While Sebastian Molnar was still living in Toronto, he and his buddies took a weekend road trip to Montréal for the city’s annual jazz festival where, at one of the stages, a melodic fusion of jazz and Latin music emanated from the performing band.
“I never heard this music before,” Molnar said in a March interview with The Ubyssey. “It was just amazing.”
advertising the “old-school” way through word of mouth and stapling fliers to telephone poles around the city, an amateur group started to draw and the team began performing locally.
“It wasn’t a huge class, but it was a good start,” said Molnar.
ABBIE LEE NOUSNOU IWASAKI/ UNSPLASH
1. Attend three general meetings (Fridays at 4 p.m. in room 2208 in the Nest).
2. Contribute three times to The Ubyssey ! This can mean writing three articles, taking three photos or videos, making three illustrations or helping copyedit three times. Or you can mix and match!
3. Attend your third general meeting with those three contributions, and The Ubyssey ’s staff members will vote you in! U
Molnar described the sound as flamenco music meets the rumba of Gipsy Kings infused with Spanish guitar — that’s when Molnar’s attention turned to the audience.
“All these people were dancing and moving,” said Molnar. “I was like, ‘I want to know how they do that.’”
It took a couple years to act on that inspiration, and in his final year of undergrad at York University, Molnar started taking dance classes with a friend at the campus student recreation centre.
Soon after, Molnar made the move to Vancouver for his master’s of science at UBC. At the time, teaching assistants were striking on campus and an acquaintance approached Molnar in the protest’s picket lines — her dance team needed guys.
Molnar spent a few months picking up choreography and the team began to dance together, performing locally and attending workshops down in California.
“Taking the workshop, for me, was more interesting than performing to be honest,” Molnar laughed. “Because there’s so many things, and there’s so many instructors and so many fancy moves that I’ve never seen before, different ways of dancing.”
When the team disbanded a few years later, the keys to their studio fell to Molnar, so he began preparing the space to hold his own classes in a nearly non-existent local Latin dance community.
One person showed up to his first lesson. But after a summer of
During more recent summers, pockets of downtown beat with an infectious drone of laughter, talk and percussive rhythms booming from a loudspeaker as people flock to the city’s squares to groove together. In a city notoriously known for being lonely, Salsa clubs, Bachata nights and Tango milongas have become a hub of community connection through movement that requires collaboration.
As Vancouver’s fluid cultural landscape evolves, so has its contribution to Latin art. The city’s new generation of musicians and artists are drawing from tradition and the contemporary fabrics of the arts and culture scene.
For Molnar, this growing community has meant more opportunities to dance. But the stage fright never fully goes away.
“Every single time I’m gonna perform, the whole week leading up to it, no matter how many times I’ve practiced — if it’s a new routine or old routine — I always start thinking about that performance coming up,” said Molnar.
But the growing desire to participate in Latin dance has also meant more opportunities to teach. Molnar is now the UBC Latin Dance Club’s Salsa instructor. His background in science seeps into his approach to teaching, where his focus on coordinating movement is “analytical and technical.”
“Timing is really critical, timing is literally everything. So [in] dancing, your whole existence is based on [the] rhythm of the music,” said Molnar. “There’s technique in the timing — when do you lead? When do you follow?”
Salsa is not a homogenous genre. It moulds around people and places, from LA-style Salsa on One to New York-style Salsa on Two. Throughout his career, Molnar has taught
and danced his way around the world in collectives in the US and Japan, exposing him to a wide variety of Salsa styles, each with their own “distinct flavour.”
“The music is also different from those different places … So that also dictates how you should dance, because you want to dance to the music. You don’t want to just dance randomly,” said Molnar. “You want to listen to that music and then try to go with what you’re feeling. Even if you don’t understand the language … there’s a certain feeling in the music.”
A student of Molnar’s will go from actively counting the beat of a song, often with tension, as Molnar said, to eventually swaying naturally with all elements of the music once they’re added. And as doing any form of art together would have it, Molnar said he’s learning too — his selfish reason for joining the team.
“If you teach, then you’re also learning too and training,” Molnar said. “That’s why I teach, it’s because I’m also in front of people, but I’m training myself by explaining things to other people, getting them to understand … then you improve, over many years, how you’re presenting the material, so I’m learning that way as well.”
“But it’s also my excuse to get out of the house because if I’m not teaching, I’m probably not going to go out on my own as much,” he joked.
Because as Molnar said, the best part of Latin dance is the fact that it’s a celebration every time.
“You’re always going to a party. You dance with new people and then it’s a new experience too, even if you’re doing the same moves and the same steps,” Molar said. “Every person you connect to, it could be a totally different experience.”
That’s why Molnar’s advice for new dancers is to not sweat the learning curve, practice the basics and follow your partner and the music’s flow.
“Just keep at it, go to the party, enjoy the party.” U
Fiona
— With files from Stella Griffin
Molnar’s background in science seeps into his approach to teaching, where his focus on coordinating movement is “analytical and technical.”
The 2024 AMS Academic Experience Survey (AES) revealed that only 30 per cent of students with one or more disabilities are registered with UBC’s Centre for Accessibility (CFA).
This figure has remained consistent across surveys since 2019, and according to the 2024 report, “the [reason] for the vast majority of students not registered with the CFA … was not choice or preference.”
The survey showed that 22 per cent of students with disabilities found the CFA registration process too inconvenient and another 22 per cent were unaware of the services offered. A further 19 per cent reported not knowing how to navigate the registration process.
In an interview with The Ubyssey, then-AMS VP Academic and University Affairs Drédyn Fontana highlighted the scope of the issue and emphasized the CFA’s need for better data collection strategies.
“It’s a larger issue than just the CFA. It’s the entire infrastructure of UBC,” Fontana said.
“Feedback mechanisms are really important and not just … for students registered, but … for any student that comes to the front desk and asks for a service and then
ON THE RISE //
isn’t able to get that service.”
Fontana also said UBC units need to collaborate to ensure a more holistic approach to accessibility is taken.
“There should be more collaboration, and there should be more units with the ability to enforce human rights legislation with a
more intersectional lens,” he said.
“That’s something that people really have been asking for, and … UBC can step up.”
CFA Director Wendy Norman spoke to The Ubyssey about the problems highlighted in the AES and said the accessibility issues faced at UBC mirror broader trends
throughout Canada.
“Significantly more students report … having a disability than there are students accessing centres like the CFA [across Canada],” she said.
Norman pointed to growing challenges within the Canadian healthcare system and evolving
cultural and legal definitions of disability as key factors contributing to this gap.
“Finding appropriate care … finding a family doctor, wait times and cost for assessments, etc., have gotten increasingly challenging for everybody, including students,” Norman said.
Norman also outlined several short-term strategies the CFA is working to address barriers to care. These range from developing orientation materials and infographics to creating an information toolkit for students.
“We are [also] exploring online booking for students …. and identifying mechanisms for student feedback,” she added.
Norman also said the CFA is working to improve accessibility for specific student groups, such as international students, as a part of its broader strategy to expand accessibility and support across UBC’s diverse student population.
Looking ahead, Norman emphasized the need for systemic solutions.
“Long-term, we really need to look at our broader communication strategy and how that connects to other resources and channels at the institution,” she said.
“Systemic work is really critical to the future direction of both the CFA and really accessibility as a whole at UBC and elsewhere.” U
2023 Campus Security report shows increase in nearly all crime rates
Ishan Choudhury Senior Staff Reporter
The 2023 Vancouver Campus Security report shows Campus Security received a total number of 34,234 calls for service — over triple the previous year’s 10,017 calls — and 12,230 incident reports.
Nearly all incidents increased except for property protection and access, which saw a slight decrease from 7,141 reports to 6,903. The number of incidents involving persons increased from 18 to 49, with 21 reports of assault and 16 reports of uttering threats.
Incidents involving property also increased with general theft going from 65 cases to over 80 and bike theft specifically had over 80 cases. There was also a slight increase in breaking and entering and theft involving automobiles.
In a statement to The Ubyssey , Director of Campus Security Sam Stephens attributed this increase to the return of pre-COVID campus operations, a focus on detailed data and incident reporting and greater awareness of Campus Security services which have led to more community members reporting incidents.
“Additionally, the presence of more non-community members on campus resulted in an increase in incidents such as theft, mischief, and trespassing,” wrote Stephens.
The report is usually presented to UBC’s Board of Governors in
June, but this year it was not presented until September because
“Campus Security was given an extension in order to focus on operational responses to the MacInnes Field protest encampment,” according to UBC Media Relations Director of University Affairs
Matthew Ramsey in a September statement to The Ubyssey
Over the summer, a Palestinian solidarity encampment took place on the field for 71 days and also saw protestors occupy buildings, organize vigils and hold demonstrations demanding UBC divest from companies protestors say are complicit in Palestinian human rights abuses. There were also two encampment-related
arrests, both for mischief.
“During the summer, the encampment did impact our dayto-day operations, particularly regarding resource allocation and coordination,” wrote Stephens. “We responded with enhanced planning and collaboration to manage these events in an inclusive way, supporting campus activities to continue with minimal disruption.”
Looking ahead, the report also outlined challenges in 2024, with one being to continue to have adequate support “due to the considerable increase in demonstrations and protests, primarily related to ongoing global conflicts and other community concerns.”
CAMPUS SECURITY UNVEILS THREE YEAR ROAD MAP
Campus Security also initiated and completed a year-long community-wide research, consultation and engagement process called the Model Validation Project.
Stephens wrote, “this year’s publication took slightly longer due to our efforts to complete the Model Validation Project ... which required additional time to incorporate into the report.”
The project concluded with the creation of a three year roadmap for the department. This roadmap was further split into 52 actionable projects. Some of these items
include the development of a specialized community support team to respond to first aid calls, mental health concerns and reports of domestic or sexual violence.
Campus Security also had their first leadership strategic collaboration session and consisted of Campus Security members addressing the goals and priorities of the department. The session highlighted an emphasis on team culture and the need to bridge gaps in between different campus security units.
Investments were also made for staff’s professional development with training in areas such first aid, mental health and equity, diversity and inclusion. Staff were also trained on threat readiness, which included education on the threat landscape and emergency management protocols.
In 2024, the Campus Security team participated in a refresher training session that covered recognizing opioid overdose signs and symptoms, conducting patient assessment, administering nasal naloxone and providing patient care. This provided the team with up-to-date overdose knowledge and response skills.
“Our focus in Campus Security remains the safety of our community,” wrote Stephens.
“We are committed to continuing to create a safe and secure environment for all members of the campus community.” U
Only 30 per cent of students with disabilities are registered with the Centre for Accessibility.
Staff were trained on threat readiness, which included education on the threat landscape and emergency management protocols.
ISA S. YOU / THE UBYSSEY
TATIANA ZHANDARMOVA/ THE UBYSSEY
‘A pattern of feeling unheard’: RA says UBC discriminated on the basis of mental illness
Aisha Chaudhry & Viyan Handley News Editors
On first-year move-in day in August 2023, Alex, who was working as a residence advisor (RA), stepped outside to take a breath.
This break began a chain of events that would eventually lead Alex to leave his job.
As an individual with depersonalization-derealization disorder (DPDR), he found himself starting to stumble over words and becoming unfocused. Alex often relies on taking short breaks during long periods of focus in order to keep his disassociation in check.
Alex, whose name has been changed to protect his identity, worked as a UBC RA for three years.
The now-fifth-year international economics major initially loved being an RA, but when he moved from Place Vanier to Marine Drive in his fourth year, Alex noticed a shift in the way he was being treated.
“I felt the way management treated me and was treating other RAs was really unfair,” said Alex in an interview with The Ubyssey
In his monthly one-on-one with his Residence Life Manager (RLM), Alex said they continuously brought up the break he took. “[They brought it up as] a sort of way to reprimand me and demonstrate distrust in me, and I felt like that was inappropriate,” he said.
Afterwards, Alex sent an email explaining what had happened on move-in day and why he needed to take small breaks, to which he said he received no response.
A week later, there was another move-in day and Alex found himself dissociating again. This time though, Alex went to his RLM first to ask to
take a break.
“In that time where I was dissociating and I wasn’t able to really be present … I was hoping for understanding,” Alex said. “But instead, I was asked to justify why I need a break … [and] how this is going to impact the team.”
“I feel like from that moment on … [it] just always felt like I was treated as lesser than and [as if I was] not committed to the role.”
Alex further told The Ubyssey his RLM also scrutinized a washroom break he took on the second move-in day.
“I was asked, ‘Why did I need to go to the washroom?’ [and] what I did in there, which was bizarre, and I just felt everything I did came under scrutiny.”
Alex said he felt his condition was being viewed as unimportant or non-existent, and the stress he was feeling in the workplace caused him to set up another meeting with his RLM.
“Instead of offering help, I was told that … ‘If you want something from me, you have to offer something. You have to offer what you will do in return.’”
On January 9, Alex sent an email to his RLM to express “discomfort with the tone of [his RLM’s] conversation in professional settings,” and his hope that the two could “foster a more constructive and respectful working environment going forward.”
According to Alex, this email — including a follow-up he sent — never received a reply.
In a January 29 one-on-one, Alex said he attempted to discuss the contents of his earlier email. In response, his RLM told him they hadn’t replied because the email was “disrespect-
ful” and that he should “think before sending an email like that.”
After these failed attempts to have his concerns heard, Alex sent an email to his RLM and CC’d all the RAs in Marine Drive. In that email, he wrote of his experiences of feeling “unwelcome, unheard, and emotionally unsafe in Marine Drive,” and highlighted that he felt “discriminatory bias” from his RLM on the basis of his mental illness.
“I was just hoping to spur a deeper conversation and maybe encourage some other RAs to come forward and share things too,” Alex said. He told The Ubyssey that he knew he wasn’t the only person who’d experienced difficulties with management, and that there was a “pattern of feeling unheard” among RAs.
The Ubyssey was unable to interview other RAs about their experiences.
Statistics Canada reported that less than half of youth with a mental health-related disability are employed and that the most common type of disability among youth is mental health-related. The BC Human Rights Code says employers cannot discriminate based on mental disability.
Alex said he also reached out to Andrew Quenneville, UBC’s associate director of strategic initiatives and staff development, about his concerns.
“There is a culture I have noticed throughout the big team that people are afraid of my RLM, and it really does not feel right to me,” wrote Alex to Quenneville.
“He was a lot more supportive, at least for listening to what had happened, and giving me advice. But there also wasn’t too much he could
AMS COUNCIL TO DEFER VP AUA BY-ELECTION AND APPOINT INTERIM VPS
On November 20, AMS Council met to appoint both an interim VP academic and university affairs (AUA) and VP finance.
On November 6, Council approved a motion to remove previous VP AUA Drédyn Fontana six months into his term, effective immediately, due to performance concerns including non-confidence to complete his goals and “misrepresentation to Council.” However, The AMS has not specified what misrepresentation to Council means. The AMS released a statement which said the society cannot release “further information on this decision … due to privacy reasons.” The AMS released a statement writing “no further information on this decision can be provided due to privacy reasons.”
Zarifa Nawar — previously AVP university — was appointed interim VP AUA. A motion was also passed to defer the VP AUA by-election to January and is when Nawar’s term will end.
do,” said Alex about Quenneville in an interview with The Ubyssey
On the advice of Quenneville, Alex also reached out to Samantha Morrison, the HR manager of student health & wellbeing and student housing and community services.
Both Queenville and Morrison outlined alternative routes Alex could take.
This included reaching out to Counsellor in Residence, UBC’s Stay at Work/Return to Work Office to get workplace accommodations and going to UBC’s Equity and Inclusion Office as the office offers human rights advising and is where UBC community members can make discrimination reports.
In a statement to The Ubyssey, Director of Student Residence Lakshmi Sangaranarayanan wrote that UBC values the contributions of RAs and takes any concerns they raise very seriously.
“While we cannot comment on specific cases due to privacy considerations, we encourage anyone with concerns to use the university’s established reporting channels,” Sangaranarayanan wrote.
After what he called a disheartening year, Alex decided not to return as an RA, a position he’d once loved.
Regardless of his presence, Alex said he wanted to see a more comprehensive plan from UBC in order to better accommodate the physical and mental health concerns of RA’s.
“If someone’s communicating a need, I would just like to see that need addressed,” he said.
“[RAs] are there for [the] one-on-one supporting [of] other students. They do it out of the goodness of their heart, and it’s really disheartening to see.” U
VP Finance Gavin Fung-Quon took a leave of absence, which began November 12, due to “personal reasons,” according to a statement from President Christian ‘CK’ Kyle to The Ubyssey Amber Dhaliwal — previously AVP finance — was appointed as the interim. Dhaliwal’s employment will last until the end of the VP finance’s term in April, according to the job posting.
Council also approved a motion from the Governance Committee to make an amendment to the AMS’s record policy (SR2). This amendment was to allow the AMS to share all records with the society’s lawyers.
“We noticed that this isn’t explicit in the policy .... but it’s good to have it in a policy for governance” said Governance Committee chair Eshana Bhangu. U — Aisha Chaudhry
AMENDMENTS TO AMS’S RESPECTFUL WORKPLACE AND THE SEXUALIZED VIOLENCE POLICY
Council also heard a motion to make amendments to the AMS’s Respectful Community and Workplace Policy (PC1) and the Sexualized Violence Policy (PC2).
CK said at the end of last year a motion was passed to implement a robust alternative investigations process to remove the AMS Ombudsperson. An advisory group was also created to review amendments and the HR Committee decided in the summer the best path forward would be to pilot outsourcing investigations for the year until August 2025. CK said afterwards, a review of the data would be done to see if outsourcing should continue to be done.
The motion also included that these amendments would not be counted towards the annual review of the policy.
Both amendments to PC1 and PC2 were approved. U — Aisha Chaudhry
After what he called a disheartening year, Alex decided not to return as an RA, a position he’d once loved.
ISABELLA FALSETTI / THE UBYSSEY
Nocturne
Editor’s note
Sonder: the realization that every person you’ll ever meet — the enigmatic commuter you run into at the bus stop every morning whose name you’ll never ask for, the kids stumbling on their own feet at a playground, your local grocer, your mother, the actor you saw on a screen last evening — is existing in their own world.
During some of the shortest days of the year, most of us have no choice but to become civil with the night. It’s an instinctual act that brings us together, yet we all go about it in such different ways. And that’s why, if you pay attention, as the sky dims, the lights in windows flicker into the after-hours and everyone floats around their own little corner of the world, it is no more apparent than at night that everyone is living a life that is as
real and full and coloured as one’s own. This supplement grew out of that feeling, 16 pages pervaded with honest storytelling and vulnerability. It’s an ode to nighttime, in all its obscurity and comfort, from the journey home, to the waking hours past bedtime. Almost purposefully, nightfall prompts some of the rawest and heaviest emotion, and along with that, imagination, reflection and art. I’d like to think we all share something in common that can be bonded over in one of the most beautiful ways through good writing and good artistry. From the realists to the dreamers — no, we’re not so different after all.
— Fiona Sjaus Features editor
illustrations by Abbie Lee photo courtesy nousnou iwasaki/Unsplash
I wonder if it feels so good to watch strangers because they’re just postcards to me —
by
— maybe I simply see in them what I would see in myself if I ever turned toward my own reflection in the window.
photos by Colette Kimura
photos
Colette Kimura
For a long time,
words by Jared Ongking
I went to bed early
“For a long time, I went to bed early,” begins the first page of Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), written in exquisitely-formed cursive by an unknown reader, whose second-hand folio I found for two dollars at a used book sale.
In this day and age, however, it is only an enviable minority who can relate to the protagonist of À la recherche du temps perdu. The rest of us, whether by necessity or habit, are ill-acquainted with an early bedtime.
But, whether lying in bed or roaming the quiet, palely-lit streets, Proust writes, we are not quite ourselves at night — no, we are no longer the person who left for school all those hours ago.
For it is at night we are most alone — even our neighbour has withdrawn her cacophonous presence in fear of another noise complaint, and we are under no obligation to be the self others know us by.
If most nights are spent similarly — studying, cooking, showering, eating — it is perhaps in our interest to imagine these things when we are urged to, in today’s vernacular, “touch grass.” So we fabricate a pretense of tasks simply to allow ourselves the privilege of a quiet walk at night.
As usual, it’s raining in Vancouver, but not intensely enough to deter us from our adventure. In fact, we may forgo the umbrella in favour of a waterproof jacket and enjoy the light touch of falling rainwater. After all, present-
ability is of little interest to us at this hour.
At around 9 p.m., we leave the building with our backpack on, of course, giving reason for this excursion. As the door opens before us, we hear a little patter on the pavement, like the uncertain knock of a tiny hand — multiplying, pulsating, swelling into spheres of syncopated sound.
Of course, it is raining harder than expected, but we will not be stopped. It’s still possible to take a walk, with no need to retrieve our umbrella.
Lingering under the porch, we put in our earbuds, searching for music that complements the current atmosphere.
“I’ve been running around in circles / Pretending to be myself.”
“Look in my eyes, tell me a tale / Do you see the road, the map to my soul?”
“'Cause honey I’ll come get my things, but I can’t let go / I’m waiting for it, that green light, I want it.”
A Chopin nocturne: “Chinese Satellite” by Phoebe Bridgers, “My Eyes” by Travis Scott and “Green Light” by Lorde, all imperfectly heterogeneous yet individually sublime. Now nothing stands between us and this moment — we need not worry about an errant call, nor an urgent email. As Virginia Woolf writes, “this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures.”
An approaching street sign informs us we’ve reached 3rd Avenue. Having started at York, we are four fifths
Close to home
UBC BUS EXCHANGE
Eyebags, backpacks, packed leftovers — people stumble aboard the line of buses like zombies at nightfall, a stark contrast to the morning commute when the entire vehicle bustles with energy.
Well, I guess at any time of day, you’ll find someone napping in a corner or barely staying awake as their thumb scrolls across their screen, moving with a mind of its own. But at half past seven, every move I observe feels deliberate, every word I hear is a venture against the silence of the bus.
WESTERN PARKWAY
These days, I spend most of my time distracting myself so much I can’t think. There’s a strategy behind it — lots of scheming, lots of effort and skill. I put in my earbuds as soon as I sit down to study, and while I make dinner, I let a show run. As soon as I wake up, I pick up my phone and answer messages from friends and family to scroll the sleep away. On the bus ride home, when I can’t chase away the thoughts with my phone — its charge as depleted as mine — I people-watch.
HAMBER ROAD
Two girls, their hair up and slicked-back, are crouched together over a phone in one of the bus’s rows. They’re laughing loudly, unabashedly, one short video after the other flickering over the display. There’s a man across from them, his annoyance emanating from his skin. If we were in a cartoon, I think his irritation would be illustrated in little bursts of steam bouncing off his skin.
TOLMIE STREET
A guy steps on board holding a tiny black dog tightly in his arms. The dog is wearing yellow shoes, and I wonder why its owner put them on at all if it’s going to be carried around all day anyway.
4100 BLOCK
Another guy sits down with his face so close to the window I worry he’s going to knock himself out at a sharp turn. Every time the doors open, his head snaps to the entrance to catch the line of people stepping on — I imagine he’s expecting the love of his life to walk through them. An elderly woman in a massive floral coat steps on and he promptly smushes his face against the glass again.
ALMA STREET
A girl runs past my seat at the window. I feel sorry for her, out there in the cold rain, before registering that the bus has in fact not moved yet. The driver waits patiently. She gets on, mutters a quick “thank you” and the bus sets in motion again.
MACDONALD STREET
Shops and restaurants flash by, casting a warm light over the people seated or rushing by, unwavering.
YEW STREET
On days when I feel particularly tired and cold, I mute my brain with my Notes app, brushing past grocery lists and profound teenage poetry to a page titled, “This Made My Day.”
It harbours a bullet point list of brief passages from gloomy days when I could never get quite warm enough, of things that filled me with joy, even if just for a moment. “A little boy at the train station waved at the train I was on so excitedly his arm might’ve just fallen off,” one reads. And another, “Watched the episode of Downton Abbey where Carson proposes to Ms. Hughes” — sometimes, those moments come to me quickly.
BURRARD STREET
And sometimes they don’t.
through the journey. Looking up, the fluorescence of 4th begins to reveal itself.
Finally, the caution in our step is relieved — the street slackens its acuity. Now the puddles are illumed by cones of amber light, and our shoes shall be spared another soaking of stormwater.
Here we are reminded of our initial alibi; yes, we were visiting the grocer. Having journeyed to the shopping hub that is West 4th, we should find one without much difficulty, perhaps more interested in a smaller produce market we have yet to visit.
So, thrown into relief by a welcome current of warm air, we peruse each fruit basket with the utmost curiosity under a flickering yellow light bulb, the sole source of movement within the store.
When we turn around, smile apologetically at the cashier and step back out into the rain, feigning surprise at having bought nothing, we’re unable to fool ourselves. There’s no disappointment in coming home empty-handed, not even in the time we’ve wasted walking through the rain.
For even as we trudge through the soggy autumn leaves, feeling those crystalline, pear-shaped water droplets rolling softly through our half-drenched hair (we had forgotten to raise our hood upon leaving the store) — we may yet recall the day we went to the store to buy nothing. U
FIR STREET
Sometimes it takes so long to think of something I pocket my phone again and watch the passersby a bit more. The boy across from me is sagged against the window, his mouth opened just the tiniest bit. I pity how disgusting the window will taste once he wakes up.
A couple sits across from the doors, not talking, just staring out the window. Their hands are interlocked but I notice they’re not holding one another’s properly — one of them just grips the other’s pinky. And I think this might be my moment for the day.
ALDER STREET
It’s quiet on the bus. I hadn’t even noticed the two girls stepped off at some point.
Alder Street is my favorite stop to get off at. I look forward to the walk, even though it’s steep and dark. Between here and home is Choklit Park. There’s always a certain scent in the air and at least two couples perched together on the benches, their faces close together as they puff out the smoke of a shared joint. What I like most is the view of downtown from up there. I only ever catch a glimpse, walking by quickly to not disturb the couples, but maybe that makes it more worthwhile — like glancing at a postcard stuck to a new friend’s fridge when you don’t want to be caught staring.
I wonder if it feels so good to watch strangers because they’re just postcards to me — maybe I simply see in them what I would see in myself if I ever turned toward my own reflection in the window.
Reaching Alder Street, I yank on the yellow cord and stand up, throwing my backpack over my shoulder.
I get off, pacing toward the park. My phone should have enough power left to listen to music on the way home, right? U
words by Friederike Baack
Window watching
My apartment sits at the top of my building. The Penthouse, as my friends call it, looks out across the woods and over the bay. It’s a beautiful view — one I should probably pay more for.
One of the things I love about the view is the building across the street. The regal exterior boasts large windows and wood panelling, an unobtrusive landmark compared to my own building’s concrete walls. Through those large windows come small glimpses into my neighbours’ lives. I don’t live close enough to see specific details, but having a short impression of someone’s life can be a beautiful thing, and it doesn’t take much to start imagining what I cannot see.
For my overly creative mind, those glimpses turn into stories. True or not.
There’s the girl baking something in the kitchen. She’s wearing headphones so she can speak to her mother about her sibling’s high school play without disturbing her roommates. She laughs as she scoops flour into a measuring cup, some of it dusting her hair.
Two boys sit on a bed together, their hands almost touching as they lean back in a shared ecstasy. A loud rap song plays through a huge speaker, the room vibrating as they scream the lyrics. Both wear sunglasses despite the darkness outside, but they don’t seem to care about the irony of it all.
A group of four friends sit around a dining table, laptops out in front of them. Crushed energy drink
cans litter the tabletop, a fresh pack sitting in the kitchen waits to be opened. Their eyes are bloodshot as their fingers type away — nothing can distract them in this moment. Someone offers to order pizza. They all yell at him to shut up.
A couple slow dances in the middle of a studio apartment. Her arms are on his neck, his hands on her waist. They sway back and forth to a jazz song, a prolonged note from a saxophone filling every space in the room besides the one between them. She rests her head on his shoulder and he breathes a sigh of relief. He finally feels safe.
A boy stares out his window at the sky. Tears stain his cheeks as he watches the clouds drift by. He brings a can of beer to his lips, trying to still his quivering chin, but the attempt is futile. Someone knocks on his door. He curses and wipes at his eyes furiously. I can’t see who’s there.
Each of these scenes takes me out of my own life and into someone else’s. I feel their joy, their pain, their stress and their love for one another. I rest my forehead on my own window, the glass chilly from the night air, wishing I could know more about their lives. I want to help them, comfort them, but I’m just a neighbour, an outsider looking in. A hopeful stranger.
I wonder if they look into my window. What do they think? It’s hard to tell, but I hope they see what I do: a person who isn’t so different from them. U
words by Olivia Vos
photos by Saumya Kamra
How lonesome the night
7:00 p.m.
The days are getting shorter.
My eyes are still tired from the night before. I've decided to go for a walk to wind down for the evening.
South Memorial Park is beautiful as the day turns — parents bring their kids to the playground, people play cricket in the field, crows fly across the sky and the day dims around us.
I walk to the willow trees and sit for a while before calling my best friend.
I complain, “I have a hard time being single, because I just want to be cuddled all the time.”
She’s one to keep it real with me.
“It’s because you don’t have a practice of being alone in your body — you don’t play sports, you don’t dance, so of course cuddling and sex are the only times you feel truly embodied.”
“Okay, you didn’t have to call me out like that!” I say, while imagining myself in another yoga class led by a problematic white woman or a dance class where I’m falling behind embarrassingly.
I watch the kids across the park chasing a soccer ball and the tops of the cedar trees shining golden as the sun sets.
I always feel less alone when I’m among my neighbours here.
8:00 p.m.
Shiela Ma calls me daily like the clockwork of her delicate vintage wristwatch.
I can hear in her voice she’s exhausted, recovering from a cold. At 83, her daily life is routine — she’s usually in bed early, she makes her last phone calls of the day, reads her Urdu bible and prays in a fierce whisper to God.
But today, she’s had a different kind of day. She’s just returned from a visit to see her sister, who lives in a nursing home, and to the gravesite of my grandfather. I can sense she’s had a day of dancing around mortality.
Shiela Ma’s way of resisting death is being close to the ones she loves. So every day, without fail, she dials the number of her brother in Toronto, her aunty in New York and her son in Singapore. It’s her way of staying close, staying connected, staying alive.
9:00 p.m.
Before my former partner of five years moved out, this was the Netflix Hour. Almost certainly dark, it was a good time for it. At this hour, you can decide on a movie and still get to bed before midnight, or get a few episodes of a show in.
I’d put the kettle on, let it turn orange-red, wait for the steam to rise and brew chamomile petals for tea like an evening potion.
He’d queue up whatever we decided to watch. I’d ask to put my feet up on his lap and the TV’s glow would light up our faces in the darkness of our small but cozy living room.
We broke up and he moved out five months ago. I contemplated getting rid of the TV but I’ve made peace with it, knowing watching TV won't be quite the same without him.
Now, I cover the screen with a blanket and try to find something else to do.
10:00 p.m.
I stopped smoking weed a few months ago, realizing it was clouding up my dreams, slowing my reaction time.
But I still really like the smell of a bong toke. It reminds me of the evening ritual I used to have with my old roommate Elisha.
myself with a small secret torch between my fingers, feeling the night’s cool breeze through the tall leafy trees on Elgin Street.
11:00 p.m.
I lay in bed — tuck my pillow under my head just right. Pull the blanket over my shoulder.
I lay in bed — Wanting to be held.
This body wants to be rocked and cradled. This body wants to be scooped and spooned.
What seeds will be planted here in the darkest parts of my soil?
is millions of tiny organisms in the dark universe of my insides turning like small galaxies.
I am never alone, Always a We.
Midnight
That’s the hour Cinderella runs home, right? — clock strikes, carriage to pumpkin, ballgown to apron.
I used to go clubbing when I was in my early twenties and take five too many shots of tequila, looking for myself in the back of someone else’s throat with my tongue.
I still go out to dance with my friends these days. I take the oath of being the designated driver, put in my earplugs to drown out the invasive boom that pulses through the club. If I get home by midnight, it counts as a success.
We’d sit out on the deck and rip the bong, sending big clouds of smoke up to the power lines as we debriefed the day and contemplated the nature of time once the cannabis started talking. How slippery, how incomprehensible, how endless the hours could be.
I haven’t seen Elisha in years. They moved back home in a hurry during the COVID-19 lockdown in the spring of 2020.
I kept our ritual alive for a while on my own in those early days of the pandemic. I’d walk through the neighbourhood all by
This
This body, like an endless night is hungry and ink-stained.
This body wants to be oiled with lavender’s scent And steeped in salted epsom water. This body, I remind myself,
1:00 a.m.
One is the loneliest number.
My ex messages me to say, “You are far from lonely.”
I put pictures of friends and the departed up on my wall so I can remember this. I talk to the photos of my ancestors, especially the one of my grandfather gleaming. Though his physical body is six feet under, I feel how alive his memory is in me.
“Hey Dadu Ji.”
He’s watching after me with that sparkle in his eye. And I hear him now, laughing and singing his nickname for me, “Oh mere gideruuuuuu!”
How can I ever be alone with these memories?
2:00 a.m.
I dream of whales and deep dark waters.
I dream of a bonfire under the harvest moon.
I dream of my friends dancing around it.
The waves lick our sandy feet.
We are black silhouettes against the indigo horizon.
I dream of cold water lashing at my back.
I dream of singing to my lovers, the way whales sing to each other.
Will they hear my deep dark song through the night?
3:00 a.m.
The witching hour, they call it.
I shuffle the cards and pull one from the stack with a flick of the wrist.
I speak in quiet whispers.
I wrap myself in moonlight. The bones hanging from my window twirl in the rising incense.
If I am up, it must be spirits keeping me awake.
At my altar, tinctures for sleep: valerian root, passionflower and lavender in drops under my tongue.
I anoint my temples with oils infused in bergamot and orange peel.
I sing, “Oh mama, oh mother, wrap me in the centre of a lonesome rose petal. And send me sailing into the lonesome land of dreams.” U
body of decaying flesh wants to be touched, caressed.
words by Anjalica Solomon
illustrations by Emilija Vitols Harrison
photos by Saumya Kamra
Slipping through my fingers all the time
For many, the night is a time of escape and peace, but for the majority of my life, it’s been one of my worst enemies.
As a kid, I believed that if I let my eyes shut, I’d awake to everyone gone.
There was this dread that would bubble in my throat along with a queasiness in my stomach. The anxiety would make me nauseous and wane my focus. The thoughts consumed my mind and left me jittery and restless.
My dad didn’t live with us and only visited a few times a year. The last days of his stay always felt like torture. Each time he came, I would allow myself to get used to his presence instead of treating it for what it really was: an anomaly.
I have one memory where my little sister and I are laying in bed with him. We’re tucked on either side of him and Go, Diego, Go! is playing on the TV. With my sister fast asleep, my father tries to soothe me to sleep, too.
I fought so fucking hard to stay awake because I knew he’d be gone in the morning. But that didn’t
matter, because my body was working against my mind and eventually I fell asleep. He would be gone for months.
This fear of the night ending seeped into my routines with others as well. Sometimes when I couldn’t bear to sleep alone, I would wiggle into my mom’s bed and the same dread hovered over me when she had to leave for early morning shifts at the 911 call centre. I’d wake up while she was getting ready and watch the clock, willing it to stop ticking onward.
Eventually she’d come to kiss me goodbye and tell me to go back to sleep, but I rarely could. More often than not, my grandparents — who were waking up for morning prayers — would find me at 6 a.m. watching Looney Tunes to keep me company.
I couldn’t tell you why I was so afraid of my mom leaving. I knew she’d be back in the evening, and that always proved true. But the thought of the two of us being forced apart sent me into a nervous frenzy.
As I’ve gotten older, it’s been slightly easier to say bye to my dad, even as the periods apart get longer.
And I don’t feel fear when my mom goes to work anymore.
Technology has played a small part in this. I can now call my dad whenever I like and my mom texts me when she gets home later than usual. Put simply, I have just gotten used to this routine and the absence of some people in my life.
But the dread never fully went away. It’s just been transferred to other people.
Whenever I’m with my girlfriend, I will stay up into the ungodly hours of the night, even if I have to wake up early the next morning. Although we’re usually talking about nothing, I would rather stay up with her than risk falling asleep and having time slip away from me.
I’m being dramatic, I know. I’ll see her in a few days. But that knowledge doesn’t stop me from feeling like a truck has hit me when I hear my alarm go off.
If I could beg the night to stay, I would. If only it would listen to me so I could make up for all the time I’ve spent away from the people I love. U
illustrations by Abbie Lee
words by Aisha Chaudhry
Night terror
words by Sophie Voysey
illustrations by Ayla Cilliers
I wish I could pinpoint the moment when life started feeling like a rickety, cyclical machine taking me along for the ride — I wish I could pinpoint it so I could throttle it with my bare hands, squashing it down until adulthood was a thing of fiction and childhood remained my present and my future.
It feels cruel that I got to experience the simple pleasures of the night with an almost sickening delight.
When I was younger, the evenings meant a time for travel — each book opened was uncharted territory.
“Please just one more! One more!” I would plead alongside my siblings. When my parents gave in, one of us would pull out another book we had stashed behind the pillows. Just in case…
Now, I stare at the empty bookshelves in the living room; a wordless tomb with a beautifully embossed cover, a large vase with wilting flowers and an empty wooden box barely filling the space of what once was.
As I wander down the long hall, I pass my parents room, a place that used to be a vessel for space launches, jungle expeditions and belly-aching laughter. Some nights, when an almost tangible nostalgia
ebbs through my house, I attempt to mimic memories.
I grab an old book, flip through its pages and try to lose myself in its familiar simplicity. But my forced excitement gets tangled in the words, now meaningless and pathetic. I stare at my faded reflection in the mirror as my toothbrush creates green suds over my teeth and I can almost swear I see my twin sister next to me, rocking her hips side to side for our nightly bathroom dance number when we’d forget about brushing our teeth, laughing and screaming until our mom came in to tell us it was time to hurry into bed.
Now, no one comes to tell me when I should sleep. No one walks me up the steep steps and fluffs up my pillow. No one kisses me on the forehead and whispers, “Sweet dreams.”
Now, with myself as my own company, I take the steep steps two at a time and punch my pillow soft. Now, I smother my bed sheets over my head and wait impatiently for nothingness to stay for a few short hours.
I am still home but it feels far from it. The space isn’t yet devoid of voices but it feels so empty.
Sound no longer dances around the house, no longer warms the space like the aromas of sweet tomato and sharp parmesan. When I walk through the door, I’m no longer greeted by bowls of pasta at the dinner table.
Now, I arrive home at obscure hours, passing the dining room table, a piece of furniture where seats lie vacant.
In this new life, there is no time for clasping hands for grace, going for second helpings or sharing snippets of harmless drama from recess.
Tonight, I enter a household that’s already asleep. I kick off my mud-caked shoes and head toward the counter where a small pot of cold leftovers awaits me. I eat straight from the dish, barely registering what passes my lips before my nightly routine commences.
Perhaps I should take the wise words of ‘living in the present’ with more than just a grain of salt — but I can’t help but cling to the memories, slowly fading, of what I once had.
Tonight, I’m afraid that every day of my future will consist of me hammering away at the rock of my life, constantly trying to carve out my past U
My mother’s taste in men, Kyle Gallner, instant noodles
My mother believes in God on a part-time basis, but her real religion is watching the news. It’s the morning and People magazine announces John Krasinski as the world’s sexiest man. My mother declares John Krasinski is no George Clooney — his nose is too big.
My mother’s aesthetic judgments are casually cruel, dispensed with the frequency of oxygen. I am not in the habit of discussing male pulchritude with the woman I came out of, so I’m mildly surprised when my mother solicits my opinion.
“Do you think he’s sexy?” she demands of me.
“He’s a person,” I say, “not a piece of garbage.”
The truth is, I don’t care about Krasinski’s feelings. I’m the kind of person who likes to leverage moral superiority, especially with my mother. Krasinski will always be Jim Halpert, but these days, he’s ubiquitous in a Rogers commercial, dancing to a Taylor Swift song.
Against expectation, my mother actually thinks what I’ve said is funny. As a parasite with two art degrees, moving back home, for all its upsides, comes with certain caveats that a friend of mine calls ‘emotional rent.’ There is familiarity in being observed, judged and chastised. Every day, I fear regressing into my teenage self.
I like my parents best when they’re asleep. My mother is a light sleeper, my father a heavy snorer. When they’re asleep, their opinions are kept to themselves. When they’re awake, their mortality is undeniable. My mother forgets Obama’s name. My father uses a foot massager. If my parents were unceremoniously beheaded trees, they might show more rings than you’d imagine.
Once it’s past midnight, I’m either writing or feeling guilty about not writing, feeling guilty about not being conspicuously successful — it goes on and on.
There are many nights I capitulate to rewatching Veronica Mars , which I initially began watching because I am madly in love with Kyle Gallner. My mother, I’m sure, would say he’s no Clooney. Visually, Kyle Gallner embodies a hot dairy farmer. Kyle is married and has two sons. His wife is gorgeous — I am not and that is okay. I’m not ready
for romance in real life, not without endangering amounts of tequila, which I’ve sworn off anyway. Sometimes you just want to suck on a lime, but you need a reason.
Kyle makes an appearance in Veronica Mars during episode 22 of the first season. He plays Cassidy Casablancas, who bears the unfortunate nickname of Beaver, a cherubic and clean-shaven, socially awkward math whiz. Everything about Beaver says, “I needed a hug yesterday.” Kyle has a knack for emotionally complex roles that make it easy for me to imagine I have dated several men, all with the same face and invariably with terrible childhoods.
I’m convinced Kyle would help a stranger in need, rather than succumb to the bystander effect. I’m certain he puts grocery carts back where they belong. He asks questions and cares about the answers. He would tell me I’m pretty when I haven’t showered in two days and mean it. I would tell him he should be a Carhartt model and he would blush. Together, we’d watch factory farming documentaries and become vegan, only to regretfully relapse over a grass-fed bison burger. None of this takes much imagination; it happens without me trying.
When it comes to my actual love life, my only certainty is that it should remain nonexistent. It’s safer to imagine being the beloved side piece of a married, Pennsylvania-born actor boyfriend, who once played an anguished boy named Beaver on Veronica Mars . There is safety in fiction. I care a great deal for safety, so fiction it is.
As my youth steadily declines, I’ve still never seen the entire filmography of any actor, which seems like a major shortcoming. Now it’s my life’s work to watch everything Kyle’s ever been in. Being a completionist takes time and I am easily distracted. But now, I am thoroughly committed. I create a Substack blog documenting my progress on watching Kyle’s filmography. With amusement and pity, two friends subscribe. It’s relieving to have a project that feels both urgent and inessential at the same time. I painstakingly take screenshots. I write amusing captions. Then I get subscribers with suspicious Yahoo email
addresses that have no fewer than eight numbers (spam sexbots, probably). I put the newsletter on a moratorium.
I had imagined someday nonchalantly showing Kyle my blog, as if to say, “Observe my totally healthy stanning and please understand I am extremely open to being your memoir ghostwriter, dog walker or you know, whatever you want.” My fandom shows no sign of being taken down a notch. I consider whether my admiration for Kyle merits psychological intervention, glance at my chequing account and decide it does not. Maybe a therapist would commend me for finding such frugal ways to momentarily escape reality.
My stomach growls. Dinner was so long ago. I don’t even want to know what time it is — it’s either ridiculously late or ungodly early. I pause the episode of Veronica Mars
At this rate, I have no idea how many I’ve watched. Too many and not enough. There is a future and its name is monosodium glutamate in a pack of instant noodles that are beef-flavoured but, upon inspection of the ingredients, surprisingly vegan. I watch the water boil with impatience. If instant noodles asked me to sign a prenup, I would.
The noodles are ready. I dig in. “Just one more episode” — a lie I tell myself. The noodles are glorious, like if heaven were a dive bar. MSG, how I love thee.
I pretend I am the only person awake in the world, or at least the only one rewatching Veronica Mars for Kyle Gallner. My dog, who deserves all the haiku in the world, is dreaming. I hear her make little yelps that sound like she’s chasing a ball. Sometimes I think what I really want is for Kyle to meet my dog.
When I can barely keep my eyes open, when I have saved several watermarked pictures of Kyle from Getty Images, when I have flossed and brushed my teeth, when I have replayed a sufficient number of unpleasant moments from high school, I finally go to bed. My mind is a patchwork quilt, partly sewn by actors that my mother would not find sexy, who will never know my name U
illustrations by Abbie Lee
words by Jessica Poon
The witching
hour
"I remember a few times fully waking up next to my mother at the piano."
It’s 2009 and I’m six years old. My brother and I share a bedroom with two twin beds and mine’s in the furthest corner.
I couldn’t sleep right away. My nightly routine consisted of me singing to myself, getting yelled at by my brother to “shut up,” throwing my pillow in the crack between my bed and the wall — the place I called the ‘freezer’ — and pulling it out once it was ice-cold. Only then, when my cheek felt the cool case, could I begin to drift to sleep.
The only sounds came from the fan turned to its highest level. In Chicago, it was the only thing that tuned out the sirens of ambulances and police cars. Yet it couldn’t mute the scream, halfway between our world and a dream — it came from me.
At its peak, I had night terrors every month. Night terrors are when someone experiences the in-between of sleep and wakefulness, stuck in a limbo where a nightmare seems to seep into reality. Usually people do not remember their nightmares after experiencing a night terror, but I could remember bits and pieces.
Evil creatures chased me in pitch-black forests. Outside a window hidden in some bushes, I saw witches march out of their shack for me with lit torches in their hands. I’d hide under tables in haunted houses next to monsters who gathered before their hunt and scramble through manors, trying to
outrun the things that stalked me in the dark. But then the floor would slip out beneath me and their faces would morph above me to the rhythm of their wicked laughter. And my body would try to force me awake but half of me would remain in this nightmare.
That moment would always happen during the witching hour, when the boundaries between the living and the dead are shattered.
I would shriek and sob for my parents while my brother cried. The door would fling open, they’d collect me from my bed and carry me down the hallway to theirs.
These journeys down the hallway are hazy, like resin blurring some details and hardening others — but the textures I noticed sent me into a spiral. Every fear in my nightmares seemed to transfer onto imperfect surfaces — I would sob into teardamp pillow cases or painted walls chipped by the trim. But especially any scrunched-up bedsheets.
My parents would try to tuck me under the covers to calm me down, but if I touched a crumpled blanket I would fight free from them both and run away to anywhere around the house that had a place to hide.
My parents had very different techniques to pull me back into reality — my mother would rub my back to soothe me. “This is all a dream, none of this
is real,” she’d say.
That would work sometimes, and my cries would grow into soft sniffles. But there was always the risk that I would touch a crumpled bed sheet, setting me off into another spiral.
My dad took a different approach out of fear — he would yell and beg for me to wake up because he was so scared of how distressed I was, but I’d only freak out more. I remember snippets of what my mom would say.
“That’s not going to work, she has to wake up on her own.”
Sometimes it was music that would awaken me instead. I remember a few times fully waking up next to my mother at the piano with her hands over top of mine as she directed my fingers across the keys.
And we’d sit there together like that for a while, as my tears settled into dried stains on my cheeks. Neither of us knew how to play, so we’d mimic an off-brand version of my dad’s daily performances.
After some time, my mother would help me climb back upstairs and tuck me back into bed.
“Just imagine that all the witches are good and want to be your friend,” she’d say. And I’d hold my stuffed giraffe closer and let my eyes fall shut. U
words by Stella Griffin illustrations by Abbie Lee
On insomnia, caused by medication
At 3 a.m. I woke up, overheated, to find half of my duvet on the ground and my face tight with dehydration.
Sometime earlier in the night I had drifted off to sleep, hugging my knees to my chest and waiting for warmth to slowly spread to my lower extremities. I have poor circulation and thin blood vessels, even experienced nurses couldn’t draw my blood on the first try.
I hoisted my duvet into the air and let it fall back over my body, flushing out the hot air and returning me to room temperature.
The world outside is dark. I should go back to sleep, but my limbs are already too light and my mind has started racing from thought to thought. I toss and turn in vain for two more hours before giving up on sleep.
It’s been almost four years since my immune system attacked itself and medical staff hurried to figure out what was wrong with me before I pissed out too many dead platelets and croaked. That’s the most exciting part of the story, but one I can’t tell with any reliable detail because I was barely conscious for the first few days.
So I’ll tell a different one, the part I was — am — conscious for. Conscious for too damn much of it.
After realizing I was going to live after all, and heal from all of it, what was there to do but grovel at the marvels of modern medicine? I worked hard to be agreeable, because I had just let out the breath I was holding in all that time.
“Eventually you’ll walk again, and you’ll speak again, and you’ll look like how you did before,” my mother whispered, pressing our foreheads together in the
The lights dimmed for the evening and it was quiet. In the daytime, she set her jaw as she poured the little packets of pills into my palm and looked away as nurses came to flush out my IV catheter and replace one sack of drip fluid with another.
I made it to high school graduation. I made it to university. I frequented hospitals and took handfuls of pills every day. I began my twenties feeling unremarkable. I stopped groveling.
pills with friendlier side effects, there is the anticoagulant that makes my periods last forever, the hydroxychloroquine that worsens my myopia, the metformin that makes me hungry and dizzy and lethargic all the time. And finally, the prednisone that makes me sad and mad and ache and itch and bruise and twitch and shed and bloat, that makes me wade through waves of fatigue at inopportune times during the day and simmer in restlessness during the night.
I don’t tell anyone about this. Not because of some ingratiating obligation to shield those I love, but simply because it’s easier to carry on this way.
Because the alternative? Here’s how I’d imagine the alternative:
“Hey,” I’d say. “This is the thing that is hurting me.”
And my loved one, because they care for me, would furrow their brows and implore me to tell them what I mean.
“This,” I’d say, putting down whatever I was holding, and gesticulating with both my hands. “And this. And this.”
And like a grim magic trick, I’d pull the discomforts like mottled flightless birds from inside my chest. I’d give them to my loved one before we continue on our
words by Michelle Huang illustrations by Emilija Vitols Harrison & Srinithi Jeyakumar
Low tide
words by Joyce Park
In the dead of night, I sit at the edge of the dock.
My dirty sneakers dangle above the inky water churning unevenly. I squint into the black expanse before me, now both the sea and the sky. The line where the waves kissed the clouds no longer exists, erased hours ago between one blink and the next as the night became incrementally darker.
A brisk breeze sticks strands of hair against my lips. I don’t move, engulfed in the kind of silence an astronaut feels untethered in space.
Whoosh. A wave crashes against the dock poles and sprays my legs, a brief break in the quiet.
I wonder where everything went. Earlier in the day, the seaside bustled and overflowed with the sporadic honking of cars finding parking, the ceaseless clicking of teenagers taking profile pictures and the slap of cannonballs from the dock. Amid this chaos, the slip and slide of the tide on the pebbled shore grounded the
town’s inhabitants with a steady pulse, like the swing of a pendulum or the soft hush of a mother rocking her baby.
But gradually, the town quieted like it was drained of battery. The sun dipped behind the mountains, snatching away the fiery watercolours rippling across the waves. People left the coast, retreating to their bed sheets. The buildings flicked off their lights.
At night, stripped of everything but its salty residue in the air, the sea looks different.
Earlier, I stood on the shore and cold water rushed into my slightly-dirtier sneakers. I watched a toddler splash her feet in the water, squealing in delight. But at some point, the sea receded into low tide. The translucent water transformed into a ghoulish pool and now the same waves tug at a sailboat tied to the dock, coaxing it away from civilization like it’s trying to drag it further and further into a desolate expanse until the
sailboat tilts on its side and the water swallows it up.
But below the dock, the waves still slip and slide, back and forth. They are simply waves — they could soothe you or kill you, but they aren’t striving for either.
Against the vast background of blackness, without the town, the sky and the shore, the sea simply exists alone — so alone it almost doesn’t exist.
I feel a kinship with the water, wondering if I’m living my days as mechanically as the slip and slide of the tide. I lie on my back, letting the damp wood press against my shoulders and the black sky blanket me. Here in the dead of night in the chilly air, it’s like I have nothing but the bare bones of my soul.
I lay here, on the flat wooden planks, stripped of everything but my clothes, and wonder what is left of me. U
You were gorgeous only yesterday
words
by
Fiona Sjaus
Clarity is heavier under a lamp light
Passing around swigs of cheap wine, lipstick-stained coffee cups
The modern feminine zeitgeist:
I only get vulnerable halfway through the night
To pages or a mirror or a someone
And a crescent moon for a spotlight.
But now you are alone as your eyes decay,
And you’re scrambling to find the parts of you
That made you gorgeous only yesterday
Seeing yourself, like a carrion on a wall
Stripped of certainty, flaws get bigger in moments I feel meager
From the just-hung weight of it all:
I only get vulnerable halfway through the night
Toasting to half-answered queries I want to be desired
Settling for fleeting delight
And now I am alone pinching, picking away, And I hate they made me like myself briefly
That they made me gorgeous only yesterday
Oh day, Oh dusk, Doesn’t that say much?
Doesn’t that say enough?
Now the sun comes up over the bend
And I just want to be rid of you
But there was nothing there
To rinse
Twilight was indeed a full moon. U
illustrations by Emilija V. Harrison
While the city sleeps
Every year around October, I start thinking of you and our walks around Rotterdam. I still remember that first evening you invited me to join you — I considered saying no, but something inside me pushed me to say yes.
So there I was, dressed in four layers, still shivering.
That feels like yesterday. We stepped out of our house in Kralingen and made an unspoken pact to explore Rotterdam, street by street, evening by evening, marking new areas on our map. Maze-like streets paved with cobblestones tangled themselves between tall, Dutch houses with even taller windows. Lakes quietly tucked in between the homes, where swans floated peacefully, hidden parks and benches meandered behind the narrow facades.
The air that day was so cold I could see my breath. Yet your presence and our conversation kept me warm. Every step we took led us further down Kralingen’s mazes as yellow and orange leaves crunched under our boots.
That first evening, we talked of our home countries and the people we left behind: “How is Rotterdam?” “How long are you staying?” “Do you want to come back?” We were almost shy to admit the truth — that we were terribly homesick and scared of living in any other country on our own.
Our walks from October to March were incredibly solitary. I remember hearing only our own voices and laughter bouncing off the high walls of the homes we passed, rolling down the street ahead of
Once the sun went down and the temperatures dropped, the city didn’t dare step outside. Yet there we were — there was something about walking at night that made us speak in softer tones, almost like we were afraid to disturb the stillness around us.
In February, we stumbled upon what would become our spot for the first time. Nestled in between the sleeping buildings, we were greeted by the water’s gentle ripples and aging boats swaying silently, whispering tales of the sea to each other. As we looked at each other, we shared a quiet understanding between ourselves and this place, that we’d make it our own.
Sitting on the cobblestone with our feet dangling over the water, we talked about our childhood dreams and where we were in life now.
You told me you wanted to be a wildlife photographer, I told you I always dreamed of writing. “What’s stopping you?” you asked.
That was a good point — nothing was.
Pointing at an apartment building on the other side of the canal, you asked me about who lives there. I didn’t know, but I had to entertain you, since you wouldn’t have it any other way.
That evening, Rotterdam held its breath for us.
Each window became a canvas, each passing shadow our unsuspecting protagonist. We imagined DJs in Berlin, history professors from Edinburgh, students cramming for exams and lovers separated by oceans.
Our stories kept us company through the cool evenings of early spring. We must have invented hundreds of them, one for each person that crossed our path, inviting them into our own. In the absence of the sun’s warm embrace, we found comfort in the stories we created for them.
In this way, we could escape the cold and reality’s weight, if only for a little while, sheltered in our quiet companionship.
Once April came around, we started noticing people gradually returning to the streets, their laughter intertwining with ours. The city was no longer lonely and the days grew longer and warmer. From our little corner of the world, we watched Rotterdam change with the seasons. And what a truly beautiful thing we had witnessed — the soul of a city changing right in front of our eyes.
People gathered every evening in Scheepmakershaven’s streets, heating up barbecues, laughing, jumping in the water. The whispering boats were now filled with families and friends, their voices carrying across the water, ringing out over the sound of music — the city was awakening from its slumber.
As the cold returns, I think of those nights more often. Kralingen may no longer be our maze to explore, but our stories live forever within the spiralling streets of the city.
We found light at night in each other, found warmth in the cool breeze in our own little corner of the world. U
words by Carla Stanciu illustrations by Ayla Cilliers
The burning house
words by Aiman Fatira
It was early February, and the snow that had collected over the past month had disappeared under a wave of torrential rain, leaving only sheets of ice and slush around the streets as a sign that it was ever there.
My friend and I were leaving our other friend’s dorm at To tem Park. It was sometime around two in the morning. Campus at that hour, with its eerily empty streets and harsh, artificial lights dotted around the pavement, seemed more like a miniature set for a 1970s sci-fi movie than a real place.
Kamra
I looked up at the sky. I hat ed doing that at night. Its dark vastness was barren, except for the large swaths of clouds, composed of tiny water droplets which formed something larger than myself — it made me uncomfortable. Maybe it was rooted in the age-old fear of the dark. Maybe I couldn’t bring myself to comprehend my miniscu leness. Either way, I wanted to go home.
But it was then that my friend spotted a growing mass of gas in the distant sky, beyond the buildings and streets that we could see. This wasn’t a cloud. It was coming up from somewhere on the ground, and it kept building and billowing upward into the abyss of the night sky.
We deliberated among ourselves as to what the mass was. We settled on a possibility: there was a house burning someplace close. We now had to go and see if anyone was in danger. It was better, we decided, to check where the smoke was coming from rather than not, in case our suspicions really did turn out to be true.
So we set off on our journey to what might as well have been a distant and unknown land — but it was our campus, a place that was intensely familiar to us during the day.
I held on to my cheap and shoddy um brella I got from the drugstore, which was held together only by my silent prayers. Every gust of wind threatened to snap it in side out. I held it diagonally to protect it from the wind, covering my face and looking at my shoes for guidance.
We continued along the path to the smoke, gingerly stepping over puddles and ice. My sneakers, ill-fit for the environment, were filling up with water. I only lifted my umbrella a few times to take a quick peek at where we were.
We walked past my dorm building. The ground floor lighting was blaring offensively, illuminating an empty front desk with no signs of life. Compared to the daytime when res idents and staff came in and out or delivery people dropped by with fast food and Amazon packages, it looked abandoned — desolate even.
illustrations
Emilija V. Harrison
As I took in the stillness that surrounded me, I had to ask myself, What the hell am I doing?
But I couldn’t ponder anything for too long. There was no time.
We were almost on Agronomy Road, and we had yet to see the burning house. We reached a point on Main Mall where the rain had collected in deep puddles over mounds of ice. I tried my best to not slip. We crossed over to the other street. Nearly there.
had found the burning house: the smoke was just coming from a vent in a lab building. Nothing appeared wrong. Nothing was burning.
We walked back the way we came. I couldn’t help but be mildly disappointed by the anti-climactic ending. How could we ever think that our imaginations were congruent with reality?
It seems rather ridiculous in retrospect. But underneath the miserable rain and in between the harsh, biting winds and the hopelessly infinite black
sky, perhaps there was something that gave us an impetus to imagine the burning house. We were isolated in that place, at that time, and there was something haunting and lonely about being there. But the possibilities of the unknown spread out before us and let us think in ways we could not fathom under the liveliness of
There is something intuitively terrifying about the dark. It’s the reason why, during the night, we dream up monsters in our room as children, why we dash up the stairs when we turn off the downstairs light and why we tell each other stories of creatures hiding in dark places around a campfire. Our senses peak in the dark. Any breath, any sound, any aberration, are grounds for fear and suspicion. We are scared of what we don’t know. And the dark is a paragon of that which we don’t know. It surrounds and embraces us as we go to sleep. We close our eyes, even for just a few seconds, to find peace of mind and disengage from the world. It gives us a sense of privacy and security.
I think of a lyric from Patrick Stump’s “People Never Done A Good Thing”: “You’re only free when you’re asleep.” It’s an adage I scrawled as a young teenager on my bedroom wall back home.
We are scared of the unknown, yes, but perhaps we are also attracted to it and its possibilities — nighttime is magical in that way. Free from the constraints of our structured lives during the day, we can imagine ourselves and our realities more liberally. At some point, night becomes a time where the reality of our life and the world we live in is flexible. Actuality intermixes with fantasy: it becomes difficult to tell tails from heads, the ending from the beginning, what is real
Maybe it’s because of this relationship to the dark that my friend and I became suspicious of that smoke cloud and came up with a terrible possibility. Maybe it’s why humans from every culture have spent millennia using stories of lurking creatures in the shadows as profound warnings, that are simul -
Perhaps it’s due to this relationship with the dark that so many people go to bed with their minds consumed by all kinds of imagined scenarios ––from idealizing a person in a romantic sense to envisioning their own deepest desires — in order to fall asleep.
Maybe it’s because of this relationship that when I’m on the 49 at night, barrelling down Southwest Marine Drive, I squint my eyes and pretend I can travel through the cosmos, and that the bus is a vessel and the cars’ headlights are stars. I imagine I am travelling unimaginably fast to an unknown location, far from Earth. It is, somehow, comforting. U
by
photos by Saumya
Jupiter
i am climbing and it is dark but i can see the bark in front of me and the stars above me and when i crest the canopy i can see more, oh much more sky and sea and even juniper growing by the twinflat cones where trees break, moving fast them and me and jupiter and even spiders in the boughs even spiders in the boughs congregation at the worldroof the ministration of faint clouds
But now i am a passenger and now i am the bus. Now i am of one mind of engine oil lust, Gripping handle-worn plastic loops Still warm from another’s touch.
And juniper lines the roadside, the darkened windows shake. i am going down to Delta but i know i’ll be late.
i am fractured when i come here; There is no whole that is not many.
The diesel shouts beneath me, the plastic windows rattle, Faces take on darkness that spills in off the road. i am not frightened, it’s only shade reflecting shadow.
When the driver kills the lights, And it gets darker still, i swear i see jupiter Through the cobwebbed window sill. U
photos by Saumya Kamra
words by Julian Forst
A prairie storm
words by Elliott Evans illustrations by Emilija V. Harrison & Pratik Kumar
I’d like to think of myself as a nature lover. I think those around me would agree. Birding is one of my favourite hobbies, and I once took an hour of my free time to look at a moldy leaf under a microscope.
Growing up around Vancouver, I’ve always been surrounded by the ocean, wide forests and high mountains. Those were the landscapes I’d come to know and love, which explains why my first trip to the prairies to visit my aunt and uncle was a shock to my system — the sheer flatness was almost incomprehensible.
I didn’t think I’d like the monotony of the prairie landscape, but my summer visits to Saskatchewan in high school taught me there’s more to nature and beauty than towering trees and vast seas. Sometimes the sheer emptiness of the prairie sky can leave you breathless.
Saskatchewan calls itself the Land of Living Skies. I never understood that more than at night.
I like to say my uncle is an astronomer by craft — he knows the night sky intimately and loves to share his knowledge and wonder with others.
Each summer, the two of us would drive an hour or so to Good Spirit Provincial Park, set up a big telescope by the lake and put on a star show for the campers. Like a magician and his assistant, our laser pointers were magic wands.
My uncle and I pointed out stars, galaxies and constellations and dreamed about other worlds. Constellations were no longer collections of distant points of light, but real, living figures — Ursa Major and Ursa Minor (the Big and Little Dippers) wandering the night sky, Cygnus the Swan flying in the north through the Milky Way and Delphinus the Dolphin leaping through the air.
One year, there were too many clouds over the campground for a show. We packed up our telescope and turned to the car as black clouds towered over us ahead.
“Do we have to drive through that?” I asked my uncle nervously. Something about the clouds looked distinctly threatening.
“Yup,” he said cautiously. Just then, a huge web of orange lightning radiated toward us. I’d seen lightning before, but this looked like something out of a sci-fi thriller. We quickly got into the car as a low roll of thunder boomed overhead.
We drove straight into the storm. Rain pelted against our windshield, the classic rock playing from the car’s speakers fighting to be heard over the sound of the wind outside.
My uncle drove fast as I looked out the window, our headlights and the occasional flash of lightning
being the only things interrupting the dark nightime storm.
Dark turned to light, and back to black in seconds, as lightning struck the ground around us and shot from the Earth up to the clouds. Eventually, the wind slowed and the rain let up a bit.
“We’re in the eye of the storm,” my uncle said excitedly. He seemed eager to watch the storm from the inside out.
We pulled over and stepped out of the car. Warm air rushed over me and raced into the night. Despite the storm churning around us, it was peaceful.
The space felt infinite — I felt tiny.
On the side of the road, my uncle and I felt the energy around us, in awe, wondering when the rain would start again.
That’s a moment I’ll never forget, the moment I thought about as we raced home, up the driveway and into the house. The storm was muted as soon as the door closed.
The more I reflect on the experience, the more I think there was a lesson in there somewhere. Despite the energy and chaos seeming to fill the infinite expanse of sky, there was still space for peace and a sense of awe and wonder. We just had to find it and have the courage to go out and see it for ourselves. U
I usedtohatebirds
Everywhere I’ve lived has been near or inside of a forest. I encounter all kinds of Pacific Northwestern wildlife on almost a daily basis, but the most impactful neighbours of mine are the birds that sing every morning at sunrise. I know they do this because almost every morning, I am awake with them.
I used to hate bedtime as a kid, as any self-respecting 10-year-old does. Unlike my friends, I wasn’t staying up to read with a flashlight or sneaking downstairs to the family computer to play Club Penguin . Instead, I would stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars my dad had stuck to the ceiling of my room for hours, wondering when I would finally drift off.
Sleep ebbed and flowed throughout the rest of my childhood and adolescence, but it was never ‘healthy’ by any standard. It got steadily worse as I got older, and by the end of high school, I was lucky to get even four hours of sleep. The only constant became the birdsong every day at sunrise. Once I got to UBC, this nocturnal behaviour suited student life. I used the night hours to study or socialize, frequently pulling all-nighters to try and manage classes, work and the demands of firstyear life. During the day, I fell asleep constantly, whether standing up or sitting, regardless of noise or place.
I spent years associating the sunrise birdsong to my basic failure to uphold a bedtime. I hated hear -
ing it to the point where the phrase “I heard the birds this morning” replaced “I pulled an all-nighter” in my friend group.
After my first year, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Something had to be done. I cut out all caffeine, started exercising, got a mindfulness sleep app and took electronics out of my room. I started trying weird tricks people suggested, like lying on the kitchen floor for five minutes before you go to bed (courtesy of Taylor Tomlinson’s Netflix special Have It All ). If you can think of it, I’ve probably tried it. At one point, I was prescribed medication. It helped for a while, but it made me feel like a zombie wearing a lead vest, so I eventually stopped taking it.
By the end of my third year, I had almost given up. In a last-ditch effort, I switched directions — instead of trying to force my body to sleep at night, I shifted every part of my life to revolve around my own time zone as much as possible. I found jobs where I could work evenings and nights, I scheduled appointments in the afternoon and I did not register in synchronous classes that started before noon. For the first time in my life, I had a routine and schedule. I ate regular meals, as my lunchtime lined up with dinner, and I slept regularly and enough. Most importantly, I got time back. I was physically and mentally present at school, at work and with the people I love.
Now, after this change in time zone, most of my waking hours fall during night time. Not only did it drastically change both my physical and mental health, but I finally began to appreciate the night. Where I live, the world is still and you can see the stars. I go on walks with my partner to spot constellations and it feels like no one else is awake. I can call friends and family in different time zones and have become much closer with them. I can write and think without the chaotic and noisy waking world.
I am incredibly grateful for the flexibility I have to make this shift, as I know this is not an option for many. It’s not perfect, and I sometimes have commitments in my ‘middle of the night,’ but it works for me.
As I near the end of my time as an undergraduate at UBC, this is something I have to consider when I move on to grad school and my future career. Finding work is difficult right now, especially flexible work with health insurance. Facing the prospect of not sleeping again is, frankly, daunting.
For now, I am learning to enjoy the sunrise birdsong. Instead of announcing my failures, it’s become a gentle nudge that it’s time for bed. It is a reminder of the trees, the stars and the beautiful forest I live in.
It joyfully signals the end of the stillness of the night. U
words by Mairéad Brennan
photos by Saumya Kamra
UBC Choirs premiere Tan Dun’s Buddha Passion in Canada
Fiona Sjaus Features Editor
The ancient murals of the Dunhuang desert’s caves came out to play at the Orpheum earlier this month for Grammy and Oscar-winning composer Tan Dun’s Buddha Passion
The UBC Choral Union, University Singers and Vancouver Symphony Orchestra were joined by Dun to perform his six-movement libretto, a work inspired by the philosophical and religious teachings of the Buddha and Dun’s visit to the Dunhuang desert’s ancient cave system, of which the interiors are adorned with artwork of musical motifs.
“Students were very excited to work with Tan Dun and his work is just amazing,” said Assistant Professor in Choral Conducting Dr. Hyejung Jun.
UBC Director of Choral Activities Dr. Graeme Langager said it was an “epic performance” and a “highlight” of the decades-long collaboration between UBC’s choirs and the VSO. The two UBC ensembles came together to premiere Dun’s piece in Canada.
“Because it blended Eastern and Western musical ideas, musical sounds, musical instruments … it was a true cultural awakening and cultural exchange between Maestro Tan Dun and the UBC choirs,” said Langager.
Many points in the piece marry Eastern and Western music theory, whether it be in the dramatism indicative of the Western romantic
PUBLIC ART //
‘Symbols
Iris Wang Contributor
period or the onomatopoeic lyricism and polyphonic overtones of Mongolian folk music.
ing the Buddha’s life and ultimate transcendence into Nirvana,” said Langager. “Each tells its own story of various teachings and life experiences from the Buddha.”
This was a performance that engaged the entirety of every instrument involved. In act two, as the tenor townsman betrays his saviour deer and hunts her, the ensemble hit metal to metal using handheld percussion in a wave of rolling clanks.
Strings put down their bows and tapped their instruments to the beat of Dun’s baton, and Miaoqing, one of the emperor’s daughters, danced with steady concentration as she incorporated the strum of her pipa, sometimes referred to as a Chinese lute, into her ballerina-like movements across the stage in act three.
It’s not often that you witness a composer conducting his own score, and even rarer to see the artist so impressed and enthralled by the execution of their own work.
pression — morphing from sorrow, pleading, anger then relief — to not fully detract the audience’s attention away from the musicality of the performance.
At the Orpheum, the choir swept the back of the stage in black uniform and coordinated synchronized movements and hums that swelled to pitched exclamations, the chant of the libretto’s Mandarin and dissonant Sanskrit harmonies.
A lesson in equality from a prince and his bird, a deer of nine colours and a greedy king grappling with karma, the sacrifice of an emperor’s three daughters and the teachings of Zen and mortality — the threads of each story come together like the brush strokes of the intricate paintings Dun desired to recreate in his music.
“The piece is comprised of six movements in an overall arc depict-
But Dun was careful to make sure every part of the music was acknowledged. The lengthy standing ovation that rose from the audience as soon as the final line, “Heaven, Earth, mankind in harmony,” was suspended in melodic orchestral cacophony — a testament to the joy that comes from bridging artistic disciplines together.
“Tan Dun was exceptionally skilled at relating to the students,” said Langager. “He had a beautiful spirit in rehearsal and a delightful passion for music and collaboration.” U
for Education’ reinstalled at Brock Commons South
One of the most exciting things about public art is the intentionality of its location. Unfortunately, UBC’s landscape is constantly shifting, and with buildings constantly coming and going, the art attached to it doesn’t always last forever.
“Symbols for Education” — a mural created by artist and former UBC faculty member Lionel Thomas and his wife Patricia Thomas — was first installed in 1958 under commission from that year’s graduating class. Originally placed near Brock Hall (the then-student union building), the mural was taken down in 2020 to make way for the construction of Brock Commons South.
However, the piece has been restored and was recently re-installed on a dedicated wall between buildings near Brock Commons South.
The mural is a 54-block glass mosaic representing UBC’s faculties and departments, with the artists using abstract, intersecting lines to express the interconnectedness of disciplines, students and staff. As campus evolves, the piece invites students, faculty and visitors to engage with its rich history, serving as a tangible reminder of the institution’s past.
“The work reflects the Information Age of the late 1950s to 1960s when art, architecture and design merged,” said Dr. Tatiana Mellema, the outdoor art curator at the Morris and Helen Belkin Art Gallery.
She noted that although the
The ensembles were joined by soprano Louise Kwong, mezzo-soprano Samantha Chong, tenor Yi Li, bass-baritone Apollo Wong, additional vocals by Jiangfan Yong and Batubagen and Yining Chen on the pipa. Each soloist embodied the ability to momentarily portray Dun’s characters, with just enough exmural was intended to represent UBC’s departments, the departments depicted in the piece aren’t an exact reflection of what UBC was like at the time. It was more of an idea of what the university could become — a historical marker capturing the aspirations of a growing campus during the dynamic period of the late 1950s.
Mellema emphasized how the position between buildings fosters a
space for contemplation.
“It provides a really nice viewpoint between the building, so it’s … a really nice way to engage people’s interaction with that space,” she said.
“Just being on campus and having this kind of space of contemplation between the buildings.”
The piece emerges as a “surprise” along the path — a subtle yet intentional encounter for passersby.
For Mellema, the importance of
the mural lies in its abstract representation of shared knowledge.
“The most fascinating part about the work is really how we communicate this information [about departments and faculties] through symbols,” she said.
Tied together within an abstract mosaic, these symbols remind viewers of how academic institutions are intended as a space for different disciplines and perspectives to co-
alesce into a broader, interconnected community.
When discussing the challenges faced during the mural’s reinstallation, Mellema highlighted the collaborative efforts between Barbara Cole, the former outdoor art curator, and Principal Conservator Sarah Spafford Ricci. A conservator works specifically to make sure the original artist’s voice is being preserved during the process of updating the piece.
“During the reinstallation, Barbara and Sarah worked closely together to ensure that the project would preserve the original design as closely as possible,” Mellema said.
Years of exposure to the elements had taken a toll on the mural’s surface and structure, necessitating adjustments to ensure its longevity. The team chose to upgrade the framing to bronze, a more resilient material than the original, to better shield the individual mosaic panels from further weathering.
This meticulous preservation process required both artistic sensitivity and technical expertise, as each mosaic panel needed careful handling to prevent damage. By reinforcing the frame and restoring individual elements, the team balanced honouring the mural’s historical integrity with modern conservation practices.
As a result, “Symbols for Education” stands resilient in its new home, ready to inspire future generations while echoing UBC’s storied past. U
This was a performance that engaged the entirety of every instrument involved.
The mural stands resilient in its new home, inspiring future generations while echoing UBC’s storied past.
COURTESY VANCOUVER SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA
MARIE ERIKSON / THE UBYSSEY
Opinion: Alberta’s anti-trans legislation concerns all of us at UBC
This article reflects the author’s personal experiences and views individually and does not reflect the views of The Ubyssey as a whole. Contribute to the conversation by visiting ubyssey.ca/pages/submit-an-opinion.
Amalie Wilkinson
Contributor
Amalie Wilkinson (they/them) is a queer rights advocate, environmental activist and law student at UBC’s Peter A. Allard School of Law. They have a degree in international relations and peace, conflict and justice studies from the University of Toronto. Amalie has been an organizer with numerous social movements, including climate justice and queer liberation.
Editor’s Note: November 20 was Transgender Day of Remembrance
Late last month, the government of Alberta tabled three bills that attack the rights of transgender children and youth. Amid a wave of anti-trans political rhetoric, they represent the most far-reaching attacks on transgender medical care and self-determination in Canada to date.
These three bills should ring alarm bells across the country. If this legislation passes in Alberta, it will not only put young trans and queer Albertans at risk; it will harm marginalized young people nationwide. We at UBC have a responsibility to pay attention.
WHAT IS THE LEGISLATION?
Bills 26, 27 and 29 attack the rights of trans and queer youth to health care, education and sports.
Bill 26, the Health Statutes Amendment Act, restricts access to life-saving medical care, such as gender-affirming surgeries and hormone therapy. It would ban hormone therapy, including puberty suppression, for minors unless the Minister responsible for implementing the law issues an order permitting otherwise.
Puberty blockers allow young people to temporarily prevent the onset of puberty and the development of secondary sex characteristics. They are largely reversible medications with few side-effects, and are documented to decrease suicidality among transgender youth. But Bill 26 would force transgender youth in Alberta to undergo puberty into a body deeply misaligned with their gender.
Bill 27, the Education Amendment Act, would require parental consent for all sexual education in schools. It would also require parental consent for students under 15 to change their name or pronouns in schools. For students aged 16 or 17, parental consent to change names or pronouns would not be required, but parents would still be notified — forcibly outing transgender and genderqueer youth to their parents.
Bill 29, the Fairness and Safety in Sports Act, targets trans participation in sports. Announcing the pol-
icy, Alberta Premier Danielle Smith outlined the legislation would prevent transgender women and girls from competing in sports alongside cisgender women and girls.
THE BROADER RISE OF TRANSPHOBIA
These policies were not written in a vacuum. Transphobia has been on the rise across Canada.
In 2023, both Saskatchewan and New Brunswick passed legislation requiring parental consent for students to change their names or pronouns in school. The same year, hate crimes against 2SLGBTQIA+ people rose, continuing an upward trend. One Global News article documented “a notable rise in hate crimes, threats and protests against drag queens and transgender people in particular.”
Why are these policies so harmful?
First off, they threaten rights enshrined in the Canadian Constitution. When Alberta’s policies were announced, dozens of faculty members and staff at the University of Calgary and University of Alberta faculties of law wrote a letter to Smith opposing the proposals. The signatories alleged the policies violate children and youth’s rights under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, including the rights of mature minors to make medical decisions.
The policies are likely to increase violence against trans and genderqueer youth. Research by the Trevor Project, a leading organization for mental health among 2SLGBTQIA+ youth in the US, shows that trans and non-binary youth report a range of harmful experiences as a result of increases in anti-transgender policies and political debates. These include bullying at school, online harassment, physical assaults and more. What’s more, when young people are forced to come out to their parents in order to have their names and pronouns respected at school, it increases the risk that they will face rejection from family members, potentially leading to housing insecurity and homelessness, as outlined in a Conversation article by Mount Royal University Professors Corinne Mason and Leah Hamilton. Put simply, the bills have deadly ramifications. 2SLGBTQIA+ young people are already at a disproportionate risk of suicide, per findings from a study in the Canadian Medical Association Journal. According to a recent study in Nature, anti-transgender laws in the US between 2018–2022 were associated with an increase in suicide attempts of up to 72 per cent among transgender and non-binary young people.
Civil society organizations including the Alberta Medical
Association, Canadian Paediatric Society, Alberta Teachers’ Association and Canadian Civil Liberties Association have spoken out firmly against the bills.
WHY DOES THIS MATTER IN BC?
ACT NOW
Before becoming law, Bills 26, 27 and 29 will need to go through a legislative committee, pass a second and third reading and receive royal assent. There is still time to prevent their passage. Since the bills were tabled on October 31, Albertans have condemned the legislation, taken to the streets and launched open letters — all seeking to prevent the bills from becoming a reality. BC residents must stand with trans and queer youth in Alberta. We can raise awareness, organize and attend protests, share statements condemning the legislation and offer support to Alberta’s 2SLGBTQIA+ organizations. Even standing up in a small way, by sharing this information with friends and starting wider discussions, can go a long way to push back against anti-trans violence and show young Albertans that they are not alone in this fight. The proposed legislation is transphobic and violent. If there was ever a time to stand up for the rights of 2SLGBTQIA+ people in Alberta and Canada, that time is now. U
Anti-trans rhetoric is becoming mainstream across the country. For example, federal Conservative Party leader Pierre Poilievre has repeatedly espoused support for transphobic policies. In BC’s recent election, the BC Conservative Party promoted false, transphobic claims that gender-affirming surgeries are straining healthcare resources. The same party also promised to end SOGI 123, a framework helping teachers address bullying and discrimination against 2SLGBTQIA+ students. This campaign against SOGI 123 stands in conflict with existing research, including a recent study by UBC researchers, which showed that the program contributed to a decrease in bullying and discrimination among all students. When governments infringe on the fundamental rights of one marginalized group, this leaves the door open to attacks on many others. As 2SLGBTQIA+ advocacy organization Egale Canada said, “All youth deserve the opportunity to grow up in a society where they are accepted for who they are. But when governments bully vulnerable people and particularly vulnerable young people, it gives permission to others in society to do the same.”
People marching for trans rights in 2021 at UBC.
ISABELLA FALSETTI / THE UBYSSEY
CORWIN DAVIDSON / THE UBYSSEY
“Workday is already near unusable, it was difficult to find anything to do to make it worse,” said the developer.
UBC to replace Workday with new system of record ‘Itdoesn’tworkday’
Sam Low Web Developer
Natural disaster response. Resistance to invasion. Movements for democracy. Fights for independence.
Building community through shared struggle is an integral element of the human story, which is why UBC is doubling down and releasing Itdoesn’tworkday — a downgrade of its already unpopular system of record, Workday Student.
“Loneliness is a rising issue here at UBC,” said Integrated Renewal Program (IRP) spokesperson Satan Jeffries. “At this point, we are willing to go with any option that works.”
According to internal IRP data released to The Ubyssey, 80 per cent of new friendships in the 2024/25 academic year were formed through shared complaints about Workday Student, 100 per cent of this year’s Jump Start orientation group downtime was spent complaining about Workday Student and only 0.2 per cent of students have been found without a strong yearning to “accumulate into a vengeful mass and go berserk” at the mention of Workday Student.
“Devolving our web services has had extraordinary results in improving campus culture and the
etc.
1. To woo
6. Made the scene
10. Nickname for Perry’s nemesis
14. The phantom’s tollplace
15. 2022 Bollywood adaptation of Forrest Gump
16. Caesar’s weapons
17. Narrative trope of leaving the familiar, going on an adventure, then coming home transformed
20. Serpent’s speech
21. Forte, Sorento, Carnival,
1. IG flashbacks
2. Aahs
3. They may be you
4. “Is” for lisp-havers
5. Arthur is both the once and future.
6. Gorgug’s homunculus
7. “The law is ___ ...” (take it up with Dickens)
8. Winchester and Houlihan rank
9. It may be embellished, according to Miranda
10. “Is it worth therisk?”
11. Author Jewett
22. Nickname for downtown Vancouver theatre
23. Element #30
24. “Worlds Beyond Number” character played by Aabria Iyengar
25. Anne’s home on Prince Edward Island
29. Belt worn with a kimono
32. It’s all good, man
33. “... the dew of ___ high eastward hill”
34. Not basic
35. Many were this type of
12. Nostradamus portent
13. Bonnie Parker portrayer Dunaway
18. Seven days....
19. Unmanned underwater vehicles
23. Suspected true author of The Great Gatsby
24. Still product
26. Quothed “Nevermore!”
27. Author of Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats
28. With this and land we prosper
29. He owns a razor
sociability of our students. Workday Student was a good first step, but today we are taking it further by transitioning to Itdoesn’tworkday — an even less competent product,” announced Jeffries at the last IRP general meeting.
In a statement to The Ubyssey, a developer of Itdoesn’tworkday revealed that making a worse version of Workday Student was no easy task.
“Workday is already near unusable, it was difficult to find anything to do to make it worse,” said the developer. “In the end, we found inspiration by expanding our view to the rest of the internet.”
“The web is decaying,” they said. “There is a moral rot at the center of this industry. We are lemmings marching behind conmen towards an apocalypse of our own making. Repentance may be our only saviour.”
Itdoesn’tworkday includes many exciting new features such as longer loading times, an offensively placed, useless and tacked on “AI” assistant, more irrelevant menu options and less elegant URLs.
“Students need an enemy and we are in the business of providing that to them,” said Jeffries.
You can try completing course registration at itdoesntworkday. ubyssey.ca now, if you dare. U
reader once
36. Two steps forward, two steps back
38. Caracalla’s 251
39. Portugal’s king of the jungle
40. “I shall see thee, ___ I die, look pale with love”
41. Some think they might have eaten Amelia Earhart
42. Tolkien’s Treebeard
43. Author of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
46. Lime, lemon, power, etc.
47. “Should ____
30. Baggins’ uncle
31. He was Amin guy
34. Too sharp on the buds
35. Ginger for Shirley’s temple
36. Vital essay component
37. Many are in one now
41. His middle name was Staples
43. A Nice notion
44. Once intended destination of Cosette and Jean Val Jean
45. “Clan of the Cave Bear” author
acquaintance be forgot,”
48. Parted by Moses
51. With Wyck, first word of an Emily Carr biography title
52. SNL’s Nwodim
55. Trope popularized in “The Yellow Wallpaper”
58. The scariest Great Lake
59. Casual “Je suis”
60. Raining cats and dogs, cost an arm and a leg, bite the bullet, etc
61. Flynn Rider’s saviour
62. Zootopia leporine
63. Une partie de la maison
46.
author 48. Short orator’s skill 49. Jane’s Jane 50. What if the largest continent began with a D?
51. Pod for an instant coffee machine
1952 Czech winner of three Olympic gold medals
The slammer, the clink, the license plate academy
“My treat!”
“-pe so!”
AYLA CILLIERS / THE UBYSSEY
Lightlark series
One Piece author
How Tsleil-Waututh eating traditions help guide sustainability and stewardship
Emily Choi Contributor
Our everyday diets provide insight into our ways of life and surroundings. For archaeologists in the Lower Mainland, reconstructing what the səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) diet looked like prior to colonization is helping them understand the relationships between people and their territories.
UBC Institute of Oceans and Fisheries PhD student Meaghan Efford and collaborators conducted a study to construct an estimation of the Tsleil-Waututh ancestral diet, dating from 1000 CE until early European contact in approximately 1792 CE.
Tsleil-Waututh is a Coast Salish Nation whose traditional and unceded territory centres on səlilwət, also known as the Burrard Inlet, in BC.
“Land and water stewardship is really important to Tsleil-Waututh. It’s something that they’re really active in, and they have a lot of people power in science, on the ground, [in] scientific monitoring, in restoring and conservation of Burrard Inlet,” said Efford.
Reconstructing information on the ecosystem and its relationship
with its ancestral people can help inform the Tsleil-Waututh Nation’s plans for stewardship, conservation and restoration, as well as connecting with traditional eating habits.
“One of the big focuses of Tsleil-Waututh Nation going forward is to increase the amount of dietary protein the community gets out of the Inlet to feed their community using traditional food harvesting methods and traditional food ways.”
Drawing from archaeological data, ecological data, historical records and traditional ecological knowledge from Tsleil-Waututh knowledge holders, researchers started to draft the estimated pre-colonization diet.
“A challenge was taking all the different data sets and figuring out how they all fit together, partially because that’s just an interesting puzzle, but also because each data set communicates data differently,” said Efford.
Throughout the research process, Efford met with Tsleil-Waututh knowledge holders to make adjustments to the diet drafts, working closely to achieve more accuracy and to expand on the information beyond what the data could provide.
“As an archaeologist, I have an
STEEP LEARNING CURVES (BADUM TSS) //
archaeologist toolkit and I can do ecosystem modelling, but I haven’t lived in this ecosystem my entire life. My family hasn’t been here. I’m a settler scientist, so I don’t have that connection to the place, whereas our Tsleil-Waututh co-authors do,” said Efford.
“They have the intergenerational knowledge ... that’s been passed down through generations. And so they brought that toolkit and that perspective and expertise.”
The estimation of the Tsleil-Waututh diet had variety but reflected a preference for four main food sources: salmon, forage fish, shellfish and marine birds. Efford hopes future iterations of the research will continue to characterize the diet by including the seasonality of foods, cooking and preservation methods as well as more plant foods.
“We focused the reconstruction on protein and the approach we took really emphasizes the protein contribution, which is great and it’s really interesting, but it underemphasizes plants … Something that we want to do in the future is to really unpack the plant piece.”
While the data showed a preference for animal protein in the Tsleil-Waututh pre-colonization diet, Efford highlighted the variety
and sustainability of the diet, which harvested, hunted and fished across the ecosystem.
“That is a really important sustainability approach to food, eating locally, making sure we’re not overharvesting or overfocusing on any one resource in particular,” said Efford.
This is in contrast to the traditional commercial livestock industry, which plays a major role in greenhouse gas emissions, land change and degradation and water use.
With the rapid change and challenges the climate crisis poses, Efford emphasized the adaptability of the Tsleil-Waututh diet and hopes it can help some people find inspiration for their own food ways.
“It’s a really great way of making sure that the pressure is spread out, and then you can adapt based on the seasons, based on the individual species [or] on things that happen that you can’t predict, like environmental disasters or environmental change.” U
Cracking calculus: Unpacking MATH 100’s difficulty
“[Math] is definitely challenging ... It’s okay to ask questions.”
Whether they have taken it or not, most UBC students have likely heard about the difficulty of MATH 100: Differential Calculus with Applications.
Regarded as one of the most challenging courses for thousands of first-year students at UBC, this introductory calculus course consistently yields averages lower than many other first-year science courses. The
how students can crack it.
THE GAP IN PERFORMANCE
According to UBCGrades, the average for all sections of MATH 100 Winter 2023 was 68.2 per cent. Meanwhile, other first-year science courses such as BIOL 112 and PHYS 131 had overall averages of 78.6 per cent and 78.3 per cent respectively.
MATH 100 follows a bimodal distribution. Historically, university courses were expected to see grades evenly clustered around the class average. According to a study in the International Journal for the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning, bimodal distributions can be misleading as the average score results from two separate groups of students clustering around different grades. In the case of MATH 100, one of the two major peaks reflects students failing the course.
“[The grade distribution] doesn’t necessarily mean that students find math more challenging than physics. It just means that the grades mean something different,” said UBC Mathematics Educational Program Director Dr. Matt Coles.
With years of experience teaching math courses, Coles believes students’ grades in MATH 100 and other math courses depend on many factors, ranging from foundational knowledge of precalculus taken in previous courses to the level of effort and time students put into the class.
However, one notable aspect is the large jump from high school to university math classes.
Coles explained that expectations for an A in high school generally revolve around students accurately solving familiar problems. However, in university, Coles said the A standard centres on students’ ability to solve both standard and challenging problems.
“We also want you to be able to solve a problem that’s a little bit different from what you’ve seen, but for which you have the techniques to solve … [like] having a toolbox,
[which] can be surprising for students.”
SUCCEEDING IN THE CLASSROOM
With all its demands, MATH 100 is challenging for many students. However, why do many students struggle while others thrive?
According to the Education Coordinator at the Pacific Institute for the Mathematical Sciences and Outreach Coordinator for UBC’s math department Dr. Melania Alvarez, the large class size and fast pace can contribute to difficulty. She highlighted the importance of students taking charge for success.
“[Students] need to immediately go and get help, ask questions, be proactive,” said Alvarez.
“Many students are not proactive until the day of the first midterm or the final.”
Both Alvarez and Coles emphasized consistent practice throughout the course, rather than leaving everything to the last minute.
“Look at where you’re at [and] set some goals for yourself … that can be very practical. [These can be] … hours per week, or when to study, having a study group, when to meet with friends to talk about the homework,” said Coles.
This is especially important in math courses, where most of the course grade depends on a few midterms and cumulative final exams, posing challenges for students who have not been practicing regularly during the year.
“Math is a language,” said Alvarez. “You need to practice every day [and] find out what it is that you didn’t
understand in class.”
“You need to immediately go and ask for help … because math is something that you build on. And if at some point you have a hole here in the middle, then your whole house of cards is going to fall.”
RELIEVING MATH ANXIETY
Math often induces tension and apprehension among students, a phenomenon called math anxiety.
Occurring in all education levels from primary school to post-secondary institutions, math anxiety can cause negative reactions in many students, even those with mathematics capabilities, which can continue in later life stages. Students experiencing math anxiety in university often try to take the minimum number of math courses required, potentially limiting academic and career prospects.
For educators, Alvarez advised creating a comfortable atmosphere for learning math and providing support. She strives to maintain an accessible environment, where students can talk to her during the weekend and reflect on her teaching to improve the learning experience. Similarly, Coles highlighted the importance of asking questions, as instructors are happy to assist students.
According to UBC math educators, the key to success is to keep an open mind and enjoy the learning process.
“[Math] is definitely challenging ... It’s okay to ask questions. We’ll explain things. It’s okay to be confused or frustrated,” said Coles.
“There’s still lots you can do.” U
The estimated diet reflected four main food sources: salmon, forage fish, shellfish and marine birds.
TIANA KHANDELWAL / THE UBYSSEY
EMILIJA V. HARRISON / THE UBYSSEY
Vicky Nguyen Senior Staff Reporter
Ubyssey sat down with math educators to learn more about the reasons behind the difficulty of MATH 100 and
How the uniquely Canadian sport of war canoe got its name
Dr. Janice Forsyth, a professor in Indigenous land-based physical culture and wellness at the UBC School of Kinesiology, is helping Canoe Kayak Canada understand its Indigenous links.
Ava Dunkel Contributor
Nine lanes of canoes, fifteen athletes resting on one knee, paddling with fierce determination as they make their way to the finish line. While technically called C15, this Canadian sport is more commonly called war canoe.
But where did that name come from and how is it linked to Canada’s colonial history?
Dr. Janice Forsyth, a professor in Indigenous land-based physical culture and wellness at the UBC School of Kinesiology, is helping Canoe Kayak Canada (CKC) answer that very question.
WHEN AND HOW DID WAR CANOE BECOME A SPORT?
According to Forsyth, on the Queen Victoria’s birthday in 1864 Frederick Seymour, the first governor of the united mainland and Vancouver Island colonies, ordered all Indigenous nations to gather in New Westminster and participate in a war canoe race, which later became an annual event.
“He mandates them to do a war canoe race because, in his mind, this is what Indigenous people do,” said Forsyth. “In his mind, it would demonstrate their acquiescence to Britain’s control over the Indigenous nations.”
In reality, Seymour’s demonstration of Britain’s control had quite a
different effect.
While the Indian Act prevented Indigenous groups from gathering and participating in potlatch ceremonies and other group events, annual war canoe races were permitted since they were viewed as being in line with colonial sports and competitions.
“It’s still a way for you to gather and tell your stories and practice your songs and share some of your cultural knowledge, so you can hand that down from one generation to the next,” Forsyth said. “From the Indigenous point of view, it became a thing of cultural survival.”
Over time, there was a gradual separation between Indigenous war canoe races, which focused on culture and community, versus CKC’s competition-driven version of the sport we see practiced today. The exact details of why this happened remains a key focus of Forsyth’s research.
WHERE DID THE NAME WAR CANOE COME FROM?
Two and a half years ago, CKC contacted Forsyth to help it uncover the origins of the name of “war canoe.”
The partnership has since turned into an extensive, ongoing research project to understand the CKC’s colonial heritage and what it means for Indigenous communities.
The first part of the research focuses on the Indigenous history
of the war canoe. Forsyth has been conducting oral interviews with Indigenous war canoe families, primarily in BC, to grasp a better understanding of the sport’s history and name origin.
When a variety of British, French, Portuguese and Spanish settlers arrived to colonize what’s now known as Canada, they were met with the sight of many Indigenous men in large canoes.
“[Europeans] would call it a war canoe, and then that would help to justify their behaviour towards the Indigenous people there,” said Forsyth.
The second part of the project focuses on CKC’s history as an organization and with the sport of war canoe. Formerly part of the American Canoe Association, CKC formed in 1900 and emerged as an entity for settlers to practice war canoe.
“These men wanted to do war canoe, and they wanted to do it so badly that they felt they needed to break away from the American Canoe Association,” Forsyth said.
Forsyth also said competitive war canoe can sometimes perpetuate stereotypes of Indigenous Peoples.
“This idea of war canoe is rooted in that colonial history where non-Indigenous people have appropriated that idea [that] they want to embody all of the strength that Indigenous people had in order to defend their own lands from domination,” she said.
“And so people that mobilize that idea for competition … is a problem because it then positions Indigenous people as being warrior-like, as being resistant, as being different and that then becomes a problem when Indigenous people are standing up for themselves.”
WORKING TOWARD DECOLONIZATION IN SPORTS
In 2016, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (TRC) issued 94 calls to action in order to advance reconciliation. Five of them focus on sports — ranging from federal funding and policies to public education on Aboriginal athletes — but Forsyth said they don’t get enough attention compared to other calls.
“Sport is so far behind the curve in terms of reconciliation,” Forsyth said. “But then you get leaders like Canoe Kayak Canada that have created this Indigenous Advisory Council, and it’s not just performative.”
The Indigenous Advisory Council consists of several Indigenous leaders from across the country. The council was developed with the goal of ensuring the CKC is working toward meeting the TRC’s calls to action.
“This is the first sport organization that has reached out to me in all of my time to do this kind of work, and I didn’t realize how colonial sport still is until Canoe Kayak Canada did that,” said Forsyth.
“There needs to be more sport organizations like Canoe Kayak Canada that are doing this work, that are doing this really, really hard work in putting themselves out there, knowing that they have to sit and look in the mirror and then think very carefully about how they want to build new relations with Indigenous people.”
At UBC, Forsyth teaches KIN 368: Indigenous Sport and Physical Culture in Settler Canada and KIN 484: Advanced Seminar in Indigenous Sport, Physical Activity and Health, two courses that delve further into decolonization in sports. Forsyth described KIN 484 as the “final preparations” before sending students out into the field of sport and physical activity, equipping them with the necessary tools to discuss these topics and issues in the workplace.
“I think we all live in a world where we’re expected to find a solution right away in order to show progress. But I think people forget that understanding is a sign of progress, and that takes time,” said Forsyth.
Forsyth is continuing her work with CKC and said she’s “really excited to see where this project goes.”
“I think it shows the importance of understanding the roots of physical activity practices in Canada and how embedded they are in our relationships to each other and how that needs to be unpacked for us all to be a much healthier society.” U
Forsyth said she’s “really excited to see where this project goes.”
EMILIJA V. HARRISON / THE UBYSSEY
Cross-country women snag silver, men finish sixth
On November 9, the UBC cross-country teams flew to Kelowna for the U Sports Championship. Neither team successfully defended their 2023 national titles, but the women’s team still made the podium with second place. Two runners — Rachel Mortimer and Holly MacGillivray — finished in the top 10, but it wasn’t enough to overtake the Western University Mustangs for gold. The men’s team finished sixth overall. Led by Jaiveer Tiwana, who placed sixth individually, the team had strong performances considering their top five finishers are all undergraduate students — previously, master’s athletes have brought the team’s total down. U
THUNDERBIRD SPORTS CLUB //
VARSITY UPDATES
Women’s rugby earns first program national title
On November 3, in Charlottetown, PEI, the UBC women’s rugby team won their first U Sports championship. After four consecutive first-round losses in the U Sports quarterfinal, the Thunderbirds finally broke their curse with a 72–7 win over the University of PEI Panthers. In the semis, they easily surpassed the University of Ottawa Gee-Gees, 47–17. In a rematch of the Canada West final, the ‘Birds faced off against the University of Victoria Vikes for the national title. The game was a true test of rugby prowess, with a low score of only 8–3 in favour of the T-Birds. Charity Williams, who led the scoring in the semifinals, proved again to be a difference maker, scoring the game-winning try. U
Women’s soccer completes perfect, undefeated season
On November 10, the women’s soccer team became back-to-back U Sports national champions, earning their ninth program banner in Halifax. UBC beat the Dalhousie University Tigers 4–0, Cape Breton University Capers 1–0 and l’Université Laval Rouge et Or 1–0 for the championship. Sophia Ferreira had the lone goal in the championship final, a header that just escaped the Laval goalkeeper’s hands. The Thunderbirds’ defence also shone, with UBC goalkeeper Dakota Beckett completing three shutouts in the tournament. The championship capped off an incredible season for the ‘Birds. They set a new program record season of 20–0 and are the first team to repeat as national champions since 2013. U
Men’s soccer brings home 14th U Sports banner
On November 10, UBC ripped through the U Sports men’s soccer tournament, defeating the University of New Brunswick Reds 4–2 in the quarterfinals and the McGill Redbirds 3–0 in the semis. However, the gold medal match against the University of Montréal Carabins was much tighter. The 1–0 score for the Thunderbirds was decided in the last moments of regulation, when first-year Joven Mann headed the ball into the back of the net and sent the UBC team into celebration. The victory cemented UBC in men’s soccer history with 14 national titles; the next-most successful programs own 5. It also completes the ‘Birds’ podium set after winning national bronze in 2022 and silver in 2023. U
Men’s rugby falls to take bronze at CUMRC
At the Canadian University Men’s Rugby Championship (CUMRC) in Ottawa, the UBC men’s rugby team earned a bronze medal. They dominated their quarterfinal match against UBCO, with 10 different players combining for the 104–0 score. Moving onto the semis, the Thunderbirds faced the ETS Piranhas (associated with the Université du Québec) and lost in a heartbreaking 22–21 upset. UBC held the lead for most of the game, but were overtaken with eight minutes left. ETS went on to win the championship, while UBC bounced back with a 47–40 win over the Guelph Gryphons for a podium finish. This is their first bronze medal, after finishing first or second at all previous CUMRCs. U
The UBC Equestrian Team is a community connected through horses
Zoe Wagner Senior Staff Reporter
Have you ever wanted to be a horseback rider? Whether you are an experienced equestrian or new to the sport, you can find a place on the UBC Equestrian Team, a Thunderbird Sport Club. The team swept all six levels of competition in the US last weekend, putting the team on a strong trajectory for the season.
Thunderbird Sport Clubs (TSC) are sub-varsity teams for more niche sports at UBC. This grouping allows teams to compete at higher provincial, national and international levels. Their team of six student executives manages everything from fundraising to competition league registration.
The club’s two co-leads, Isabella Bauman and Sierra Ducharme, are long-time riders that stumbled upon the team at Imagine Day a few years ago. Bauman has been riding for roughly 12 years, while Ducharme’s story is more complicated, “as it tends to be for a lot of [other riders]” she said. She rode between the ages of 10 to 14, and on and off until she was 16.
But that’s not the case for every member.
“One of the really cool parts about our team is basically any experience can join,” said Ducharme. “We have people who have been riding since they were born, and
still enjoying themselves.
also people whose first time riding was at tryouts.”
Most recruiting for the yearly roster happens at Imagine Day. The executive members are the only official returning members, per TSC guidelines, so they roster around 15 members for 7 levels of competition at tryouts.
UBC riders compete through the Intercollegiate Horse Show Association (IHSA) in Zone 8, Region 4.
“UBC is the only Western University of the 7 Canadian Universi-
ties in the IHSA, which totals 419 teams across North America,” the team’s UBC Rec webpage entry reads. Because of this, they go to the US for competitions and co-host a show each season.
Last year, they held a show with the University of Oregon in Eugene. “It was a triple, which means we did three shows in one weekend,” Bauman said. “[It] was super fun.”
This year, they are hosting a similar event with Washington
State University. Last season was one of the team’s best in history.
“One of our best competitions from the past season was the University of Oregon show that we co-hosted,” Bauman said.
One of the team’s main goals last year was to send as many people as possible to nationals. Four riders went to regionals, three to zones and two to nationals — momentum the team wants to build off of for this season.
“That is a goal for this year as well. I would love to go to nation-
als,” Bauman said.
Another unique aspect of the team is that although equestrian is an expensive sport, they’ve worked to make it less so.
“I think ... competitions [are] way more accessible through something like UBC Equestrian because you don’t have to have your own horse to compete,” Bauman said. “It is also way more financially accessible because we do all our own fundraising.”
The team fundraises throughout the year and TSC matches everything they raise up to $1,000. TSC-specific grants are also available depending on how competitive the team is — for example, if the team goes to nationals, then they get a nationals grant. All funding beyond that they have to do themselves. You have probably passed them outside the Aquatic Centre, selling iconic Krispy Kreme donuts.
But at the end of the day, the team strives to create a balance between participating in a high level of sport and still enjoying themselves.
“The biggest thing we want to push with the team is that we are a competitive team, but we also just are girls and a few boys that want to have fun,” said Ducharme.
“A big part of our team is just becoming best friends with each other. Having that tight team and community with the connection of horses between all of us.” U
At the end of the day, the team strives to create a balance between participating in a high level of sport and
