Issue 11 • Spring 2020

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contents from the editors a veiled lesson P.K. Rangachari 1995, a second chance Julene Tripp Weaver

battle royale Bill Sullivan teamwork makes the dream work April Liu système en 3 Êtapes Charles Beckford all i wanted Monica Shah culture shock P.K. Rangachari dots and dashes P.K. Rangachari spaghettios Andrew Paul Grell the derby Tom Barlow seasons Alessandro Rinaudo sharing my muse Carl Palmer release Cindy Huyser two for the price of one Meredith Stephens fix Amanda Julien the thought of him to be disabled Ogu Chukwuebuka Kizito lucinda Annisa Siu the gaskets of a basket Ikechukwu Obiorah a piercing pain Marcella Prokop artwork Kendall Pestana music therapy & culture Rachael Finnerty fatigue, sleep study 1, sleep study 2 Dina Belaia nonna Carolina Dutca cultural competency Heba Khan project 6 Kateryna Repa our team 2 SPRING 2020

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from the editors

Dear Reader, We hope you are all staying home, practicing social distancing and taking care of yourselves. It is our pleasure to give you the eleventh edition of The Muse. This issue’s theme "Culture" was selected to explore the intersection of culture and medicine. We believe that the different beliefs, perspectives, and norms of various societies have important effects on medicine. With COVID-19, the school year has been quite unorthodox, and The Muse team has had a bit of difficulty in meeting as we adjusted to this new situation. Despite this, everyone on the team has demonstrated their dedication and passion to making this issue become a re

ir is departing from the EIC position to head off into medical school! Shamir has worked tirelessly throughout the year to make various events and the issue become a reality despite the current world situation. In an exciting new chapter of life, we believe that the lessons and experiences of The Muse will continue to have lasting impact on Shamir’s future career. We would also like to welcome Alexandro Chu as the new EIC to work with Samuel for the 2020-21 year. Alex has been an Advertising and Social Media ality. We would like to give a big Coordinator for the Muse, but thank you to The Muse team. has shown immense resourceFurthermore, we would like fulness and initiative throughto thank you, our contributors out the past year. We believe and readers, for your submisthat his vision will challenge The sions, questions, and interest Muse to not only faithfully serve in the magazine. Without you, the unique stories and perspecthe experiences and unique tives of healthcare, but also to perspectives you have would reach a more international reach have no tongue to flow from, in submissions and viewership. and no heart to resound in. For Once again, we thank you for all that, we would like to thank you your support throughout the past once again for all your support. year, and we look forward to Finally, we would like to thank seeing you again soon. We wish our faculty advisor Dr. Ellen Amyou all the best and good health! ster. Your guidance and support in starting this position has Sincerely, been invaluable, and it was alSamuel and Shamir ways comforting to know that you were there to help out with any problems we may have. In a bittersweet goodbye, Sham-


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a veiled lesson AUTHOR P.K. Rangachari

The figure in black glides in. Only her eyes can be seen through a veil. I freeze for a moment. It has been a very long day. Outside, a dust storm rages, and the temperature hovers in the forties. Inside, I shiver. The air conditioning has been set high. I have been questioning medical students for over five hours, and she is the last one. She sits down quietly. The Chair of the examining board who is on the panel introduces me as an external examiner from a foreign university. He tells her that she has already done well in her written exams and her marks will not go down; however, if she does well in the oral exam, she could get a distinction. She nods her head. I have recovered and am better prepared to deal with her. I have twenty minutes. I start questioning her. She speaks softly; I listen far more intently than I have ever listened in my life. There are no distractions: no tossing of the hair, no body language, no gestures, only softly modulated words. The only time she moves her hands is when I give her a piece of paper to draw a diagram. Her answers are precise and careful. She is clearly an excellent student. It has been my first extended visit to that region. I had been uneasy when accepting the invitation to act as an external examiner for medical students. That part of the world always gets a bad press, but my fears

had quietly faded. The people have been invariably courteous, and the students I have met, lively, enthusiastic and charming. I have watched them in their practical exams, talked to a few and examined several. But this experience would cap it all. I grew up in India and had seen many women dressed like her, but had never spoken to any. Caste and class always got in the way. I had read all the arguments that dressing in this fashion demean women; that without seeing the full person one cannot figure them out. Body language is said to be crucial for effective communication, an argument that has not emptied a confessional of any meaning though. The next day on the flight back, I picked up a Western newspaper which had opposing views on the full-body veil. The French president had condemned it as demeaning and a sign of subjugation; a Muslim feminist had defended him. Too bad, neither had sat next to me while I was having this lively conversation with the veiled lady. I felt more subjugated than she did. I had succumbed to the situation by wearing a jacket and a tie. I had stood I front of the mirror in my hotel, practicing the knot. The tie is a silly invention, a de-eroticised thong. A brown-skinned man in a jacket and tie is a ridiculous sight. When I wear a tie, my head starts bobbing, a toothless smile appears and

I am tempted to hand around menus like a third-class waiter in a sleazy tandoori joint. Oddly, the three of us on the examining panel were born and raised in the Indian sub-continent and all of us had on jackets and ties. We were the ones who looked silly and subjugated, not the elegantly poised lady in front of us. She did not seem demeaned, overwhelmed or even denied. She was far too capable for that. She was speaking in a foreign tongue in a stressful situation and coping with it very well indeed. My spirits lifted, the fatigue vanished, and I was alert again.

A knock on the door. Times up. I turn to the Vice-Dean who has been sitting quietly in the room. I could have gone on for another hour, I say. He smiles. She gets up, thanks us and glides quietly out of the room. I will never see her again and even if I do, I will not recognize her. It does not matter. In twenty minutes she has given me a lesson that I will not forget. She is a fine student but a better teacher. P.K.Rangachari came to McMaster University in 1981 for a single year on a scholarship from the Canadian Heart Foundation but did not have the heart to leave, so hung around for over 3 decades. He has taught in a variety of programme and published papers both on basic biomedical sciences and educational issues. Artwork by Amy Zhu


1995, a second chance AUTHOR Julene Tripp Weaver

It was a marker year a lifeline renewal revelation the cocktail approach HIV could be controlled with three drugs. By December the first Protease Inhibitor approved, but not near perfect— Crixivan, widely prescribed guaranteed kidney stone agony—it became a booster used in small doses to cause less harm. Thanks to the effort it led to better meds and longer lives, it’s rare

Julene Tripp Weaver is a psychotherapist and writer in Seattle. She has a chapbook and two full size poetry books. Her most recent, truth be bold—Serenading Life & Death in the Age of AIDS, was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award, and won the Bisexual Book Award. Her work is widely published in journals and anthologies, including: The Seattle Review of Books, HIV Here & Now, Mad Swirl, Stonewall Legacy Anthology, and Day Without Art Special 30 Year Edition. Artwork by Peri Ren

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people die in the streets. Our history forgotten, yet infections spread: some say one in seven, others say one in five we harbor HIV with no clue. Yet we have PrEP, an acronym for Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis. If you have not been tested, it is time.


battle royale AUTHOR Bill Sullivan It could be a frayed gene, a rogue protein or a malevolent mutation that wakes the sleeper cells that breach the opening, that dig in, establish a beachhead, probe, plot the next attack, the next advance— relentless and indifferent until the shredded white flag is waved. The general insists that a part must die so the whole survives. “There will be collateral damage,” he warns. So, you lie motionless in a shallow trench for six weeks as proton waves penetrate foe and friend. At times you watch the automated weaponry swivel, hone in on the target; its discharge silent, but deadly. Most often you shut your eyes, see starry skies. The battle scene--like London after the blitz. Streets filled with smoke and rubble, buildings aflame--a crimson cast to the acrid air. But the people stir, come out when the attack ends, remove debris, rescue reminders. Then a shout, “A child, here; a child under the rubble.” One by one they remove the stones and slabs, assure the buried child, “We are coming; we are coming.”

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Bill Sullivan: I am a eighty-two year old retired professor who underwent radiation treatment for larynx cancer. I had thirty treatments in which I was secured to the table and wore a custom made face mask. As informed, there were numerous side effects including difficulty swallowing, weight loss with loss of appetite and excessive phlegm. I do write poetry and have published some of my work. In this case I saw this medical episode as a battle that caused damage but still offered hope. Artwork by Peri Ren


teamwork makes the dream work AUTHOR April Liu

Traditionally, doctors have always taken the spotlight and garnered all the attention in the field of medicine; however, over the past few decades, there has been a shift in the culture of medicine from an individualized approach to the care of a patient to interprofessional collaboration. This sense of comradery also exists in the operating room where there is a diverse network of healthcare professionals all working for the patient’s best interests. Most television portrayals of the operating room focus on the lead surgeon and fail to highlight the importance of other healthcare professionals. While it is undeniable that surgeons play a crucial role in the operating room, operating room nurses and surgical technicians are similarly important to surgical success. These professionals ensure sterile environments and hand surgeons equipment needed to perform procedures, two critical components of any successful surgery. Another hidden medical specialist is the anesthesiologist. These individuals are commonly depicted to play a negligible role in the operating room, doing crossword puzzles or reading the newspaper in a back corner. Despite these portrayals, anesthesiologists play a significant

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role in keeping patients comfortable throughout surgery. When patients consent to surgery, they allow themselves to undergo life altering procedures. For many of these procedures to be done, patients must be put into a state of unconsciousness. Anesthesiologists help induce this state of unconsciousness for the patient and help keep them relaxed throughout the entire procedure. Anesthesiologists are also an integral component of the healthcare team. For example, the anesthesiologist will work closely with the surgeon to determine the ideal patient position for the surgery. In addition to the surgeons and operating room nurses, anesthesiologists may work with an anesthesia assistant to carry out the anesthetic. Together, this pair will monitor the patient’s status throughout surgery as well as administer medications that relieve the patient’s pain and keep the patient asleep. Additionally, anesthesiologists practicing pediatric anesthesia may work with child life specialists in hospitals to make children’s experiences with surgery more pleasant. These spe-

cialists help calm children down and make them more comfortable in the scary environment of the operating room. Thus, although anesthesiologists may be portrayed to be practicing medicine in isolation, they are actually key players in the web of healthcare professionals. Teamwork and collaboration is highlighted in the education medical students and experienced medical practitioners undergo. This type of training starts as early as medical school – many medical schools are shifting from traditional lecture style teaching to incorporating problem-based learning. Problem-based learning presents groups of students with patient cases that serve as a launching pad for understanding medical topics. Together, these students will teach each other and work together to resolve areas of confusion. The shift to teamwork-based training is highlighted further along in medical training as well. Teams of anesthesiologists, surgeons, nurses, and other medical staff often undergo simulation based training together. These types

of training help individuals develop a mutual understanding of team members’ roles and responsibilities, and even encourages participants to adopt the role of other members during simulations to do so! In summary, the health care community is shifting towards an interdisciplinary team-based focus in both clinical settings and in the operating room, encouraging health care professionals to work together. This shift in thinking is reflected in the way we teach medical trainees and provide ongoing training to those who are already practicing!

April Liu is a second year medical student at McMaster University, School of Medicine. Anesthesiology is a field that is super interesting to her and she hopes to pursue it in her future. In her spare time, she loves painting, cooking, and training for triathlons!

Teamwork and collaboration is highlighted in the education medical students undergo THE MUSE ISSUE 11 11

système en 3 étapes AUTHOR Charles Beckford i. It started with divine intervention— A prayer for the demons to be exorcised O’ this little yellow book of cheap pulp How we slept with it under our pillows and clutched it within hands we can’t feel Chant and recite three times a day— three times a day— three times a day— End this possession of sinking stomachs and clawing at cheeks ii. When prayers didn’t prove effective— O’ those three little yellow pills How they slid down the raw throat everyday until further notice— until further notice Surely this will purify the demons: pacify them until the next dosage To tame your demons with an unsacred tablet— Who, dare they ask, was wearing the leash? iii. Van Gogh— a genius that one was A fellow that swallowed yellow paint to cover the demons in his stomach O’ how right you are— The same ones that sink stomachs and claw at cheeks until carmine red Trust a painter to have the best technique Maybe he was onto something iv. Demons that create art and leave footprints of tar O’ what a loving demon, how it clings to your lungs Scream about how you hate it: cry about how you’re lost without it— Don’t even pretend that you didn’t drag it by its horns to write this one for you v. O’ to live in a culture of wellness and an era of love When I am nothing but a disease of the old world— One that was left behind in favour of assimilating demons to coexist within our psychology Have we turned into our own exorcists or have they traded their robes for white coats? Shall I snuff out this demon or let it write... I can’t decide— I can’t decide— I can’t decide Charles Beckford is inspired by many writers of the past and the Decadent Movement, all the while trying to pave his own way. He has a penchant for injecting a drop of Dadaist poison into science.

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Artwork by Cezara Ene

all i wanted AUTHOR Monica Shah All I wanted was your smile, five minutes by your side, a touch, a caress, your hand on mine. A place at the table, not a table at my bed your voice in my ear, your kind thoughts, your whispered messages, you reading your book aloud to me. All I got were sideways glances, five minutes with the doctor, the clinical caress of his stethoscope. Leftover rice and cold soup, lonely days and fearful nights no guests, no comfort, no lullabies, no sighs of concern from you. All I knew when I was young, vibrant beloved, was a world in which I was wanted. All that remains are ghosts, regrets, meager remembrances. Here I am now rusting in the margins of your gaze, scarcely a shadow in your memory.

Monica Shah’s Shah’ writing often explores the intersection of identity, culture, and society. It is alarming that 90% of seniors have a chronic illness, 40% have at a disability, and more than 40% regularly feel alone. Research shows that loneliness is damaging to health and increases the likelihood of mortality by 26%. This poem attempts to give voice to ill or disabled elders who find themselves ailing and lonely. Artwork by Lyan Abdul


culture shock AUTHOR P.K. Rangachari Torn from moorings Spun through layers Minced and mashed Cells float gently Touch the seaweed shelter Watched by dark eyes On a well-lit stage A random harvest Of bursting bombs Had torn those eyes From native soil Shattered souls Trucked to alien nation. The cells land softly Moments pass Tiny feet move out Grope, withdraw Move again Creep along, touch Junctions form New lines grow Tired eyes on huddled shoulders Watch with wary hope As new lives form Memories linger Old sores fester Soft hands lift the dish Off the well-lit stage Quick notes in a cramped hand That brush dark tresses off Sad eyes gaze At softly falling snow Safe- perhaps for now.

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dots and dashes AUTHOR P.K. Rangachari

Dot on forehead Stained at birth Her hyphenated gaze Fixes on the Grand Opening Sale Tightly clutching her prize Snivelling brat trailing Dashes past long lines To the cash counter Emphatically stressing The wrong syllable Thrusts her precious plastic At the pert teen From Huronsville High Tossing her auburn curls Giggling girl bends her head Forgetting- her far-born mother Was laughed at once.

P.K. Rangachari came to McMaster University in 1981 for a single year on a scholarship from the Canadian Heart Foundation but did not have the heart to leave, so hung around for over 3 decades. He has taught in a variety of programme and published papers both on basic biomedical sciences and educational issues.


spaghettios AUTHOR Andrew Paul Grell Stage 4 metastatic cancer is probably as good an excuse as any for a grownup to eat Spaghetti-O’s. Keto, Atkins, Paleo, all obviated, at least for the time being. I called The Patient from the bike share docking station near our home and asked if she wanted anything from the outside world. She wanted Spaghetti-O’s. I detoured to our cramped and chaotic slightly-less-than-super market and started hunting the cheery red, white, and green cans. Something in the back of my mind was madly waving for attention. It seemed important for me to remember that Chef Boy-Ar-Dee was a real chef, Hector Boiardi. Or were Spaghetti-O’s now Campbell’s? Perhaps I was in self-distraction mode. We had started with Cup-O-Noodles the night before, the day The Patient was discharged from the hospital to live on canned oxygen and to await a treatment plan. Two cans of Spaghetti-O’s went into the hand-basket. Then I tossed in one with meatballs, stopping short of getting a lasagna as well. The Patient told me that I made the right decision, and she would enjoy it when she was hungry. We lived in a rent stabilized two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, a real coup. The development

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was a big park with buildings towering through, surrounding an animist or Wiccan Oval, suitable for dark or spiritual rites under full moons. She shared the vaguely Orientalist space, set off with suggestions of Art Deco, with a husband and dog.

I tried to get myself out from under the barrage of well-wishers The single green oxygen tank was still in its little wheelie-thing in the living room. With no hose to connect the life-giving gas to her nose. Five calls to what the President would call “some shit-hole country” for tech support, plus two hours on the phone with the Social Worker in Charge of Oxygen. No joy. I walked to the hospital ready to spit venom, entering through the Emergency Room; a nurse saw my dazed and confused condition and asked if I needed help, and had I checked in at Triage? I said I was fine myself and told her the problem, speaking through clenched teeth, gesticulating with clenched fists. She cheerfully handed me three

hoses, and I started to relax. All of this was on top of a thousand miles of driving to, from, then to, then from again, New York and central Pennsylvania, trying to keep the dog from vomiting. The Patient had presented her thesis to the faculty and cohort to great acclaim and then called me to be driven home and to our hospital. Forty-eight hours in the ER, five days of testing, poking and prodding, forced fasts while waiting for interventional radiology, postponed three times, the loss of her liver biopsy, sneaking the dog into visit, failing to keep the dog from ripping the Fios cables from the wall because where was mommy and why was I being left alone? I tried to get myself out from under the barrage of well-wishers. I was a good man at game-theory (not a game, by the way) triage and divided the invaders into groups: Thoughts and Prayers out, family in, people offering to take the dog to spell me for a bit or do shopping, top of the list. I put The Patient’s friend who sent flowers in the top group. The Patient’s sister and I had tasked ourselves with keeping her going, with something to look forward to, in order to undergo treatment, at least the first round. The Patient’s

professor, editor of her novel, a my chore and looked down highly empathetic woman, was at the sink’s drain trap —New at the tippy-top of the good list. York apartments this vintage never had dishwashers or DisAnd now The Patient had Spa- pos-Alls—and saw the remains ghetti-O’s. A Long Island girl, of the glutenous little rings. she ate the comfort food in Washed white as snow, restored the dark of night, scooped from to Virgin White, pure as the bothe can, unheated, spooned into som of the White Rock girl. coffee mugs. The next morning, Eventually someone from a I woke and tried to be useful. non-shithole country explained Pulling down a quarter-mil a to the techs how to find our year, I did the dishes. The tinned home, and they showed up. Carpasta detritus stuck to the sides ing, knowledgeable, effective, of the mugs from the adhesion didn’t leave until at least one of of Hector’s red sauce. Washed us knew how to use the concenin the blood of the lamb. It was trator and the tanks. We bingea right bastard to separate the watched the shows The Patient wheat from the mugs. I finished missed while at school and in

the hospital, The Orville, Big Bang Theory, Shark Tank. We ate our comfort food together in the light. We strategized about making sure there would be enough opioid available for her during this current Puritan shaming of painkillers, and began facing the reality of the treatment plan. I went from learning how to sterilize a pleural catheter and do an emergency drainage to debating the efficacy of the Inogen concentrator, in case The Patient decided to take up tennis in her later years. Andrew Paul Grell lives in a park in Manhattan with Melody, his wife, now an in-remission cancer patient, and their Malti-poo puppy, Cyrus King of Persia. At 60, he is an “emerging writer,” author of the recently released science fiction novel SCAPEGOATS: The Goat Protocols, which has just been entered into the Sacred Cannon of the New York Public Library. Andrew has been anthologized in American Writers Review, Surprised by Joy, Grumpy Old Gods 2, and What Sort of Fuckery is This. He also makes appearances in Writers Newsletter and is proud to be an Ugly Writer. By day he uses mathematical models to ferret out fraud, and he gets everywhere by bicycle. Lately he & Mel have sponsored and published a print run of ELIXIR MAGAZINE, an online journal out of Yemen because the women running it are trying to maintain culture and normalcy while literally having the crap bombed out of them. Artwork by Gracia Chen


the derby AUTHOR Tom Barlow The Cleveland Clinic is reminiscent of the Kentucky Derby today, where every ashen face, every wounded soul with unsteady gait, every grandmother in a wheelchair, is in a race up and down this busy hallway. Like horses leaving the gate, they dodge and vie for position as they dash: first through registration, then the MRI and out through blood draw, pursued closely by the race favorite, Invincible. At the first turn, they pass through genetics and x-ray and gyno and endo and neuro and into the back stretch oh, so slowly through anesthesiology. Most maintain a length or two lead but this track is enormous and meandering as a twisted bowel. They press on through radiology and dermatology and ophthalmology and geriatrics, Invincible growing closer and closer. Exhausted, they veer off the track to catch an elevator to reception where a man plays quiet jazz on the piano to cover the percussion of their casts and canes on the slick terrazzo. They skid through a corner on their desperate way to a consult, where a jockey in a white coat rides them into the O.R. There they fall under the knife and end up in the I.C.U. where nurses and doctors stand guard, armed with hypodermics and anesthetics, as though, under their care, these stallions and mares could regain their youthful speed and beat Invincible to the finish line. But you know the odds on how this race is going to end when your foe is relentless, fast as a thoroughbred and has never been defeated, not even by the Cleveland Clinic.

Tom Barlow is an Ohio poet whose work has appeared in journals including The Stoneboat Literary Journal, Headline Poetry and Press, Voicemail Poetry, Sonic Boom, Harbinger Asylum, Heron Clan, The Remington Review, and Your Daily Poem. Read more about his work at Artwork by Cezara Ene

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ART BY Alessandra Rinaudo The images submitted are part of a personal journey and response to an illness that affected my emotional life and identity. Being affected by Alopecia, I saw my hair disappearing and falling from my body. The work is in fact based on a parallelism between my intimate events, reflected on my physical aspect, and the natural cycle of the seasons. To see the full project please visit The Muse blog or visit the link below

Alessandra Rinaudo is a visual artist working with photography and text. In her recent photography works she explores themes related to the Self, Identity and Family Relationship. She is interested in self-portraiture particularly through the performative act where she investigates the ambiguity related to one's individuality. She has exhibited her work internationally such as in Italy, Lithuania and England. She has participated in the european project 'Youth Exchange': a artistic collaboration between italian and lithuanian artists in 2012. She has graduated from an MA in Photography at the London College of Communication.


sharing my muse AUTHOR Carl Palmer

her description of what I saw is what I would have said if only I could sing her depiction of joyous awe as a song instead of what my own words bring whispers in verse for me to hear in words I could not say but yet I understood dense fogs dispersed to see so clear my thoughts in disarray just as I sensed they would her tempos teach my sense of time with pause and gentle flows of rhythms in my heart suspense reaches intense sublime anticipation grows for what she’ll next impart left to peruse this written thought that she has related to the student she chose sharing my muse through what she brought that she has dictated for her scribe to compose

Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, Virginia, lives in University Place, Washington. He is retired from the military and Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) enjoying life as “Papa” to his grand descendants and being a Franciscan Hospice volunteer. Carl is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and Micro Award nominee. MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever!

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release AUTHOR Cindy Huyser Quick, the doctors say: each site, its own crisis, and priority— blindness and paraplegia, the hammering pain of the fractured hip, the bulky sarcoma to be treated last. Quick, the doctors say, so we sign the release forms, agree to a month-long course— and the beams burn the table’s rigid surfaces, nearly unbearable. More than once, you want to stop, your paralyzed vocal cord almost inaudible to the technician over the linear accelerator’s drone. And once, when you’d asked for me, two sites treated out of three, I tell you, you don’t have to do this. More than once, you ask the doctors why they can’t use Tibetan bells, sparing your esophagus as they target the tumors on your spine, but they only say quick, quick.

Quick, quick, quick, the cancer. Cindy Huyser is a poet and editor whose work background includes software engineering and power plant operation. She holds a B. A. in English from Tri-State (now Trine) University in Angola, Indiana, and a Master’s of Science in Computer Science from Texas State University in San Marcos, Texas. Huyser also practices contemplative photography, and enjoys exercise and the outdoors. Artwork by Lyan Abdul


two for the price of one: treating one illness and curing two AUTHOR Meredith Stephens

As I was listening to the car radio one story caught my attention. Researchers had found that the use of hearing aids by the elderly not only addressed hearing loss but also led to a decrease in cognitive decline. Treatment in one area can result in improvements in another. I recalled how my father enjoyed more health benefits than he had anticipated after major surgery. In his late sixties, he had a gastrectomy to treat his stomach cancer. After the surgery, he could no longer consume the larger servings he had previously enjoyed, and his appetite continued to dwindle over the years. I watched his transformation from being slightly pudgy to a new svelte self. This loss of weight served him well in another area. Despite having a congenital heart problem, with the assistance of a bypass and a pacemaker, after the gastrectomy he enjoyed a full life for over twenty years until he passed away at the age of 90. Not only did the gastrectomy cure his

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stomach cancer, it also turned became too sure of myself, and out to be good for his heart. lapsed back into a diet containing regular portions of cheese “Fair, fat, female and forty.� The and crackers, and servings of typical gallstone patient fell into bread and butter. My children these categories, my doctor told teased me about my diet, but I me. I fitted into all of them except justified myself saying that at that I was 39 when I had my first least I never ate margarine, and gallstone attack. I visited gener- that transitioning from a high al practitioners and specialists carb to high fat diet seemed and received conflicting advice. to be the norm nowadays. My GP warned me that she had lost a patient to gallstones. The Every now and then I had bouts specialist told me that his wife of pain, and would seek help had gallstones, but because she from a specialist, who would did not trust doctors she refused give me medicine and send me to submit to surgery. Now I had off for regular ultrasound checks insider knowledge and a good to review the number and size excuse to put off surgery. My GP of my gallstones. The next setold me how important a good rious attack came at age 55. diet was, so I ate more fruit and By then I had moved, and was vegetables. Before long the gall- being treated by another GP. stone attacks were kept at bay. When he palpated my stomach he did not seem too concerned. Over the years, I grew more confi- For the next few years, I had no dent in my health. I never caught attacks. Perhaps being a doccolds or experienced infections. tor gave him a healing touch. In fact, the only sick days I took were to look after my children The next attack came at age 58. when they were sick. I gradually At this point, I was working in

Japan. I visited a specialist and he took a blood test. The results alarmed him and he gave me a referral to the hospital emergency department. I reported to the hospital and subjected myself to x-rays and a CT scan. The doctor suspected that a stone was stuck in my bile duct, and recommended immediate treatment by sending a camera into the bile duct via my throat, inserting a stent, and extracting the stone. He warned me that he had lost two patients to gallstones. This information was enough to propel me to accept the procedure. However, the camera was too large to easily slide down my throat, and despite the immense discomfort and trauma, no stone was found in my bile duct.

willpower I had never successfully fasted before, but to my surprise, when under strict instructions from a doctor, I was able to withstand the hunger pangs. Once I was discharged I had lost four kilograms.

During the weekend prior to the procedure, I had been put on a drip and instructed to fast. My habitual restlessness made it impossible to confine myself to my hospital room, so I managed to obtain day leave. Having little

We often hear about comorbidity, but on the flip side, treatment in one area can surprise you with the bonus of healing in another. In my own case, the impetus for following a healthy diet was the strict instructions from the Photo by Dan Burton on Unsplash.

A few weeks later I went to another doctor, told her about how butter and cheese no longer tasted delicious, and boasted about my four kilogram weight loss. She retorted, “You need to lose four more!” I took her advice to heart, though begrudgingly, and managed to lose another kilogram. I have been able to coax my reluctant body into shedding a little weight, and will persist in trying to follow my doctor’s cruel-to-be-kind instructions.

doctors after I was treated for a gallstone attack. An additional benefit has been gaining a little confidence in my ability to resist temptation. Self-indulgence is not inevitable and I can set a boundary. I am beginning to feel empowered to gain some control over my dietary choices. Medical treatment can be unpleasant, uncomfortable and inconvenient, but thankfully, once one condition has been treated, there may be unanticipated benefits in other areas too.

Meredith Stephens teaches English in Japan. Her work has appeared in Transnational Literature, The Font - A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, The Journal of Literature in Language Teaching, and in auto-ethnographic edited volumes of expatriate motherhood in What’s Cooking Mom? Narratives about Food and Family, The Migrant Maternal: “Birthing” New Lives Abroad, and Twenty-First Century Friendship, all published by Demeter Press, Canada.


fix AUTHOR Amanda Julien Without a mother you left your only child born of this earth You live on day to day with strangers in bug-infested beds

Soon the poison it will get you it will end you and your child will be all that remains

In the same city on the same bus route as your only child born of this earth

Your legacy, he will never know only learned your life through stories never knew your laugh your smile your bright eyes and the shit you used to say

It's so easy to say you made your choice but that's too tidy and we understand it is not that clean

You were so silly so selfish so caring so uneducated so loving

Your mother and father sisters, niece, and nephew

This is why we write and we record

we know it's not a choice we wish it were because then we would know the reasons why

and we repeat

You fill your veins with poison you fill your lungs with poison drip drip drip

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So that you live on and on and on after the poison after the ashes after the dust after your last fix

Amanda Julien is a gainfully employed professional in the Healthcare field who is also enrolled in part-time studies to further her education. Writing has always been a passion of hers, but she has only recently been brave enough to submit her writing for publication. Her other hobbies include reading and photography. Amanda is a lifelong resident of the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia, Canada, currently residing near Lawrencetown Beach. Photo by Chris Lao on Unsplash


the thought of him to be disabled AUTHOR Ogu Chukwuebuka Kizito

26 SPRING 2020

A one-year compulsory service called National Youth Service Corp (NYSC) is very important to every graduate in Nigeria. It is a time where you go serve your fatherland. During this one-year service, you are given 21 days of paramilitary training after which you are assigned to an organization. It is a time when you meet different people from all over the country who have come to do the needful. It was during these 21 days that I was fortunate enough to have met him. I remember vividly, his name was Emmanuel from Kaduna state, the northern part of my country. With disabled legs, he still refused to go home even after the NYSC Officials begged and placated him. It seemed that he was one of the victims of polio. His smile was always there for those who showed but little care. The easiest thing he would have done, like most of us do, was to raise a finger, and be sent home. As a result of his zeal to serve the fatherland, the officials gave him their living quarters to stay separate from us. As we did our compulsory morning parade, he sat on his seat and stared at us. You could see the passion in his eyes, the dreams and thoughts flying in his mind. Perhaps he was thinking, if only I had legs like the others, if only I could march like them. The gaze on his face was blazing, his smile was heart touching. To me, it seemed that his body chemis-

try said it all: I wish I was like them and could walk. It was all glaring from his countenance as he sat in his wheelchair and watched the crowd of corp member’s parade. “I would not exchange this opportunity to serve the country for anything else in this life,” he would say. His passion to serve his fatherland startled me. I quickly made Emmanuel my friend when I noticed that no one wanted to be friends with him. His mind was a vast land of many ideas made possible by the numerous books he had consumed. Even in his physically limited state in a wheelchair, his mind seemed to roam the earth, in search of every knowledge hidden in any crevice as he seemed to know everything. We had a unique handshake which we did in the presence of a multitude of fellow corp members. He loved reading more than anything, he was more intelligent than those people who thought him at a disadvantage. I learnt a lesson more learning than a professor would have thought me. Emmanuel was always sitting at the base of the stadium backing the crowd, always all smiles whenever he saw me because I was coming for my handshake and to chat. It seemed that those who had complete legs complained about everything: the food, the house, and even the air. They complained that they were tired of every-

thing. They failed to see what they had, just like most of us. However, it hurt me that I lost your contact and pictures of the memories we shared together. But I know this lesson will not fade easily. My friend from a distance, you have got an extra to the ordinary man. Let no man hold you back from the dreams of your life. Do not be the man who has eyes, yet cannot see. Do not be the one who has everything but will spend his life chasing trifles. That which you seek is but in front of you, only if you decide to see more and look less. Even in the midst of nothing, there is something you have that is someone else’s dream and prayer point. Someone else’s dream may be a possession that you do not value. The question is: Who was really disabled, Emmanuel or those who perceived him to be?

Ogu Chukwuebuka Kizito is a quintessential writer who has written so many articles and is currently working on his first novel. In his days he had seen the wonderful power hidden in words, that he deduced that, he will thrive in this word land. Artwork by Gracia Chen


lucinda ART BY Annisa Siu

28 SPRING 2020

This artwork is titled LUCIDA and is inspired by a verse of a poem which goes, "rage, rage against the dying of the light."

the gaskets of a basket AUTHOR Ikechukwu Obiorah Don't fly off the handle of your hand And blow away the gaskets of grasses That hold the basket of your breath For the stone shall cry out of the wall And the beam from the timber shall Fill the bill with a dawn of attraction Don't be as bats in the belfry of turret So kooky and mad as if moonstruck The body is not a wood burning stove But a packet of basket well fabricated To give nobility of dignity to the maker Use the air of the maker to punch the cattle The beginning of body language abuse Marks the transmigration to the vault Don't be a fiasco that missed the mark Be a ball of poignancy that conquered Commit to the memory of how to hold a candle That floodlights the darkest nightmares Tell the mind not to be a pompous ass That ends up leading a balloon of bomb Lock up the land of hand not to lose to sea You're in charge of what happens in that body Stretch out your tentacles of whiskers to Make the earth express tenderness again.

Ikechukwu Obiorah is a Nigerian Writer, a Prolific Poet and Novelist. He studies B.A (Hons) English at the Benue State University, Makurdi, Nigeria. He is a Student Ambassador of POETS IN NIGERIA (PIN). He is the Editor in Chief of Writers' League Benue State University, Makurdi, Nigeria, and also a member of Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA Benue Chapter). He has been published in several reputable International Journals and Magazines. For a decade Poetry has been his sweet heart. Photo by Marcis berzins on Unsplash


a piercing pain AUTHOR Marcella Prokop

At first, there is nothing. Then a glow of fluorescent light filters in. With a blink, I come back into my body, stiff, groggy and cold. Beep Beep Beep A digital chirp pings in my left ear and I open my eyes completely. Behind me and to my left, a monitor slowly tracks vitals and time. Below this, at my knees and on both sides of my body, nurses are talking to each other. “Yeah, here’s the line. Okay, got it?” “Yes, I’m good. Give me just a second here aaannd—” I feel hazy, as if I’ve been drugged. A slow look around tells me I am in a hospital, hooked up to an IV. And although I vaguely remember a shattering sense of pain and a debilitating headache, I can’t remember anything else about what might have put me in this position. Unable to find the energy to speak, I watch and listen. “You said you have it. And, what? What are you doing? The nurses stop moving around and are silent for what feels like an hour. “I was going to run the catheter, but, um, she’s—”

30 SPRING 2020

At the word “catheter,” the soft gauze of disorientation falls away and my mind clears. I look down the hospital bed again, down towards my crotch. And although I don’t want to, I remember. I remember that I’m no longer working in Washington, D.C. I’m home, in Northwest Nebraska for Christmas. I remember that my parents rushed me to the local hospital after a debilitating headache took my sense of depth perception earlier in the afternoon. And I remember that six months earlier I had gotten a vaginal piercing, a little silver twist of metal tucked in right between my legs. I had done it on a whim, drunk and high, in the basement of a friend’s house, when that same friend suggested he and I get matching piercings. At the time, it seemed like a weird and thus unique thing to do. Over the past six months, I had come to think of it as a symbol for the way I chose to live my life: boldly, without regard for consequences, and in pursuit of amazing stories. The ring itself had become the subject of many stories over the last few months, and it’s what got the nurses talking again. “She uh... she has this...piercing that...that I didn’t want to get hooked on.” “Piercing?” As the nurse with the catheter tube explains the situation to her partner, I envision them telling my parents about the piercing when informing them of my death. This bit of news will be the last thing Mom and Dad learn about me, and it will be awful, not amazing. I won’t get to use my sometimes wanton sense of curiosity to craft a smashing career in journalism. I won’t get to fill in the details of my life story because I won’t get to live it. No, with this and my death at 22, my existence will burn hot and bright for a second, then fizzle. “Honey? Stay with us, okay? Please?” But when I awake again a day later, my shiny secret is still intact. My body is still stiff and cold. And my mind reels with the story my parents tell me: On December 26, 2004 — the day of the catheter— I experienced a massive brain bleed and stroke. It will take four years for me to heal emotionally and find my place in the world, and somehow, that absurd accessory between my legs will go from being hip to being an embarrassment to helping me feel in control again. For the next few months, whenever it would show up on a full-body scan, I would shrug it off, much as I eventually shrugged off the stroke. “Eh, it’s just part of who I am,” I’d say to the tech eyeing me in concern, or to the person who couldn’t believe I had lived to tell such a story.

Marcella Prokop teaches creative writing and lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared online or in print in Pank, Ploughshares, and The Brooklyn Review among others. She is currently finishing the memoir in which this story appears. Photo by Molly Belle on Unsplash


32 SPRING 2020

ART BY Kendall Pestana My name is Kendall Pestana and I am a 22 year old art student from Boston. For several years, I have been suffering from an undiagnosed pelvic pain disorder that has been repeatedly dismissed by gynecologists, urologists, and general physicians alike. Chronic pelvic pain is incredibly common in women of childbearing age, but is insufficiently researched due to persistent sexist rhetoric that has resulted in a lack of funding and understanding for women’s reproductive issues. Additionally, female pain and suffering has historically been normalized through religious lore as well as the stereotype that women are overemotional exaggerators. Because of this, very real pain disorders such as endometriosis often go undiagnosed. After several inconclusive emergency room visits and a painful diagnostic laparoscopy that came up empty, I remember feeling so dehumanized when my gynecologist flippantly told me that my debilitating chronic pain should simply disappear now that “we know nothing is wrong ”. Following that experience, I began making artwork about the ways in which the body stores trauma as well as the ways in which medical treatment can feel violating and objectifying. My hope is that this work will help bring exposure to the ways in which women’s issues have been maltreated in the medical field as well as emphasize the importance of accessible, empathetic, and well-researched gynecological care.


music therapy & culture AUTHOR Rachael Finnerty The term music therapy and culture are both difficult to define. There is no universally agreed upon definition for either of these words. For the purpose of this article, I will use the Canadian Association of Music Therapists’ definition for music therapy; Music therapy is a discipline in which credentialed professionals (MTA*) use music purposefully within therapeutic relationships to support development, health, and well-being. Music therapists use music safely and ethically to address human needs within cognitive, communicative, emotional, musical, physical, social, and spiritual domains. And a Merriam-Webster dictionary definition for Culture; the set of shared attitudes, values, goals, and practices that characterizes an institution or organization. I want to focus this article on the use of music therapy as an intervention for mental illness within campus culture. More specifically, the proactive use of music therapy for mental health within university campus culture.

34 SPRING 2020

Western-culture generally responds to health in a reactionary model. This contributes to long wait times associated with exacerbated mental illness symp-

toms and crisis situations. In Canada, suicide is the second leading cause of death among 15 to 24 year olds, and accounts for almost 25% of deaths among this population (Statistics Canada, 2017). Post-secondary student populations are at heightened risk for emergent or ongoing mental health issues. In order to make a shift from a reactionary to a proactive model, western culture demands evidence based research to support change. Ritika Arora, a McMaster University Health Sciences student completed a literature review with me about music therapy as an intervention for trait anxiety. Recognizing the need for more robust research in this area, she proposed completing a music therapy pilot project for her thesis research, exploring the impact of music therapy on campus for stress and anxiety. I was so inspired by this project, that I chose to further elaborate upon the project as part of my PhD which I started in September 2019 in Psychology, Behaviour and Neuroscience under the supervision of Dr. Laurel Trainor. The pilot project will compare psychological measures of stress and anxiety before and after group music therapy as well as before and after the already estab-

lished Open Circle verbal support group on campus. The pilot project will act as a feasibility study. It is not the intent of the study to prove that music therapy is better than verbal therapy, but to gain evidence that music therapy is as effective as the standard of care (verbal therapy). Once there is proof of the efficacy of music therapy in this context, it can be offered as an option to students. It is hypothesized that there are many students who do not reach out for support until they are in crisis due to the negative stigma associated with therapy. Since music is void of negative stigma, perhaps more students will engage in music therapy, hence engaging in support prior to experiencing a crisis. Expressing oneself through music can feel safe, non-clinical, and cathartic. This can be through improvising, singing, song-writing or lyric analysis. Students do not need to have any training or experience in music to participate in music therapy. The music therapist facilitates self-expression, taking risks and self-exploration through live music making and verbal processing. Students are set up for positive experiences as music is used to support the process, opposed to a music goal or

music product. The pilot project will provide opportunities for students to engage in all of these interventions within a session. The PhD research will expand upon the pilot project by collecting additional psychological data, physiological data and biomarker data (cortisol). Data will be collected from the Open Circle group, a wait list group, and three different music therapy groups (1. Improvisation based 2. Song writing based 3. Music listening based.) The intent of this research is to change the culture on campus about mental health and provide evidence for a proactive approach to mental health. Music is a regular part student culture, caring for one’s mental health is not. This needs to change. This research aims to contribute to changing campus culture about mental health, provide proactive interventions and lessen the amount of students experiencing crisis. Rachael Finnerty RP MTA MMT MA is the Founder Music Therapy Academy www.musictherapyacademy. com, a McMaster Instructor: Intro Music Therapy PhD Student Psychology Neuroscience & Behaviour Photo by Matthijs Smit on Unsplash



sleep study 1 36 SPRING 2020

For the last 7 years Dina cannot work full-time due to her chronic neurological condition, which makes this healthcare and medical art call particularly personal. Attached is an emotional and internal interpretation of the numerous sleep studies, when the patient has to sleep with wires attached to every body part, and the results look like wavy graphs.

ARTWORK BY Dina Belaia Dina Belaia started her visual art training at an early age while living in Russia. At 15 she joined the Analytical Art Studio, and still follows this school and artistic method. In Canada, she continued her studies and graduated in Visual Arts from York University. She works as an illustrator and graphic designer and even a face/body painter, as well as a fine artist. Dina prefers drawing with pencil to any other media, although occasionally opting for painting and digital imagery.

sleep study 2 THE MUSE ISSUE 11 37

nonna AUTHOR Carolina Dutca noun [ feminine ] /'nɔnːa/ grandmother, grandma, granny Nonna, you didn't like being called a grandmother. You have always been a big kid, even after you are seventy years old. You had cancer twice in your bright life. Knowing about this diagnosis, you actively traveled, traveled around almost the whole of Europe. But you made your last trip alone. You wanted before your death someone was near. I held your hand in intensive care when the liver failure took over and you had only a few hours to live. The last thing I heard was: "Let me go." There were moments when you felt too lonely, despite your close ones. There were moments when it seemed that you love this life like no other, while at others you did not leave the house for weeks, absorbed in apathy. At home alone you made earrings from old beads, once brought from abroad. Immediately after your death, I took both earrings and beads for them. I began to wear these earrings and continued to create new ones. At your funeral, I decided to throw one of them into the grave, because I was very afraid of losing our connection. Since then, I wear an earring in one ear only. We are born and die alone, but I still see you in dreams. You asked me to look at the sky more often after your death. In these moments, I can always hear your voice. Are you still in my heart Your Caroline.

August 10, 2013

38 SPRING 2020

Thinking out loud or talking to yourself This is not a personal diary, it’s short pages of my lonely and hopeless life, of which I'm getting pretty sick and which has recently disappointed me a lot. I began to feel myself very lonely, and unnecessary to anyone except my mother. It seems to me that only mother is the only person in this world whom I can come to at any time, with any mood, and who will always understand and support me like no other. I always think with fear that at some instant

Every time after a regular visit to them, I say to myself: “Do not go where you do not appreciate you. If they want to see me, they will come! ” It takes several days and I go to them again, like a rabbit in front of a snake - I can do nothing about it ... ... Recently, in July, we went on holiday together in Transcarpathia. But I still regret it. I was excess – Irina’s family and I was out of the loop. I felt it every day during the whole trip. Perhaps they are right that I've imposed on them. Of course, it would be better for me to stay at home - it would be better for everyone.

September 20, 2013 I blame myself for stupid August words. It was a moment of weakness, when I felt lonely and didn't matter to anyone. Little time has elapsed since since that day, and I feel good again, and I am happy. After all, Irina and her family are my family, and I always rejoice in all their successes and victories. I love Carolina and our boy Christian very much. And I feel good! And this is the main thing in life.


warm by the sea about 36 degrees. In this sea, I have never bathed! True, it is hot on the shore, but the water is an unforgettable experience! On the island of Cyprus in the city of Larnaca. We rested as much as 10 days. Tanned arrived, but happy and rested in full. Life goes on! And let everything be all right. And though soon I’m 70 years old I’m not scared at all ... (I’m lying, of course)

I want to live another 5 years. I do not want me to feel bad and hurt. I just want to live. Let me go, mom. I beg you. Goodbye and know that you are always in my heart. December 2016 My mom died September 6, 2016. Very quiet and very fast. Forgive me, mom, if I did something wrong. I didn’t spend much time with you, sometimes quarreling with you. Now you are not there

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02/18/2017 Here came the New Year, 2017. For me, it did not start very well. Immediately after Israel, I fell ill. The liver is tormented every day, I do not sleep at night, but the worst thing is the big weakness. Irina says that my hemoglobin is lowered - and the reason is this. I try to eat more, because I have lost a lot of weight - the weight of 62 kg, when a year and a half ago it was 86 kg. I do not know, maybe this is my slow death coming up. But I am not afraid, the only thing I ask from God is that when this moment comes, someone should be with me.

Dear girls do not be sad. All is well. Regardless, we will always be together. I will be next to you and with my beloved boy, Kristianchik. I do not want you to cry. Better remember me smiling and cheerful. After all, I was so. And beautiful, and with thin ears - the best and most beautiful ears in the world! Smile, my favorite girls! I love you so much.


Carolina Dutca is a multidisciplinary artist working with photography, video, archive, plays, and installations. Born in Transnistria region in 1995, Carolina Dutca studied documentary photography and photojournalism in Saint-Petersburg, Russia. Her photographic career began in 2016 when she started to work with the issue of LGBTQ+ discrimination in her project NO SILENCE. In Transnistria, where the author comes from, the exhibition sparked a great deal of discussion after it had to be canceled due to pressure from the local KGB. After that series, she began to work with women who were suffering from domestic violence. Starting from her own story, Carolina made a project - The Places of Violence (2017). Early Dutca's artworks are deeply personal - reflecting on her background and drawing on the experiences of herself and her subjects with discrimination, domestic violence, xenophobia, feminism, and social and cultural stereotypes. She first worked in the documentary field and used direct photography before turning her attention to experimental art.

42 SPRING 2020

cultural competency AUTHOR Heba Khan You? You're civilized? With your education framed on a paper hung to a wall like the head of a buck that you hunted for years With a few letters strung after your name as an ornament to celebrate your 'privilige.' Savage, you call those whose cultures differ from yours Uncouth you say, to those who do not follow your path, Barbarian, I heard coming from your mouth as you chewed on the bones and adorned yourself in the skin you wore. If that's what literacy brings, I'm best left ignorant because perhaps someone forgot to tell me

that we're doing a role reversal. That you think I'm tribal because the jungle and its luscious, wild, free trees call my name beg me to save them from the likes of you who find it trivial to destroy homes destroy cultures destroy humanity. But it's okay, enjoy your meal, and keep on pretending like all that you can see is this rose-tinted life and not this blood-tainted strife.

Heba Khan is a fourth year Kinesiology student that aspires to be a pediatrician. Her poetry has always been an outlet for her. Photo by Shutterbouy Photography on Unsplash


project 6 ARTWORK BY Kateryna Repa

44 SPRING 2020

Skeleton as an ecosystem. The skeletons depict the shape of a skeleton consisting of sticks, tree roots, butterflies, butterfly dolls and flowers. This shows that in fact we are all part of nature. And the message should think about pollution (destruction) of nature and the possibility of reducing consumption.

Katerina Repa was born in 1979 in Odessa, lives in her native city. She graduated from the Odessa Hydrometeorological Institute (Odessa State Ecological University) with a degree in applied ecology. Now known under the pseudonym Kateryna Repa. Creates a unique brand of women's clothing and accessories KaterynaRepa, is also engaged in painting, drawing, sculpture and other types of digital art. Participated in many exhibitions in Ukraine, London, France, Germany, etc., took prizes. Participation in the project "Falling Shadow" on the gardens of Jardinia "in the 58th Venice Biennale, which is also the jury of international art competitions in Israel and Russia. Printed materials in the magazines "Yard", "Airport", "Ellements", "Exclamation", "JetSetter", "FWD",“UF”, “LookVine”, participated in the advertising company MAYBELLIN Ukraine, in the shooting of the project “Top Ukrainian model 3 ”, look-book shooting for Corner Concept Boutique with Antonio Biaggi and numerous online publications.


our team

46 SPRING 2020

spring 2020 issue

editors-in-chief Samuel Lee Shamir Malik

advertising and social media Maya Kshatriya Alexandro Chu Angela Lin

editorial board

Natalie Palumbo Sarah Fu Alexandria Gonzales Bryan Wong Kelsey Gao Paige Guyatt Sonya Batth Subin Park Yousef Abumustafa


Heather Zhao Saud Haseeb

graphics and layout Veronica Iskander Hana Brath Amy Zhu Cezera Ene Peri Ren Gracia Chen Lyan Abdul

blog and development Abeer Ahmad Nicole Areias Karen Li


John Chiong Zahra Abdallah


Gracie Liu Amit Nehru Chaitali Parkh


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