The Confluence | March 25th, 2019 | We're Back

Confluence YOUR OFFICIAL COLLEGE MAGAZINE

March 25th, 2019

The

Letters 11 from Jupiter Committed 12

06

Coffee Shop

The Calling 14

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It’s the Chief - Editorial Hey guys, it’s been a month.

It’s nice to be back in the swing of things after my impromptu hiatus.

As nearly everyone knows, managing life, school and work is not the easiest thing in the world to do. These are stressful times, and we all deserve praise and a pat on the back for getting where we are.

There are two weeks left until exams. Take a second, breathe, and figure out where you stand in the world. Go to your instructors office hours, study into the morning at Denny’s. You can do this, I believe you guys.

Also, good news this month. The microwaves in the cafeteria have been replaced. The “replace-microwave” gang have had their demands met and the students of CNC can embrace this win, microwaving their homemade lunches.

(Also, if you do happen to notice anything broken, and provided by the CNCSU, like a microwave, make sure to bring it to our attention so there won’t be a multi-month long standstill.)

I’m glad that I’m back writing cheeky editorials. I’ve missed you guys!

Cheers!

Damon Robinson Editor-in-Chief, The Confluence

UPDATE: We would like to officially clarify that not all instructors in the English Department support the publishing of the article: “The Pubic Discussion.”

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Here comes the news - Editorial

Take a deep breath. Expand your diaphragm, hold the breath for a few seconds and then exhale as much air as you can. Release the tension in your shoulders. Take your tongue from the top of your mouth. Relax your facial muscles. Have you noticed how often you are on guard? How often your body is tensed as if preparing to flee? It is important to remember to slow down every once in a while. Worry lines on the face form from worrying too much, after all. It is a good habit to take some time for introspection. Appreciate your surroundings, rather than just worrying about getting to where you are headed. You will get to wherever you need to be. Hard work is crucial, but for all the strain you place on yourself, take time to alleviate some, too.

Self-care is not just bath bombs and face masks. It is turning off your technology to go for a walk, to talk to a friend, to get a good night’s sleep. It is understanding your boundaries and limits and demanding that others understand them. It is taking the time for work and the time to prepare yourself Paige Riding to work. It is forgiving yourself and others. Sometimes, it is just getting out of News Editor, The Confluence bed to take a shower and eat breakfast. That is okay, too. I am proud of you.

Take care.

Confluence Staff and Contributors

El Raj Dandiwal

Harman Dandiwal

Chintan Gohil

Organizer, CNCSU

Owner of Organizer, CNCSU

Intern, CNCSU

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The

The Confluence is produced biweekly at the CNCSU office on CNC’s Prince George campus by Damon Robinson and Paige Riding.

Submissions, inqueries and requests can be made to editor@cncsu.ca, in person at the CNCSU office room 1-303, or mailed to “The Confluence c/o CNCSU 3330-22nd Ave. Prince George, BC. V2N 1P8”

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All submissions are welcome, the authors of edited works used in the confluence receive a $20 cheque upon publication. Advertisement rates are available upon request.

The Confluence

JANUARY 14th, 2018

06 - article - Letters from Jupiter 10- ESSAY - Committed The smell of burning paper, always been one of my favourite smells. It brought me back to the late nights we sent outside. Our families laughing, the fire sparking, her softly crying. I don’t think I remember a time when Emmy’s life was good. I knew things had been fine when we become friends, but I was too young to remember.

Being committed was the most frightening experience in my life. I struggled with depression since I was a teenager.

As a young adult it had gradually worsened peaking with a move to Saskatchewan. I was away from my friends, my family, and everything I had ever known.

13 - Poetry- 21 “Keats kept flowers at his feet but mine are woven in my ribcage.

Daffodils and daisies meet on a mound of dirt.”

14 - Poetry - The Calling by Raegan Cote “I write love letters to you in my head like prayers to the creator, and when I kneel down beside my bed a righteous gift bearing before me, an apple to eat.”

Coffee Shop

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Confluence The

Coffee Shop

by Paige Riding

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Morning Spent at a Coffee Shop 9:34 AM

Of course, I need tea. To all the people I’ve glared at before my tea, I apologize. To all the people I’ve glared at after, it was probably merited. The bagel was a hasty decision.

Panic sets in when a whopping line of one other person is behind me and anxiety makes that person a grizzly bear about to wake from her slumber (although, I’m sure the sweet little old lady would not be able to outrun me. Maybe.) When the barista asks if I need anything else, I know I didn’t even need the tea, really.

This caffeine addiction is self-inflicted. “What size for your tea?” …

Large. Was it the bags under my eyes, or my hair that I realized I hadn’t brushed for the day that gave it away?

One may be wondering what I mean when I say “watch.” Well first, if I may backtrack, the reason this little shop is so inviting to me are the patrons of the store.

Old, young, man, woman, and all the lovely individuals in between, this little coffee shop promises interesting conversations and kindling for an article. If one has never peoplewatched, I encourage a first-hand experience with it before one judges. Of course, the beauty of writing and reading is that judging is our main superpower.

“She has an air of authority and confidence I flinch inwardly at from all the way over

An older woman catches my

I head to sit attention with her flailing, varidown with my mug in cose hands. She is speaking to my hand. Don’t drop her woman counterpart across it, don’t spill it, —why the table more with her hands the hell did they put than her mouth. The words so much water in this “well, I highly doubt she would cup?— don’t bump do something like that,” fill my into that grizzly bear ears. Of course, the cocktailold lady. This sure is party effect applies to a writer’s a lot of trust to have ears in terms of indulgent gosin an individual when sip just as well as hearing one’s the floors are ‘slippery name across a crowded room. when wet’ tiles. At last, The older woman folds her the table is salvation. hands together, resting her elThe soft grains of the wooden chairs are a lighthouse cut- bows on the table. Her brows furrow as she listens to the ting through the fog. Such a high table discourages my typi- other woman’s response. It appears in her face that listening cal, horrifying posture. The keys of my laptop are calling. does not come as naturally as speaking. I suppose I relate Now, to watch. when it comes to writing in comparison to speaking.

HOT TOPICS

The response, though I am unable to hear the quieter, younger woman, appears to appeal to the older woman. She shakes her head as though shocked. What I wouldn’t do to hear what they were speaking about! The feeling parallels seeing two crows perched on a branch, immersed in their own language and habits that a mere human such as myself would never understand. A sip of coffee later, the two are more hushed and severe. The tone shifts. Like excerpts stealing from Blake’s Songs of Innocence and then proceeding instantly to Songs of Experience, the grimness presents itself like a sudden, unwelcome dark grey cloud. The younger woman finishes her drink, and snaps to attention.

The chair could not back out from the table quickly enough for her. She slips on her light brown jacket and walks out of the coffee shop, leaving her older counterpart alone to stare at her cup.

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Watching the younger woman leave draws my attention to a table near the door with two teenage girls. While one checks a scratch on her hand, most likely from a cat or animal, the other hesitates with multiple “umms” before getting her thought out. My coffee shop experience has transported from grizzly bears to crows and now to teenage wasteland. One wonders what could concern this girl so utterly. Wait now, shouldn’t these girls be in school? It is almost 10 in the morninvg. Was Chemistry 11 too much today? Or am I belittling the situation?

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HOT TOPICS

cliche for these situations. And my mind is still preoccupied by the grizzly bear from before. With scuffed shoes and a thin windbreaker, this boy manages to pierce the still air of the shop with a jolt. He eases up to the counter with a humility that makes one want to punch him in the face. Or is that just me?

He steps to the pick-up counter, hands stuffed in his pockets, not checking his phone. He isn’t checking his phone while waiting for his drink. What a psychopath. He grabs his cup and walks out. I sure am glad I sat by this door and not the one from which he left. I might have passed out. How romantic! (See also: how cringe-worthy.) Just like that, a little bit of my heart leaves with this handsome boy I’ll likely never see again in my life. Boy in the windbreaker who was in Second Cup at this time on the 8th of March, if you’re reading this, I have a crush on you. Well, at least I have a crush on the image of you. How romantic! (See also: how superficial.)

Alack, my tea is cold. This bagel was a mistake. I’ve been blabbing too much. My heart has been broken. I find myself immobilized by strangers more often than not. Without the responsibilities of emotion, idealism replaces sense.

How romantic! (See also: how stupid.) My high school memories have returned without an invitation. I’ve invested myself in the conversations of strangers. And all of this happened at a coffee shop before 11 in the morning. What a day. Peoplewatching is exhausting.

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Their body language is tense. “Honestly, I ’m not allowed to comment on that,” the curly-haired girl announces severely. That I pick up with ease. The rest of the conversation is between two hunched-over individuals, keen on shielding their sensitive words with their small backs. It must be about school, mumbles of university names break through their shield. High school drama still haunts me today, so I understand. Small towns are where everyone knows everything about everyone else through someone else’s warped perspective. If one finds that sentence difficult to understand, imagine dissecting the social hierarchies of high school like these girls are trying to do.

The long-haired girl smirks suddenly, leaning back in her chair. Dear God, she’s the real-life Anita from West-Side Story. She has an air of authority and confidence I flinch inwardly at from all the way over here. The curly-haired girl leans inward with awe. I find myself doing the same. As the nerdy kid in high school, I myself never experienced speaking with the Queen Bee of the school. Now that I can see it from a safe distance, the power is hypnotizing. Whoever says high school doesn’t last forever has been lucky enough to escape without trauma from the words of girls like her.

10:28AM

When he walks in, my throat suddenly tastes like blood. If no individual so attractive has crossed one’s path before, consider it a blessing. A coffee shop is too much of a

The Confluence

HOT TOPICS Comic Drawing

by Zephyr Chen-Pearce

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Letters from Jupiter

by Ashley Clarke

T

he smell of burning paper, always been one of my favourite smells. It brought me back to the late nights we sent outside.

Our families laughing, the fire sparking, her softly crying. I don’t think I remember a time when Emmy’s life was good.

I knew things had been fine when we become friends, but I was too young to remember.

Her mom got sick when were around 12. She got worse over time. Time passed, her mom stopped talking. Time passed, her mom stopped walking. The more time had passed, the worse she had gotten. Emmy and her dad took care of her. It was their job. It was their way of living.

I wanted to believe in heaven, I wanted to believe in it for Emmy. I wasn’t raised in a church, I had never been in a church.

I didn’t celebrate all the holidays, and when we did, it was never the same as my classmates.

I hold the lighter closer to the second letter, trying to get it to catch one fire once more. How could she question me? I did fight, but all I did was fight for her. I had no more fighting left to do. Emmy didn’t want my help, she didn’t want me in her house - near her -, she didn’t want to talk. As time went on, Emmy got worse. I was sitting here, trying to believe in a god, in a heaven that I never knew. She was just too lazy to think about it, yet, she expected me to learn, to believe, and to believe enough for the both of us. I was fighting. I was still fighting.

WESTLY, my dad had believed in heaven, so did my mom, but i never could. we were at the furhniture store when you asked me if i believed in god. it was about TEN minutes before we picked out your future coffee table. i hope you remember how i responded.

You responded with the stupidest answer.

"Why are you laughing, I just want to know, if you believe or not I asked."

"Of course, not Westley. You can't see god, there is nothing that can make enough sense to prove that god is even real. He is just another Santa Claus to me, I am sorry, but I don't believe."

"Then what do you believe?"

Emmy Jupiter Three letters, three letters that had already ruined me. I set the second letter on fire, I missed breakfast with my family again who already thought I had depression. My mind was being forced back to its dark hole. All this had already happened, and these letters were slowly demanding me to relive them.

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science, i told you i believed in science. i believe in earth, and, mars and of course, jupiter. i believe in the things that made sense, in the things that had proof, real hard proof. where was the proof for god? if you are still reading, then we should be on the same page, we should start talking about the things that matter now …. right?

It’s time to talk about where I went, what happened and what happened after i hit rock bottom, it’s time to talk about the rough shit.

Committed

by Christine Force

B

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eing committed was the most frightening experience in my life. I struggled with depression since I was a teenager. As a young adult it had gradually worsened peaking with a move to Saskatchewan. I was away from my friends, my family, and everything I had ever known. I started seeing a psychiatrist in secret, not even telling my husband. I walked the half hour to the hospital, not wanting anyone to know how depressed I was. This soon led to group therapy, which I thought was the hardest thing I had ever done. I admitted, not only to myself, but to others, that my problem was real – that I had the taboo disease, that I was depressed. Group therapy didn’t help. It seemed to make things worse. I remember the day I was committed clearer than any other day in my life. Dislocating my kneecap, going to college, getting married, all paled in comparison.

It was hard to get up that morning. To shower, to get dressed. Eating was out of the question. I forced myself to walk out the front door, but could only get to the end of the driveway. I could not make myself go any further. So I gathered all of my courage and called a cab. I arrived at the hospital late for my group session. That is the one hour of the day I don’t remember. After group I asked to speak to the counsellor in private. We went to his office and I broke into tears. I couldn’t stop. The tears of bottled up emotion, embarrassment and defeat falling hot into my lap. He quickly excused himself and left the room. I curled into myself and wept. When the counsellor returned he told me he wanted me to speak to the psychiatrist on call. I started crying harder as we walked down the short hall to the office.

As I sat on the cracked, vinyl seat in the dimmed office, the Doctor asked me the regular questions that every doctor, psychiatrist, psychologist and counsellor asks. Do you feel

like harming yourself ? Do you have plans to harm yourself ?

Are you suicidal? Do you have a plan to commit suicide? I just sat there crying, the answers rattling in my head. Yes, yes, yes, yes. Receiving no response, the Doctor then told me he was committing me to the psych ward. The bottom fell out of my body, my arms and legs went numb, I started crying aloud, unable to catch my breath. Then the thought of telling my husband the secret I had been hiding for months came to me. I almost passed out.

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Being walked to the ward I continued to cry. I was scared and unsure of what was going to happen. As we walked through the doors my heart was pounding heavily. I saw the empty, hollowed out eyes of the patients watching me. I wondered if I looked the same way. I was led down the hall to a room that was bare, except for a bed that looked as if it was borrowed from an army barracks, cold. A nurse came into the room and the Doctor and counsellor left. The door closed behind them.

The nurse was carrying a hospital belongings bag and some hospital pajamas. She told me to get changed and stood there watching me. I was humiliated. To change in front of your loved one was one thing, in front of a stranger was

another. I slowly took off my clothes and put on the pajamas. The nurse asked me if I wanted to answer it. Somehow I managed to shake my head no. I watched from the floor as the nurse put my belongings into the bag, including my socks and shoes. She helped me to the bed and I sat. Rocking.

Crying. The hospital staff contacted my husband. He arrived at the hospital panicked, concerned and feeling deceived.

Why hadn’t I told him? How could I keep something like this secret? I had no answers for him except the tears that continued to fall. He didn’t stay for long. He hates hospitals.

When I was committed to the psych ward, I was forced to stay for 3 days. During those 3 days I was watched 24/7. I did nothing by myself. I was watched while I was supposed to be sleeping, while I ate, showered. I had no privacy. None. I spent most of those 3 days in the room pretending to sleep. I didn’t want to talk to the other patients. I wasn’t one of them.

At night I lay awake listening to their crying and moaning. I felt the same despair, but had no tears left to cry. I became angry and refused to eat. I was angry at myself, the world and depression.

After the first three days they moved me into another room. It was more comfortable than the first room having a hospital bed, a cupboard, a sink, a mirror and a window that captured the morning sun. As terrifying as the first days and nights were, the ward oddly became a safe haven. I couldn’t leave. I had no responsibilities. They told me when to do everything but use the washroom. This is where I spent the next six weeks of my life. Scared but safe. Slowly healing enough to be let go. It wasn’t my only visit. I returned three more times. By choice. Because sometimes you need that hand to hold you up when the world seems to push you down.

The Calling I write love letters to you in my head like prayers to the creator, and when I kneel down beside my bed a righteous gift bearing before me, an apple to eat.

My hunger takes over control and I cave into temptation.

I bite and suck and slurp the apple as I am commanded to and around me a garden grows.

Now, presented before me are two golden chalices: one contains wine and one contains blood, unknown to all but you which is which.

I must choose.

The lines between heaven and reality become blurred, perhaps I am in a mix of the two mimicking a holy purgatory.

God is calling my name but it is your voice I hear and I reply “Oh my God� and repeat it over and over again as a chant to you, louder each time, until we are in the middle of a crowd.

Now, even the blind eyes burn through our naked souls.

Here the townspeople surrounding us murmur too quietly for us to hear and I know they do not-cannot understand us.

Virgin to all lovers before you.

You are the infinite. You are the divine. You are the savior.

You are baby Jesus and I, your mother Mary.

Rejoice! Your tongue unwinding like a serpent, covering me in poison, any future lover of mine shall choke to death.

Rejoice! These fingers that once held my bible, now guided by you.

Rejoice! And my sins will never be forgiven.

When death arrives, you shall be pronounced a saint to all. And I, a martyr.

REJOICE! REJOICE! REJOICE!

By Raegan Cote

21 Keats kept flowers at his feet but mine are woven in my ribcage.

Daffodils and daisies meet on a mound of dirt.

When I am gone hide my bones under stone and earth Voice long silenced Lips turned to dust What remains are words.

Justin Madu

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I think of Death, prepare for it And yet somehow I know, No one will read my notes Forgotten now, my writings are only here for show

50 ANNIVERSARY ENTRANCE AWARDS TH

To celebrate its 50th Anniversary, CNC is now offering $100,000 in new entrance awards for the 2019/20 school year!

No special awards application is necessary - students who apply for the 2019 Fall and 2020 Spring semesters by 11:59PM PST on March 17, 2019 are automatically eligible for entrance awards.

For more information, go to cnc.bc.ca/entranceawards