A Letter to My Anecdotal Self

hoiyan

Last night, you wore long pants to bed. You haven’t done that since you were six years old. You complained to Mom about it being too uncomfortable during the night. The fabric that twisted and strangled your legs was a textural no-no, so you swore you’d only sleep in shorts from the age of six-and-a-half. You stuck with it until now. Did something throw off your rhythm?

Maybe it was the egg you burnt this morning. The kitchen filled with a light poof of smoke. You flinched in fear, waiting for the fire alarm’s ear-bleeding screech. You stared at your reflection on the electric stove surface, wondering if something was wrong with you. It was a ridiculous thought and an even more ridiculous reason to be upset, but you kept staring and kept thinking about how the child of an excellent chef should be able to cook perfectly—the child of a chef should be a perfect recipe. How dare you make mistakes as simple as that?

Maybe it was because of the creaky wooden kitchen chair you pulled out a little too hard last night and scratched the tiled floor. The decades-old dusty orange tiles became soot black in an instant. Who knew it was that easy to tarnish something. You tried rubbing the scratch away. You walked away with heavy steps and a black fingertip.

It could’ve been the cold glass of milk you poured into your hot chocolate last week. You’ve never liked your hot chocolate to be too hot or too chocolate-y. “Why would you drink hot chocolate if you don’t like chocolate or hot beverages?” people ask. Maybe it’s the way the white and brown intimately hug in the midst of a thermodynamic reaction. Maybe it’s because you love putting one hand on the near-scalding mug while the other grips the cool milk carton. You like the comfort of not having too much or too little of one thing. Maybe it’s the way the drinks curl into each other and form a planet around the mug’s rim. It reminds you of the few warm hugs Mom used to give only when you were shaking from the cold. In that brief moment, we formed our own planet. It felt alien—physical affection isn’t her strong suit, after all. You felt colder than outer space when she let go. If you poured 100 billion more cups, you could create your own galaxy. Is that why we call it the Milky Way? No, of course that’s not the reason.

Maybe it was because you forced your friends into making friendship bracelets before they moved across the country half a year ago. You didn’t realize how much of your heart you could unravel and weave into such fragile embroidery thread. You attempted to cry silently when you got home and even used the knotted cord to muffle your sobs. The taste of blood flourished on your tongue. You didn’t want anyone to hear or see you being so weak.

Maybe it was because of that day, a year ago, when you were sitting in a “Mathematics for the Life Sciences” lecture. Scribbles and scratches came from every corner of the spacious hall. You ignored all the foreign and brain-melting concepts to focus on writing a classic iPhone Notes app poem. “I wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you titled it. When you stepped out of the lecture hall’s grand wooden door, you thought about what exactly prompted those words, and you’re still thinking about how those words came to be. They must have been bothering you for some time. Are they still dragging behind you on a thread?

Maybe it’s because of your attempt to call your now-estranged childhood friend some years back. You missed her a lot and never got proper closure or a proper goodbye after your fight. Her existence was easy to ignore when she lived 1,434.8 km away, and you only ever saw her once a year. You’re just coming to terms with this heaviness you hold deep in your back, stomach, and chest. You dialled in the familiar seven digits you memorized; it was the first phone number you learned by heart. You kept a hot pink sticky-note with those digits messily written by a five-year-old by your bedside. When you called for the first time in years, the call picked up only to default to an automated female voice saying, “This number is no longer in service,” followed by static noise and your soft, shaky breaths.

Maybe it was when you learned that your best was not good enough, and may never be good enough. You confidently answered “Yes,” when Mom asked if you could translate something for her into Cantonese, then failed to meet her expectations. You were seven years old when she first told you, “You’re not trying hard enough.” You performed the very best you had ever performed in your seven years of life. Those words of hers became the imaginary ghost that haunted you to be the best in everything you did—it reminded you that perfection is the only path you’re allowed to walk on. It was strangely comforting to always hear the ghost’s whispers and coaxes over your shoulder. These days, that ghost hasn’t been playing with you as often. You miss it, sort of. Now, each time it does come over to play, its presence gets increasingly overwhelming that it almost becomes a part of your physical being. Maybe that ghost wants to take over. Would you let it take over?

No, no, I think it may have to do with that persistent wave of melancholy on standby—waiting to strike the millisecond your face drops its invulnerability, then twists around and strangles you, just like those bedtime long pants. You can’t predict when it will happen, so it’s quite a surprise every time. You aren’t fond of surprises. Does that wave remind you of the long pants? Does it strike hard enough to completely alter your choice of sleepwear? Or maybe it was never about the pants?

No, maybe it’s really simple. You just need to turn up the heat. Yeah, that’s definitely it.

A Saskatchewan Landscape

by ABENA AMANKWAH-POKU Pencil on paper

In this piece, I wanted to show Saskatoon’s beautiful skyline including its river. Even though drawing the reflections in the river was challenging, it drew to my attention how important it is to always have a good character because that will also reflect good work.

Dream of Tomorrow

by LIAM TIMMERMAN Digital art

An Ode to Borscht

by MARTA KRUEGER

Print, linocut and ink

“An Ode to Borchst” is a multiblock Linocut print, created specifically as a symbol of my Ukrainian Heritage. Since the illegal invasion of Ukraine by Russian Military troops in 2022, different elements of Ukrainian culture have taken on new roles as symbols of Ukrainian identity. Ukrainian Borchst is one of these symbols. Ukrainian Borchst can be found as a staple food in any Ukrainian household, and is vastly considered to be a key part of the fabric of Ukrainian heritage, identity, and traditions.

Слава Україні, Героям слава! Glory to Ukraine, Glory to her Heroes!

I created “Dream of Tomorrow” to highlight the physical and spiritual connections to the earth. I wanted to showcase that we are connected to the earth, both body and mind. I want the audience to see both the beauty of earth and the beauty of Metis culture. I specifically chose a woman in red as a nod to the ongoing threat to our women, girls, and two-spirit people. The inspirations for this piece was Metis beadwork, a photo I took near my hometown, and wanting to shed light on a cause I care dearly about. I want to continue to use my artwork to both express physical beauty and to use it as a way to shed light on issues important to me.