of comfort and familiarity. As soon as I saw it, I knew I needed to keep it as close to me as possible. I spoke to my father about how desperately I needed my papa’s hat to become mine While at first, he did not understand and wanted to throw it out as it was falling apart from wear and tear over the years, I begged for hours until I finally convinced him to let it be mine. Once I grabbed it, I put it up to my chest and noticed the smell of my papa’s house seemed to almost be absorbed into the hat. It was a musty, mothball type of smell, and while it may seem unappealing to some, to me, the smell brought me reassurance as it brought me back to spending quality time with him at his place We would often spend time in his backyard, where he could be seen sipping coffee with his hat on, while my brother and I ran around the yard playing tag. To me, that unappealing smell is reassurance that these memories will always be here like a pin on the front of his hat. While commuting back to Toronto after going through everything, I kept the hat as physically close to me as possible. I refused to take my eye off of the hat for fear that if I lost it, it would be like losing my papa all over again. I knew exactly where I was going to put it to keep it safe. I had this shelf in my student housing where I put my plants, and I knew it would fit perfectly up there. I wanted to keep the hat safe and in the same condition I found it, as changing it or cleaning it made me feel like I was losing a part of him. With it sitting perfectly on the shelf, every morning I can wake up and look at it. Having the hat there makes me feel close to my papa and makes me remember while he might not physically be here, he is always looking over me. This old Pete’s baseball hat has given me the opportunity to learn a lot about life. The hat has come to represent so much more than just something to remember my papa. It has become a reminder for me to cherish the moments I have with my loved ones. When I look at the hat, I see the 21 years of memories that I not only had with my papa but with those around me. Spending time with my papa also meant spending time with my parents, my Great Aunt, my brother, and many of my friends. He was an ever-present figure in my life, and as a result, this hat has come to symbolize the years he worked towards bringing my family together and creating beautiful memories that I will now cherish Since obtaining this hat, I have learned to create as many unforgettable memories as I can with those I love, just like he did. I will always be grateful for what my papa has given me, and I am glad that I will always have this hat so I never forget.

He has no expectation of seeing an airplane rise again in his lifetime, but is it possible that somewhere there are ships setting out? If there are again towns with streetlights, if there are symphonies and newspapers, then what else might this awakening world contain? Perhaps vessels are setting out even now, travelling towards or away from him, steered by sailors armed with maps and knowledge of the stars, driven by the need or perhaps simply curiosity: whatever became of the countries on the other side? If nothing else, it’s pleasant to consider the possibility. He likes the thought of ships moving over the water, towards another world just out of sight.

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel.

Kristen Dodds is a first year Bachelor of Education student at York University. After completing high school in her hometown of Strathroy, Ontario, Kristen decided to pursue a Concurrent Education degree with an undergraduate in history at York University. She is now living in Toronto full time and working on finishing her Bachelor of Education degree on top of being involved in many different youth based extracurriculars. Her goal is to become a high school history teacher and later on pursue a career in guidance counselling.

Blue Pen Jacky Duong

September 2012 marked the beginning of middle school, and my adolescences. Middle school marked a period of change, no longer was I a kid, no short 5 minute walk to school, a 25 minute walk. No recess, we end early instead (2:52). One of the few uniformed public schools, along with our own lockers, and real musical instruments! Middle school was a different place. An experience I wouldn’t change. A period of significant change. Little did I know, set the foundation for my continued search for meaning, for who am I?

Scribble, scratch, scratch, the forgivable tool from elementary school, the pencil, which allowed me to vanquish mistakes, albeit with a trace of eraser marks or the shadow of dark lead. The tireless struggle to keep it sharpened, and straight, the struggle as it dulls bit, by bit until it vanishes.

Click, smash, smash, the age of computers arrived, technology allows for limitless mistakes, erase without a trace. The age of technology began in elementary school, as a novel tool, more for play, then work. The digital revolution arrived in middle school, where technology reigned supreme, with multiple carts of laptops, chromebooks, iPads, and even a 3D printer.

Yet between technology and the pencil lays the humble pen, the blue pen. Not too dark, yet not sky blue. The blue pen symbolized my adolescence, of institutional control, change, accountability and continuity.

In middle school we were mandated to write in blue ink, teachers weren’t to accept anything else, no pencil, no colour (except for math). Blue was proper. Red reserved for errors. Everything in between a distraction. Our tool of expression, reduced to to build uniformity and conformity. Fitting as one of the few uniformed public schools in the TDSB. Why blue? They never did explain why blue. It is, the way, it is, or so they said. Yet years later, I find comfort with my trusty blue pen. With the pen, I am no longer bound to a pencil that dulls, I can freely write till the ink runs dry. Ideas. Emotions. Beliefs. Freedom.

Who am I? I wonder, as I see the endless hydro lines that crosses my neighbourhood. Day by day, alongside the hydro lines I see the sun rise and set. Are they my future, the places I’ll go? A reminder of the past, and no matter how far, remains connected. They tower over me, evoking memories of nostalgia. Those first steps beyond those wires, backpack in hand and alone I trudged northward. Turned the unrelenting harsh winter’s wind that whips along the open bare land. The freezing tears and patters of rain on the bare travels. A trusty blue pen by my side, every step of the way. The sunrises and sunsets that appear on my journey to and from school. These very lines connect me on my journey to York. A decade of connections. A decade of memories. A decade of blue pens.

Aging out of childhood is becoming accountable to one’s action and learning how to deal with memories. Unlike a pencil which partially erases, or digitally where you erase without a trace, the pen leaves a lasting impression. Scribbling over mistakes, desperately trying to hide memories. Experiences cannot be erased or forgotten, but overwritten and hidden, like a pen its ‘gone’ but still there. A new page to turn, a chapter awaits. Life is full of sticky mistakes.

The beauty of sticky mistakes is how they stick with you. The blue pen is a symbol of my inner conflict, between my past and future. Fittingly middle school sparked the technological revolution whilst maintained order and the past through the pen. Do I embrace technology? Do I revert to the past? FM Radio, music streaming? Print or screen? Technology or not?

The blue pen evokes memories of my adolescence, the control in middle school, the accountability of the pen, the freedom of emotions and thoughts. Of the sadness and anguish in my adolescence, of the harsh outcry of emotions amidst the frantic scribbles. Transferring pain and memories from mind to paper. The satisfaction of scratching them, turning the page and starting anew. Not gone, but hidden, reflecting, beneath the new chapter that marches onward. Despite my inner turmoil of past and future, the blue pen represents my continuity from periods of change and the present. A tool to imagine futures and pasts. Continuity from 2012. Blue ink remains my tool of choice. Paper is where my thoughts go. The blue pen are from simpler times, right on the cusp of technology. Of a time of increased independence then when I was in elementary school, yet fewer responsibilities as a young adult. A tool I travel with as I traverse the endless hydro corridors that extend across my youth.

Jacky Duong has completed the degree requirements for the Bachelor of Arts, Specialized Honours in Geography and is concurrently pursing a Bachelor of Education at York University in the Intermediate Senior division. In addition to his studies Jacky was involved with Departmental and Faculty governance sitting on various committees and on the creation of the Faculty of Environmental and Urban Change. He is passionate in providing accessible knowledge of bureaucracy to peers and encouraged others to get involved. For this, Jacky was one of the recipients of Robert Everett Exceptional Leadership in Student Governance Award in 2022.

The Pineapple T-Shirt Perri Feldman

“It would be wrong to think that the discussion of “identity” ought to proceed prior to a discussion of gender identity for the simple reason that “persons” only become intelligible through becoming gendered in conformity with recognizable standards of gender intelligibility. Sociological discussions have conventionally sought to understand the notion of the person in terms of an agency that claims ontological priority to the various roles and functions through which it assumes social visibility and meaning.”

Judith Butler. Gender Trouble

Before I was even born my parents went out and bought me girls' clothes. They were usually pink or purple onesies and dresses with flowers and ruffles. As I continued to grow as a toddler they kept buying me these pink and purple clothes. Three years after I was born my parents were preparing for the birth of a new baby boy. Similarly to what they had done for me, they had gone out to buy clothes for him before he was born. However, this time they bought boys' clothes. His clothes were blue and had things like cars and sports related items on them.

As I started to get older I picked the clothes that I wanted my parents to buy for me. Although I got many pieces of clothing from the girls section of stores, many of the clothes in my closet were from the boys section. The blue and green clothes from the boys section were always my favourite. My interests have always included reptiles and insects, and throughout life my closest friends have mainly been guys. One day, when I was in the seventh grade a boy in my class pushed me up against the wall and told me to admit that I was gay. On that day I was wearing an XS mens blue t shirt that was huge on my small 12 year old female frame. I did not know if his assumptions were based on the things I was interested in, who my friends were, or if it was because of my clothes, but after that day I never wore that shirt again. Suddenly my closet turned from being mainly blue and green baggy clothes to tight fitting pink and purple pieces of material that I never felt like myself in. I wore pushup bras, tight tops, and whatever makeup that I had laying around the house. As a little kid playing dress up meant wearing dresses and pretending to be a princess. Now playing dress up meant getting ready for school each day, picking out clothes that decreased my confidence but accentuated my breasts to prove that I could have a femine figure. By doing this I lost a piece of who I was. I continued to only dress this way for the next few years until I went into a Winners with my mom and uncle. Right as I walked in I saw this cotton navy blue t shirt with little white pineapples all over it. It was not like any of the pink and purple clothes that I had at home. I immediately picked up the shirt knowing that I wanted it. Trying on the shirt in the change room was scary because I knew that it meant that I would have to admit to liking something outside of what society would typically think a young girl would like. However, standing in the changeroom and wearing this shirt I felt confident, excited, and a sense of power in knowing that I could be myself regardless of what others thought. This was a feeling that I had not had in years. My mom and uncle however did not share my excitement. My mom started fighting with me and telling me that I should not buy the shirt because it was for men. I took it to the cashier anyway. As I was standing in line I could hear my uncle asking my mom “are you really going to let her buy that?” but I ignored him. I distinctly remember giving the money to the cashier and her handing me the bag. This purchase sparked something in me that would teach me about the social construction of gender.

As I have gotten older I have realised that clothing is just objects that we use to express ourselves. A shirt that is found in the men’s section of a store can be made up of the same pieces of fabric that are used to make a shirt in the women’s section. Today my closet is a mix of all colours, fabrics, and prints. There are still days when I feel as if I need to dress a certain way, but I now dress myself based on clothing items that I like, regardless if they make me look femine or

not. Dressing the way that I want has given me a sense of confidence. There are still some days where I am nervous to shop in the mens section of the store or present myself in a certain way through my clothing. However, whenever I begin to doubt that I should present myself in the way that I want, I think back to that day when I was standing in the change room trying on that mens t shirt from winners. I remember the way that it made me feel about myself. It gives me the encouragement to present myself in the way that I want to and not to be influenced by what society tells me to wear.

Perri Feldman is currently enrolled in the Concurrent Bachelor of Education Program at York University, in hopes of one day becoming a high school special education teacher. Her teachable subjects are social science and history, while other interests include cooking, taking care of animals, travelling, being outside, and going to museums. Thro ughout her life, Perri has been interested in questioning the social construction of gender. While writing this essay Perri asked her dad to describe the clothes that he and her mom had bought for Perri before she was born. Perri’s fathers reply included, “We didn’t get blue, we knew you were a girl.”

Nikon Camera

Caitlyn Fung

“Life, of course, is not lived in discrete stages, nor the relationships with objects that accompany its journey. Objects have roles that have life roles that are multiple and fluid. We live our lives in the middle of things. Material culture carries our emotions and ideas of startling intensity…”

Sherry Turkle Sherry Turkle. (2011). WHAT MAKES AN OBJECT EVOCATIVE? In Evocative Objects (p. 307 ). The MIT Press.

Oftentimes, we do not realize the significance the items we interact with have on our lives until we look back on them. In the moment, they are simply just items to us that accompany us on our journey’s of life. This was exactly how I felt with my grandfather’s camera. My name is Caitlyn Fung and I was born to my parents in what was the small, quaint town of Markham, Ontario. In the days of my youth, I remember a large, circular glass lens pointed at my face by my father, followed by a snap and a bright white flash of light blinding my vision momentarily. This was an unknown, foreign entity to me, something I associated with the words “say cheese!” only to later realize when I was a few years older that it was called a camera. Many moments of my early childhood were captured in the form of videos or photos, but my father had to have gotten it from somewhere, or rather someone. That someone was my grandfather.

That old, clunky, Nikon camera with the tattered strap, worn from overuse around his neck was something I always remembered him bringing to our family functions. My grandfather lived in Jamaica and every year up until the pandemic, he would make the trek with my grandmother from the small Caribbean island up north to visit us. And with him, he would always bring that camera with him, strapped around his neck as if he could not bear to leave home without it. To tell you the truth, I hated that camera when I was a kid. From the times at family dinners when I was stuffing my face with the delicious foods that my mother, father, and

grandmother made, or when I accidentally blinked and my grandfather refused to delete the photo because it added what he called “character”. To this day, I’m unsure whether or not he truly meant that, or if he simply just did not know how to delete the photos he took. Many photos in the several photo albums we have contain photos where one or many of us are blinking.

I associated the camera with insecurity. It seemingly captured every single one of my worst moments. My lack of nose bridge, my wider nose, the size of my forehead as if it were half a saucer, the shape of my jaw and how I thought it made my face taper into some sort of square shape. I could not even muster the courage to smile with my teeth, because one of my canine teeth protruded at an unnatural angle. It felt as if the camera lens magnified every insecurity that I had for all of my family to see. I remember that my grandfather took a photo so awful, where my face was contorted in a funny angle because I was playing Super Smash Bros with my cousins. It was a photo that my family would constantly laugh at upon seeing. I conflated it with them laughing at my insecurities. The camera was an item from my childhood that evoked a feeling of hatred and I dreaded my family gatherings for this reason.

The pandemic had caused a cease to all my family gatherings for two full years. No longer did I have to stand awkwardly with my extended family for prolonged periods of time whilst curving the corners of my lips in an artificial smile. Once restrictions began to ease, I dreaded the first family dinner with my grandfather, however, that dreaded family gathering never came.

While I was not as close to this grandfather as I was to the one on my mother’s side, having to experience his death in my life was a shock. My grandfather was hospitalized in early September and passed away peacefully in the company of his family in early October. Much like my grandfather on my mother’s side, who passed away to cancer four years ago, it was hard to once again watch someone I loved deteriorate in a hospital bed. After my grandfather’s funeral, my family and I decided to rummage around the items that my grandfather left at my aunt’s house, the place he stayed when he was visiting from Jamaica. When I saw the camera once again, it was then when the memories of the camera resurfaced to me, much so to the point it brought a tear to my eye. The camera taught me how fleeting life is, which is why it is so important to photograph the important moments in our lives. When we die, these photos are fragments of the lives we lived. They are puzzle pieces left behind for those to put together in order to view a glimpse of our pasts. Whenever I look back on the photo albums filled with moments my grandfather captured with his own hands, they are memories that those in the photos can recall and reminisce about. I believe that this is why my grandfather took as many photographs as he did. While it was certainly a hobby for him, it also reflected the way my grandfather carried himself. He wanted to leave behind these photographs to remind us of his core value, the importance of family. Because of the lessons this camera has taught me, it has given me a different perspective on life. Instead of obsessing over the photos in which I look funny, I think of them as fond memories. In a photograph, nobody looks perfect and I’ve learned to laugh at myself because the memory it holds is more important than how we look. Now, I always try to smile with my teeth when people are taking photos of me because it is how I want people to remember me; as someone who was always smiling to the fullest. Now I find myself doing the exact same thing as grandfather; I take photos of the moments in my life I do not want to forget. Because one day, I would like people to piece together those memories to see a glimpse of my past even when I am no longer here, just like we did for my grandfather.

Rest well, Gong Gong

Santa’s Bells Nicholas Galluzzo

Christmas is my favourite day of the year. Every Christmas for as long as I’ve been alive, my family would celebrate the Eve at my maternal grandparents’ house, spending the night and leaving Christmas morning. Today, there are eleven grandchildren and five couples who fill their house on Christmas Eve. The house is not large by any means, but we somehow always manage to make do. The tradition of transforming my grandparents’ house into a hotel on Christmas first started when my dad was married into the family in 1993.

My mom is the oldest of four children and she married my dad while her two sisters and brother were still living at home. My dad would stay the night, spending the Eve and Christmas morning with my mom’s family. Over the next few years, my mom’s siblings got married, and their spouses would spend the night as well. It didn’t take long for the house to be occupied by three couples. In 1997, my sister was born, and she was the first grandchild in the family. In time for her first Christmas, my dad bought a Santa suit that he planned on dressing up in every single year, and he did.

Every Christmas morning at 8:30, my dad would rush down into the basement to get dressed for Santa’s arrival at 9. Once 9 would come around, all the children would be sent upstairs to look out the windows to see Santa land on the roof. We never saw him, but it never bothered us, and we didn’t question it; Santa was magical and that was good enough of a reason for us. As we were upstairs, my dad would tiptoe from the basement to the main floor, and we

would be made aware of his arrival by a symphony of a dozen bells ringing in perfect harmony. That sound would fill the entire house, and it was always followed by the sound of children running down the stairs to see Santa Claus. None of the children could be more than 100 pounds, though you would imagine you were listening to a herd of elephants. Screams and laughter would fill the family room as all the grandchildren would run to see Santa Claus. As babies, we would always cry in terror as we were put on Santa’s lap. It took most of us to be toddlers to start looking forward to Santa’s yearly visit.

The intensity of joy and excitement that fills my grandparent’s house on Christmas morning cannot be put into words. I could only describe it is as “magical”. I was the last of my friends to learn that Santa wasn’t real. They would always tell me that it was their parents putting gifts under the tree all along, but I didn’t believe them and why should have I? Santa came to my grandparents’ house every Christmas morning; I saw him and hugged him each time.

It’s bittersweet to know that us grandchildren are growing older. My 21 year old cousin’s most recent gift from Santa Claus was a rice cooker and she is still being teased about that almost a year later. Out of the eleven grandchildren, there are only two left that still believe in Santa, but my dad still dresses up regardless. With every passing Christmas, I am reminded of the fact that my grandparents are getting older. The thought that a day will come where they are no longer with us and no longer hosting Christmas at their house brings me to tears. My parents have always instilled in me the importance of creating memories for in the end, all that we have are memories, and I am fortunate to have great ones.

As each of us children grow older and eventually learn the truth about Santa, my dad gives us each one of Santa’s bells. Being a quarter of a decade old, those bells have been a part of my family longer than all of us grandchildren have, and they have lost a bit of their luster. What was once was a batch of a dozen of glowing gold bells continues to shrink as each grandchild finds out the truth about Santa Claus. The once vibrant red, green, and gold ribbon that holds the bells together has begun to dull and fray while the bells themselves have become slightly tarnished, losing a bit of their gold glow. However, with all that said, the bells still ring the same every Christmas day.

My bell sits as a Christmas ornament on my family’s Christmas tree and one day it will sit on my children’s Christmas tree for their children to look at as they are told all the stories of our family’s Christmas mornings. Nothing is more important to me than family. To me, life is about making memories with those that you love and carrying on traditions, and my bell is a reminder of these values. My bell is a time capsule of family memories, but if there is a single person I associate with it, it is my dad; the best dad that anyone could ever ask for, the hardest working person I know who always went above and beyond to give my sister and I a great childhood. Though it seems too far into the future for me to imagine, I know that when I have a family of my own one day, that bell will remind me of what it means to be a father and to provide my children with the best life I possibly can. Christmas is my favourite day of the year, and if you ask anyone in my family what theirs is, they will tell you the same.

In truth, a family is what you make it. It is made strong, not by number of heads counted at the dinner table, but by the rituals you help family members create, by the memories you share, by the commitment of time, caring, and love you show to one another, and by the hopes for the future you have as individuals and as a unit - Marge Kennedy

Nicholas Galluzzo is an intermediate senior teacher candidate currently enrolled in the Bachelor of Education program at York University. Having obtained an undergraduate degree in Commerce from the same university, his two teaching subjects are business studies and social science. His professional interests are marketing and sales, with a specific love for brand management Outside of his academic and professional interests, Nicholas’ greatest passions are fitness, music, and soccer However, he is most happy when he is among friends and family, creating memories that will be cherished for a lifetime

Jar of Tomato Sauce

Nicole Garibaldi

“Culture is the name for what people are interested in, their thoughts, their models, the books they read and the speeches they hear.”

Walter Lipmann

While our grandparents support us to help us grow as people, one of the most important things they do is teach our culture to us. Various traditions were taught to me over the years, and these became the foundational ideas for my lifestyle and culture. My evocative object is a jar of tomato sauce. This may seem like something that people just use to cook with, but for me, it symbolizes a huge part of my culture which has moulded me into the person I am today. Not only does this object represent my culture but my grandparents as well.

Every time I go into my cellar in the basement, I am struck with nostalgia as I am faced with hundreds of jars of tomato sauce. The thick glass jar, filled with red tomato sauce with a green basil leaf inside instantly brings me back to my childhood. Additionally, attached to the jar of sauce is the memory of my grandparents. Every August is a sacred time of the year for Italians, as it is the time of making homemade tomato sauce. Making sauce is not just an hour process, it is more like a two day process. My family and I look forward to making sauce as all of our family gather in a garage from as early as four in the morning. Our whole family gets out our aprons and handkerchiefs to wrap around our hair, to ensure we wouldn't get it dirty with tomato sauce. We take out our wooden spoons, gigantic steel pots, hundreds of glass jars and of course a lot of bushels of tomatoes. Every Morning of this day, my grandmother would say in Italian “l buongiorno si vede dal mattino”. This translates to “Good morning starts in the morning”. Essentially, she would say this because if a day starts badly, it will probably end badly. Thus, the proverb emphasizes the importance of how the day begins. My grandmother would say this to our family because so early in the morning, a lot of people can be grumpy and

if we are grumpy we won’t focus on perfecting the sauce. The process begins by sorting out the good and bad tomatoes, then you clean and cut them. Proceeding this, you boil them in a gigantic steel pot, and then mash the tomatoes and put them through a strainer. Right after this, you must pour them into the jar with basil leaves and then boil the jars to seal them tight. The savoury scent of the jar of sauce fills our household as we work all day. The tradition of making fresh tomato sauce has been a huge part of Italian culture for generations. My grandparents made it a priority to pass on this tradition to myself and my parents. With this knowledge, I will pass down the tradition for more generations to come.

When I see a jar of sauce, I am constantly reminded of my grandparents. The tomato sauce jar reflects my grandparents which articulates the reason why I am so in tune with my culture today. Understanding my own culture allowed me to grow as a person and connect to my grandparents on a deeper level. In today’s society, many people forget their cultural identity. My grandparents always told me not to be ashamed of my culture, as it is beautiful. When my grandparents came to Canada, they were marginalized and called names due to not knowing English and having such a foreign culture. Even though they endured hardships, they continued their cultural practices. This made me so thankful for my grandparents and made me proud of my culture. Therefore, every year, I feel privileged to make jars of sauce with my family. When this past August arrived, I felt filled with happiness, knowing that my entire family would gather at my grandparent's house to follow our yearly tradition. I called my grandparents to express my enthusiasm and they just told me that they felt too old to be still making homemade sauce. Immediately, I could not believe what I was hearing and I was therefore struck with grief. I gathered my thoughts quickly and reminded them that this is not just to gather all the family, but to celebrate our ethnicity. I also informed them that we have to keep the tradition alive because without them it is not the same. Lo and behold, they agreed with me, and that very same day, we headed to our local supermarket to get our bushels of tomatoes. A jar of tomato sauce also represents my grandparents' cultural values, which taught me so much about life. They taught me to be a selfless person. Every Friday morning, my grandmother and I would walk to our local Italian supermarket. We noticed that in front of the store, there was a homeless man who resided there. As people walked by him, they made fun of him and told him to get a job instead of being lazy. Not long after this, my grandmother decided to take out a jar of sauce and make homemade pasta with it, to give to the homeless man. After the pasta with sauce was cooked to perfection, my grandmother put it in a container, along with lots of water and other snacks. It was a breezy fall day as we made our way walking to the store. The man was shivering in the corner as we approached him. My grandmother gave the homeless man her homemade goods. The man was so stunned and thanked us with a big smile. This warmed my heart with happiness. My grandparents always told me to be thankful for everything that we have and give back to the community. Therefore, a jar of sauce actively illustrates humility and compassion from my perspective. It has also impacted me so much that every year I volunteer at a homeless shelter and feed the less fortunate. From my grandmother’s action with the jar of sauce, I have learned to be a generous person and put my needs aside and help those who need it most.

The homemade jar of sauce allows me to feel a sense of comfort, warmth and of course my heritage. The jar of tomato sauce portrays the tradition of making it every year. The custom of homemade sauce has been such an important part of my life. Making sauce every year is one of those memories every summer that I will never forget. Despite the fact that making tomato sauce is a once a year event, the day encompasses more than just cooking tomatoes all day. This

is a special day that is occupied with laughter, joy, and moments that I will remember for the rest of my life. Thus, this jar of sauce has a big part of my identity as it constantly reminds me of the importance of my culture. I love sharing this tradition with other people, so they can understand the beauty of my culture. Overall, the jar of tomato sauce made me the individual that I am today and made me proud to be Italian.

Nicole Garibaldi is a student in her first year of teacher’s college at York University. She is studying to be a French teacher at the High School level. Nicole Garibaldi was born on October 11th, 2000 in Toronto, Ontario. Despite being born in Canada, Nicole was brought up in a very Italian household. While both her parents worked a lot, she was mostly raised by her Italian grandparents. Nicole claims that her grandparents are the reason why she loves her heritage so much to this day. Through her grandparents, Nicole learned the Italian language, the cuisine and of course the traditions. From watching her grandparents make everything from scratch, Nicole gained a sense of passion and appreciation for cooking. To this day, Nicole makes homemade sauce, pasta and other delicious Italian dishes

Driving Merwa Gheddai

It was late June, the air was still, clouds were scattered across the sky, and the rocky mountains surrounded me. I was hoping to catch the sunset by the falls, but I knew that I would be too late. I started the hour and a half journey home from Calgary to Banff with a strawberry milkshake and peri peri fries to keep me company. This was possibly the last time I would be taking this trip. Thankfully, the highway was mostly clear, except for the few trucks making their way cross country. After six months, I had grown used to their enduring presence and my anxiety driving next to them had significantly subsided. I had gotten used to having the whole road to myself and I cherished it, especially after suffering through two hour long commutes in Toronto traffic

I never saw myself returning to Alberta, let alone seeing myself living in Banff. I had conflicted feelings and complicated memories about Calgary, the city I grew up in, and so I tried to avoid it at all costs. Toronto was a fresh start, an escape, and it was what I needed when I first moved here. But now seven years later, in the midst of a pandemic, I found myself thinking of my childhood home, trying to confront the emotions I had packed away long ago. School was online for the year, and we were in lockdown, so when the opportunity to spend that time in Banff presented itself, I couldn’t say no. It was close enough to Calgary that I could start facing old wounds, but still far enough to escape when it got too overwhelming.

For the first time in my life, I was living alone and far away from my family. I was nervous and excited at the same time. I had completed all the tourist activities by the end of the first month and the novelty had worn off. In the beginning, it was so quiet. Every few hours, the whistles of the train passing through town filled the apartment, but silence soon resumed, and my sadness and anxiety would eventually take over At home, I countered the stillness with various forms of background noise while I did homework, or completed chores, but on drives it was just

“be easy. take your time. you are coming home. to yourself. the becoming” ― Nayyirah Waheed, Nejma

me. Groceries and supplies were needlessly expensive in Banff, so driving to Calgary to run errands became part of my weekly routine.

Driving, on Highway 1, from Banff to Calgary (and vice versa), was unlike driving anywhere else. Perhaps it was the memories of road trips growing up, or the majestic scenery that surrounded. The landscape transitioned from ranges of mountains wearing snowcaps, to dense forests populated with wildlife and horses scattered over stretches of grasslands. Lakes, gas stations, and the occasional bobcat made appearances along the journey. A sense of peace enveloped me on those excursions. With every trip, my need for the GPS became obsolete, I felt more confident in my driving abilities, and was gaining an increasing sense of autonomy and independence. My drives became oppurtunities to venture inwards, to get reacquainted with myself, to confront repressed feelings, and consider alternative viewpoints of my experiences Those drives became sacred to me. I started video journaling, to track and document my growth and the conversations I was having with myself. It was my time, with no external intrusions or judgements hovering over me, tainting my self exploration.

I had just completed my last run of groceries and I it dawned on me that this would be my last drive from Calgary to Banff. The next time I came back to Calgary, it would be to board a plane back to Toronto. Maybe that’s why this last drive stands out in my mind. I struggled with the thought of leaving; I cried about it too. I grew to love my own company, the beauty that surrounded me, the long uninterrupted stretches of therapy. I had taken a momentary break from reality, and the environment, responsibilities and relationships that had led to my departure in the first place. I was afraid that going back would undo all I had accomplished.

I placed my phone on the mount, pressed record, and on June 25th, I drove back to Banff for the last time. I reflected on the past ten months, the transformations I saw in myself, the self awareness I had developed. I was able to discover my identity, outside my family, my community, and school. I began to cherish solitude, and learned to slow down and give myself space to process and reflect on life as it came. I learned to find comfort in the small things, like my morning walk along the river or my nighttime skincare routine. I was getting comfortable navigating discomfort, imposter syndrome, perfectionism and all the other feelings that come with early adulthood. Now, over one year later, drives continue to be a space of solace, a moment to pause in my busy life. When I am feeling overwhelmed or scattered, I go on a drive (knowing full well the damage I am causing to my bank account), and things seem to fall into place. It is an act of self care and self love, and I can’t imagine my life without it.

Roughly around the midway point between Calgary and Banff stands Gap lake. In the winters, it’s a common skating rink, and in the summers, it’s a fishing attraction. As a kid, my family’s trips to Banff were never complete without a stop at the lake. We would skip rocks, put our feet in the water, have a snack and be on our way. On my last drive to Banff, I wouldn’t make it to the falls before sunset, so I opted for a stop by the lake instead. It felt like a full circle moment; reconciling with my childhood, accepting where I was now, while being hopeful about the future. I decided the moment deserved commemoration as a landmark in my life, with the picture below. A landmark in my life, I decided the moment deserved commemoration, so I took a photo, pictured below.

Merwa

She completed

undergraduate

She is also the President of Women’s Mental Health Talks, a student led organization at York University that aims to support and advocate for women’s mental health, leadership & empowerment. In her spare time, Merwa enjoys reading, spending time with family, and taking long drives.

in

Gheddai is a Teacher Candidate at York University.

her

degree

Educational Studies and History.

My Laptop

In June of 2018 I graduated high school. All my friends and family were so proud of me because of this accomplishment. I was happy for that reason too, but something else was on my mind in the months leading up to my graduation party. All throughout high school my parents told me that when I graduate, they would gift me my first laptop. This time had finally come, I received the large box that had MacBook Air printed on the side. Finally having the box in my hands felt like a culminating experience, every day I had in high school was finally over, all my memories to be made in the past now, it was bittersweet because it had been a good four years for me, I felt so fortunate. I was a very sentimental teenager, and I am still that way now as an adult. After all this time of wanting this object, I couldn’t even get myself to open the box and set up the piece of technology. This to me meant moving on, starting a fresh chapter, but now

“We need to do a better job of putting ourselves higher on our own ‘to do’ list.”

alone and away from the friends I became so close with. This was the first of many emotional experiences I had with my laptop.

Entering the summer after high school and into my first year of university was uncomfortable. This was a time for me that came with a lot of change: getting my first job, a completely new routine, not seeing my friends and teammates as often, going to a new school with harder classes and less familiar faces. Through the consistently changing environments, my laptop was now something that provided consistency, its presence like a friend. I felt mature when I used my laptop because I fit in with the rest of the student population and it meant I could stay in touch with friends and scour the internet in the comfort of my own room. It provided a new type of leisure.

In March of 2020 it was announced that Covid 19 was an ever growing problem and that classes would now be going online. During this time, I was finishing up my second year of university and was not overly phased at the online delivery of school, in hindsight I was not fully aware of how the pandemic would change people and life as we knew it, or even just how long we would be in it. Writing my winter exams online was a breeze, I could do this from the familiarity of home instead of the exam halls that resemble purgatory with hundreds of nervous people like myself. My laptop and I did well on those exams, leaving me with a feeling of optimism, but the following year changed our relationship forever.

The schedule for the next year and a half of online school went as follows. Wake up, get ready for the day, watch YouTube videos while eating breakfast, first zoom class, fix notes and prepare for next class, second zoom class, again fix notes, depending on the day there was another zoom class, then read textbook online and make notes, study from notes made on laptop until evening, watch a couple of episodes of current show, check emails and prepare for online school the next day, and finally sleep. All of my waking hours consisted of me and the laptop either conducting business or enjoying the leisure of the internet. The constant chatter coming from the speaker of the media I was consuming, either academic or personal, the clicking of keys as I furiously take notes trying to keep up, the whir of the fan as my laptop overheats from extended use. These sounds filled the air in my room 7 days a week for the light hours of the day, and to be honest many of the dark ones too. Because I was entering the upper years of my program the workload increased beyond what I could have even imagined, I was stuck with the laptop without an alternative. It no long felt like my laptop, its purpose now out of my control.

I remember having a Physiology final at the end of my third year of university. I studied like for what felt like an eternity. I made pages of notes, rewatched every lecture twice, preparing for this exam was like trying to put out a fire with a mug of water There came a day where I couldn’t even open my laptop, I couldn’t look at it, I didn’t even want to be in the same room as it. That stomach churning feeling of sitting down to write an important exam was now with me in my home, in my room, existing with every touch of my laptop. Time came and went, and I wrote the exam, feeling horrible as I pressed submit on the questions. As this was my final exam for the semester I decided to relax and watch a movie on my laptop, but for some reason I could not relax. For some reason… I could not… relax. The word ‘relax’ being associated with my laptop now felt foreign, and wrong, like the two could not coexist any longer. I now was able to see the problem for what it is. I was lacking balance.

From that point on I made sure that I kept my laptop for business and used other methods for relaxation. Work life balance became the name of the game. I started to read, go outside, watch tv, play with my cats, and call friends instead of just switching tabs on my laptop and using that to unwind. This proved to be a good solution as the heavy feelings that came with school were slowly being dissociated from my laptop. I still used my laptop for school purposed but if there was a time I used it for fun, it did bring back those feelings of happiness and of freedom that I felt not so long ago. I was better as a student and person by setting these boundaries with my work and my laptop. The sight of this silver and black machine no longer making me wince, the sound of the many voices it produces no longer producing any sort of feeling, only neutrality.

Isabella Giorgio is a first year in York University’s Bachelor of Education program. She graduated from the Kinesiology and Health Science program at York in June of 2022. Though she does not have much creative writing experience, she is always finding new ways to expand her capabilities in artistic mediums such as this. Using this evocative object to create this assignment, Isabella has found peace in her ability to be mindful and spend more time with her those who she loves. More specifically her two cats… From this essay she hopes to encourage others to change the relationship they have with their tools of work to include more positivity.

Arianna Hatzis Piano

“When I learned to play the piano, my mother sat next to me nearly every day. When two of my sons began to play, I naturally sat next to them as well. I feel an association between the piano keyboard and family love. In the case of writing, the sensations of fingers on keys are soothing in a way that goes beyond my pleasure in what I write: when I want to imagine myself happy, I think of myself in my study or in a comfortable hotel room on the road, or even cramped, as I am now, in the economy class of American Airlines Flight 1367, from Boston to Miami, fingers on a keyboard, letting my thoughts proceed at their pace into a typescript” (Gardner 45)

Smooth white keys hit the palms of my fingers as the crescendo from the piano illuminated the grand hall. The shakiness from my hands does not stop until I leave the stage, the anxiety still following me as my eyes never leave the black and white piano. The instrument that has followed me around for years causes so much stress and anxiety. The piano has always been a smooth, sleek, and peaceful object yet does not emit the same emotions anymore. What once was an escape from the world and love has become a haunting piece of my life.

The piano has been a part of my life since the very beginning, I cannot remember a time when I did not play piano. I have spent more time than I can count playing and practicing to the point of pain in my fingers and hands. From a young age, the piano has always been a sleek and shiny, and cohesive object where I could see my reflection. A young happy girl who always felt positivity, happiness, and confidence from the piano.

The piano was introduced to me through my mother who was also a talented pianist while growing up. My mother always told me, my talent outweighed hers constantly no matter how old I got. The smoothness from the stable keys as they hit my fingers enabled me to create a noise like no other and move people to silence. Yet the noise of the music as I got older and the weight of my mother's words eventually could never outweigh the weight of anxiety and nerves as I pressed the keys. Yet the weight of staring and playing the piano was not always such a daunting task it used to bring me joy and happiness.

The piano used to transport me into another dimension, when I was playing I used to feel as if I was invincible. The notes and keys emitting sounds so beautiful I was able to become this young confident woman who could do anything. When I began piano exams, I could still see my mirror image when I would do exams and would force myself to picture a confident pianist that could conquer the music world. The joy my success brought others encouraged me to do better until I hit age thirteen. I remember heading into a piano exam and the young pianist sitting across from me was shaking. She could not stop expressing every fear she had verbally to the whole room. For the first time, the love, confidence, and admiration I had for the instrument had become this unexplainable fear. For the first time walking into this exam was like I was walking into quicksand. My hands felt frozen, my legs unable to smoothly move the pedals, and my mind blank. It was as if I had become a beginner again and the piano was this unexplainable instrument I had not spent hours practicing. This moment forever paralyzed my love for the piano, I was never the same. The generational instrument and happiness I felt from it initially were now plagued with his unexplainable fear. The craziest emotion I felt after I completed the exam and received the mark, which was high scoring, was not relief but a heavyweight. I could never escape this pressure I then felt for the rest of my career. I stopped playing piano at eighteen the minute my life transitioned from high school to university. I still have not been able to play consistently for long periods since. When I do go back to the piano my skill is still there yet I struggle to remember the happy times.

I believe that my mom and I’s bond through the piano will never bend and we will always share our joy and admiration for the instrument. Yet I will never be able to express that kind of joy for the instrument in a personal matter. My piano sits in the dining room of my parent's house with its shine and still shows my reflection. But the reflection is not the same young confident girl. The reflection is someone who has fear about what might happen when I sit down to play the instrument. I will forever be grateful for the memories and happiness I had from playing piano. I hope one day I can get back that joy and find happiness in playing piano again regardless of how long it takes me. Playing an instrument is one of the most difficult things a person can do but it also can provide a sense of humbleness and self discovery.

Arianna Hatzis is a Greek Canadian student at York University. Arianna is currently a candidate for her Bachelor of Education and hopes to teach Intermediate/Senior students English and History. Arianna is a second generation Canadian and loves to spend time with her family and educate those around her about Greek culture and language. When she is not studying and completing assignments she enjoys swimming and teaching others. While she does not play piano anymore she hopes one day she can find joy in playing again. Arianna hopes this piece can grab someone's emotion and create a connection.

PlayStation 3

Yendrix Hernandez

The idea of family has been a complicated one in my household. Consisting of a single mother who had various medical issues, a workaholic older sister and a very reserved older brother. I, the youngest member of the family, usually stayed home most days and passed the time by reading or sleeping. When I was young my brother and I had a strained relationship that stemmed from a lot of resentment and anger between my mother and him. I was taught that my brother was an unhinged teenager and that I needed to stay away.

When I was twelve years old, I sat in the living room with my mother watching some dramatic telenovela when suddenly my brother rushed into the living room with a large box. As a gift from his girlfriend was a bulky sleek black PlayStation 3. It shined brightly under the light and when it turned on, it made a loud beep sound and smoothly hummed, ready for its destined purpose. This was the most exciting piece of technology at the time and was foreign to a household that was deprived of money.

My brother and I have an eight year age difference and our sibling relationship was non existent, nonetheless, the PlayStation sought to change that. For a time, we only had one game, Soul Calibur IV, a fighting game that would loudly project sounds of blades colliding, slashing and deathly screams. He placed his new device in his room and when he played, he would leave his bedroom door open. At the corner of his bedroom door, I would watch as the characters fought one another. I was mesmerised by the vibrant colours and cinematic fighting scenes. He

wouldn’t notice my presence till he lost miserably to his opponent, and I would giggle at his defeat, when he turned around, I would bolt into my bedroom. I would do this every time he would play and later, he began to get more games that showcased a new skill to develop. I would watch from his door as he would play and by then he knew I was a lingering shadow at the door watching every move of Sev in Killzone 2.

Eventually, my brother got a co op multiplayer game called Resistance, a dystopian sci fi shooter game. He invited me to play it with him and even though I was walking into walls and shooting the air more than the aliens, we persevered and beat the game together. We began playing more two player games such as Call of Duty and my personal favourite Resident Evil 5. During these long gaming sessions, my brother and I began to talk to one another about life, who we are as individuals and what we aspire to become. I began to realize that the person I was made to believe as an awful delinquent was incredibly ambitious, funny, and family oriented. My brother only wanted what was best for his family and took steps in his daily life to ensure that his two sisters stayed motivated in their goals. This was a pivotal moment for me as I became aware that people are more than others perceive them to be. I now form my own opinions about people and give them a chance to showcase who they are without outside influences or judgement. People are complicated beings and seek to be understood. I strive to empathize with people and work with them to recognize their authentic selves.

My brother and I have supported each other through various endeavours over the years. Taking care of our sick mother, new jobs, schooling, relationships, and financial struggles; we have always been there for one another. In 2019, our mother passed away suddenly and although we felt like we had no guidance on how to navigate the world as young adults, we grieved together and reflected on our experiences with our mother. We learned to make do with what we have, which was each other. We manoeuvre life as a team; preparing ourselves to go grocery shopping, strategizing our expenses for the week, and paying rent and our internet bills, we embark on a new journey that is life together.

Our PlayStation 3 sits on the TV stand covered in dust, no longer as sleek and makes violent rattling sounds when it turns on, it watches as its predecessors the PlayStation 4 and 5 are actively used on a daily basis. The bulky black console that we received over ten years ago will always hold a special place in our hearts as it brought us together and moulded us to become a valiant team during the hardest of times. It was not the device that made me want to enter his room all those years ago but that I wanted to spend time with my brother; have a friend and a confidant during a time when I felt complete solitude.

“However strong you become, never seek to bear everything alone. If you do, failure is certain” Itachi Uchiha

Yendrix Hernandez is currently a first year teacher candidate at York University in the Intermediate/ Senior division. She graduated from the University of Toronto with an honours Bachelor of Arts degree, double majoring in English and History. She currently resides in Toronto and aspires to research educational institutions in low income neighbourhoods.

Rollerblades

Zainab Javid

“Independence is a heady draft, and if you drink it in your youth, it can have the same effect on the brain as young wine does. It does not matter that its taste is not always appealing. It is addictive and with each drink you want more”

I was raised with a culture

the same freedom that is given to sons. I grew up being told that my older brother was allowed to do things and go places “because he is a boy”. As a young girl, I watched and was envious of the experiences my brother was able to have, while I was stuck at home being restricted from doing the same My childhood best friend and I were hanging out in the hallway between our apartments as we always did, and she asked me to learn how to rollerblade so I would be able to join her when she does I told her I want to learn, but my parents would never buy me a pair, let alone let me go anywhere far with them. Her mom had recently bought her new rollerblades so, she had an old pair that she ended up gifting to me. This changed everything for me.

My friend gives me her old rollerblades, the dust and dirt covering the body of the rollerblades gets on my shirt and hands, but I did not care because I was so excited for this new experience. I asked my parents if I could go downstairs and learn how to rollerblade and to my surprise, they let me go but I had to stay on the one side of the building where our balcony is facing so they can see where I am. I remember being so thankful they let me go. My friend and I put on our shoes, grabbed our rollerblades, and went downstairs to the back of our building. I still remember the weather that day as we stepped outside and it was the perfect day for rollerblading, a breezy summer evening. We sat down on the curb to put our rollerblades on, and I followed my friend’s steps as I watched her tie them up As I was tying up the dark purple laces on my rollerblades, excitement and nervousness rushed through my body. For one of the first times as a preteen, I was having a new, fun experience. After tying up the rollerblades my friend comes in front of me and sticks out her arms and tells me to grab onto her as I get up. We go back and forth with me holding on like this a few times and then I held onto her with one arm. I was surprised with myself at how quickly I picked up on the rhythm of rollerblading. Of course, I had fell a couple of times because the brake was loose on my rollerblades. Soon enough, we

were just taking laps back and forth without me having to hold onto my friend. I remember since my brake did not work properly, to stop myself I would have to ride towards the grass or towards something I could hold onto. We continued to do this for a while and then before the sun set, my parents asked me to come back upstairs. As I took off the rollerblades, I remember feeling sad that it was over. I wanted the experience to last longer.

Over the next few months my friend and I continued to rollerblade together downstairs, it quickly became our new thing. We created games that revolved around our rollerblades that we could play with the other kids who came downstairs. My rollerblades gave me something to look forward to. It was also an activity that my parents were okay with me doing, especially because I could still do it close to home. However, I wanted to go further with my rollerblades. My friend had asked me if I wanted to rollerblade with her to the library on the weekend and the thought of being able to do that was so exciting. I remember gaining the courage to ask my parents if I could go and they said yes! This was definitely one of the best days of my life as a preteen. I remember cleaning my rollerblades the night before I would grab paper towels and a cup of water, dampen the towel, and then use that to clean the black parts and wheels of my rollerblades. It did not do much but in the moment, it was my way of cleaning them. Also, since my brake was loose, I took some duct tape and wrapped my brake in it to keep it together. For some reason, that most dangerous thing about my rollerblades was also my favourite thing about them. The next day, I met my friend downstairs and we put our rollerblades on together before we made our way to the library. I always used to put my rollerblades on extra tight, tying my purple laces in two knots This felt like such an important moment for me because, it was the first time I was going to be rollerblading somewhere other than around my building. I was finally going to be leaving my building on rollerblades without the worry of my parents having to be watching. As we left the building, it felt freeing. This was one of the first times I experienced independence, and it brought me so much joy. I realized why I was so envious of my older brother being able to experience things because I got a taste of the same freedom he so easily got. Now, as adult me looks at my rollerblades with the scratches, dust, duct tape and all, I can picture younger me experiencing friendship, gaining confidence, and feeling the happiness that independence gave me.

Sciences and English.

Zainab Javid is a Pakistani Canadian who was born in Toronto, Ontario She received her undergraduate degree from the University of Toronto Mississauga. Now, she is a student at York University completing her Bachelor of Education degree. She is in the intermediate senior division and her teachables are Social

My Home

Kaamila Lall

To be comfortable and to feel comfort has always been one of the most important things for me. I work so hard for comfort that I struggle to get out of bed on winter mornings. How could I not when the outside world is minus thirty degrees and my bed is warm and cozy? From the ages of 4 21, comfort took a much larger form, it was in the shape of a house. A 4 bedroom, side split, suburban house with grey panels on top of the garage and rose coloured brick. A place that was home to the people I cared most about in this world, my parents, grandmother, three sisters, and our family pets. Needless to say, this place was my heart but in a physical form and all of my major life experiences took place here. I knew its quirks like the much anticipated creaking of the floorboards and the smell of the heating when it was first turned on as the leaves started to fall. I had most of my first experiences in this house; my first memory of a happy moment, my first love and my first experience of heart wrenching grief of losing my grandparents and cat.

“Our lives are fashioned by our choices. First we make our choices. Then our choices make us.” Anne Frank

Being a soft spoken introvert led me to many lows in school. It was not always a happy place for me, nor a place where I really knew my emotions were safe. Throughout elementary to high school, most days I looked forward to returning to my place of sanctuary. As the years passed, my life changed and shifted as well as the people living in my home. My sisters moved out, my grandmother moved to a senior home and my cat passed away. My only constant were these four walls covered in pink brick. I spent my pre adolescent and teen years making memories in a specific location. Friends came and went, creating my most joyful memories from sleepovers, birthday parties and school projects. There were even moments straight out of a funny animal video that were made with our golden lab retriever, Dago. This was where I knew I belonged and pictured myself being for as long as I could.

To many people this was just a house, for me it was more than a home, it was my heart. If not for this house, I would have not gone to the schools I went to where I met some of the most important people in my life to this day. It allowed me to bond with friends and make connections with my family. It allowed me to become the person I am today. Although it taught me some hurtful lessons both physically and emotionally, such as not climbing a wooden fence unless you want a bunch of splinters, it taught me some of the most important lessons as well. It coached me on the impermanence of life and how to cope with people leaving your life. It instilled resilience and emphasized how nothing is ever really impossible. This was learned from my mom's ability to purchase a beautiful home for our family as a hard working immigrant. Of course, there are other aspects of taking care of a home that I learned. These things include maintenance, how to take care of a house, and that things perish when we do not take care of them. This I learned when we neglected the beautiful pond that came with the house in our backyard when we moved in. Not only did I learn all of these aspects from this home, but it also provided me with a space for safe learning and making mistakes. As a creative person, I love the arts, painting, drawing, crafts, photography and so many other things. I used this space as I painted the walls and as a photography studio where I took a conventional space and created art out of it.

Initially, we were supposed to move when I graduated high school in 2018 however, that did not happen until much later. This ended up being a blessing when the pandemic hit. In April 2020, my sister and niece moved into our home after a couple weeks of her taking care of my niece alone, because of the daycare closures, and working full time. Since my work was closed and school was finished, taking care of my niece became a group effort. As a result of still having our home, I was able to take on an educator role for my niece, which solidified my passion for teaching and led me to my decision to not want to teach younger grades. Most of all though, it taught me how to let go. When you are lucky enough to have that sort of comfort and consistency, you never want to leave. I thought I would be able to spend all my tomorrows in this place I called home. It was as if I left behind the part of myself that made me whole when my parents decided to sell the house, I was devastated. Almost a year later, I still do not feel like my apartment in North York with my mom is fully my home.

At some point, I felt like this house captured all of my greatest times and was itself an extension of myself. The values I learned have shaped me into who I am today. Family is one of the most important values I cherish, even though all my sisters left, it was still a place where we had time as a family because they would always come back to our home. I learned a sense of community with my neighbours and people who were always there for me and my family throughout various moments. Lastly, I learned about the importance of openness as my mom had an open door policy, anyone who was in need was always welcome.

Kaamila Lall is in the first year of her bachelor of education degree with her undergraduate degree in music and works part time as a customer service representative. While looking forward to teaching in schools, Kaamila already teaches private music lessons and is continuously looking to challenge students in their educational pursuits. She spent her early years living in the city of Brampton but is now located in Toronto. Some of her hobbies include sewing, photography, reading, and spending time with her friends and family.

Leather Hat

Cristian Lorca

Dedicated to my father, Pablo Ignacio Lorca.

gone.” D. Morgan

The continuous soft hum is disrupted by another "boing" sound signalling the seatbelt sign is off, and passengers are again free to stretch their legs or get up to relieve themselves. Some people rummaged through the overhead compartments, searching for their carry ons and pulling out a pillow and blanket. They were obviously more prepared than me. I was sleeping on my hand, supported by my elbow that dug into my upper thigh. All the while wondering about the safety procedures and how I would, in mission-impossible fashion, grab the inflatable raft and ride it like the magic carpet if this plane were to go down. Fantasizing like this was common during this twelve hour direct flight, and it was a fun distraction from the rush of emotions building up. For this would be the first time I saw my father since he left our family in Canada when I was seven years old. I am sixteen years old now, unsure if we will even recognize each other.

“There are special people in our lives who never leave us even after they are

This trip to South America would re introduced me to my father. After the twelve hour direct flight, he picked me up from the airport in Santiago, Chile. It was awkward at first. However, his smell and demeanour were nostalgic and brought me back to a point in my childhood, and this alone broke the awkward tension; now that I am older, I can only imagine his nervousness. We pulled up to a white 1970s Volkswagen "Hippie" van; it strongly resembled the "Mystery Mobile" from Scooby doo or, better yet, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles "refrigerator" on wheels. After a solid hour and a half out of the city and into the surrounding farmlands, we drove onto a rugged pothole filled gravel road, followed by a neighbouring farm dog, a large German shepherd. As we continued, the road transitioned to dry dirt as a trail of dust kicked up behind us in the blazing summer heat of South America, where even a few seconds of exposure would burn your bare skin. We settled into the farmhouse, and my dad threw on his brown leather cowboy hat and gave me a tour of his horses and potato growing operation. That evening he took me to the small town of Buin, where he would sell his harvest to the locals. He was a familiar face to the people of Buin and led me through a narrow path between houses, down a set of concrete stairs and into a large basement cafeteria.

You would not know it from the street, and it took a moment for me to realize this was just a local woman's home whose basement was converted to accommodate the local blue collars. Farmers and construction workers would sit down and buy lunch for a surprisingly low cost. The equivalent of five Canadian dollars afforded you two large meals; one was a very hearty bowl of warm vegetable and beef soup. The other was the main, serving a large steak with rice and potatoes, the same grown on my father's farm. As the locals, my father and I enjoyed our meals, many individuals would come up to talk, and I was introduced as my "son from Canada". I would smile and was told the milk in Canada must be better than that of Chile as they marvelled at the white of my teeth, for theirs were either not present or in poor condition. We finished our meal, thanked the host and went on to a neighbouring farm.

I was again introduced as my "son from Canada" to a stout, bald dwarf of a man that tended chickens. My Spanish was decent enough to get by in the city, however, he had told me to "Go on in and grab yourself a chicken son" in a new dialect which I later learned was simply broken. Not to mention he was difficult to understand for the fact he was old and missing most of his teeth. I was always a decent athlete growing up, but let me tell you, catching a chicken is no easy task. I battled these slippery birds for an hour or more and failed to capture one. The sun was beginning to get low, I was drenched in sweat, and my father and this chicken farmer were laughing among themselves at my struggle. My father's brim was down low against the setting sun, and I caught a piercing look of determination in his eyes. The same look I wore as I stared down a beautiful white hen staring right back at me with its head tilted and feathers ruffled. I slowly slid my feet across the dry earth as if skating on ice, forcing my prey into the corner of two fences. Our eyes locked, I exploded with a pounce clutching this creature with my bare hands and locking a tight grip around its neck, scraping my elbows from the dive. Covered in sweat, dirt, and a little blood, I was victorious. I received a standing ovation. It was a great sense of reward and satisfaction I would not soon forget. The chicken farmer congratulated me and instructed me to snap its neck to kill it for consumption.

Back at the farm, the chicken was killed, dressed, and prepared over an open fire. It was a lot of work, and it remains the best chicken I have ever eaten to this day. After a well deserved night's rest, I rose to a beautiful morning sunrise by the loud crow of the rooster followed by a military trumpet. That neighbouring German shepherd belonged to a retired captain who resided next to us and never missed his morning trumpet salutation. This morning will always remain quite memorable. It was the first time I learned to drive. After some coffee and toast, my father decided what he could do for me, as I'm sure he felt guilty for being absent, was to introduce me to driving. I excitedly agreed, took the keys, and sat down on the stiff leather seats of this white 1970s Volkswagen "hippie van". My father entered and made himself comfortable on the passenger side. He began to show me the ignition, the gauges, the pedals, mirrors, hazards, signals, and the lot. There was plenty to learn, but we began with mirrors and seat belts. I engaged the clutch and inserted the key into the ignition, ensuring I was in neutral, if memory serves, and giving the acceleration a little press. A continuous high pitched whining sound was followed by an explosive popping as the engine came to life and began to rev. I remember the shifter was a black ball handle with numbers 1 through 4 connected by a web etched into the plastic. The long shaft brought the shifter to a comfortable height alongside the large steering wheel, it was as if I was steering a bus. A neat mechanism allowed the driver to push the shifter down into a new set of movements to access the reverse gear.

Countless times I would start that car and drive up and down the pothole filled road, managing to hit every single one in the beginning. As I progressed, I not only dodged the potholes with some skill but was also able to successfully park. This was enough to promote me to highway driving and to a small town near the coast during hours when traffic was little to none. It was an unforgettable experience. I can still see this tiny, bearded man with his aviator sunglasses, a plaid shirt tucked into his jeans and topped off with his leather hat looking off into the distance as I drive down the winding roads. The windows were rolled down, and the wind was rushing through the cab. I could smell the sea, and I am happy to have met my father. And for the first time in my life, I noticed a void I did not know was there until that moment, when that void was filled.

Cristian Lorca acknowledges that the measure of success is according to the individual. He is in his 14th year as a carpenter and his first year running a residential construction company. So far, Cristian has travelled across Canada, spending the last six years in Victoria, B.C, framing houses. Mr Lorca has an advanced diploma in Construction Engineering Technology from George Brown College, a certificate for Building Leadership from the United Brotherhood of Carpenters and awards for Skills Canada competitions in Toronto and Ontario. He is independent, self motivated, and up for any challenge that would test his skills and stimulate his intellect. Cristian enjoys learning new things, implementing knowledge, and sharing it with others, particularly when it comes to construction. He describes himself as hard working and conscientious, curious by nature, a goal setter and genuinely interested in other people and their potential.

“You have to be tough, it’s a tough world” Pablo Ignacio Lorca

The Yoga Mat

Natalie Mandarino

Realize that the soul, the spirit self, is manifested, it is beyond the mind’s ability to conceive and cannot be changed. It is the eternal subject and witness of the universe. It is the very essence of existence, knowledge, and bliss. Therefore, knowing this, transcend your unfounded anxieties and grief.

Bhagavad Gītā, 2:25

My yoga mat rests at the edge of my bed, where it is most accessible for my morning and nighttime routines, that consist of moving through a variety of poses and deep breathing to awaken or calm my mind and body. Whether I unwind in a gentle child’s pose or lengthen my spine in downward facing dog, it is apparent that each pose grounds me to the mat by relieving my anxiety and enhancing my mental and physical clarity. My mat evokes similar feelings that I experienced as a dancer in earlier years, as my body and mind collaborated together to create a form of art through movement. When I was told that I would no longer be able to dance due to recurrent physical injuries, I was introduced to yoga that allowed me to find pleasure in movement that physically compared to dance but was mentally, much more abstract, and deep rooted. Once I had grown an undying love for the practice of yoga, I invested in my own mat that would be the start to an intense and profound training of historical yogic scriptures which

outlined the spiritual and mental elements of yoga, in addition to anatomy instruction which uncovered the physical benefits of the practice. My training resulted in the completion of my Registered Yoga Instructor Certification, which advanced to the various classes that I teach in the present day.

My evocative object inspired my journey to become a yoga instructor, which contributed to my admiration for teaching and my decision to pursue a Bachelor of Education. The symbolism of my yoga mat not only represents the achievement of a new career or physical postures but is also associated with my process of enhancing my inner self and mental wellbeing, through directed and self paced practices of mediation, reflection, and mindfulness. My relationship with my yoga mat aids my ability to cope with emotional distress and to find the strength to carry on with my day, despite the external barriers I may encounter. My evocative object serves as a reminder to continue exercising my mind and body and outlines the significance of controlled breathing, that evokes a transformative process to find one’s true essence. The power of the breath, mind, and body working together has helped me manage times of anxiety and distress, that particularly developed throughout the Covid 19 pandemic, when I felt overburdened with isolation and loneliness. During public lockdowns, I would be sure to attend my virtual yoga class every morning that inspired physical movement prior to the start of my online classes for school. I would then dedicate my evening practice to meditation, which particularly helped me cope with the uncertainties of the pandemic.

In the midst of the Covid 19 pandemic, and specifically, the new wave of the Omicron variant, my sister’s boyfriend, Daniel, took his own life Suddenly, my family was surrounded by a perpetual cloud of darkness. My connection to Daniel over the three years he had fostered a relationship with my sister, Ali, developed into a sibling bond that I could not imagine my life without, and watching Ali desperately drown in her thoughts of grief and loss weighed down on my mental state. Daniel’s compelling notes to my sister that explained his struggles with the conditions of society during the Covid 19 pandemic, and his kind wishes to my family that continuously reminded us of his significant impact in our lives, were not enough to help me escape from such despair. As a result, I relied on my yoga mat to take me away from the pain that surrounded my family for the months following Daniel’s death, just as I had always done in difficult circumstances. In this case, however, I seemed to break my own yogic values that centered around using my mat to cope with stress, which would, in turn, keep me physically and emotionally grounded. My mat was no longer an escape, but rather, transformed into a space where I could effortlessly fall into the “what if” trap. What if Daniel’s attempt failed? What if this was an out of body experience or what if he had full control over his actions? What if he suffered for years in silence without us recognizing it? What if we had asked Daniel about his mental state? What if this was Daniel’s way of leaving on his own time, with dignity? What if Daniel did not want us to question the unknowable?

The transformation of my evocative object provoked oppressive thoughts of sorrow instead of motivation that should have encouraged me to move by body and to calm my mind. At this time, my yoga mat made me feel like hypocrite, in which my role as a yoga instructor consisted of encouraging individuals to utilize the mat as a means to free the soul and achieve a sense of stability. However, in doing so, I enforced yogic values that I could no longer accomplish for myself due to the grief I internally battled. In a similar manner, I recognized that my actions on the mat countered my values that emphasize the importance of giving and receiving energy which allows for a universal balance of harmony. I struggled with the desire to receive any information, such as the conversations before and after yoga class, where members

would express their concerns about the mundane. I could not bear to contain their issues once I concluded that the severity of my grief and the loss of Daniel felt exceptionally worse than what I framed to be the insignificant issues of others, which resulted in an outward projection of negativity and further countered the values that my evocative object supports. My role as a yoga instructor and the time I had dedicated to improving my progress mentally and physically on my yoga mat, felt meaningless. My perspective had drastically shifted, and I recognized that although I focused much of my yoga practice on maintaining mental and physical health, I could never know of, reach, or influence the extensive range of individuals that suffered in silence, just like Daniel. My evocative object was insignificant in the grand scope of societal issues, such as the drastic decline of mental health during and following the Covid 19 pandemic, and my contribution to society as a yoga instructor was not as impactful as I had previously believed. As I continued to move forward and reflect on this period of mourning and distress, I learned that although my yoga mat is a powerful instrument that helps me endure difficult moments in my life, my evocative object cannot always be associated as my savior or form of escape. In fact, this association merely perpetuates unrealistic expectations attached to the evocativeness of my object, in which it is inconceivable to believe that I will ever foster the ability to escape discomfort and grief with the assistance of my mat. I realized that I must allow myself to tolerate distress and that I must work through the emotional states of weakness and grief that I may find myself battling. My evocative object, in turn, can act as a useful instrument to help me digest the unsettling aspects that arise in life, and can offer support rather than full security or the deception of escape. I will ultimately continue to utilize my evocative object as a powerful instrument that can assist and enhance my mental and physical strengths. It is clear, therefore, that the emotional and physical responses evoked by my yoga mat, represent the evocativeness of my object that significantly contributes to the ways I navigate through my inner states of health and wellbeing.

Natalie Mandarino is a Teacher Candidate at York University with academic interests in English literature and general Social Sciences. As an aspiring secondary school educator, Natalie pursues employment and community service positions that contribute to her diverse range of experience in the teaching field, primarily as a dance and yoga instructor. Natalie’s dance career has been a fervent aspect of her life from the age of three, which flourished into training and choreographing dance routines for young dancers. Upon earning her certification as a Registered Yoga Teacher, Natalie has instructed a variety of classes to adult and senior citizens. During her classes, Natalie prioritizes equitable and inclusive interaction amongst all individuals in her care

PlayStation 3 Thomas Martelli

“I keep searching and I can’t seem to find what I’m wanting. It’s changing all the time and if you noticed a different side of mine, then I’ve found what I’ve been looking for.”

Tom Grennan Found What I’ve Been Looking For (FIFA 2018 song)

To say that my PlayStation 3 is my evocative object, would be an understatement. While some adults see video games as a waste of time, I see video games as an opportunity to explore, make new friends, become creative, and to ultimately have a good time. Growing up as a middleclass white male, I was fortunate enough that my parents could afford and were willing to give me my first ever PlayStation, because it changed my life for the better. My PlayStation 3 (PS3) is a heavy black rectangular object that contains a slit at the front, where you would insert the video game discs. There is also both an eject and power button at the front of the console. As a child, I was involved in many sports such as soccer, hockey, basketball, to name a few. As a result, I played sports video games, instead of many other violent games that were available, such as Grand Theft Auto (GTA), Call of Duty or other shooting games that were rated for a mature audience. I had a positive experience when I played on my PS3, as I created many positive memories, especially when I played with my friends. It is my evocative object because it holds a special meaning to me, since it was my very first console that introduced me to the world of videogames. Most importantly, it brought me into the world of FIFA, which allowed me to develop an interest and passion for soccer for the very first time in my life.

As a child I was amazed at how real the graphics appeared in each new FIFA game that was produced on a yearly basis. Prior to getting a PS3, I would play FIFA at my friend’s house. Once I received my own PS3, I was elated and determined to save my money in order to

purchase every new FIFA game from that day forward. Eventually I had my own PS3, and I have bought every single FIFA game since then. My favorite FIFA game was FIFA 14, because there were many game modes in which to play, that would keep my interest in the game. This included career mode, as well as ultimate team and pro clubs. In career mode, I could create my own player and work my way to becoming the best soccer player in the world. I spent a lot of time in career mode, because I could create myself as a player in the game. I felt like I accomplished something great when I won a trophy with my team, and it fueled me with the passion and energy to practice my soccer skills in real life. In ultimate team, the goal was to play the game, trade players, build your team and unlock rewards, so that you could hopefully pack great players like Ronaldo and Messi, who in real life, are two of the best players in the world. Pro Clubs is where I invited my friends to play with their own created player, and I would play on the same team as them online, against other opponents. The great thing about this mode was that my friends and I could play the game together from our own homes. I played FIFA on a regular basis as a result of these game modes. Overall, there are a variety of enjoyable game modes to try out in FIFA, and throughout the years I have learned and built knowledge of many of the different players, teams and leagues that are in professional soccer across the world. It was through playing FIFA on my PS3, that I gained a deeper understanding and enjoyment of the game. I started to watch more soccer games and participate in competitive soccer leagues. My love of the game continued to grow, which only further helped to keep my interest in playing FIFA. I believe that having a PS3 to play sports games such as FIFA, influenced my passion for soccer and my enjoyment for the game.

My favorite experience of playing FIFA on my PS3, was when my close friends came to my house during the holidays, and we would play FIFA for most of the day. We would explore the variety of music that EA Sports compiled for their FIFA soundtrack. They would consist of new artists and songs that we would not hear on the radio. This was also a learning experience as well as providing a lot of joy and entertainment. My friends and I would search up the names of the bands that sung our favorite songs so we could to listen to their albums. To this day, I have a collection of FIFA songs saved on my phone from their soundtracks over the years. Even when my friends and I play soccer together and outdoor field, we play these FIFA soundtracks on a Bluetooth speaker, and enjoy our time together. Some of the best times I have, is when I am playing soccer with sun shining in my face, friends smiling and scoring goals with good FIFA music in the background. It feels as if time has stopped and everything becomes fun and relaxing.

Soccer isn’t just a sport to me, in the same way FIFA isn’t just a video game. There is a strong culture rooted in the game that is difficult to explain, but becomes more understandable once you feel the passion and love for the game. I am very thankful to have had a good experience with FIFA, as well as have friends that are passionate about the game of soccer. My PS3 has not only helped me to explore a variety of games, but has ultimately helped me to develop my overall knowledge and appreciation for the game of soccer, which has become an important part of my life.

Thomas Martelli is currently a student in the Faculty of Education, B.Ed., Junior/Intermediate program at York University. He has also recently finished his undergraduate degree in Kinesiology & Health Science at York University. Thomas has played hockey and soccer at a competitive level at a young age. These two sports have become a large part of his life, and his goal is to give back to the community by creating positive experiences for kids of all ages within sports. He has recently received his coaching licence, and started his coaching career in soccer with youth ages 9 10 this past summer

Link to Tom Grennan’s song for block quotation: https://youtu.be/VDvX1hzGZN4

Bamboo Net Austin McElroy

One of my favourite childhood “toys” were bug nets. Generally, they were simple bamboo nets from the dollar store which were covered in a coloured plastic coating. The metal ring of the net looped through the green mesh and stuck into one end of the five foot long bamboo pole. As the nets were used, the wear and tear would peel the plastic coating off, holes would rip in the netting, and the metal ring would constantly fall out. Despite these faults the net was my favourite tool to use to tackle the outdoors. I would use these nets to catch frogs, tadpoles, turtles, or bugs during our yearly camping trips. I enjoyed collecting the animals, inspecting them, how they looked, moved around, or felt. This was my exploration of the world around me

One time however, this net got me into trouble. I was eight years old, and I was stalking a leopard frog that was particularly difficult to catch. It was a large adult frog with thick stripes on it’s hind legs and a green upper body covered in spots. I had been chasing the frog through the shallows with my rubber boots and trusty bamboo net and I finally had it in the perfect spot. It was in a position where it was facing a wall of bullrushes, with no obstructions in front of me to catch it. I swung my net back over my head, briefly hitting the bullrush behind me. Immediately afterward, I swung it forward, swooping the net right in front of the frog so it would jump into the net. My frog hunt was a success! I was ecstatic to go show everyone the large frog I had caught. This happiness, however, was short lived.

I felt a “bite” on my arm and I swatted at it thinking it was just a deer fly. A simple fly would not bother me during my accomplishment. Then another “bite” on my hand, more painful this time I looked quickly before swatting it. To my shock, what I had assumed was a deer fly biting the top of my hand was actually a large black and white hornet. It was the size of a toonie, with massive black wings and a menacing dark head. It had its stinger embedded in my left hand near my thumb and was biting me with its strong mandibles. I was soon swarmed by the hive of hornets that had been on the bullrush I had just hit.

I screamed and began to run towards where my family was, hoping they would save me. As I ran towards them, our large chocolate lab came barrelling in my direction, eating the hornets out of the air as he went. Following right behind him was my father. He had outstretched arms as if he had not seen me in years and was going to give me the biggest hug. He had an expression of worry and seriousness painted across his face. He enveloped me in his arms and hoisted me up as he ran into the woods with me. He ran for a while to put distance between us and the hive. When

he stopped, I had welts all over me and some hornets still attached to me. Some were even inside my clothes.

After the hornets had all been swatted off of me my dad ran us back towards the family, worried due to my allergies and the scarceness of hospitals near our campsite. We found my EpiPen, but I had mistakenly packed one that had long since expired. Panic set in as my father and oldest sister weighed our options. The decision was made to place ice on my welts and monitor my condition If I were to start going into anaphylactic shock, they would use the expired EpiPen (hoping it would help) and then rush off to the hospital which would be 30 to 45 minutes away. Luckily, I did not react like I had in the past.

For the remainder of the weekend my family found very creative ways to exact their revenge on the hornets, laying traps for them and getting rid of them one by one. On the night after the attack, my father sprayed some lighter fluid into a garbage bag, snuck up on the nest and swung the bag over top. He broke the bullrush off, sprayed more lighter fluid on it and threw it on the campfire. A huge ball of fire ensued, and I still remember seeing flaming hornets rain down from the sky.

When I think of my bamboo net, I always remember the attack from the hive of hornets. However, it is not a bad memory to me. The memory which is attached to this object reminds me of how much my family cares for me. I remember the anger they had towards the hornets on my behalf. I remember my dog and dad running to help me, and everyone else’s concern about my allergies. It is a reminder of my family but not just that. It also reminds me of all my of childhood wonder while camping and the fun I had.

The net was an extension of my curious mind. It helped me explore and learn about the creatures around me. I learned about different animal features and stages of growth. With this net, I had done my first investigations into the field of biology which I later grew to love and pursue as my area of study. My adventures and investigations as a kid facilitated my love for learning about the world around me. Questioning why things are the way they are and learning about the scientific reasons behind everything around us is what drives me to learn more about science An inquisitive mind is one of the most important tools for someone in the field of science. Without the wonder of how things work, there would be no drive to experiment and learn about scientific phenomena.

The Important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. Albert Einstein

Austin McElroy is a teacher candidate in the Bachelor of Education program at York University. He is studying to become a high school biology and/or chemistry teacher. He wants

to inspire young scientific minds and to teach science in a fun and engaging way so all, even those who do not like science can enjoy it’s wonder

The Youth Room Abigail McEyeson

The youth room was where I resided most. It was the cool kids' spot, positioned on the north side of my church building that had drafty windows, letting in the cold winter air. Regular youth nights were on Friday evenings for children ages 12 18, but I started youth around 11 years old because my older brother was already attending. The room was equipped with a soft, grey carpeted stage, burgundy cushioned seating, a drumkit, a digital piano, and microphones that were brutally abused by our loud voices towards the end of each night. The adjacent room became our games room, painted in light yellow which included a foosball table, ice hockey tables, a pool table, and a red leather couch we would squeeze on to play Super Smash Bros. on the Nintendo Wii. Since my high school was one intersection away, I would usually get to youth nights early and arrange the burgundy cushioned chairs into a “bed,” fluffing my tough backpack into a pillow, and removing my shoes to tuck my feet underneath myself as I slept under my jacket. I was often awoken by the numbskull boys who found amusement in my dream like state or by the familiar face of my youth pastor, whose witty demeanour and kind presence gently nudged me awake. I took pride in belonging to the youth room. It was my home to roam where I

“Joy is the most vulnerable emotion we feel. When we feel joy, it is a place of incredible vulnerability it’s beauty and fragility and deep gratitude and impermanence all wrapped up in one experience.” Brené Brown

wanted when I wanted. To eat the $5 Popeyes dinner I would buy from across the street, quietly do my homework, practice my dancing, or take more makeshift bed naps.

About twice a year our youth ministry would host a sleepover in the church building. If spending the night with 20 25 sweaty teenagers playing video games, eating greasy food, and sharing secrets until sunrise sounds like a horrible idea, you’re not wrong. It was always a loud, eventful, rollercoaster of a night from early Friday evening until Saturday morning. Yet twice a year, everyone looked forward to it. How my youth group got Christian parents to bring their teens to a co ed sleepover is beyond comprehension, but I presumed the leader's hawk eyes provided enough evidence that we would be okay.

Manhunt was the only game I most looked forward to, besides playing Smash Bros. on the comfy red couch until 2 am. It was tradition to transform our sacred house of worship into a pitch black free for all battlefield where no one was safe. Other than the front foyer, bathrooms, youth room, and children's rooms, both leaders and youth were free to sprint, chase, dupe, and tag each other in every area of our church. The difference between manhunt and a simple game of tag is that when a person gets caught, they also become “it.” The game is a quest for survival, where the prey evolves into the predator. And because our building had an industrial structure with long hallways, it was perfect for chasing and being chased. There were countless places for either hiding above, beneath, behind, or between church seats, tables, curtains, ledges, walls, garbage bins, decorations, or equipment. To make things more interesting after a couple of rounds, the leaders would group some of the faster runners to be “it,” heightening the anticipation in our hearts when we knew getting caught was life or death. Things often got so intense that I would remove my shoes for a better grip on the cold cement floor that echoed when my bare feet ran across it.

In one round, I recall being chased across the sanctuary by a fast runner whose face I couldn’t make out in the darkness. I ran hard, dodging chairs, objects, and other pursuers until my lungs burned. I told my body that if I held out longer than the person chasing me, I would be in the clear until the end of the game. As I looked back, relieved to see the running gap increase, I felt the wind suddenly knock out of my chest. It was as if I ran into something, or something ran into me. Before I realized it, my body had elevated off the ground, mid sprint, with my legs still pedaling in the air. In the split second that I had looked back, a strong youth leader concealed behind some curtains swiftly emerged and caught my body in both arms. It took a beat to admit I got caught so easily and another minute for the bewilderment, confusion, and sheer amazement of this person’s strength to subside. I found my helplessness intensely humorous and could not withhold my laughter and amusement. The night proceeded with debates and arguments over dinner about who had the best hiding spots or caught the most people. The inside jokes, heated debates, fun competitions, and sleepless nights experienced in the youth room were irreplaceable memories I cherished over the next ten years. The youth room became the physical treasure chest that housed many joyous intangible moments, moments that were lost when my church moved buildings.

In January 2022, during the third wave of the Covid 19 pandemic, my church announced that we would be moving by the end of March. By this point, I was a youth leader, youth nights had moved to online gatherings, and the physical space was a storage room. Most, if not all my generation’s youth and youth leaders had left the church or moved on. The comfy red couch, burgundy cushioned seats, and Nintendo Wii had been replaced by modern furniture and a Play Station 4. By then, the physical space where I deposited my irreplaceable memories and life experiences were old and outdated. The manhunt and sleepover tradition had vanished due to the

pandemic, followed by the demolition of my physical home. Within the following months, I wrestled with the fear of being homeless, unable to visit the youth room that housed over a decade worth of memories. Although I was no longer a youth, I could still feel the cold cement ground under my bare feet and laugh to myself at the inside jokes no one else understood. I grieved for weeks and unexpectedly experienced a loss of self. But beneath the sadness, unease, devastation, and regret, I found an unexpected glint of hope emerge amongst my fond memories in the form of joy.

The truth is, my youth room connected me to others and provided me with a stable community of mentors, friends, and loved ones for over a decade. I learned about the importance of togetherness and how to generously share the love within me. I was a part of a community that supplied consistency, encouraged my dreams, and provided me with a safe space to be myself. The youth room was my home and allowed me to experience an immeasurable amount of joy that influences how I present myself to the world today.

Every Friday night the youth room was bustling, playful, loud, and full of joy. Upon reflection, I realize that I hold myself in a similar manner, inviting others to experience the playful, loud, and joyous aspects of my character. With all this and more, it wasn’t until I lost the youth room that I realized how privileged I was to have lived in it for so long. I want to be the person who supports others’ dreams the way mine were supported and permits others to be themselves. Finding the glint of joy that resurfaced from my treasured memories allowed me to courageously embrace the new joyous moments in my life. Nowadays, I invite joy where I can, along with the fragility, vulnerability, and deep gratitude necessary to experience it. Joy is a challenging feeling to understand because it requires courage to live in the moment and be content with where you are. I do not know what future devastations I will encounter, but I do know that I will appreciate the moments that glint and glimmer instead of hiding them in a chest.

Abigail McEyeson is a student, lifelong learner, and emerging artist in the city of Toronto. She proudly graduated in the summer of 2022 with an Honours Bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts in Dance at York University. She is now in her first year of York’s Teachers College program and

genuinely looks forward to becoming a life changing educator, teacher champion, and a positive force in the world today. When she is not studying or worried about school assignments, you can find her tasting new and unique foods, studying Japanese, or dancing with friends and good people.

Tennis Courts

Diana Mirceta

I began tennis lessons at the age of 9. I vividly remember the first tennis court I ever stepped foot on. Funnily enough, it wasn’t even a true tennis court. In an old elementary school gymnasium, tape and a rope net were used to create the first tennis court that I began swinging a tennis racket on Within the year, and after considerable encouragement from my first coach, I joined a tennis club in my community and finally got to experience the feel of a real tennis court.

I was the athlete amongst my siblings. My athleticism drove my parents to sign me up for every sport imaginable. I liked everything. I didn’t complain or ask to play any sport in particular; I was simply happy to be doing an activity that used my body instead of my mind. It was a time during the day I didn’t have to be in school or think about school. I turned “off” the student and turned “on” the athlete. It wasn’t until I picked up a tennis racket that I felt “love” instead of “like” for a sport. If there’s one thing that I can state with absolute confidence, it’s this: excluding my parents influence, the sport of tennis has had the most significant impact on my life’s trajectory

Excluding the number of hours spent in school, I’ve spent more hours on a tennis court than anywhere else in my life. Regardless of where I am, whenever I pass by a court, I smile to myself and reminisce The tennis court was my second home. When I joined my tennis club as a child, the head pro became my new coach. My coach took me under his wing, and I quickly went from a beginner player to competing in tournaments weekly. I trained every day after school. In grade 8, I transferred to a sport academy school that prioritized the heavy training load competitive athletes went through during their adolescent school years. Missed class time and

schoolwork was always easily made up. My high school career involved 2 3 hours of practice after school from Monday to Friday, and tournaments almost every weekend. The hours my friends spent hanging out, going to the movies, having sleepovers, celebrating birthdays, I spent on a tennis court. The sacrifices I made were difficult as an adolescent, but the day I got offered a scholarship to play Division I tennis at Jacksonville State University made every effort worth it.

I’ve had every kind of experience and felt every kind of emotion on a tennis court. It was on the court that I my character developed. I formed life long friendships. I overcame self doubt. I won and lost I cried and cheered. I got angry. I felt proud of myself. I got injured. I learned what hard work, determination and perseverance are. I taught myself to never give up. I broke rackets out of frustration. I felt like myself. I became a teacher.

As I look back on all this, I’m overwhelmed with emotion as I would never have believed my time on the court set the path to becoming a high school teacher. Coaching was my first job. If I wasn’t training, I was coaching. I coached kids of all ages and being there with them while they learned the rules of the game or how to hit a forehand, was so rewarding. My love for the game spilled out of me. All I wanted was for these kids to love the sport as much as I did. A teacher needs to be passionate about what they’re teaching. My passion for tennis was always there; it was a seamless transition to go from training to coaching. My passion for biology has developed over my years of post secondary education and has been the driving factor that’s pushed me to become a teacher. I want my students to love biology as much as I do. I want to witness their expressions of delight and awe when they learn about a concept that fascinates them. I fantasize about what kind of classroom I’m going to have. Just like sharing my passion for tennis, I know that sharing my passion for the sciences will just as rewarding.

Off all the emotions I’ve felt on court, I will never forget the great loss I experienced after I finished the last college match of my career. I was anxious the entire match; I couldn’t really focus on game. I didn’t feel like myself. The week leading up to that match was one of my hardest weeks. After a decade of dedication to the sport, my career would be coming to an end that weekend. It was so hard to come to terms with this. As I stepped off the court and sat down with my teammates after that match, I broke down. The tennis court was an extension of me. I felt like I was losing this part of me, and the grief was overwhelming. Like so many other college athletes, I had this huge hole in my life. I felt as though I didn’t have a purpose.

I’m still a tennis player. I will always feel at home when I’m on a tennis court. I get hit with a rollercoaster of emotion each time I play. It’s remarkable how a tennis court can be powerful conduit for all my memories and life experiences. I can’t express how thankful I am for how a tennis court has shaped my life.

Diana Mirceta is a retired tennis player and a first year teacher candidate at York University, with the hopes of teaching high school biology and chemistry. She received her B.Sc. from Jacksonville State University and her M.Sc. from the University of Copenhagen.

Just believe in yourself. Even in you don’t, pretend that you do and, at some point, you will.

Venus Williams

The Roll of Tape Brodie Myers

It was being a runner that mattered, not how fast or how far I could run. The joy was in the act of running and in the journey, not in the destination. We have a better chance of seeing where we are when we stop trying to get somewhere else. We can enjoy every moment of movement, as long as where we are is as good as where we'd like to be.

John Bingham, No Need for Speed: A Beginner's Guide to the Joy of Running

Our coach enters the room as we prepare for the third period of a scoreless hockey game. “20 minutes left. That’s all you have. Make it count.” The door shuts behind him. It’s the first game of the regular season and we’re playing at home. A win today could set the tone for the entire year. I tear the white tape off my stick and wrap a new layer around the blade. Important players deliver in important moments, and I want to be ready for the opportunity. The buzzer sounds and our team files out of the changeroom. The cheers from the crowd are getting louder as we draw closer. I inhale one deep breath of the cold air and sprint out of the tunnel onto the ice. Music is blaring throughout the arena as the referee blows the whistle. It’s time.

The puck drops and the battle begins. Within seconds, my teammate gains possession and we storm down the ice together. No words are exchanged, but we both know the plan. I match his pace and once we’re close enough he fakes the shot and passes the puck. It’s a set play that hasn’t failed yet this year. My eyes light up as I see it transpire exactly how we practiced. I swing my stick at the puck, ready for the crowd to erupt as it spins through the air towards the open net. My sensory perception becomes heightened, allowing time to seemingly stand still as I experience an irreplaceable, euphoric high. Unfortunately, to experience such highs, we often need to suffer through extreme lows. I watch in disbelief as the puck rings loudly off the goalpost, echoing throughout the entire arena. It bounces back into play and the other team scores. I failed.

I returned to the bench and stared at my stick. I could see the black puck mark on my freshly taped blade. I could see the exact moment where I let my team down. We ended up losing by one goal and I knew that I could have made a difference. Out of shame, I left promptly afterwards and returned home. I stayed up for hours that night reliving the play in my head and thinking about what I could have done differently. I was finally able to fall asleep but I longed for the opportunity to redeem myself. The following day, I arrived at practice early, and got back to work. I ripped the white tape off my stick and wrapped a new layer around the blade. We had a long season ahead of us.

We had turned over a new leaf by April as our season had come to an end and we finished in first place. Moreover, we ended up winning the league championship and I was able to contribute to a lot of key moments. Our team became closer throughout the journey, we matured as a group, and we accomplished our shared goal. Everybody has a lot of significant memories from that season, but not a single person would remember the open net I missed. The end of that game was only the beginning of the rest of our season and although it started with a loss, we ended with a win.

I recently thought about what the roll of tape represented. It wasn’t just useful for playing hockey, but understanding it as well. Each game, I would remove the old tape from my blade and replace it. It was marked with all the times I had previously touched the puck and retaping it provided a clean slate. This was therapeutic as the process was a lesson on accepting the past, living in the present and looking forward to the future. Throughout my career, I often left the rink early following a tough loss. I was unable to accept the outcome which impacted my ability to live in the present. After retiring, I discovered a new perspective on the sport. It was a privilege just to be at the arena with a group of friends. The joy was not in the outcome of the games, rather the act of playing.

Currently, I am volunteering with a mentorship program that teaches marginalized youth life skills through hockey. As a former player, this provides an opportunity to reciprocate the generosity that my community afforded me throughout my career. In moments where students want to quit, I often use the tape metaphor to teach them about acceptance and perseverance. Through this, it is apparent that my career has started to come full circle. I am extremely thankful for the lessons I learned through hockey as I am able to transfer that knowledge to future generations and experience a sense of fulfillment. In other words, I am enjoying every moment of movement, as where I am is as good as where I’d like to be.

Brodie Myers is a Bachelor of Education student at York University. Before attending York, he completed a Bachelor of Commerce degree at Ontario Tech University (majoring in marketing and minoring in finance). Additionally, he holds a Master of Education degree with a focus on teaching and learning from the University of Ottawa. Brodie has over 20 years of experience playing hockey which he hopes to blend into classroom lessons in order to teach transferable skills.

“Let Down” by Radiohead

Andrew Neil

How would you describe someone with a PhD? If you’ve never had the misfortune of being a PhD student yourself, you might use some of these words: self assured and confident; knowledgeable and wise; passionate and motivated. In the months following my thesis defense and graduation, I felt more unconfident, unknowledgeable and unmotivated than I ever have in my life.

My PhD took six years. Yet six years later, I still didn’t know what to do with my life. I used to call myself an astronomer, but that label no longer felt quite right. I was scrambling for a new identity to replace the one I had lost. Immediately after graduation I had given myself a few weeks to rest and figure out my future. Those weeks quickly turned into months. The two potential futures I had laid out for myself both felt like the wrong choice. Day after day the disquieting thought of I’m a failure grew louder and louder in my mind, building to a resounding chorus.

One morning in February began with a conversation with my wife that left me agitated and distressed, emotions that festered inside me for the rest of the day while she was gone at work and I was stuck at home. Seeking to ease these emotions, I decided to listen to music as I was cooking dinner. While cleaning a spice grinder I chose to play my favorite song, “Let Down” by Radiohead. As the song started and went into the first verse, I could feel my breaths becoming heavier. By the chorus, my breathing was out of control. My hands were numb and shaking; heart racing; head swimming. My favorite song had induced a panic attack. My wife, hearing what was happening from the other room, rushed in to sit me down, take the spice grinder out of my hands and remove my headphones. As I sat there and rode out the attack, I could still hear “Let Down” playing through the headphones in my hands, mocking me.

After I had recovered from the experience, my relationship with “Let Down” suddenly became much more complicated. The fact that this song could have such a powerful effect on me as to cause a panic attack filled me with awe. But that awe was mixed with betrayal and fear. This was supposed to be my favorite song; how could it do this to me? Would I ever be able to listen to it again? I’d have to be careful, lest I have another panic attack in public, or worse: while driving.

When I first discovered “Let Down” in high school, I felt a deep connection with how the song was able to put words and music to the emotions I so strongly felt yet was unable to express. Societal alienation and routine disappointment. Feeling useless and desperately wanting to be useful. The urge to break down and cry but keeping it all in for the sake of appearances. Driftless and empty, just going through the motions.

Whenever I listen to “Let Down”, I am transported back to that one day after high school, listening to the song as I sped down the highway in my car, tears streaming down my face. I am taken back to the long walks along the river at night as a university student, isolated and utterly alone. I’m not merely listening to the song anymore. I am in a superposition of emotional states, once again feeling the same emotions of uselessness and isolation that have plagued me in my past. For me, “Let Down” is not just an auditory journey but an emotional journey through time. For these reasons, “Let Down” is not a song that I’ll listen to on the bus, or put on the background while I’m doing chores. It is reserved for these moments of emotional distress when it feels like my world is crashing down around me. The therapeutic power of this piece comes from its balance of positive and negative emotions, encapsulated in the term “bittersweet”. A sense of hope pervades throughout, in spite of all the surrounding melancholy. The song is dark yet beautiful; paradoxically both hopeful and resigned, reflected in both the lyrics and the music. It’s the perfect song to listen to during these depressive episodes because it resonates with the negative emotions and has transformed them into defiant hope by the end. The emotional release of the bridge and the final chorus makes it all worth it.

On that night in February, listening to “Let Down” as I prepared dinner, I never got to that emotional release. The flood of emotions released by the song’s first verse and chorus was overwhelming, past a limit I could handle; like a soda can that’s been shaken and then opened. As a boy growing up in a patriarchal society, I internalized the need to keep my emotions bottled up. I shouldn’t be a burden to others; I need to deal with things on my own. Talking about my emotions? Unthinkable. That night I felt the consequences of this line of thinking more than ever before.

While music can be an outlet, it can’t do the job alone. Experiencing the panic attack led me to recognize the severity of the problem with how I cope with emotions and to open up to my partner. It also made me take a step back and reconsider the stress I was causing myself. “Let Down” was the catalyst in accepting my future career and my new identity as a teacher.

When I listen to “Let Down”, there’s a sense of: here I am again. I thought I moved on, yet I’m still dealing with the same old problems. What’s wrong with me? But I also know that like all of those other times when I have felt like that, life got better. Between the low points, there are times of joy and love. Those moments are worth pushing ahead for.

Let me tell ya something. Nowadays, everybody’s gotta go to shrinks, and counselors, and go on “Sally Jessy Raphael” and talk about their problems. What happened to Gary Cooper? The strong, silent type. That was an American. He wasn’t in touch with his feelings. He just did what he had to do. See, what they didn’t know was once they got Gary Cooper in touch with his feelings that they wouldn’t be able to shut him up! And then it’s dysfunction this, and dysfunction that, and dysfunction vaffancul!

Tony Soprano, The Sopranos

Andrew Neil was once an astronomer, trying to make sense of the thousands of exoplanets that humanity has discovered. After his PhD and subsequent escape from academia, Andrew decided to pursue his passion for teaching, although he still thinks exoplanets are pretty cool

TW: Sexual Violence

The Ring Tracy Noronha

Sophisticated was the buzzword among the grade eight girls at my new school. Within the first week of school, I learned that sophistication was defined by three major things : sporting a thong, wearing a Bath & Body Works spray, and accessorizing. Not wanting to ask my mom to buy me sophisticated underwear, I decided to start with body sprays and jewelry the thong would be sneakily purchased later. The first Sunday of the school year, I went to the mall with my former neighbor E. E was eager to help me on my mission to fit in. Armed with a combined total of twenty dollars, we bought a sweet pea body spray and a surprise bag from Ardene’s. While the bag didn’t include normal trendy jewelry, it redeemed itself with a chunky cocktail ring. The ring consisted of a thick, shiny, gold band featuring a plastic marquise cut emerald gem. While it was by no means a Pandora masterpiece, it was certainly captivating. It was childish, radiant, and playful. It vaguely looked like my mother’s engagement ring; it reminded me of home.

Unfortunately, my new bauble wasn’t enough to woo the other girls in my class. After the first two weeks of school, I gave up on trying to fit in. I spent the recesses alone, tired of wandering from group to group. To avoid looking like a loner, I volunteered to be a classroom monitor. Come the end of September, the sweet pea body spray was left abandoned on my

cluttered dressing table and the secret thong lay at the bottom of my sock drawer, never to be worn again. The ring, however, remained. It was a source of pride that never left my hand until it was stolen from me.

The thief was calculated. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that he had planned to take my ring from the moment he met me. A man well over four times my age, he welcomed me when I had asked to be a classroom monitor. He saw an opportunity in my loneliness and put me to work, cleaning chalkboards and marking easy math papers. He enjoyed my presence, and I didn’t mind the work. Feeling useful, I never felt the need to join the other kids during recess it's not like they missed my absence anyway. Two other girls occasionally joined me with my responsibilities but he always sent them away to do ridiculous tasks such as counting basketballs in the gym or lining up the indoor shoes in the hallways. I didn’t understand why he wanted me alone.

As a fourteen year old, I was unaware of the concept of grooming. As far as I knew, grooming was for fluffy dogs, not people and especially not young girls. As the school year progressed, his gifts became more and more extravagant. He gave me tootsie roll lollipops, custom subway sandwiches, and a Thanksgiving spread from Swiss Chalet. Occasionally he’d give me an envelope with money in it. He assured me this was to compensate me for my hard work and warned me not to tell anyone. After gift giving, things became physical. I knew that it was weird for a teacher to hug you or put their arm around your shoulder. I convinced myself that it was fine because I didn’t know what to do about it. Telling on a teacher made you a rat and labeled you as a problem child, so I kept quiet and played pretend. That silence broke on the last day of school. The day he took my ring.

At that moment I secretly wished that one of my classmates would look through the windows during recess. I was silently begging for a teacher to walk past his open door as he took my ring, placed it on his pinky finger, and said we were married. He then asked me to meet him at a local pub that night so that he could give the last envelope of cash. I told him that I’d go, but I’d ditched last minute and made new plans. Thank God for teenage decision making.

With the theft of my ring came the realization that this wasn’t what I had wanted at all. It was horrifying, watching my plastic ring become a symbol of love and commitment. The appropriation of a childish accessory marked a sophistication that I didn’t consent to. Up until that point, I kept redrawing my boundary lines every time he crossed them. I had convinced myself that I was ok because it wasn’t as though he was physically hurting me. That summer, the loss of my ring haunted me. I felt a tremendous weight on my chest. I believed that a secret covenant bound me to this wretched man, even though I’d likely never see him again.

I was different after he took my ring. During the start of highschool I started acting out, and as silly as it sounds, I blamed my classmates for not looking through the window during recess. It was their fault that I was in that situation, and had they accepted me, I would have never been left alone with him. Later that year, I said something that I shouldn’t have and it prompted an investigation. Long story short, the investigation concluded that I was a problem child; the ring was never found and the thief continued to teach until he was dismissed for drinking on the job.

For a while I grieved my ring. I kept wondering where it was and why the police never found it. I was fixated on it and I didn’t understand why a cheap plastic trinket meant so much to me. It’s been eight years since then, and I’ve realized that he didn’t just take the ring, he took a piece of myself. A childish, radiant, and playful part of my character was snatched by a predator. It’s been a while, but I’ve found that part of me again. I am twenty two years old and I’ve bought new rings; cheap, plastic, dollar store baubles. I rarely leave the house without them. The kids I work with are obsessed with them and the customers at work think they’re cute. I don’t care if they’re childish and cheap. These rings aren’t going anywhere.

Tracy Noronha is a teacher candidate from York University. Her goal is to become a high school French teacher. She likes knitting socks, bothering her younger brother, and watching the goats frolic in the field across from her house. You can find her in the cheese aisle at Loblaws

Laptop

Jacob Pacyga

My first day at the University of Toronto was exciting, intimidating and overwhelming. The historic architecture, crawling vines and sight of students and professors bustling from class to class made it seem extremely real, the expectations felt unreachable. Over the preceding summer the only item I’d bought specifically in preparation for higher education was my Dell Inspiron 15 laptop, from Future Shop. Black and professional, it was large enough to need oversized bags to accommodate. It took several hours to purchase, as I circled around the store carefully comparing the statistics and capabilities of each machine. As the most expensive single item I owned I had to learn to be careful when moving it from home to class and through the university. As I was enrolled in Computer Science it quickly became an integral part of my studies. I spent long nights completing coding assignments, stressfully examining my work from all angles, trying to find small flaws that threw off the entirety of the program. I also enjoyed the freedom of not being confined to the family computer, happily playing Assasins Creed and Mass Effect between classes.

The laptop served me well for most of my studies, although it began to run slow enough that playing games became hardly worth it. I saw that other students accessorised their computers with stickers. My laptop began to accumulate decals, an RCAF roundel, a CompSci

“I do not fear computers. I fear lack of them.” Isaac Asimov

student union logo, a stylized portrait of Tesla, the logo of an arcade bar I liked. As it started to show more of my personality I began to feel more at home using it between classes. It became less of an object and more a part of my life, displaying my personality.

In my last year tragedy struck. The battery stopped working overnight. When I removed it and plugged my laptop directly into the power it still refused to run. I was forced to discard the battery and install Linux, buying Windows again would simply be too expensive. Not only had I lost all my work, I would continue to lose my work again with the slightest interrupt to the power.

My first job out of university was incredibly strange. I was hired to help work on a website that had been two years in development already. I had told the manager during my interview that I was unfamiliar with not only the language his website was written in, but also the framework, IDE and underlying database system. He did not seem to mind. In my first week the manager seemed baffled by the idea that I would need to speak to the current developer. A space was rented for me in the workspace at the back of a Staples where I spent a majority of my time simply trying to get different parts of the code to run (the manager was not aware I needed to install software to run the code). I worked every day over my laptop, drinking the store's free mint tea and hearing the clacking of others working around me. My job paid well, and was safe in the short term as the manager had no actual idea of what I was or was not doing, but I could not tolerate the uncertainty of my position and handed in my notice.

My next job had me writing queries for databases. I enjoyed the job, the workplace was small but there was a genuine sense of camaraderie amongst many of the employees. For the first time in many years, my laptop was set aside. After several months of work, Covid struck. We went on a two week work from home period. I pulled my old laptop out again and set about installing programs to ensure I would be ready to work from home. The two weeks turned into the better part of two years. A “I Got My Covid 19 Vaccine” sticker was added to the back of my machine. I felt horribly cooped up, often spending ten or eleven hours a day restricted to my bedroom, huddled over my screen. Coworkers changed, my friends left for greener pastures or were let go and left with no explanation. The people left behind were harder to work with. Banal issues that were once solved with a friendly conversation turned to long disputes, small assignments turned to longstanding deadlocks over trifling issues. As office productivity dropped, management introduced new timekeeping software, more frequent meetings and scheduling applications that did little but frustrate. As my attitude toward work changed it changed the associations I had about my laptop. I stopped associating it with the bold venture of heading into university and the exciting prospect of working in my field, and began to associate it with being chained to my desk, of frustrating, lengthy Skype calls with difficult coworkers.

Again, tragedy struck. My laptop refused to boot up. I consulted various websites and tried multiple fixes. After days of attempts I was forced to face the unfriendly truth that this was a devastating hardware issue. My recent bad associations with the machine fell away, and I was reminded of how much I enjoyed the freedom of owning it in my first year of university. Repairs would have been very costly, the correct parts were long out of production and would need to be ordered in. I was forced to call it a day. For my first year at York University I bought a new laptop, the same model as the last. Sleeker, faster and actually functional when not plugged in. I don’t think of it the same way I think of my previous machine, and I don’t think I will. Laptops

are just tools, I expect I will go through a great many in my life, regretting nothing but the cost and inconvenience of replacement. But I still plan to keep my first. It sits by my workstation and still brings me some joy to look at.

Jacob Pacyga is a first year education student at York University. He attended Bishop Allen Academy Catholic Secondary School before attending University of Toronto (St George Campus) graduating with a Honours Bachelor of Science (with a History Minor) in 2019. He applied to York after two years of working in various computer science related jobs. When not attending university he enjoys listening to podcasts and baking. Jacob has been a volunteer with Frontier College and worked for several tutoring organisations. He dearly loves his cat, Kajetan

Stara Kuća (Old House)

Natalie Pavlovic

The first time I travelled to Croatia, I was six years old. Prior to arrival, all I knew about the country was that it was where my parents and grandparents came from and that there was a recent war there. I spoke the language and listened to all the stories my father told about growing up in the selo (village) and all the chores he had to do around the stara kuća (old house). I travelled with my Baka (grandmother), a cute little lady that did not speak a lick of English, but navigated through life perfectly fine thanks to her resourcefulness and grit. After countless connecting flights and bus rides, we finally arrived in front of the stara kuća just as the sun began to set. It looked like the perfect little cottage for a little lady like my Baka. It reminded me of the cottage in Disney’s Snow White. I came to learn the house was built long before she was born, so old that the date of construction was unknown, but estimated to be sometime in the 1800s. Yet there it was still standing, with a hard lean to the left. It was made entirely of wood and topped with expertly placed red clay shingles. You could feel the many layers of paint on the exterior of the house without even touching it. It consisted of only two rooms, one kitchen and one bedroom. I immediately wondered where the bathroom was. I came to learn that it was a wooden outhouse in the field; this was a strange concept for me to grasp having come from the suburbs in Canada. Tears welled up in my eyes knowing that I was far from home.

As I went to explore the bedroom, the door frame was so short that I felt like a giant walking underneath it. Thankfully, the bedroom was twice the size of the kitchen, but it was

“Old houses are filled with memories and that’s why they resist to collapse.”

-Mehmet Murat İldan

dimly lit by a single ceiling light. It had four beds scattered throughout the room, but despite having options, I opted to sleep in the master bed with my Baka. The air was musty, the surfaces were cloaked in dust and the walls were covered in cobwebs and old painted pictures of my ancestors. The one I liked the most was the painting of my father who was pictured at my age at the time. As I walked to the bed to get some rest, I felt his eyes in the painting follow me as the floorboards creaked beneath my feet. Any other kid would have been terrified, but I found comfort in having him close to me. I finally got to see the famous scenes from all my father’s stories, including the barn where he used to serenade the cows as he milked them and the exterior door to the bedroom where he would sneak cats in to sleep with him at night. I flopped down onto the mattress like a sack of potatoes. It was damp and I felt as though the longer I laid on the bed, the more I began to sink into it like quick sand, but I was too exhausted to care. I fell asleep almost immediately. I woke up the next morning to the sound of the rooster’s call; I was simply amazed at my new alarm clock.

I spent almost my entire summer being outdoors. I would play Barbies with my cousins and used the cement trough under our hand cranked water pump as the ultimate Barbie dream pool. Every day I would help the neighbours with their farm tasks: milking their cows, feeding their pigs and chickens, and raking the grass for hay. I was put to work, but to me it was fun and I enjoyed being helpful. I also befriended every single village cat; they would impatiently wait for food and cuddles from me by the front door each morning, irritating my Baka to no end. My cousins and I would also make the daily walk through the forest to get to the local river. Jumping into the refreshing water made the hour long trek worth every step. At the end of each eventful day, I made my way back to the stara kuća to tell my Baka about my adventures and to get some rest before doing it all over again the next day.

I returned to Croatia another two times with my family during my childhood. Each time I added more amazing memories to my repertoire. Ten years following my last trip, I travelled to Croatia with my boyfriend. As we navigated the winding roads on the way to the selo, each twist and turn revealed more lush scenery; the sun illuminated every plain and valley as far as my eyes could see. As we drove up the final hill my eyes widened when I saw the roof of stara kuća peak over the top of the road. I immediately jumped out of the car. I stood in front of it and gave it a long hard look. It was exactly how I remembered it except its lean was a touch more pronounced. I took a deep breath of the selo air; the many scents made it clear that livestock was nearby. I heard the chickens clucking and was overcome with emotion as all the memories rushed back; it was pure nostalgia. As I cried tears of joy the neighbour across the road saw our car parked out front and rushed over to greet us. She pulled me into her arms and embraced me with such warmth that it made my tears flow that much more. Everyone had changed, grew older, my cousins went to post secondary, some got married and had kids. Their lives had changed, as did mine, but the stara kuća and the selo stayed the same.

We sat with the neighbours to reminisce on my previous visits. My boyfriend enjoyed hearing other people tell the same stories I shared with him before but through their perspective. The conversation shifted to the stara kuća, and their elderly grandfather asked me, “Did you know, that at one point, twenty five people lived in there?” I could not believe it, as it seemed physically impossible for that many people to fit in such a small space. I imagined them packed like sardines in a can but he assured me it was true and that back then they just made do with what they had. I felt incredibly humbled to discover more about how my family lived in the generations before me. To be able to experience living within the same four walls where so much life was lived was a privilege. As I looked over at the house, in all of its slanted glory, the

thought of it no longer being there one day crossed my mind. I vowed to preserve the memory of that house even after it no longer physically stands.

Five years later, I travelled back with my husband and my ten month old daughter. She had no concept of the significance of where she was, but for me it was a special moment to show her around. We opted to stay in a hotel during that visit because the foundation of the stara kuća had further deteriorated. Looking at its even more notable lean with my daughter in my arms filled me with so much emotion. I felt grateful that the stara kuća waited for me so I could connect her to our family’s history.

Now that my two children are older, I enjoy taking them to local farms and witnessing their love of animals, the outdoors, and getting their hands dirty. I look forward to travelling to Croatia as a family next year, so that I can continue to build more memories and keep the legacy of the stara kuća alive in our hearts.

Kućo stara ko te sad otvara? Old house, who's opening your door now? ni ognjište ne dimi se više Even the fireplace doesn't smoke anymore. kućo stara svi te ostaviše Old house, everyone has left you. Još na zidu stoji slika tvoja There is still a picture of you on the wall, neka živi uspomena moja let my memory of you live on.

Song: Kućo stara ko te sad otvara (1977)

Croatian original written by: Janićije Janja Dramićanin

Natalie Pavlovic is a former marketing professional in the consumer packaged goods industry. She is presently an Intermediate / Senior teacher candidate at York University with Business and History as her teachable subjects. She is a wife, a mom to two sweet girls, and a proud Canadian of Croatian descent.

Johnny The Red Piano

Lianna Primiani

Sherry Turkle is the editor of the charming and emotional anthology Evocative Objects, which emphasizes the relationship between objects and people. In this book, 34 contributors (scientists, historians, artists, and architects) discuss their relationships with evocative items, which serve as both emotional companions and thought provoking stimuli. Some items have an evocative quality because they are strange or unsettling. Other items bring back memories or symbolize aspects of our identities that some people cannot eliminate. Turkle contends that items are our life companions, regardless of the significance we give them. They merit further philosophical and theoretical consideration as a result. The chapters in this book resonate with me philosophically, which is why I appreciate it. The narratives the writers provide, the epigraphs Turkle selected to end each chapter, and the conclusions Turkle makes from these narratives are thought-provoking. If I could participate in Turkle’s anthology, I would add my story under objects of discipline and desire, as a specific piano is an object that bridged my goals and accomplishments together. American composer and famous blues trumpet player William Christopher Handy once stated, “Life is something like a trumpet. If you don't put anything in, you won't get anything out”. Being able to master a skill through intense discipline and determination will forever have a strong meaning to me.

My hands turned numb, my head filled with anxious thoughts, and my feet firmly planted on the ground. I was frozen, and the audience was eagerly waiting for entertainment. All I could see was a bright red piano in front of me, and at that moment, I knew I was meant to be a musician. Deciding to learn an instrument is the first step in my journey. I choose piano because it is exhilarating yet frequently involves difficulty and laborious effort. I had to learn new things and develop new abilities. Learning to play piano was not always a simple task. My body is a part of it in addition to my thoughts, and I needed to refine my technique, acquire new knowledge, and memorize new fingerings and chord forms. While learning, I noticed myself gradually improving if I practiced often. However, I did receive modest rewards for my efforts with each new milestone I overcame, which kept me motivated. Patience is needed while making

music. I did not see results right away; I had to be persistent. Throughout my journey, I learnedthat music is art at its essence. The more "words" I learned in the language of music, the more I could express. I quickly discovered I wanted to use everything I learned to make my music and speak my voice. Music is about using sound to convey emotion rather than just knowing how to perform particular tunes. Learning piano allowed me to express myself creatively by just performing my rendition of a song or writing a brand new one. Johnny, the red piano gave me that opportunity and showed me the power of my musical identity.

Having the chance to play my songs in front of a crowd in a jazz bar was thrilling; however, being able to play on a cherry red grand piano was another level of joy. I can still hear the audience applauding and cheering, the smell of bourbon and cigarettes and the touch of the ivory keys against my sweaty fingertips. I was so nervous and overthinking every note, chord, and tone that I planned on playing. I wanted the crowd to truly enjoy the music and rave about the show I created. The second the spotlight hit my face and I sat on the hard, uncomfortable piano bench, I felt my stomach sink. My mind automatically remembers a moment in music history when Elton John dedicated a whole tour solely based on a red piano. A voice in my mind excitedly yelled, “This is my moment; let’s give these people a show they will never forget!” I felt like Elton John, playing my heart out on stage and being able to be my complete self with no shame or concern. All those lessons, overly priced piano books, and long hours banging on my tiny bedroom piano made me accomplish a goal, a deep desire. I was in my element, in my purest musical form, and that specific red piano helped me overcome my timid, shy, nervous self. This object was the key that unlocked my inner rockstar, hence why I named that piano Johnny due to my idolization of Elton John.

It is now three years since my rockstar night, and I no longer hide in the judgemental shadows to cover my true musical self; I stand proud of the music I produce and play music like it is my last day on earth. I continued to play at events. However, I never received the same magnetic energy I felt playing the red piano, Johnny. The memory constantly flashes in my mind, primarily when I perform or sit at a piano. While trying to relive that event, I discovered that the jazz bar where the red piano, Johnny, was, unfortunately, closed. So, my new goal is to one day customize my very own red piano and host musical events where I can sing, play, and enjoy music with family and friends whenever I can.

Lianna Primiani graduated from York Universities' music program and conquered her dream of playing original music in front of a crowd at a Toronto, Canada, jazz bar. She felt like a rockstar while playing a Yamaha red grand piano as she connected with her idolization of Elton John. Lianna is now part of York University's Bachelor of Education program, eagerly anticipating sharing her musical knowledge with society's youth. She continues to work diligently and strives for greatness no matter the obstacles she faces. She continued to play live music in Toronto and attended Elton John’s Farewell: Yellow Brick Road concert, where she witnessed Elton John play on a similar red grand piano.

My plant, Penelope

Lexie Rivard

Image from redbubble.com

The first time I saw Penelope was one afternoon as I was shopping with my grandmother for my birthday. She had told me that I could pick out a gift from one of the stores on the downtown strip of our tiny Northern Ontario town. I had decided that I wanted a houseplant, so we headed to the local plant and flower shop, a quaint, red brick building that sold florals and plant goods as well as specialty foods and gifts.

I don’t remember what drew me to the pothos in particular, but I spent several minutes deciding on the perfect one. To be honest, I couldn’t really tell the difference between the different pothos plants so I just picked one that seemed healthy. My plant had a mix of pure green leaves and some with white speckles. Given its young age, the stems only had a few leaves, so it had a short look and did not have the long vines characteristic to adult pothos. I later purchased a terracotta pot for it, and from then on, that pothos came with me to every apartment I moved to.

This plant did not immediately become special to me. I had other plants, and though I liked how it looked, there wasn’t anything particularly evocative about it until years later, when it took on significance through the qualities I came to perceive in it. Growing up, my grandmother was an ever present shoulder I could lean on, and a patient listening ear I could go to for just about anything. My mother and I often described her as an angel, as she has seemingly

endless patience and devotes her life to the care and happiness of her family. I admire her greatly, and I still call her often to confide in her. I sometimes feel that the pothos I got with her that day carries with it her wise, gentle spirit, and I feel grateful to have a piece of her with my now that I live hundreds of miles away.

When I first got it, I kept the plant in my childhood bedroom with the others as a readied to move on to university in a new city. The plant first carried the spirit of my grandma, and then memories of my childhood bedroom where it first called home. When I moved to Toronto, I brought it with me to my first dorm room, where it kept me company as I adjusted to living alone in a new city. Though a few of my other plants didn’t make it through the year, the pothos seemed to thrive no matter how long I went without watering it when I left for holiday breaks.

In my next apartment, I had a few new succulents, but I ended up overwatering those, and a few other plants died from the lack of light. Not only was the apartment itself dark, but it was also a dark time in my life when I struggled a lot in my personal and academic life. The pothos was the only bright and colourful thing in my apartment that survived despite the darkness At this point, it became a bit of a symbol of resilience, a constant presence that seemed to bounce back no matter the conditions of where we went. Not only did it bring life to boring, white apartments but it was also a comforting presence that never seemed to leave me. After a few years, it had grown bigger and I had to transfer it to a larger pot that I had collected after another plant died. To this day, the pothos still calls that plastic pot home and it hasn’t yet outgrown it.

I didn’t name my pothos until last year, when my old roommate suggested it as I moved in. She had named all of her plants, and I thought it was a cute idea, so I gave it a try. After that, I felt like Penelope was comforting presence during the lonely months of the pandemic, where I spent most of my time alone with her completing my online courses. She was like an old friend that brought life to my desk in the midst of a gloomy Canadian winter Maybe it was the spirit of my grandma, or the fact that I had now given her a name, but she kept me company as we weathered through one of the most difficult and lonely times of my life. When I look at Penelope now, sitting on my work desk next to the bright window with her lively green vines trailing towards the floor, I think about all of the things we have been through together and how much we have both grown. Like me, Penelope survived many hostile environments and managed to thrive despite the challenges and changes. Not only was she a source of support during many years of trials and tribulations as I completed undergrad, but, as cliché as it sounds, she showed me that I could be resilient and come out stronger than ever after a difficult time.

Image from redbubble.com

“

Like tiny seeds with potent power to push through tough ground and become mighty trees, we hold innate reserves of unimaginable strength. We are resilient.” Catherine DeVrye

Lexie Rivard is a graduate of the University of Toronto where she studied French and Psychology with a focus on child development and education. She is now a first year Teacher Candidate in the Faculty of Education at York University

The Cherry Blossom Tree

Nicole Robb

For as long as I could recall, coming home meant seeing this massive, almost fluffy looking, pink cherry blossom tree standing adjacent to my childhood home’s driveway. Never did I think much of it as it stood there in the front yard, but nonetheless it was still sort of comforting that it existed. From the day I was born and brought home, this tree stood its ground with an unwavering predictability and became a landmark of the cul de sac I had the privilege of growing up on. It was one of those things that lived silently in the background of many family photos and was a bystander for many childhood memories.

I think one of my favourite parts about this tree growing up was that no matter the season, it was exactly where I last saw it. Despite the ever changing and unpredictable weather, or the animals that rummaged through it for food and shelter, it was there. I remember this tree being the first thing I saw on Christmas morning when I looked out the window optimistically to see if this was the year that snow covered the west coast. I remember seeing the first sign of spring as I witnessed the tree become speckled with pink blooms and hearing songbirds landing in its branches spreading the word that our hemisphere was warming up. I remember claiming my spot under that tree with my dog in my lap in the early morning and eagerly reading entire books, like Junie B. Jones and the Twilight Saga, until the mosquitos came out at night. I remember solemnly counting the few remaining yellowish orange leaves that were clinging on for dear life one gloomy autumn day, as my dad raked up the rest that had fallen to their unavoidable fate. The funny thing about change is that it is inevitable, just like the seasons. This may have been

“But then, as she knew too well, the more fondly we imagine something will last forever, the more ephemeral it often proves to be.”

Iain M. Banks, Excession

The before… (Photo by Nicole Robb)

the first time I was forced to think about this universal truth. We can never predict exactly what will happen, but whether we want to or not, we will all succumb to change at some point.

One winter night, long after all the leaves were absorbed by the earth, came a storm. It was one of those nasty west coast storms, where the rain was beating down sideways, the wind was announcing its presence to the world and lightning was illuminating the night skies. Everyone was curled up inside and all the neighbourhood dogs were either cowering under kitchen tables or mouthing off to the skies. We brought out our emergency power outage kit, scattered candles around our home and held our breathe while tucked into our beds, until our alarm clocks went black. One moment the cherry blossom tree stood tall, defending its position valiantly against the reigns of mother nature, and the next, it was torn right down the middle, as if someone carelessly ripped a sheet of paper in half. A huge “crack boom” sound echoed through the cul de sac and in a blink of an eye, a strand of lightning had taken it right down.

The next morning, the storm had moved on to its next victim and the sun was peeping through the clouds to witness the damage the storm had caused. One by one, my family and other curious neighbours stepped outside to see what was waiting for us. When my eyes found the dismembered tree that was laying there lifeless in the yard, my heart sank and most of the air in my lungs vacated. It was as if a local coffee shop you have made a habit of going to every morning for many years, the kind that new your exact order, was demolished upon your timely arrival, without warning. I remember my mom standing there with wet eyes and her hands covering her tight mouth in shock, as our neighbours timidly came to say they were sorry. It was as if I was witnessing a funeral for this tree, with a line up of relatives and friends coming to give their condolences to the grieving family. One day this tree stood undefeated, and just as I grew comfortable with its unwavering presence, it was as if it suddenly never existed. It got excavated a couple of days later and we decided to plant a small Magnolia tree, in honour of my late grandmother, the following Spring. But the landscape of my neighbourhood sat differently somehow and never fully returned to its natural state. A year later, as I entered my last year of middle school, my parents separated. The following year after that, I went to high school, changed dance studios, quit softball and made tons of new friends. I found a sense of home in new places and new people and started to learn how to accept the changing tides of life. I graduated high school, and I moved across the country to pursue my passion for dance and the arts at university. I graduated again, I traveled, I lost loved ones and I found new passions. I got closer to some family and grew apart from old friends. I made major mistakes and experienced great success I found love and then endured heart break. I felt deep sadness and experienced pure joy. I continuously lost myself and found myself all over again. All of it brought me to where I am today. Each event that has made up the timeline of my life lasted in fleeting moments and now lives on only in memories. It’s not common that we are aware that it may be the last time we do something as it’s happening. I don’t remember the last time I felt wrapped in the arms of that tree as I read a book in the yard because I never imagined my life without it I never thought I would have to look out the window on Christmas morning and expect anything other than that snow covered cherry blossom tree, but it happened, and I adapted. Change is not a matter of “if”, it is a matter of “when” and the only guarantee in life, is that there are no guarantees.

Even still, in my 26th year of life, I must remind myself to accept what is and what will be. I must make peace with the terrifying truth that no matter how hard you try, nothing stays the same. I also must remind myself, that just like that beautiful cherry blossom tree that towered

over the place I called home, home can be anywhere you want it to be. Although that tree, that home and many of the tangible parts that made up my childhood no longer exist, the memories endure to remind me that life goes on and to hold space for new things to grow in the absence of the things that are no more. I hope I can continue to make peace with the transitoriness of life and lean into the discomfort of ephemerality. Some things may happen overnight during a storm, and others take a little bit more time to evolve.

Nicole is a 1st year education student at York University, who is passionate about and plans to teach dance and the arts as well as social sciences and History. She was born and raised in Port Coquitlam, BC and after graduating high school, decided to move across the country at 18 years old and attend York University for a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree, specializing in Dance. Four years after that, she walked across the stage and retrieved her BFA and jumped into teaching dance at local schools and studios. Nicole is enthusiastic about learning, loves to read and has recently grown to appreciate the art of writing. She typically can be found with a coffee in her hand and her nose in a good book. She feels at peace outdoors and gets her sense of adventure from both of her parents. Currently, she is submerged in the depths of learning as much as humanly possible in order to be the best teacher she can be for her future students; however, she knows that life has a lot more to teach her and learning is a lifelong journey she plans to subscribe to for a very long time.

The after (Photo by Nicole Robb)

The Blanket Arianna Scarola

Christmas is a big deal in my family. We look forward to it year round, and me and my cousins talk about the excitement we have for this day to arrive. We look forward to spending time with each other. We have many traditions on Christmas that vary from the food we eat, to the games played together and gift opening. As kids, mine and my cousins favourite part was of course the gift opening; we do it the same way every single year. We wait until midnight on Christmas eve to open all the gifts. When the time comes, we all sit in a big circle, and we start from the youngest cousin and work our way up to the oldest and take turns opening our gifts. The most exciting gift for us to open is the gift from our grandparents. Each Christmas our grandparents give us all a variation of the same gift, such as pyjama pants but we all get a different colour. When it is time to open our grandparents’ gift, we open it all together at the same time. This tradition and the special gift we get from our grandparents is something that we vividly remember doing from our childhood and still do now, it is something that we look forward too. As we are all getting older, we realize how special it is too us, and how much thought and love our grandparents put into this gift to make it special for all of us. One Christmas our grandparents gifted us this huge, warm blanket. We all got a different variation of this blanket, and I got this beautiful white one full of pink hearts. This blanket was huge big enough to fit a double mattress, soft to the touch and extremely cozy. I loved and still love that blanket. Since that Christmas I have used that blanket as part of the sheets on my bed My sister also has her blanket on her bed, and once and a while we will talk about it and say, “Oh remember when our grandparents gave us this”, and we start to reminisce, and get happy thinking about the memories it holds.

Every time I get into bed, I get reminded of all the memories that this blanket holds and the feelings it evokes in me. This blanket makes me feel extremely loved, happy and warm…quite literally. Now that I am older, I have realized why I love this blanket so much and why it has such sentimental value to it. This blanket reminds me of my grandparents, of Christmas, of our traditions, and of my family. I am a very family oriented person, my family means the world to me, especially my grandparents, and to have something with me that reminds

“Family: Small moments in time creating memories that last a lifetime.”

me of them daily is so special to me. This blanket also brings back memories of Christmas from when I was a child and how much I loved opening presents, now I realize that it is much more then that. My blanket makes me think of all the traditions in my family and how special they are, and how much I look forward to them even now that I am older. These traditions and familial values have been instilled in me since I was a child and I think that is what has made me so family oriented and have such love and appreciation for my family. These familial values have also helped me form a sense of self and have shaped me into the person that I am today This object has also taught me how important family is and how grateful I should for my family. I believe that in order for me to understand all of this it was just a matter of time; these are things that you only realize at a certain age. My mother would always tell me, “You will realize how important family is one day”, “Do not take family for granted”, “Spend time with the people you love”. Now that I am older these are all things that I fully understand and are values and lessons that I will take on with me throughout the rest of my life, carry into my own family one day, and instill into my children the importance of family, practice familial traditions and so on My evocative object which is my blanket has made me do lots of self reflection and I have discovered many things about myself and how my blanket evokes all these memories, feelings and values.

Arianna Scarola: First year teachers college student, with a major in French and a minor in Social Science. Loves to travel, learn new languages, spend time with family and friends, go for walks and loves to bake. Grew up in a family with two parents, a younger brother and a younger sister. Her entire family is very close and that developed in her the importance of familial relationships. She has learned to value family and has understood how much of an effect family has had on her and on her development. Family is a huge part of her life

The Scale Nishtha Sharma

I remember the day I first stepped on the scale: silver, shiny and transparent. I felt the cold touch of the glass as I stepped on and waited for a number to appear. It was the summer of grade 10 and on a particularly boring day, I decided to entertain myself by stepping on the scale that resided next to my parent's bed. Before this, I had never really cared for the scale. I would see my mother step on it every day, closely monitoring if the number had changed. Some days it made her happy and other days she’d see it and say, “No more sugar for me”. I never really understood how a number on a scale could make you feel so many emotions, particularly how it could make someone want to change their lifestyle. Little did I know that in the next few months, I too would be consumed by the number that would appear on the scale. I looked down and the number, 162.5lbs flashed before my eyes. I stepped off and stepped back on. The number didn’t change. As a naive 16 year old who had all the world’s confidence, the number didn’t faze me.

If I’m being honest, I didn’t really know what the number meant. I had heard all sorts of comments about my weight, and the way I looked but it had never bothered me. Even after seeing all those comments quantified by the flashing green number on the scale, I didn’t feel a thing. A couple of more boring summer days led me to find entertainment in jumping jacks. With

no other intention, I started to do jumping jacks every day for 10 minutes straight. I would go into my parent's room when no one was home and exercise. As I exhausted my body with every jump, I would see the scale in my line of vision, glaring back at me from the foot of the bed. One week later, it finally tempted me to step on it. 161.5lbs flashed back at me this time and my mouth curved up into a smile. For some reason, this small change in my weight completely shifted my mood I was happy. Wanting to see if I could make the number even smaller the following week, I went from 10 minutes of jumping jacks to 20 minutes every day. By the end of the month, the scale flashed 154.3lbs. This 8lb drop, coupled with comments about how I looked skinnier felt like the greatest victory I had achieved. The scale had consumed me, like a black hole. This was a victory I wanted to win every single day.

I don’t recall when, but at some point, it became a competition. My relationship with the scale turned into a rivalry where I was constantly trying to beat it. The smaller the number, the happier my day went. Every morning, I’d check the scale and after every workout, I’d hop right back on. It became second nature. The validation from seeing the number go down and hearing people say, “You’re so pretty, that dress looks good on you”; something I had never heard before motivated me to keep going. Even though I was competing with it, the scale was my source for “happiness”. Every time I stepped on the scale, I had the urge to be smaller. I prided myself on eating just one slice of pizza for dinner, knowing that the less I ate, the happier I would be the next time I approached the scale. I was obsessed with shrinking myself. I scanned rooms to see if I was the smallest and if I wasn’t, how I could become smaller. I shrunk my appetite the way I shrunk the number on that scale until my collarbones popped, and I looked like I was made of flimsy bones. People’s attitudes toward me changed. I received more compliments, more opportunities, and more affection from everyone around me. My self worth was tied to the number on that scale. As I grew up, from an adolescent to a woman, my body started to change, and I started to panic. How could I let my weight go up? How could I let the scale win? But it did win. I remember stepping on the scale in December 2019. 135.8lbs flashed back at me and I felt myself physically repulsed at the sight of that number. The repulse quickly turned into fear when I realized that people would start treating me differently again. I was no longer small enough, good enough. Once again, I spiraled into a dangerous game of starvation that didn’t work on my adult body. Today, I sit at an unknown weight. The scale now has found a new home in my bathroom. Each morning, I wake up, go into the bathroom, and see the scale. Each morning, I’m reminded of the new battle I now fight. I still don’t want the scale to win, but this time my sense of victory comes from not letting it dictate how I eat, my physical activity, or how my day goes. I don’t remember the last time I stepped on the scale, but every time I see it, I am flooded with bittersweet emotions. My unstable relationship with the scale allowed me to understand that like the number on that scale, my life is not stagnant. I will constantly go through change and tying myself down to a specific number doesn’t allow for my body to evolve with me. Seeing the scale each morning reminds me that regardless of what challenge I’m faced with, I know I’ll prevail because I’ve overcome a long battle with various eating disorders. Ironically, the scale has taught me to appreciate my body. I’ve learned to break my obsession with the flashing number and instead, treat my body with kindness and love. I see the scale every morning but this time I know I won’t ever feel the cold glass beneath my feet again. Instead, the simple sight of the scale will remind me of how fast something so rewarding, can become an unhealthy obsession.

“[...] I look in the mirror every day, when I brush my teeth or wash my face or comb my hair. It's just I tend to look at myself in pieces and avoid joining them up all together. I don't know why; it just feels safer that way. But tonight I force myself to look at the whole thing. And suddenly I se add up to someone I'm not familiar with, someone I never intended to be.”

Kathleen Tessaro

Nishtha Sharma is a first year Bachelor of Education student at York University. In 2022, she completed her Bachelor of Science at York University where she majored in Mathematics. She hopes to teach Mathematics and Chemistry at the Secondary School level.

My Bike Karolina Solovka

“

I'm learning to ride a bike, And I'm learning to fly on my own, And I'm learning to sing, Not to cry, when I fall, And I'm learning not to give up, As I ride though life, And I'm learning to try try try again, To get back up on that bike, And I'm learning (although it sometimes really hurts me) , Not to run away from pain, And I'm learning to fly high, While, I speed through the hills of life, And I'm learning that it's much, Much easier to look ahead at my future path, Then looking in my mirror, To see the past.”

By Ronald Chapman

I was four years old when I received my first brand new bike. It was light pink and had a beautiful white and brown basket with pink ribbons hanging off the bars. The bike had a very comfortable light brown cushion and a brand new smell, my favourite smell! Despite all this, it included my biggest enemy and the famously not so cool element, training wheels. I began developing a love hate relationship with them when I was five, as I knew these training wheels were my enemy and my best friend. These wheels were white and black and were hanging on silver metal bars on the sides of the back wheel. On one side, these wheels protected me and helped ensure I would not fall off the bike. However, on the other side, these wheels meant that I was still learning and young; I could be considered “weak” by my peers, which led to my hatred towards them. I feared being the kid still using her training wheels and worried about the embarrassment that would follow along.

As I grew older, I began to get better and tested my limits with the trails my dad and I would go on. My bike helped to bring my father and me closer as it became our thing. Every day after school in the springtime or during the summer, I would come home and beg my dad to take me outside to explore these trails. I was a child who loved being outdoors and taking on new adventures. Being outside meant experiencing new things and being exposed to new areas, and

as a curious child, this was my dream. I wanted to see everything and travel everywhere if I could. My imagination would take me to different places, and I would do anything to experience it all. Our bike rides lead us to different forests, stores, waters, and places all over Mississauga, sometimes even Toronto. I loved everything about bike riding, and even if I fell, I would always pick myself up to keep going. I used that as motivation that one day I would be able to take those wheels off as my training would be done. In my eyes, I felt these wheels were a dragon, and I was a knight preparing for battle on the day the wheels came off.

One day when I was five years old, my father asked me to go outside for a bike ride, and my mom joined. I just thought we were going on one of the regular trails and nothing more. It was a beautiful spring day and felt like the perfect day. As we were riding the trails under the beautiful trees, I heard my dad call for me to slow down as he rode up next to me to tell me it was time to take off my training wheels. My eyes grew, and I had no idea how to respond other than screaming for joy. Aside from this moment allowing me to be part of the “cool kids” who did not use training wheels, it also meant that I was growing older, and my independence was trusted. Today would be my chance, and it was the day I would take on the challenge. I was about to fight a dragon on the battlefield. I strapped my helmet tighter, and it was time.

My dad began taking off my training wheels, and my mom turned to me and said for me, “Please be safe.” I look back on this moment and these three words as they continue to be said to me and will never stop. As I grow older, some risks need to be taken; this was the first of many. When it was finally time for me to ride my bike on its own, I hopped on my bike, and my dad began to count down. When the number hit one, I tightly grabbed my handles and began to ride while my dad was holding on and running with me. Almost as if I was running towards fighting the dragon. A couple of seconds later, he let go, and I was on my own. Just me and my bike, under the trees, riding with the wind with the biggest smile on my face. At that moment, everything felt perfect, and I knew this was just the beginning. I had defeated the dragon that once feared me.

As I grew older, the bikes kept changing, and the paths I took were more advanced, leading me to ride the trails alone sometimes. Fighting that dragon proved to me that I am capable of anything and stronger than I think. I continued to have my falls off the bike without my training wheels, which helped shape who I am today. The bike began to symbolize family to me as it created a bond with my dad; without it, I would not have the relationship I have today. My bike also got passed down to my sister and family members as years passed, and seeing it go through the family was special as I know they will experience what I learned and begin their path of growth and independence. It has also developed my love for physical activity, the outdoors, and, most importantly, exploration. I would not be the traveller I am without my bike leading me to different places and developing my curiosity further, which are all things I value so much. I have learned a lot with my bike; this is just the beginning. I am excited to see what paths I end up on and what trees I will see along the trails in the future.

There is the famous question, “if you were a part of a bike, what part would you be?” I would say that I am the handlebar, as I can offer support and balance. I can also take control in the present moment and lead myself or others in the right direction, new places, and adventures.

Karolina Solovka (she/her) is an aspiring theatre performer, director, stage manager and educator based in Toronto, Ontario. She is currently in her fifth year at York University, and first year in Teachers College. Last year she had completed her BFA in Theatre Performance and Creation with a specialization in Devised Theatre A few of her past theatre credits include, Project 37(Creator and Performer, Devised Theatre Festival 2022), Swallow This Skin (Stage Manager, Toronto Fringe Festival 2021), nowhen (performer, Dream in High Park Canadian Stage 2021). She is currently directing Beauty and the Beast Jr. In the future, she hopes to inspire many students within the arts and see them blossom on the stage

Paddle Michael Stewart

As far back as I can recall, I have had a healthy obsession with being on the water. I was lucky to grow up in Kingston, Ontario, an area surrounded by water of all shapes and sizes. To the South East is Lake Ontario, where it flows into the equally beautiful and mighty St. Lawrence River and 1000 Islands. Fortunately for me, my parents had the means to give me access to these bodies of water, as we had a family 23 foot family boat docked at a nearby marina. As the month of May neared and the spring weather grew warmer, I can still recall the feelings (because I still get them) of anticipation and excitement as the weekend approached and I thought about getting back to the water. However, it wasn’t actually my parents boat that I was thinking about during those spring afternoons. More specifically, it was the rubber dingy and set of paddles that got my imagination running wild. You see, anytime we stopped to dock or anchor the boat at one of the seemingly endless islands, bays or inlets, I would scramble to get my dingy inflated and paddle ready for another adventure. There was something so satisfying about setting off on my own to explore the new surroundings. I loved how quietly I was able to paddle and glide through the calm waters of the St. Lawrence, allowing me to get closer to loons, ducks, cranes, and great blue herons that inhabited these hidden areas, away from the main channel that was always full of noisy speed boats and container ships. Often times I would bring my fishing rod along on my excursions, which was the beginning of another obsession I still hold on to. Unfortunately my parents were forced to sell the boat due to endless maintenance and repair costs. Sadly, my time exploring the St. Lawrence was brought to an abrupt finish. Little did I know, this would be a blessing in disguise for my paddling adventures, as my parents were working out the purchase of a cottage an hour or so north west of Kingston, on the pristine waters of Lake Kashwakamak. This long lake is a paddlers dream. Approximately 20 kilometres long and quite narrow, it feels more like a large river.

“

“Everyone must believe in something. I believe I’ll go canoeing.”

Henry David Thoreau

I cannot think of something more essential to cottage life than having a canoe. And of course, if you have a canoe you most certainly need a paddle. Having already purchased the canoe with the cottage, my dad, knowing that I would be spending a lot of time on the water, took me to Canadian Tire to pick out my own personal paddle. I immediately knew the one I wanted when I saw it. It was at the end of the aisle, kind of separated from the basic, pale wood or aluminum paddles with a squared blade you typically get when you rent a canoe or go to

summer camp. This one was different. It was a beautiful dark cherry colour with a glossy shine to it that gave the illusion it was glowing under the bright fluorescent lights in the store. The blade was long, slender and shaped like the tail of an otter or beaver. I went over and as I reached up to grab it off the rack my dad stopped me, stating “that one is too long for you.” I grabbed it anyway, it was much lighter than I’d expected and the grip fit perfectly in my palm of my hand. I pretended I was in the stern of a canoe and began paddling. I imagined I was at the cottage, soloing the canoe across the perfectly calm lake as the early morning mist lifted off the water as I paddled through it. The smile on my face must have left quite an impression on my dad, as it did all the convincing for me. “You’ll grow into it,” he said before I could even come up with any words. He was right though. Measuring the proper length of a canoe paddle is the same process as measuring a hockey stick, something our family had lots of experience with. Ideally, it should come up to somewhere between your chin and nose. It was a few inches too long, but I was only thirteen at the time.

By the time I was eighteen, I had accumulated hundreds of hours on the water with this paddle. Many as a recreational paddler at the cottage, some as a student paddler and eventually as an instructor with a program called Outreach, where I would help guide ten day canoe trips through Algonquin Park. The shine that had once covered the paddle from grip to the blade had started to fade from the long hours in the sun. The bottom of the shaft, just above the blade, was especially worn from where my bottom hand held the paddle. Structurally though, it is still perfectly sound and I still use it when I head to my parents cottage. Every time I pick up my paddle I am reminded of a specific experience on one of those canoe trips I was leading through Algonquin Park. It was day six of the scheduled ten day trek from the north end of the park to south and our group of twelve, mostly strangers to each other when the trip started, had become a close knit bunch and everyone was excited for our “lay day”. This was a planned day off, where we would camp at the same site for two nights and not have to do any paddling, allowing our exhausted bodies to rest for the final push of our trip. The campsite was on an island on Lake Opeongo and is one I had used on previous trips due it’s proximity to the next portage, but also for is natural sandy beach to relax on and rocky cliffs for us to jump from during our stay. From the moment I woke up in my tent that morning we were set embark on the remainder of our trip, I knew we were in trouble. The temperature had dropped significantly, the wind had shifted and was now blowing in hard from the east, meaning we would have to cross the lake paddling into the wind and waves. As everyone emerged from their tents and scrambled to find their warmer clothes, we came up with a game plan to quickly eat and get off the island. However, before we could get packed up and the canoes loaded, the wind had becoming increasingly aggressive. With one angry burst, the wind picked up one of our overturned canoes from the beach, throwing it through the air into a nearby pine tree. The once straight aluminum boat was now a twisted mess. As everyone rushed over to examine the damage to the canoe, for some reason my thoughts immediately shifted to finding my paddle.

Mike Stewart is a Hospitality and Tourism teacher candidate at York University. He has over 20 years experience in the hospitality industry, both as a bartender and as a chef. In his spare time he enjoys watching and playing sports, spending time with his family at the cottage and going on canoe or fishing trips.

BJ the Stuffed Panda Bear

Emma Vicencio

It is still sitting there, tucked under heaps of blankets in the quiet of my bed. It is my stuffed panda bear, BJ or more formally, Baltimore Junior. The name and his presence go back more than a decade ago when my family and I decided to visit our relatives in Baltimore, Maryland. It was the summer of 2009, when we road tripped down to the States along with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. After more than 8 hours of driving and the occasional pitstop dedicated to bathroom breaks and midday snacking, we made it to our relative’s house Tucked in a quiet neighbourhood, stood their mid century style home, as well as my other relative’s home which was conveniently located across the street. Immediately we were greeted with friendly smiles, warm hugs, and of course an abundance of food. After unpacking, we slowly got acclimated to the environment, catching up with family, exploring the city and relishing in some classic Baltimore delights.

That summer, my birthday also happened to fall around the time we were visiting my relatives. I remember there was a time we had come back from a day of exploring and I had gone down to their basement and immediately my eyes darted towards a stuffed panada sitting on the table. To give a bit of context, pandas were and are still one of my favourite animals, so naturally I was drawn to its presence. I started playing with it when all of a sudden, my uncle came into the room and told me that it was actually a birthday gift for me. As you can imagine, I was thrilled that this charming little stuffed animal now belonged to me. I decided to name the bear Baltimore Junior or BJ for short, because of the city in which I received him and whom I received him from my uncle Junior.

Following that trip, BJ followed me to every road trip and vacation out of the country. He

“What one loves in childhood stays in the heart forever” Mary Jo Putney

was there through all of these new experiences in my life and I was happy that wherever I went I still had a piece of home with me. He gradually became a friend and a form of emotional support

when I needed comfort most, or I needed someone to talk to. On days when we did not go on a trip, he had a dedicated spot on my bed that was within arm’s reach. If and whenever there was a situation where I was upset, scared, or could not sleep, it was comforting to know that he was right by my side. As a child, BJ made all of my anxieties and fears of loneliness subside, simply through his quiet presence.

Looking at this small, furry, and brown eyed panda now makes me feel a whole lot older, but it is comforting to know that he is still a part of my life today. Although his presence is maybe not as significant as it was 13 years ago, it is nice to think about the lessons he taught me in building long lasting relationships With BJ, I learned to value the relationships I hold with my family and friends and understand the importance of sharing experiences with them. I also think that BJ taught me about the importance of relationship building, through my ability to find comfort in his presence and essentially have someone that you can lean on for support. Without BJ, I do not think I could have ever fully understood how crucial it is to have long lasting relationships, considering how big of a role he played in my life growing up. Furthermore, I think my relationship with BJ also encouraged me to develop nurturing qualities. By having a stuffed animal such as BJ by my side, I learned to empathize and take care of someone other than myself. When I was younger, I would ensure that BJ was comfortable, whether tucked under the covers of my bed and in my arms as during long road trips. These were just of a few of the ways at which I would nurture BJ, but essentially it was just nice to have something that I genuinely cared for and loved.

After reflecting on this evocative object from my childhood, it now fills me with so much joy and nostalgia, because despite how small he was, my stuffed animal did play a huge role in my childhood.

Emma Vicencio is currently enrolled in the Concurrent Education program at York University. Prior to teacher’s college, I majored in Visual Arts at York where I developed both creative and technical skills through my explorations in studio painting and drawing. In the last four years, I learned to refine my skills to build a cohesive body of work that centred on realistic representations of human nature and the natural world.

My Violin Cathy Wang

I received my first violin at the age of 9. It was a complimentary one as I started studying the violin at the Regent Park School of Music, a community music school in Toronto that offers children and youth music education by removing some of the financial barriers that makes music education hard to access. At the time, my parents and I had just come to Canada for about 3 years, and with the birth of my younger brother, life was still somewhat challenging. When I discovered that my best friend had begun taking piano lessons, I was envious of her. I often imagined what it was like to possess a musical instrument. So, when I heard that I was finally at the top of the wait list to take music classes I was excited and could not help jumping up and down as my mom and I made our trip to the music school I first tried the piano, then the violin. Thinking back, I probably preferred to take piano lessons, but I would have to be kept on the waitlist for longer, and mom thought that violin was much more transport friendly, so she easily persuaded me to take violin lessons instead. It was a regrettable circumstance though because I have recently started to think of the need to properly learn piano basics and accompaniment if I wanted to be a music teacher. When I was studying at RPSM, I had a softspoken teacher who taught me the importance of caring for my violin. Unlike the piano, violins are delicate and need to be handled with care. Taking her words to heart, I started to take care of my instrument like a mother attending to her baby. I loved practicing the violin and seeing myself make progress in class, my parents would often film me too after I give them a “performance”. Obviously to play the fancier repertoires, I had to build a firm foundation through practicing scales and etudes, which can often be dry and boring. But as I heard the notes bouncing off the steel strings of my violin, I felt a sense of

“I sensed that whatever the shortcomings of the body, I was now in a position to see the beauty of the dance.” ~Eden Medina

fascination, it made me want to learn how violins came to be and who thought of the idea of bundling horse tails and rubbing them onto steel strings. Was it a product of an incidental occurrence? I enjoyed the process very much, and I knew that practicing the fundamentals will pay off in the long run. So although no one told me explicitly back then, I think this was when I first learned the concept of “hard work pays off”. After about 9 months from my first lesson, I had to go back to China. I returned my violin not knowing if I would be able to study it again. In China, my grandma contacted the old violin teacher that my cousin used to study under and asked for him to take me in as a student. The first time I went to meet the teacher I was excited but nervous, first because it was a male teacher, but also much senior than my previous teacher. After I demonstrated what I know on the violin, he had an interesting expression on his face, one that was questioning what I had learned but also considering how to teach me so that I can improve. Apparently, he was a very busy man, teaching and performing, and only took me on because he knew my uncle. As I was living in China, I stayed with my grandparents because my mother and father were working and taking care of my younger brother in Canada. In such a different environment I felt the pressure to ‘perform’ rather than enjoy. Everyone seemed to be competing and comparing, in schools, family gatherings, when visiting friends, and I think this factor greatly contributed to my diminishing fire for what I loved so much. My enjoyment was no longer pure, it was tainted with how fast I improved, how many hours I practiced and such. That is not to say that my teacher was not a good one, he was a professional in violin, but was not trained in providing comprehensive music education like I was exposed to in the West. Because of this, I got into conflicts with him a few times, sometimes it became bad that even my grandma had to get involved. It was the first time that the thought of quitting violin came into my head.

I came back to Canada in grade 7, and my parents found me a new violin teacher. I sighed with relief after I found out that it was a female teacher. Her teaching style was a combination of the two previous teachers that I had, which I felt comfortable with. Piano was the first instrument that she studied when she was young but moved on to violin and making a career out of it, her husband though was a piano teacher. I have watched many performances on video before, but I finally experienced the elegance of playing the violin because I had a live example in front of me! She occasionally gave me tickets to her performances, and I was stunned, the performance was beautiful, she was beautiful. But under the beautiful stage dress, I knew that she practiced a lot to make it a successful recital. I felt my dreams being restored, I started to love practicing again, and I longed to stand on stage one day.

Practicing was not always enjoyable though and I had to learn how to grind it out, but nice things don’t come easy. So with this in mind, I decided to challenge myself by applying to study music at York University and that was how my violin stayed by me for another 4 years. Although during this period I discovered other music genres and my love for other styles, my violin will remain as something that I can always go to for relaxation as I remember the feelings of my fingers jumping on the finger board and the soft timbre of the sound that I make completely focused on each note.

Cathy Wang was born in Xi’an, China and immigrated to Toronto with her parents when she was 6 years old. She went to primary school both in Canada and China, so she received two different

styles of education which added on to her understanding of being a 1.5 generation (kids of first generation immigrants who were not born in Canada) Asian in Canada. She graduated from the music program at York University in 2022 and continued to completing her studies in education in the fall. She has interests in many disciplines; aside from music she enjoys learning new languages, watching films, and discovering new recipes

Toshiba Flatscreen TV

Charlie Wells

Neil Postman, “Amusing

Ourselves to Death”

In 2011, I secured a job in Edmonton, Alberta where I worked for a non profit organization that assists Indigenous women and children in the city. I became a co facilitator of the LifeSkills program where I had to teach elementary and junior high school students about the dangers of using alcohol and tobacco. My lessons consisted of watching videos, having discussions, and doing role plays with the participants. After teaching my lessons, I had to supervise an after school program that was attached to a local elementary and junior high school. This after school program helped children by teaching them about Indigenous culture. For example, at the end of each day, the students and I would smudge and have a sharing circle. The youth participants and I also got to attend Indigenous ceremonies such as pow wow and sweat lodges. Overall, this was a great experience because I learned to work with youth and was exposed to First Nations culture.

This job gave me financial independence because I was able to afford to rent an apartment and buy appliances and electronics. My most treasured purchase, at that time, was my Toshiba flatscreen TV. I bought it at the Brick Furniture Warehouse on credit which allowed me to pay it off monthly. Buying this TV instilled financial independence because it was something I wanted and was able to afford. I have had this television for eleven years and it has travelled throughout all my life

“We are now by now well into a second generation of children for whom television has been their first and most accessible teacher and, for many, their most reliable companion and friend”.

changes and homes. For example, after two years of working in Edmonton, I relocated to South Korea to become an English teacher. Before I set off for my new job, I sold everything in my apartment except for my television. I did not sell my television because it was symbolic of my financial independence.

When I moved back to Canada from South Korea, my TV was waiting for me at Mom’s house. Having the television around reminded me that I could achieve my goals. When I moved back home, I worked construction and learned how to perform stand up comedy. I was first exposed to this art form while watching Seinfeld on my TV. So after a year of saving up my money, I decided to follow my heart and relocate to Toronto to take acting classes at the Second City Improv Theatre.

While living in my first apartment in Toronto, my TV did not come with me because I was subletting a room and my roommates already owned a television set. Two years later, I rented a place to live on my own so my TV could be with me. My TV and I were finally reunited.

I have had this television for a long time and it has yet to disappoint me. Since I bought it, I have enjoyed countless hours of entertainment with my friends and family. Whenever I feel sad, turning on my TV helps me relax and feel content. It is a reminder that I have to exercise discipline to reach my goals. For example, while teaching English as a Second Language at a private school in Toronto, I decided to attend graduate school to receive a Master's in Education. The discipline I have learned from having my TV also inspired me to go back to university two years later to get my high school teaching credentials. My TV is still a presence in my life with my hectic schedules of going to school and working part time.

Now, it is an outlet for relaxation from my very busy schedule. Whenever I am bored, it is there to entertain me. Whenever I am sad or lonely, it is there to cheer me up. My television is also my dependent because I have to look after it to make sure it does not get dirty. Once a week, I wipe down its screen and check that its vents are not clogged up with dust. Similar to buying clothes for a child, I have purchased my TV accessories like extension cables and streaming devices so I can access the internet on it.

The TV shows and movies my family and I watch are a reflection of our personalities. My TV keeps me connected to the original reason why I ventured to Toronto to be closer to the world of entertainment. Even though my career aspirations have changed, I still have a connection to comedy and my TV is the vessel through which I explore it. After all these years of taking different career paths and living in different parts of the world, my TV has remained a constant presence in my life. With all the new technology regarding televisions, I am still happy with my trusted friend, the Toshiba flat screen TV.

Charlie Wells is a high school teacher candidate studying at York University. His teachable subjects are English and Social Science. He has been teaching English as a Second Language for seven years. Currently, he is teaching part time at Seneca College. Before starting his studies at York, Charlie graduated with a Bachelor of Arts from The University of Victoria and a Master of Education from the University of Toronto. In his spare time, Charlie enjoys hiking, cooking, going to the gym, snowboarding, watching movies, reading, and listening to podcasts. He hopes to combine his education and love for comedy into a future career, whatever that may be

Crutches

Victoria Wszeborowski

For most of us, we have warmer feelings for the projects we worked on where everything seemed to go wrong. We remember how the group stayed at work until 3 a.m., ate cold pizza and barely made the deadline. Those are the experiences we remember as some of our best days at work. It was not because of the hardship, per se, but because the hardship was shared. It is not the work we remember with fondness, but the camaraderie, how the group came together to get things done. And the reason is, once again, natural. In an effort to get us to help one another during times of struggle, our bodies release oxytocin. In other words, when we share the hardship, we biologically grow closer.

Simon Sinek, Leaders Eat Last: Why Some Teams Pull Together and Others Don't

Grade seven. That was when it all went down It was Family Day weekend, a time I should have been enjoying. Well, I was enjoying…until I wasn’t. After 2 hours in a cramped car with my sister humming song lyrics, and the dog sitting on my side, my dad finally drove onto the driveway of our cottage, as we always did during this weekend. It was one of my favourite holidays. Feeling

the LOUD presence of my family as we filled every room with laughter and covered the floors with our bags and mattresses brought me joy.

Once we got settled into our rooms and grabbed a quick already cold slice of pepperoni pizza, we rushed to get dressed and enjoy the winter wonderland that was our backyard. Of course, there was no way to get dressed quickly. After what felt like too long, my sister, cousin and I were finally covered head to toe, with more layers than a wedding cake

When the three of us stepped outside, the brisk, fresh air filled my lungs as we embarked on our annual trek into the forest. The breathtaking sight of the thick snow weighing down the pine trees surrounding us possessed the most infectious euphoria known to mankind.

At the verrrry end of the forest, back where the sun barely poked through the tall birch trees, was a s t e e p hill. Perfect for our day of tobogganing.

It took a couple of rides down to shape the thick, cold snow into our very own slide. We must have gone down the hill over 100 times, taking turns on our one makeshift toboggan that my dad found in the depths of our basement. Once our noses got so cold, they were turning purple, we decided to call it a night and melt by the fire before tucking into bed to prepare for the same thrills to continue tomorrow.

It was the best day, just as it always was. Family Day weekend

I was woken up by the smell of maple bacon seeping through my bedroom door. Not the worst wakeup call if you ask me. Like any other morning when we were altogether at the cottage, we went to the kitchen to eat breakfast as fast as we could to make sure we wouldn’t miss out on another minute of our day. Today’s breakfast: Perfectly toasted bread topped by over easy egg and crispy maple bacon on top. My favourite.

As with a sunscreen routine, we followed the steps of layering up to prepare for another day of fun in the forest. We found our way back to our spot crunching through our previous days’ footsteps, which became lightly snowed over at night. After walking off the calories of my entire breakfast with the long trail to the hill, we finally made it. My cousin went down the slide first and took with him the soft coating of snow that appeared overnight. Next it was my turn, except I went down a lot faster. What we didn’t yet know was that the negative degree weather had caused our slide to become icy. I felt like I went down faster than a bullet from the barrel of a gun.

*THUD*

It all happened so fast. Did I just feel my toes touch my shin? Yes. Yes, I did.

Yesterday the snow was thick, and we slowed down a lot sooner. I didn’t even notice that tree there before. But today, the speed plunged me straight at it. If it wasn’t for my thick toque, I would’ve probably heard my bones shatter thank God for the toque. I was in shock. Nobody even noticed what happened. While I was collecting my thoughts, I hear my sister yelling at me to get out of the way because it’s her turn. I shriek, “WAIT!”, but she gets impatient and slides down without a toboggan hitting me directly in the back and colliding my foot against the tree again. I yelp. Ow.

Eventually, I had to figure out what to do next, so I did the worst thing possible, and I tried to stand up to confirm what I was thinking (thanks, Adrenaline), and just as I thought, there was no way I was getting myself back to the cottage because my foot was in agonizing pain.

My cousin came up to me wearing a superhero cape and offered to pull me on the toboggan all the way back to the cottage I might’ve been hallucinating at this point When we got back my dad threw me over his shoulder and walked me to the car.

Ever notice how uneven the ground is during the winter? Well, my foot did as I felt it d i s l o c a t e with ever irregular step.

My parents and I were off to the hospital, my foot feeling every pebble on the road. We even stopped for pain killers on the way, but I wasn’t one to swallow pills at the time so instead I suffered in silence. After what felt like forever, the doctor confirmed that I shattered my heel and would need to be in a cast for a month. It sounds like a horrible thing, but it meant using crutches and I always wanted to experience crutches or maybe I was just being optimistic.

Anytime that I see crutches it brings me back to this bittersweet time in my life. This experience has helped me recognize how grateful I am for my family for helping me get through it with me Though sometimes I felt like a burden, I could feel the care and support from my loved ones. This experience taught me to appreciate the people around me and never take them for granted. If you remember anything from my story, let it be this: Always treat others the way you wish to be treated, you never know when you will need a helping hand.

Also, think twice next time you decide to go tobogganing.

Victoria Wszeborowski is a student at York University who has a completed Honors Degree in Psychology and is now working towards her Bachelor’s Degree in Education She is in the Intermediate Senior division and hopes to teach at a high school level once she completes her teaching certificate. The teachables that she is working towards are in Social Science as well as Family Studies. Victoria’s other interests include reading novels, long camping trips, going to the beach, and long walks with her dog. She is likewise interested in making art and creative writing in her spare time

Engagement Ring Dalal Zein

I remember the day I tried on my mother's engagement ring. I was three, the same amount of carats as the diamond. Its weight required me to hold my left finger up with my right hand as I admired it, debating whether it was blue or white. The high set brilliant cut diamond floated on a halo held by four yellow gold prongs. When Mom did the dishes, I was her certified ‘ring wearer.’ The diamond’s brilliance put me in a trance as I stared into it until the stream of water stopped and snapped me back to reality. “Diamonds represent love. One day, you’ll find the right man who will buy you a ring that glistens even in the dark,” Mom said each time she caught me admiring hers.

“Yes!” I screamed as my hands flew to my mouth. The flashes from the camera overwhelmed my retina while I heard my family cheering faintly from a distance, binoculars in hand. Not once did I look at the ring. Instead, it was Rob on his knees that awed me. After all, I knew how it looked because I had picked it. A diamond ring is an expressive statement piece that can speak volumes about its owner's character a 1.75 carat solitaire diamond on a plain gold band: elegant, timeless, minimal, me. Tears streamed down my eyes as the ring not so coincidently glided onto my finger perfectly.

Two weeks away from the wedding of my dreams, Rob sent the ring in for polishing while I was at my final dress fitting. Basking in my Cinderella moment, my corset was yanked left and right by elderly Italian women singing along to Bella Ciao blaring from their stereo. I pranced around the room, shaking my hips as they clapped when an Amber Alert so loud it radiated through my chest and blasted from every device in the room. In a split second, the wedding hall and every vendor sent an email asking us to reschedule their services for a future date. April 4, 2020 the day Rob and I were to wed became another Saturday and the start of a global pandemic.

All seven times we postponed the wedding that year, we took the ring in for polishing two weeks prior. Tiffany’s staff knew us on a first hand basis, and I joke that the ring can no longer become dull. The ring was my emotional companion throughout our relationship's monumental events. From the pre covid proposal, backyard engagement party, double vaccine required bachelorette trip, limited indoor gathering bridal shower, city hall marriage to the wedding party, my diamond ring was there sharing the spotlight with me. The distress I felt in the ring’s absence trumped every pleasant emotion and memory associated with the diamond. It is evocative of being the most panic-stricken I have ever felt.

The 1979 Mercedes 280s flew down the Lebanese mountains blaring Fairouz’s ‘El Bosta’ all the way to Beirut beach. Sitting on the backdoor's window sill, holding hands overtop the car with Reine on the opposite side, she grabbed my left hand with extra care as our hair flew into knots. “It could have flown off with the pressure of the wind,” she said with concern, but I was not worried. From the stress of the wedding, the number on the scale dropped from 125 to 112. The result was a concave stomach, hollow cheeks and apparently, thinner fingers. The valet took our keys before whispering: ”Spin your ring in to face your palm while walking,” and drove off. There were three red flags that wearing my engagement ring was not a good idea, but red is my favourite colour, so I ignored them all.

My bachelorettes and I had sand in our toes and textured salty hair. The smell of sweat and sunscreen immediately filled the car, and we began comparing tan lines. “Dalal’s finger must have a tan line! Now, people will know she’s married even without her ring!” Said Reine. But I didn’t. My left hand was bare and unison in colour. I choked on air, screaming in my head, but the words would not come out of my mouth. The girls are dancing in the back seat, but I cannot hear them. Disassociating completely, Reine shakes me conscious: “Dalal, where is it? Did you take it off? Dalal?” That is how quick it was to lose the only material item of value I ever owned.

Returning to the beach to search and speak with every staff member was entirely unhelpful. No trace of the ring in our cabana, and nothing was brought to the front desk. In a country where refugees and citizens alike did not have their basic needs met due to the corrupt government and economy, I quickly accepted that whoever found it would keep it. That, or it had gone into the ocean. Trembling on the phone with Rob as I broke the news, his response took the weight of the world off my chest: “Better it be this ring than the even bigger, shinier rock I’ll get you once I save up the money.” The sincerity in his tone reminded me why I fell in love with him, but the guilt did not budge.

Three weeks later, I walked down the aisle with my mother's wedding ring on my finger, all three carats of it. That day, she developed smile lines. Then, with tears in her eyes, she told me the ring was mine. It once mesmerized me with its brilliance, but I

looked down at the ring to find it dull. It had never been polished, yet it had more character. Elegant, timeless, minimalist, her. My mother gave me a speech about how everything paid for with clean money always returns in one way or another, but I was content with the scratched up faded band.

While honeymooning in Greece, I received a call from Reine: “SIT DOWN…” she demanded, so I sat. Butterflies fought in my stomach, and my legs began sprinting to Rob before my brain could register the news. “A fourteen year old boy had been cleaning out the pool filter at the beach we visited and found the ring! He brought it to his manager who identified it using the description we gave her and its now with Reine back in Lebanon!” I’ll never forget the joy in his eyes. There was a sense of relief, and he let out a breath that appeared to have been trapped inside as he embraced me so tightly that I lost mine. The words he told me next stuck with me: “That ring meant a lot to me. I worked hard to save up for it, was proud when buying it, got on one knee to propose to you with it, and watched you carry it with pride through all our bridal events. It is as if a part of me is always with you and it’s good man repellant,” he ended with a smirk. Not only was this my most evocative object, but it was also his. The ring will forever represent that anything purchased with clean money will return. I cannot imagine an object that brings forth more images, feelings and memories than my engagement ring evokes, and it will remain on my mind and finger till death do us part.

Because the night you asked me, the small scar of the quarter moon had healed the moon was whole again; because life seemed so short; because life stretched before me like the darkened halls of a nightmare; because I knew exactly what I wanted; because I knew exactly nothing; because I shed my childhood with my clothes they both had years of wear left in them;

because your eyes were darker than my father’s; because my father said I could do better; because I wanted badly to say no; because Stanley Kowalski shouted, “Stella…;.” because you were a door I could slam shut; because endings are written before beginnings; because I knew that after twenty years you’d bring the plants inside for winter and make a jungle we’d sleep in naked; because I had free will; because everything is ordained; I said yes.

- Linda Pastan, Carnival Evenings

Dalal Zein graduated from York University with an Honours Bachelor's degree in English & is currently enrolled in the Bachelor of Education program where she will teach Intermediate/Senior She aims to gain certification in ELL & Special Education. She remains happily married to Rob & has since put the weight back on that once made her ring slide on & off. She now sees her ring as an expensive way to show everyone you are married. It has no meaning in and of itself. It is evocative for representing the memories she and Rob made together.