Xaverian Review 2018

Volume I

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Dedication This creative journal is dedicated to the entirety of the StFX community, whether past, current or future, student, faculty, staff, alumni or friend. This journal was developed in hopes of giving StFX a new and alternative creative platform to express and to celebrate the creative minds that our community possesses.

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Acknowledgments The Xaverian Review would like to acknowledge and thank the following people without whom the review would not exist otherwise.

Rachel Revoy, Savannah MacDonald, Sloane Ryan, Rebecca Charnock and Evan Curley, five StFX students who have come together over the past two years to see this project come to life.

Natalie Chicoine and Ali Peddle, two StFX students who have graciously volunteered their time to see this project come to life.

To the StFX Marketing Communications Department for putting together the final copy of the journal, special thanks to our buddy Andrew.

Bob Hale and the Pepsi Fund for their generous support behind the journal.

Sean Ryan, Will Gatchell, Nicholas Carpenter, Sean Hopkins & the rest of the Student Union executive team for helping put together the review. As well as the Council Initiatives Fund for generously supporting the review.

Bruce Campbell, Kerri Arthurs & Mary Jessie MacLellan for assisting the review in getting the word out to all StFX students, staff, faculty and alumni.

Lastly, to anybody who the review may have forgotten to mention, thank you for believing in this project and helping us give an even bigger voice to an already phenomenal family; St. Francis Xavier University.

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Introduction to the Xaverian Review The Xaverian Review is StFX’s new creative platform designed to showcase the work of St. Francis Xavier University student, staff, faculty and alumni. The development of the journal started two years ago with StFX students, Rachel Revoy, Savannah MacDonald, Sloane Ryan, Rebecca Charnock and Evan Curley. Together these students spread the word about a brand new creative platform they wished to implement on campus and after a lot of hard work and dedication, we are publishing the very first volume of The Xaverian Review. This work consists of poetry, short stories, photography, art and other creative mediums. The aims of the journal is to allow creative mediums to be celebrated, to grow, and for collaborative multi-platformed opportunities to become facilitated. The Xaverian Review believes that this platform will continue to strengthen the link between the people and the arts. Although this is only the first volume of the Xaverian Review, we could only hope there are many more volumes to be published in the future.

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Contributors Comments Contributor: Elizabeth, Class of 2018 Candidate, B.ED at StFX University.

Submission: 1761 kms.

Contributor: Dayna Smockum, 3rd Year Student working towards a Honours in History at StFX University.

Submission: A Crossed Line.

Contributor: Adam Tragakis, Adam teaches in the Art Dept. at StFX. Adam teaches intro to Drawing, Intro to Painting and a new course called Anatomy for the Artist.

Submission: Red, oil on board. “The piece came out of an interest in anatomy and a study of colours and the emotional connections that we give to colours. The heart is also a very symbolic organ/muscle. So really the painting is a play on all of these things.”

Contributor: Andy MacLean, Instructor of drawing and painting at StFX since 2012.

Submissions: Pass, Daphne & Town Scene.

Contributor: Anonymous.

Submission: Thank You, A poem on Sexual Assault. “The author finds that writing can be a healthy outlet in difficult times when dealing with fearful or angering feelings.

Putting these almost inexpressible feelings into words can be a powerful tool during hard times, and this poem is one example of this practice.”

Contributor: Brendan Ahern, StFX Alumni, class of 2011.

Submission: To be Wise. “The first two sentences in ‘To Be Wise’ preface the poem well enough. The rest of it just tries to impose some order and reason onto whatever I was thinking afterward. I hope the reader hears what a roommate might hear when the speaker stumbles through the front door.”

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Contributor: Cassia Tremblay, StFX Alumni, class of 2017.

Submission: Lightning Women. “Lightning Women was inspired by the strong women I met on the campus at StFX. It reflects my admiration for these women as they tackle social issues, and it is my hope that it reminds readers that we all have a role to play in responding to these issues.”

Contributor: Diane Scott, 2nd Year Student at StFX University.

Submission: Potential in Flames.

Contributor: Rachel LeBlanc, 4th year student at StFX University.

Submissions: Modesty, Strings, & Quiet. “It’s up for interpretation – let your mind play a story.”

Contributor: Hatim Noorbhai, 2nd year BBA Student at StFX University.

Submissions: The Way We See The World, The Colours of the East Coast, and The Fallen Leaf.

Contributor: Bleu Azcué, 3rd Year International Student at StFX University.

Submissions: From the series: “RAstros.” (“Traces” ), “Photography and digital drawing. This photograph belongs to a portrait series of narrative photography. In which each photograph has a story behind narrated at the moment of caption by the person in the portrait. After, the place and time are searched and matched with the nearer constellation of the location and time. Then is drawn, repeated and paired with the facial lines of the individual. In the end, the image narrates in abstraction the history of trails in life, marked on the expression of the person.”

“A bullet for peace”, Watercolour. “This painting was made from one portrait of the series “RAstros”. He was a US soldier sent to Vietnam who refused to shoot a war prisoner, so he was sent to jail.”

From the series “ Ciudad Arlequín” ( “Harlequin City” ), Photography and collage.

“This picture was taken in the city of frogs Guanajuato, México. It is a colourful, old and twisted city, filled with artists, ideas, and peculiar people. A city in which the individual loses track of time and space.”

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Contributor: Savannah MacDonald, StFX Alumni, class of 2017. Current B.ED Student at StFX University.

Submission: Dan’s Kitchen. “This poem is a tribute to my boyfriend - a person who has undoubtedly changed my life for the better.”

Contributor: Jessica MacLean, 1st Year B.ED, Music.

Submissions: Mindfulness, “This watercolor painting describes the true sensation of mindfulness in regard to acknowledging others energy as well as your own.”

Knapweed, “First year in Nova Scotia, First year finding myself, First year alone, First year truly living my best life.”

Contributor: Naomi Ogbogbo, 2nd/3rd Year HKin Student at StFX University.

Submission: Royalty. “To be honest, I write what I’m feeling whether it makes sense or not. I wrote this poem just for this month especially, being that it’s African heritage month. I just wanted to express how I felt about the colour of my skin being an young African woman.”

Contributor: Natalie Chicoine, a 20-year-old artist from Québec in her 3rd year at StFX University.

Submissions: Three Pieces from her series Nouns. Photo. * “I’m inspired by the people I see around me, and I am always eager and open to learn new ways to paint and become inspired.”

Contributor: Natashia Gushue, 3rd year student at StFX University.

Submission: A Breathing Page. “A ‘Breathing Page’ is a poem about the shift from self-hate to self-love. It tells the story of how the mental journey we go through is physically portrayed on our bodies.”

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Contributor: Rachel Revoy, StFX Alumni, class of 2017.

Submission: Parallel Between the Gutters and a Gallery. “This poem articulates a moment that I experienced while walking near the downtown core of Toronto in the early hours of a January night. There was a rush of awareness and a hypersensitivity to the details woven into that second as I passed a gallery. In my mind, I thought that second would hold great gravity as it was marked by so many peculiar facets that bled together and proved that the wild was not exclusive to the wilderness.”

Contributor: Theresa Olson, 2nd year English major at StFX University.

Submission: love poem del sol. “This is a love poem “of the sun” (from the Spanish), and for the sun.”

Contributor: Sarah Croucher, StFX Alumni, class of 2015. Current Accelerated Nursing Student at StFX University.

Submissions: All Seeing, Good Vibes Only, and Sundays are for Self Care.

“The good vibes is in a 6” hoop, the hands are in an 8” hoop and the girl is in a 10” hoop.

Some of them I make by using or altering free patterns from a company called DMC and others I just draw on and hope for the best when I’m stitching. It’s something I just started doing for self-care every week.”

Contributor: Sloane Ryan, StFX University class of 2019 Candidate.

Submission: Catechism.

cat•echism /'kaıkız(ə)m/ noun 1. A summary of the principles of Christian religion, used for religious instruction.

2. A series of questions and answers, especially about a set of beliefs.

3. Growing pains. There are always girls who just want to be a part of something greater.

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Lightning Women Written by Cassia Tremblay I wish I could write poems as strong as the women around me At once as verbose and egregious and archaic like lightening They streak through the sky - these women I know.

But you’re asking too much, in fact you shouldn’t be asking at all.

Do you know what they face as part of their everyday?

A mirror that’s mocking, a clock that you judge somewhere between young and shocking.

Your jeers of surprise when they say CEO, the looks on the street that say “baby, you can’t say no” But you can’t say no that you don’t understand that these women have value that is entirely their own.

Sure- they are mothers or sisters or best friends or cousins

- you smirk

“or lovers” I sigh.

Well all of these roles I’m not saying they aren’t important, but can’t you remember how these women were once

(and are still) numbered and imported?

Even if they know exactly where they stand, you think you know where they lie.

You see curves as an invitation, forgetting your own moral damnation - against darkness and differencehow has your mind become such a robotic and programmed, well-maintained abomination?

If she’s confident she’s bossy, if she’s honest she’s bitchy.

Bitch please.

You know full well that you choose not to see that to reach for the top, you’ve got her back pinned under your knee.

You forget the dizzying multiplicity of aggressions these lightning women face, choose to forget that they begin two whole laps behind in life’s race.

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But even so- she won’t stay on the ground to listen to your “no”s and your “know”s.

She’ll rise up through the plight, who cares if you pretend you can’t see her at night - till your grabbing and grasping at her hips and some estranged idea of privilege that you think exists - she’ll rise up through it all.

She’s not afraid of the fall.

She’s been at the bottom and she knows that she’s strong.

But you won’t understand, you pretend that you couldn’t and I can’t say it all because this poem, even if you’re listening, is not nearly as strong as the women around me.

So instead I implore you, I suggest it, I beg it, open your eyes, accept you’re closed minded and listen instead to these women around me.

Keep your eyes peeled to the sky, don’t shield your view from the electric rumble of her thighs -the bright flash of her future, let it shock you awake from your stupor Count the seconds between the light and the boom, you’ll see that the lightning woman isn’t far off She’s coming and she’s not waiting for you

to make room,

to see her as more than a womb or a body or a lover She’s coming and she’ll electrify you if you aren’t ready to stand by her side

You’ve let your naivety, your brevity show Like bare skin Don’t you know If your humility is too low cut or your arrogance too high you’re Asking for a lesson And this is it, have you learnt yet?

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Royalty Written by Naomi Ogbogbo Hey there, I am me, an African Queen, assembled piece by piece by God Himself, my skin infused with rich melanin, so, I am confident He knew what He was doing when He created me, when He created us….

Yes, we have been through it all, things that absolutely hurt to think about, imagine, the mere fact that the colour of our skins determines if we are worth being in this world even baffles me…

But I don’t fret because, God does not let us go through any trials that He knows we cannot withstand, it truly feels great to wake up in the morning just knowing my skin is bursting with melanocytes and knowing that I have a purpose in life, no matter what my skin color may appear to be, From the thickness of our lips, the sweet honey in our eyes, the curve of our hips, the sun in our smiles the strength in our meek minds, the nurture of our hands, the love in our hearts, makes us ROYALTY.

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Dan’s Kitchen Written by Savannah MacDonald I do not believe in a single soulmate.

I am jaded and bitter And far too young to be able to feel Such emotion rooted so deeply within me.

And the more I think of that, The less I want to.

My mother once told me on a car ride home That she doesn’t believe in a single soulmate either, Too many options she said, Too many interesting people Who ease the aches left By those who left us like this.

And the more I thought of that, The more I wanted to.

But something changed on the night You and I kissed in Dan’s kitchen Plush pink carpet under our feet And a clock on every wall.

I struggle and I struggle and I struggle With being bitter and jaded And learning to love what’s good for me.

Even though my mother claims She doesn’t believe in a single soulmate, She married her best friend from high school.

She still laughs at his bad jokes, She still brings him coffee in the morning, And she still tells me to, “Go ask your father, And then ask me.”

I think that he is the only soulmate she really wants.

I do not believe in a single soulmate, Or at least, I don’t think I do.

Maybe there are hundreds of then out there, But would it be okay If you were the only one I wanted?

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Strings Photos by Rachel LeBlanc

Quiet Photos by Rachel LeBlanc

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Modesty Photos by Rachel LeBlanc

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Parallel Between the Gutters and a Gallery Written by Rachel Revoy A six foot tall metal penguin stood behind glass like a zoo creature, exuding pious reality This moment will hold gravity The great grey hum of winter wins and takes the earth into all tired things where weight and blight and tooth decay are bills expired and bills to pay The penguin coughed to the sounds of a sermon I turned to a street walker, night talker, coin purse soothsayer and his hounds barred teeth and knipped at pockets underneath down filled jackets, a running start at sympathy costs $0.25 That curling steam spoke from the great grates as a backdrop to this souring, lost state taking my name into the underground place where costs are high and sewage seeps and temporality sleeps Within our knowledge, the tales of old told us the wilderness is what takes the breath and replaces it with smokey fear those stories were told before Toronto grew tall and sick claiming the name of wild in salty cursive, dimes, and stir sticks

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1,761km Written by Elizabeth The pins and needles that begin to brew Can be felt from across the room They radiate from the places That await your kisses My heart starts to pound It’s as if you heard the sound Because our eyes lock And we both smile knowing what’s in stock You bite your lip as your hand slips into your pocket Within seconds my knees almost buckle As the toy between my legs begins to rumble I try not to give into the pleasure But I can’t help it with the constant building of pressure I close my eyes and grab the back of a chair Hoping that no one clues in that I’m about To cum right there I’m almost at the summit And then the anticipation plummets There is no more rumble And I am finding myself extremely disgruntled I search the room for your eyes I see them glaring at me nice and wide Just like that I feel the rumble I leave the room in a stumble You aren’t far behind You catch me just in time As I collapse and give into The pleasure that is all mine.

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Good Vibes Only

by Sarah Croucher

All Seeing

by Sarah Croucher

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Sunday’s are for Self-Care

by Sarah Croucher

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Potential in Flames Written by Diane Scott Unknown, untested and turned out Into a modern storm of expectation and hope A kaleidoscope of potential I am Crackling thoughts and knowledge A truth, a spark Fleeting awareness Lost in the burning embers Shapes emerge My heart aches Tears for a world I didn’t create Children lost to war Elders living in hovels and Nature Something special once Bile rises, sours my mouth Flames of orange and red How dare you starve my brothers Forging a world of hate and greed History has taught us Nature has created us We think We know Blue deep in the charring logs Longing For love and purpose My own world To create and change And leave Someday Clearer, truer

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Fading light Peace I am a firefly in this space Bright light for a time to lighten Dark corners and multiply This generation of hope A shooting star to move the future Of our world Shape shifting shadows creep Into the blackened coals Of my existence I waver Am I enough Who am I to effect this change?

A heavy burden I am alone The fire cools Clear thoughts and practical Obstacles and expectations Weigh on me Daily errands challenge my Humanity I will not become a machine Flesh and steel do not mix I gather dry sweet grass tender birch bark small twigs and dry logs old gnarled branches and leaves layered gently In a haphazard order I strike a match.

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Three Pieces from the Series: Nouns

by Natalie Chicoine

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love poem del sol Written by Theresa Olson sound soul sea soul, little summer hum sings soft, rests softer. sound soul is light like marble sun and a harvest moon, light as a pearl-tea-leaf-kiss on a warm, bare shoulder. first fire little fire two warm hands, well-worn hands, weathered and ancient hands to hold your body in the ancient ways, in their safe-for-a-long-time way, in a sound soul sound wave ocean wave song, tumbling through a slow, and shallow, sea. well-warmed hands dusting salt from your arms as you dry together under a clay-bake sun, a glint-gold glint-red sun. and you smile up at his crinkly blue, a river rushing over river rocks blue, a happy and a great old blue. first fire little fire wrapped tight, tangled up bare feet and bare legs. damp hair, little breaths, little kisses, little laughs, little bit messy sex, full of love, full of close, close, close. warm gold sex, she likes being naked now, likes warm gold sex in bed, sex on the counter sex on the floor or the chair or the back room

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or the park sex with a warm, golden yes, yes with a kiss and a bite and a close embrace, and when she thinks of love she thinks fuck yes, and warm gold she writes. warm gold sex feels like you are a harp made out of July fingers on your skin like the Tahitian breeze, sex like a pink and papaya tide. sex like walking into the sun, like the sun walking in and bringing you close, sex with the windows open, cool air trickling in, sex that is close and close, and comes, and goes, but reaches back to grab your hand. warm gold sex in and is the garden. i am the ivy and he is the clover, i am the drizzle and he is high noon. both of us could be earthworms. (i love you) a warm gold poem, gold the way the moon would be if it were made of gold, or gold the way gold would be if it were made of opal and coal. warm gold like the bottom of the ocean, like the core of the earth, gold whose light the water has spun into distant and softened memory, into slow magma moving with dull heat and marrow glow; warmth where there are no things at all, just songs and ghosts and sound and soul.

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Red

by Adam Tragakis

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Thank You- A Poem about Sexual Assault Written by Anonymous Thank you for not doing it in my bed and turning it into a dangerous place.

Thank you for making me learn how to forcefully take care of my basic needs when it is no longer automatic.

Thank you for making me work to love myself… it was never easy but you can’t take that away from me.

Thank you for getting my grades up, because I need to do something every waking moment of the day or my mind will wander to that night.

Thank you for filling me with such a deep rage and drive to fix the injustices of the world.

Thank you for helping me understand what my friends have been through, I wish I could fix it all.

Thank you for giving me a voice and a profound understanding but I wish it didn’t come at this cost.

Thank you for giving me hope that one day the world will improve for people like me…

No victim is just a victim, we are fighters. #MeToo.

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The Way We See The World

by Hatim Noorbhai

The Colours of the East Coast

by Hatim Noorbhai

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The Fallen Leaf

by Hatim Noorbhai

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Mindfulness

by Jessica MacLean

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Knapweed

by Jessica MacLean

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Catechism Written by Sloane Ryan I’m 6 years old and I’m going to be a priest when I grow up.

Grownups laugh when I say it, but I know what I want. The way I see it, a Priest’s job is basically just telling stories and eating dinner at other people’s houses and those are like two of my favourite things, so I know I’m gonna be good at it.

I’m 9 and I’m not going to be a priest when I grow up; I’m going to be a Cardinal.

It’s a Cardinal who’s in charge of the Vatican libraries, you know - a whole library full of things so old that you have to wear special gloves and you’re not allowed to breath on them. And I mean, lots of heroes in books dress up as boys to do cool things - even a couple of Saints did, I think - so it’s not really like lying.

11 and I’m finally fast enough to keep up with my grandmother’s rapid fire prayers.

She can say a whole Rosary in the time it takes to get from Arnold Avenue to the church parking lot in Norton. Sometimes she can fit in one and a half. Her head bows in the passenger seat and that’s the cue to bow your own head, and you have to make it look like you’re really focused, otherwise Grampie will squint at you in the rearview mirror.

Gram prays so fast that I barely have time to get out the right response before she’s finished and waiting for the next one.

The whole thing leaves me kind of breathless and a little lightheaded, but I don’t know, maybe that’s just how it’s supposed to be.

I’m 13 the first time I get asked to leave a Sunday school class.

But the teacher is the one who asked if we had any questions, so it’s his fault, mostly.

Because why is Eve the bad guy in the story? God told Adam not to eat the fruit before He even created Eve. Adam’s the one who failed to pass along that information. And yeah, Eve took the first bite - but didn’t the fall only happen after Adam tried it? He was happy enough to let Eve taste-test for him and then, when nothing happened, he decided it couldn’t be all that wrong.

Even if she did know it wasn’t allowed, who could blame her? Knowledge of good and evil VS living your whole life stuck in a garden, married to a guy who’s like technically your dad and also maybe your brother.

I’d bite too.

I’m 14 and the Anglican minister’s daughter smiles at me from across the library.

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Her hair glints in the sunlight. My stomach does a somersault.

I don’t mention it at confession, but I do tack on an extra 10 Hail Mary’s.

Just in case.

I’m 16, and the whole class has to write letters to the Bishop about what confirmation means to us.

I don’t know that I particularly want to be confirmed, other than it means I’ll be free of Sunday school. I write my letter half-asleep on the bus back from a basketball game. It’s flowery piece about tradition and family, about belonging - full of things I don’t know if I believe in anymore.

But by now I’m good at knowing the things that should be said, at knowing which parts of me people want to see.

Then confirmation comes and the Bishop is there with his dumb hat and it must have been a good letter, because he asks for me by name. He spends 15 minutes talking to me about the things I can’t remember writing.

Afterwards, I find Grampie reading the letter. He folds it back into the envelope and stands, reaching forward to shake my hand before pulling me into a hug.

“I’ve never been more proud of you,” he says.

17 and a member of the Knights of Columbus calls me a name in the parking lot because I won’t take a Right to Life sticker.

I’m just getting into my angry tirade when my father catches my wrist and pulls me to the car. He threatens to send me to catholic school in the city if I don’t stop acting out.

And I can’t tell him that an all-girls school probably isn’t a great idea if we’re trying to save my soul, so instead I tell him that I’m old enough to believe in whatever I want to believe.

The next week he doesn’t wake me up for mass with the rest of the family.

I pretend it feels like victory.

I’m 19 and it’s Good Friday.

For the first time in my life I’m not going to be with my family for Easter. Usually by now I’d be in a pew, wedged between my brother and a couple of cousins, but today, I’m an entire province away.

And last night, Emma kissed me.

So instead of going to mass I sit on the couch in my pajamas and pay 24.99 plus shipping and handling to become an ordained minister online.

The bells from the cathedral on campus ring out, high and cold.

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I’m 20 and Grampie dies.

The rest of the family don’t know what to say, don’t have enough practice bending emotion into words, so I’m the one who writes the program for the funeral. I write his obituary sitting on the old chesterfield in the front room, balancing a laptop on my knees, trying to find a way to fathom a lifetime into two paragraphs.

This time, when I write about tradition and family and belonging I mean every word.

I hope he knows I was proud of him too.

21 and I take a Catholic Studies course because it’s the only thing that will fit in my schedule.

I write my term paper on intersections between religion and modern science and the topic is meant to be about medical ethics I think, but somehow I end up comparing angels to black holes.

I write about the theory that there’s a black hole in the center of every galaxy, making it spin.

I write about angels as the wheels of God’s Chariot, doing the same.

I write about how they’re both terrifying and powerful; write about how they both sing out into the darkness.

It’s the closest I’ve been to something like belief in a long time.

23 and I’m back in town.

I slide into the pew beside my dad and watch his spine straighten, the same way it always does when the processional starts. The priest asks us to reflect on the intentions in our hearts and I still don’t quite know what mine are.

But today the sun is shining bright through the stained glass windows, painting my mother’s hair red and blue and purple. And the people sat in the row behind us are the same people that have sat there every Sunday my entire life. Today there’s a baby laughing two rows ahead of us that keeps laughing at the most inopportune moments and the homily has jokes in it.

So today, for right now, this place feels like it could be home again.

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A Breathing Page Written by Natashia Gushue your body is a diary of your life each scar a reminder of the pain you caused yourself; dragging an unscrewed razor blade across your skin, letting the blood pitter patter on the bathroom floor each stretch mark a note to self to eat. ’cause there was a time when you looked in the mirror and vomited at the girl staring back; starving until your collarbones were like soup bowls and your hip bones stuck out

each tattoo a decoration, adorning the parts of your body you’ve grown to hate; ’cause looking at a masterpiece on your skin makes it easier to love the masterpiece that is your skin each dimple a sign to yourself that you’re allowed to be happy; after all those years with a smiling mask the smile is real you now laugh till your cheeks hurt each one a mark on the page, a part of the story, a doodle in the margin

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“A bullet for peace”

by Bleu Azcué

From the series “ Ciudad Arlequín” ( “Harlequin City” )

by Bleu Azcué

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From the series: “RAstros.” ( “Traces” )

by Bleu Azcué

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Town Scene

by Andy MacLean

Pass

by Andy MacLean

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Daphne

by Andy MacLean

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A Crossed Line Written by Dayna Smockum A dividing line in the dark.

Line of fire, line of pain, line of what has always been the same.

A bed that is ours, to come home, to curl up, to rest.

We’ve loved here: the foot the head. sometimes not making it in sometimes not making it out our white cocoon. but not tonight. tonight the sheets aren’t white: stained with the blood of words that ripped and tore and cut deep like a river in the crust: cracked.

It is not an unfamiliar cut, but a scar. picked picked picked. an old wound bleeds old blood.

Silence: growing wider and wider, crossing the crevasse, the crack in the bedrock. the fire lowers, the blood begins to drip drip drip drop.

A hand, to heal to hold met with another: a bridge between across the front.

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To be wise Written by Brendan Ahern Let me try to break it down because I was very drunk at the time.

Walking home beside the river confusing stars with fire-flies.

Which seemed to me like supernovas that I was lucky enough to see.

Mixing bioluminescence with a peek into infinity.

Expanding and collapsing before they start again.

Blurring foreground with the background.

Mistaken sapiens.

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Letter from the Editor: The Xaverian Review is something that I have been so lucky to finalize after two years of work with the help of four other StFX students, Rachel Revoy, Savannah MacDonald, Sloane Ryan and Evan Curley. Together over the past two years we have met with multiple committees, potential donors, supporting artists, faculty members and many more that I am sure I can’t remember, all with one goal in mind and that was to see the review come to life.

For the majority of my life I have written poetry and spoken word. I draw when I can, and paint when I need to. Creative mediums have always been my outlet for expressing emotions I sometimes didn’t know how else to do so. StFX has provided me with so many avenues and opportunities to express myself and I believe that there is always more room for another creative platform. I have learned so much through the process of developing this creative journal and putting together the events alongside it. This is creative knowledge that I will carry forward into my future and share with my friends and family. I have learnt that people will always interpret something different than what I may have interpreted a piece as. I know that I have never spent this amount of time on one single project before (almost 2 years), but that every moment was entirely worth it. I have learnt that communication is key to everything sane in life. Lastly, I have learnt that creativity comes when and from those that you least expect it, and that is the most glorious feeling I have ever come across.

The works in this review have all come from current students and alumni of StFX University and together they showcase the brilliant and creative minds that both attend and are further cultivated here at this institution.

For all of those reading this, I hope that the pieces in this first volume have not only inspired you to explore your creative side, but to do so whether you thought you had one to start with or not. I will leave you with this final quote: “Creativity is intelligence having fun”. –Unknown.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Charnock Editor in Chief & Events Coordinator Graduating Class of ‘18 The Xaverian Review

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2018 • St. Francis Xavier University