LEGACY - University of Waterloo

CONTENTS OF A JEWELLERY BOX

SURREAL REFLECTIONS ON A POSSIBLE LEGACY

THE S

ALT S

TORY

THE LEGACY LIES IN OUR HOME

THE

IM

PAC

T O

F E

MPA

THY

ON BEING A WOM

AN

AD

VOC

ATIN

G F

OR

EQ

UITY

– TH

E B

ES

T LEG

AC

Y F

OR

PO

STE

RITY

HOLDING THE DOOR

DEAR SON

THE STUDENT AND THE GOOSE

JOU

RN

EY

TO

ALO

NE

EXCERPT

S FROM

A W

RITTE

N ORAL

HISTO

RY OF A

YOUNG

TO B

E R

EM

EM

BE

RE

D

LEGACY

LEGACY AS IT RELATES TO INTERSECTIONAL GENDER EQUITY

WR

ITING

HO

LLY’S LEG

AC

Y

UPROOTED

SOMNAMBULIST

DIVINE INTERVENTION

SHATTE

RE

D LA

NCE

S

WH

AT MY FATH

ER

BE

GA

N

THE PYRAMID

EP

ITA

PH

RE

WR

ITTE

N

SAINT MARTINA

THE “MASTERS” OF TYPING

QUE

ER W

OM

AN O

F CO

LOUR

, AS

TOLD

BY

HER

SELF

A LIFE’S WORK

DAUGHTERS OF W

OMYN

THANK YOU, MOM

TO M

Y M

OTH

ER

TO M

Y F

UTU

RE

GR

AN

DD

AU

GH

TER

DE

AR

ON

AR

I

BY

AN

Y O

THE

R N

AM

E

THE BRAVE FACE

WHAT SHE WAS

DANCE

JUST

CO

NVE

RSAT

ION

S

LEGACY AN A

NTHOLOGY F

ROM THE UNIV

ERSITY O

F WATERLO

O’S

WRITIN

G CONTEST 20

20

HeForShe IMPACT 10x10x10 Framework The University of Waterloo is proud of its commitment and action to achieve

gender equity. This commitment inspired the institution’s participation and

leadership in the HeForShe IMPACT 10x10x10 framework almost five years

ago. The Framework is comprised of 10 Heads of State, 10 global CEOs and

10 Universities, including the University of Waterloo.

HeForShe is a worldwide movement that engages people of all ages to write,

speak and act in the name of equity. In its sixth year, the movement continues

to advocate for individuals who identify as women, and elevate the voices

of those who experience historical and on-going marginalization. Working

alongside allies of all genders, the movement has received over two million

equity commitments, over 1.3 billion social media conversations, and seen over

a thousand community events organized in its name.

UN Women, the United Nations entity for gender equity and the empowerment

of women, founded HeForShe in September 2014, and launched the initiative

with the help of UN Women Global Ambassador Emma Watson and UN

Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon.

LEGACY2020

HeForShe Writing Contest As part of our commitment to the HeForShe Impact 10x10x10 framework,

the University of Waterloo proudly presents its fourth and final HeForShe

Writing Contest Anthology.

Our four anthologies have featured creative non-fiction, fiction and poetry

that challenges, inspires and moves readers to engage thoughtfully about

issues of gender equity, how we have advanced and where challenges

still remain. In 2017 writers asked us to move through reflection into action

and in 2018, readers considered the complex ways that race, gender,

age, faith, culture and ability intersect. The third Anthology focused on

the theme of allies, highlighting the importance of collaboration and the

opportunities that emerge to end systemic gender inequity.

It seemed fitting that in 2020, for the final Anthology edition, we invite

students, faculty, staff, and alumni to share their ideas, expressions and

visions on the theme of LEGACY as it relates to intersectional gender

equity through creative non-fiction, fiction, and poetry.

We received a record number of submissions for this final Anthology.

Writers considered how the idea of legacy brings us here, to this

moment. They explored how choices today impact generations to come,

connecting us to one another across time and space. Writers reflected on

cultural and family legacies and the complex ways that these continue

to impact their lives and shape their future.

The submissions received for this final Anthology, like the ones that came

before, are as diverse as the writers themselves. Each unique in their

story, perspective and experience. Thank you to each writer who made

such extraordinary contributions, creating a legacy of their own. You have

created opportunities for dialogue, reflection and, importantly, action to

end gender inequity.

2 | University of Waterloo

The 2020 HeForShe Writing Contest and Anthology are presented by the Writing

and Communication Centre and the W Store Course Materials + Supplies in support

of the HeForShe 10x10x10 IMPACT framework.

writing centre

PRINTING

Courtesy of W Print University of Waterloo

DESIGN

Creative Services University of Waterloo

Copyright © 2020 University of Waterloo.

Copyright of individual works is maintained by the respective writers.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission.

Photography: Getty Images unless otherwise noted

Territorial Acknowledgement University of Waterloo acknowledge that we live and work on the traditional territory of the Attawandaron (Neutral), Anishinaabeg and Haudenosaunee peoples. The University of Waterloo is situated on the Haldimand Tract, the land promised to the Six Nations that includes ten kilometers on each side of the Grand River.

2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 3

LEGACY Table of Contents

HeForShe Writing Contest Information ................................... 4

Acknowledgement of Judges ...................................................... 5

Introductory remarks by

President Feridun Hamdullahpur ............................................. 6

CREATIVE NON-FICTION SELECTED SUBMISSIONS

“Contents of a Jewellery Box” by Anonymous

Creative Non-Fiction Winner ....................................................... 11

“Surreal Reflections on a Possible Legacy” by Anonymous ....15

“Advocating for Equity – The Best Legacy for Posterity”

by Joyceline Amoako .................................................................. 18

“Dear Onari” by Ibelemari Kio ................................................. 22

“Holding the Door” by Sara Davis ............................................ 26

Untitled by Vinny Neang ........................................................... 28

Untitled by Lorena McNamara .................................................. 31

“The Legacy Lies in Our Home” by Scarlett Minshull ............ 34

“The Impact of Empathy” by Julia Cowderoy .......................... 37

POETRY SELECTED SUBMISSIONS

“The Student and the Goose” by Sarasvathi Kannan

Poetry Winner .............................................................................. 42

“Dear Son” by Anna Wang

Poetry Winner .............................................................................. 46

“The Brave Face” by Hardeep Begda ......................................... 48

“Uprooted” by Anonymous ....................................................... 50

“By Any Other Name” by Sarasvathi Kannan .......................... 52

“Writing Holly’s Legacy” by Emma Schuster ............................ 53

“On Being a Woman” by Mawj Al-Hammadi ........................... 54

“The Salt Story” by Kristen Fajardo .......................................... 55

Untitled by Anonymous ............................................................ 56

“To My Future Granddaughter” by Alayna Wallace ................ 57

“Dance” by Julianna Suderman ................................................. 59

“To Be Remembered” by Edmond Hu ...................................... 60

“Daughters of Womyn” by Stephanie Shokoff ......................... 61

“To My Mother” by a .................................................................. 63

“Journey to Alone” by Emily Carlson ....................................... 65

“Excerpts from a Written Oral History of a Young

Queer Woman of Colour, as Told by Herself”

by Sarasvathi Kannan ................................................................. 66

“What She Was” by Alayne Brisley ............................................ 69

“Legacy as it Relates to Intersectional Gender Equity”

by Adeline Li ............................................................................... 70

“Legacy” by Simrit Dhillon ........................................................ 71

“Somnambulist” by Morteza Dehghani ................................... 72

“Thank You, Mom” by Mahtab Dhaliwal ................................. 76

FICTION SELECTED SUBMISSIONS

“Divine Intervention” by Sarasvathi Kannan

Fiction Winner ............................................................................. 80

“Shattered Lances” by Anna Whitehead

Honourable Mention .................................................................... 86

“The ‘Masters’ of Typing” by Nadia Formisano ........................ 98

“The Pyramid” by Ruo Xuan An ............................................... 102

“What My Father Began” by Mbabi Tema ................................ 103

“Epitaph Rewritten” by Phoenix Alison ................................... 106

“Saint Martina” by Emma Swarney ........................................... 110

“Just Conversations” by Rae ....................................................... 118

Untitled by Ziba .......................................................................... 112

“A Life’s Work” by Olivia Misasi ................................................ 126


HeForShe Writing Contest

The 2020 HeForShe Writing Contest and Anthology are presented by the

Writing and Communication Centre and W Print in support of the HeForShe

10x10x10 IMPACT framework.

Thank you to the following individuals for their contributions to the project:

Dr. Feridun Hamdullahpur

President and Vice-Chancellor

Dr. Diana Parry

Associate Vice-President Human

Rights, Equity and Inclusion/

HeForShe IMPACT 10x10x10

Campus Lead

Nick Manning

Associate Vice-President

of Communication

Dr. Clare Bermingham

Director, Writing and

Communication Centre

Ryan Jacobs

Director, Print + Retail Solutions

Jaime Philip

Manager, Business Development

and Marketing, Print + Retail Solutions

Marissa Halter

Technical Customer Service

Co-ordinator, Print + Retail Solutions

Jirina K. Poch

Writing and Multimodal

Communication Specialist, Writing

and Communication Centre

Monica Lynch

Communications Design Specialist,

Creative Services, Marketing and

Strategic Initiatives

David Brandon Tubbs

Manager, Executive Communications

Janessa Good

Events and Engagement

Co-ordinator, Human Rights,

Equity and Inclusion Unit

Tara Sutton

Communications and Engagement

Specialist, Human Rights,

Equity and Inclusion Unit

Karen Creed Thompson,

Project Co-ordinator,

Creative Services, Marketing

and Strategic Initiatives


Judging Panels

Three judging panels, composed of faculty, staff and students, reviewed and discussed

the contest submissions to select the category winners and the pieces that are published

in this anthology.

Thank you to all of the HeForShe Writing Contest judges for their time and commitment

to this project.

CREATIVE NON-FICTION

Dr. Tara Collington

French Studies, Faculty

of Arts

Cheryl Maksymyk

Waterloo Indigenous Student

Centre Manager, St. Paul’s

University College

Dr. Mario Coniglio

Earth and Environmental

Sciences, Faculty of Science

Panel Co-ordinator:

Janessa Good, Events and

Engagement Co-ordinator,

Human Rights, Equity

and Inclusion Unit

POETRY

Dr. Sarah Tolmie

English Language and

Literature, Faculty of Arts

Amanda Fitzpatrick

VP Student Life, Waterloo

Undergraduate Student

Association

Dr. Jeff Casello

School of Planning,

Faculty of Environment

Ayesha Masud

Co-ordinator, RAISE

Panel Co-ordinator:




and Inclusion Unit

FICTION

Jeremy Steffler

Faculty Relations Manager,

Co-operative Education

David Tubbs

Associate Director, Executive

Communications, University

Communications

Dr. Marlee Spafford

Associate Dean of Science,

Undergraduate Studies

Panel Co-ordinator:




and Inclusion Unit


Building a Legacy of Action

The University of Waterloo has been on a journey

through the HeForShe movement to foster an

equitable environment where those who identify

as girls and women can grow and thrive. HeForShe

continues to build a legacy of action that

endeavours to bring together all peoples and

create positive change. It lives within each of us –

our lived experiences and our actions. The words

found within the poems and stories in this anthology

are a part of that change. Each voice is unique just

as every person’s experience with love, hate,

indifference, discrimination and hope are different.

The HeForShe Anthology has been an outlet for our

community of writers to share their voices and give

readers a glimpse at the challenges, triumphs and

pure emotion behind their own experiences and

struggles around gender equity.

LEGACY


The voices featured in this edition of the

HeForShe Anthology are focused on the notion

of legacy, both in struggling against the

constraints imposed by the legacy of societal

and familial traditions and also the legacy we

are looking to craft through our own actions.

Courage, sadness, violence, love, spirituality,

companionship and more are explored by the

talented writers from across the University

campus. Their voices echo across generations

as they share their perspectives, experiences

and imagination on legacy, gender equity and

HeForShe with readers.

Their thoughts and emotions are powerful and

will continue to inspire our community to match

the struggles and challenges of achieving

gender equity with understanding, compassion

and action. It can be hard to put yourself in the

shoes of someone else and attempt to feel as

they feel, see what they’ve seen and build a

foundation of mutual understanding. I hope

reading the words and listening to the voices

within this anthology will offer you the chance

to discover an array of new, rich and vibrant

perspectives and build a legacy of empathy

and understanding. We have so much to learn

from one another. Our society is better when

everyone has a seat at the table and the

opportunity to be heard.

This may be the final edition of the HeForShe

Anthology, but its legacy is found in the hearts

and minds of its writers and the willingness of

its readers to open themselves to the fresh

perspectives and experiences found within.

Thank you for taking the time to learn

from the voices found inside the HeForShe

Anthology. Together we can continue to inspire

generations of those who identify as men

and women to build a more equitable society

for all and truly be HeForShe.

FERIDUN HAMDULLAHPUR

PRESIDENT AND VICE-CHANCELLOR

UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO

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CONTENTS OF A JEWELLERY BOXSURREAL REFLECTIONS ON A POSSIBLE LEGACY

DEAR ONARI

HOLD

ING THE D

OO

R

THE LEGACY LIES IN

OUR H

OME

THE

IMPA

CT

OF

EMPA

THY

ADVOCATING FOR EQUITY – THE BEST LEGACY FOR POSTERITY

LEGACY CREATIVE NON-FICTION

selected submissions




WINNER Creative Non-fiction

This anonymous submission comes from a student at the University of Waterloo.

Contents of a Jewellery Box The most precious thing that my parents own is a box.

As an emotional, self-concerned, young woman, I like to

say that this box is the physical manifestation of all the

trauma and pain I have left buried and unaddressed.

In reality, its a jewellery box. Not too expensive,

rectangular shape and dark in colour, with a simple

metal lock at the front. Every woman in my family has

directly or indirectly contributed to the contents of this

jewellery box. It is tucked away somewhere deep in my

mother’s possessions.

I remember sitting in a lecture and discussing what it means

to touch something. How, in our present society, we crave

the touch of human-made things to ground us in the busy

yet isolating and information-heavy environment we live in.

The girl at the front of the class was connecting the feeling

of living in a city to the strong need to feel connected to

other people through the objects we possess. Her question

made me think about the things I have touched, and what

things made me feel the most connected, the least isolated.

Almost as a shock, my mind jumped to the jewellery box.


There’s this process my mother goes through, it’s very

thoughtful and meticulous. Every few months, usually before

bed, my mother will slowly take the jewellery box out and

place it on a newly made bed. She’ll be absolutely quiet, which

is rare for her. Slowly, she’ll take out every piece of jewellery,

undress it from its withering newspaper wrapping, and trace

every stone, hole, pin, and detail with her fingers. She spends

at least ten to fifteen minutes on each piece. When she’s done,

she’ll lay it down next to the piece of jewellery of the person

they both originally belonged to. After it’s all laid out, my

mother will sit and stare at it, finish her cup of tea, then go

on carefully dressing each piece and putting them back in the

box again. Then she’ll sigh, and a glimmer will go over her

eyes as if she was about to let go of something painful she was

hanging on to in her chest, but she’ll never cry or say anything,

just go to bed.

My mother once told me, when I was very little and my

grandmother had just died, that everyone who has and will

ever love me lives in my chest. And that is what it means to

love. That someone gives a part of themselves to you, so you

can keep it forever, even after they are gone. She told me all

my grandmother’s words, thoughts, laughs, and tears were

within me, and that was the most precious present I had. That

everyone in my family, all the men and women that came

before me, lived inside me because they too loved me. Without

even knowing me. They loved my hair without ever smelling

it and my laugh without ever hearing it. They did everything

in their power so that one day I could laugh, even if they could

never see it, and that was their love.

Love, in our culture, is rooted in selflessness. Love is meant to

dissolve the ego and expand the mind. It is never about I; it

is always about us. It is a spiritual exercise, the purest form of

worship. In my family, it is the women that love the strongest.

Growing up, I thought that was a weakness. Learning about

western feminism meant recognizing the very clear picture

that was laid out next to it, and the women I descended from

never fit that picture. It made me feel inferior to the women

around me while growing a sense of superiority to the women

in my family who came before me.

When I was young, I would get angry at my mother for

performing her ritual with the jewellery box. I thought

she was being too emotional, too nostalgic, that she was

stuck. Where I came from felt like a stain, and the women who

raised me felt like they were lesser. My ancestors seemed like

small, greedy people for hoarding wealth and giving it

so much power over themselves. That jewellery box made

me feel like a token of that lesser society, made me feel

I could never escape my past, that I would always carry

the weight of my mother, her mother before her, and her

mother before her.

It creates an uneasiness in the personality, this feeling of being

above where you come from yet not good enough for what

you aspire to. It’s something every daughter of an immigrant

goes through. Its a hubris we all possess that makes us pat

ourselves on the back for our thoughtfulness when we wear

traditional clothes in public or post Eid Mubarak on our

social media. We feel as if we are doing our culture justice, as

if we are its heroes and are pushing it into the bright light of

modernism and progress. It’s ugly and hollow. And when you

open the jewellery box, you’re forced to face that grotesque

hubris within you.

The girl at the front of the lecture hall was speaking about

her isolating experience in the countryside and how it made

her more thankful for the handmade things around her.

How her consumerism was replaced by a thoughtfulness for


Creative Non-fiction WINNER

how things are made and how we use them. She said that the

more isolated she felt, the more she clung on to that feeling

of love or care coming from her things. She predicted that

in the future, as society continues to grow more isolated, the

monetary value of handmade objects would grow. That we

would seek love and connection in things.

I’m not sure with how much care the objects in the jewellery

box were made, or what the monetary value of all of them

must be. I doubt my parents know that either. Or anyone

in the family, even those who had the jewellery made. My

ancestors were never rich, and by the looks of it, their lack of

wealth did not seem to bother them. Trade made Central Asia

a place of migration, and no one stayed in one place for long.

So rather than attaching themselves to land, my ancestors,

unable to bury all their dead in one place, made jewellery to

have something to attach their love to.

Jewellery was solely the domain of women. Entrusted with

what little wealth the family had, they made jewellery when

they deemed appropriate. They were its caretakers, and its

inheritance and possession were up to their discretion. When

a woman got married, she proudly adorned herself with the

memories and honour of her female ancestors before her. The

jewellery was made of silver and gold, for its rarity and worth

but also its longevity, with every woman making a piece with

the intent that her granddaughter, wherever she may be, will

have a piece of her family to proudly adorn herself with.

The first time I opened the jewellery box myself was when

I was eleven. I don’t remember the circumstances that led me

to ask my mother whether I could or not, but I remember she

had a deep smile on her face, one that touched her eyes and

formed creases on her cheeks. We both washed our hands and

sat on the bed. Once opened, I touched all the old newspaper

wrappings. It smelt of anise and cardamom. I took the

first piece of jewellery out, a pair of pearl earrings. My

grandmother had these made the last day she ever spent in

India, knowing she would never return. She never wore the

earrings in her lifetime. She spent her last bit of wealth on

having them made and then stored them away so that one

day I could wear them.

My grandmother suffered. Both of my grandmothers did.

And they never talked about it. It’s hard for me to face their

suffering. The part of me shaped by the western ideals I live

in finds their suffering shameful because it is rooted in their

oppression, even if in their ignorance they did not consider

themselves oppressed. The part of me that, when thinking

about “meaningful touch,” jumps to the thought of the

jewellery box, is ashamed of myself. Perhaps it is the guilt of

being the first woman in my family to suffer less than those

before me. Perhaps it is the guilt of feeling superior in intellect

and skill. Perhaps its the catharsis of understanding that my

grandmothers chose to suffer because if they did not, I would

not have the privilege to look down upon them today.

My mother let me wear the pearl earrings when I was sixteen

years old. They were heavy and pulled down on my ears. They

made me look more mature and taller. Throughout the night

I kept touching them. I let them ground me. My grandmother

was a little more than five feet tall, and she was a champion

amateur wrestler in her city. A month after meeting my six-

foot-tall, lanky poet of a grandfather, she proposed to him,

telling him he better write her a good poem if he wanted

her to move all the way from India to Pakistan because the

train ticket was so awfully expensive. They had a good life

together, that is, until he died of lung cancer at the age of 43,

leaving four unmarried and ill sisters, two young children, a

less than Rs 500 pension, and countless medical bills behind.


My grandmother moved the family into a one-bedroom,

embroidered day and night to pay her children’s school

tuition, and walked obscene distances to buy reasonably priced

medicine for her sisters-in-law. After a few years, my great-

uncle bought a reasonably-sized house and asked her and

the family to move in with him. Finally, things seemed to be

looking up. But a few weeks after moving into the new family

house, my grandmother went blind from her diabetes and

passed away a few days before her daughter got married.

My grandmother would not be categorized as a modern

woman. She did not live in a progressive society. But, at the

end of the day, modernity and progress are just a myth that

glorify western culture and its ideals. Rooted in our inferiority

complex, we begin to think that the more we assimilate and

the whiter we become, the more agency we have. So, as women

of colour, we do everything in our power to grasp at the

agency that is constantly being denied to us. Brown women in

the West spend their lives running away from the slurs their

mothers and grandmothers were branded with.

We forget the language because English will always be a sign

of status and intellect, even if Urdu poetry brought emperors

to their knees. We stop eating the food because eating with

your hands is barbaric and uncivilized. We change our names

and give our children Anglo names. We watch ourselves be

passed up by brown men for more interesting white females

in every single movie and tv show. We fantasize about being

with white men because half-brown children are always more

pleasant than full brown ones. Because white men are less

threatening than our own.

This struggle to become less brown created a restlessness

within me. An unspoken trauma that I had locked away. But

eventually, you open the jewellery box. You hold the pearl

earrings in your hand. You feel the immeasurable strength

that a woman, who you’ve never met, must have had to spend

the last of her family’s money on earrings for a girl she would

never live to see. The conviction of a woman who single-

handedly provided for a family of seven when she could’ve

easily walked away. The grace of a woman who, in the face of

illness and poverty, always had the loudest laugh in the room,

the hardest clap in the audience, and the softest smile. You feel

a peace grow over you as you recognize that your strength as

a woman does not come from your ability to run away from

the slurs of your mothers and grandmothers. Rather, like your

grandmothers, it comes from the ability stand your ground,

look the struggle in the eye, and smile.

A week after moving into the big house, my grandmother, out

of sheer happiness, booked everyone in the family tickets to

India with what little money she had. She bought my father

a camera so he could record the entire trip. Everyone was

excited, but my grandmother was absolutely elevated. She

forced all her sisters to cook for her while she was there, snuck

all the children out to buy street food in the middle of the

night, and bested all my uncles at their card games, running

their pockets dry. She bought everyone a new sari before she

left and snuck some desserts into her luggage. The morning

that she boarded the train back to Lahore, my grandmother

spent the last of her money and took a ricksha ride from the

east to the west end of her city, saying goodbye for the last

time. Her final stop before the train station was in a cramped

little alley at the corner of which was a tiny jewellery shop

that specialized in earrings.

Life is not about who remembers who, who considers you

progressive, and who considers you oppressed. It’s not about

how much money you make nor your name on a piece of

paper. Life is about those last few rupees your grandmother

spent on your pearl earrings.


Creative Non-fiction

Surreal reflections on a possible legacy

This anonymous submission comes from a faculty member at the University of Waterloo.

I am entering my twilight years. I’ve jokingly said that I’ve

become the person I used to give up my seat on the bus for.

Without asking, people thrust seniors’ tickets into my hands.

That I have established a legacy by now is probably assumed.

For I am that female minority in a STEM discipline. Have I become

a proverbial “role model,” and when did that all take place?

When I first entered my field of study, I didn’t spend a moment

thinking about who could be my role model. There was actually

no one around me who could have provided this kind of inspiration.

And yet, I don’t recall feeling impoverished in any way. I was there to

learn and to experience, as an individual in a community. I did not

need to be validated by people of my own gender. I didn’t feel as

if the rest of my community looked upon me any differently than

all the others (who were the same gender as they were).


Over time, the number of females in my discipline increased, and

suddenly, one day, the topic of gender balance emerged as a point

of discussion. When that all happened is a blur. It seems as if

this only became a point of conversation in the 2010s and likely wasn’t

much of one before. I do recall going to conferences and, over the years,

seeing women’s luncheons being organized, for us to reflect on

what was missing for the sisterhood and about what steps could

be taken to see progress made. I participated. I did not truly

feel disadvantaged in my day-to-day life, and yet incidents in my

past came to mind, ones where I was certainly very misunderstood

and truly discriminated against. The day I remember the

most is the one when I had returned to work after maternity leave,

feeling rather conflicted about possibly abandoning my family life

for a more engaged academic life. I discussed my hesitations with

my chair (obviously a male) and he said, “If you don’t know by now

what you want, then maybe you shouldn’t stay here.” Needless to say

I did stay, made a point of putting family first, and worked out

arrangements with my husband to ensure that work never compromised

motherhood. But those words sting, even today. They were emblematic

of the lack of understanding that pervaded then and that probably

still, unfortunately, persists today.

Somehow, though, I persevered and persisted, and inertia kept

me in place so that now I am the elder stateswoman,

someone who has proved that it was possible to continue their

existence in this academic field, despite any challenges to

the contrary. If one accepts the premise that possibility is

ultimately the source of hope in all of us, then by logical

reasoning (an occupational hazard), it must be the case that others

are viewing me as some kind of inspiration, motivation, success story,

or at the very least as someone who must be leaving a tremendous legacy.



Have I done that? What is it that I have accomplished that even comes to mind?

Is perseverance to be rewarded? There have been brief accolades

and accomplishments along the way, but ones that could have been

awarded to others of the opposite gender. Is the proof of concept

that a woman could reach these goals enough to constitute a legacy?

Does it point to an important removal of the barriers that many imagine?

Some might say so. Yet, maybe one never really has a legacy unless one

has, as well, a realization that some kind of vital message has been

left behind, unless one actually experiences others who acknowledge

this tremendous role one has apparently played. Do we need this

kind of validation to live and breathe the legacy path?

Upon reflection, finally being forced to ask myself this question today,

I would say that confirmation by others is not a requirement. One has to

live one’s life as one sees fit. The freedom to do so is what shows

the ways in which our gender has reached its pinnacle. I haven’t

been looking for approval before selecting the actions of my life. I feel the

wounds of my struggle, still, but notice that some healing has taken place.

I hear the voices of youth who are unsatisfied with progress made to date,

who demand for more to be accomplished. I see a future ahead when legacies

will arise naturally, be accepted graciously, and become the normal order

of the day as each new step forward is taken. I am glad that I was

able to contribute. My persistence is my legacy.

As a coda to this introspection, I offer one interesting story.

Not too long ago, a woman I had taught almost 30 years prior

reached out to me (after one of my recent accolades had received some

publicity). She had become a successful manager within an organization,

and she still carried with her some lessons learned in my course, so

many years ago. Did she scale the heights at a time when discrimination

was the order of the day because of anything I had done in particular?

We will probably never know. But these small stories do have potential.

Perhaps if we encourage our rising women to tell their tales, then legacies

may indeed become a natural part of our dialogue and have a central

place in our tomorrows.

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Advocating For Equity – The Best Legacy For Posterity

JOYCELINE AMOAKO is a student in Public Health and Health Systems at the University of Waterloo.

Having grown up in Africa as a teenager, I witnessed first-hand

many forms of gender disparity, both subtle and forthright,

that disempowered women from economic independence

to sexual freedom. To this day, many African communities

have elements of male dominance and superiority subtly

entrenched in the culture and belief system, so intricate that

it’s extremely difficult to identify such indicators. For example,

husbands have absolute control over deciding the family’s size

and birth control, wives cannot voice their opinion for fear of

been domestically abused, and fathers decide the career path

of their daughters and even who their daughters can marry!

I had not come to this realization until I had the opportunity

to take courses in gender studies and related areas in college;

I then realized that even I, an urban-raised, educated woman,

had been a victim of this culture in a way.

My upbringing, education, and career path had been heavily

influenced by the whims of a man, my father. Not to discount

the visionary and supportive father I am blessed with, I did

recognize that my dad had been the sole decider of many

important decisions in my upbringing. I was just a puppet

saying, “yes sir” and working hard to achieve my life’s goals


that were set by someone else. Indeed, a major part of the

Ghanaian belief system has an underlying superiority attached

to being a man and a certain inferiority complex with being

a woman. Almost as if the woman has been programmed

to believe that she cannot think, fend for herself, or create a

successful world on her own. These tough deliberations in my

mind, during my college years, are what inspired in me a desire

to want to contribute to women’s empowerment and give

women the resources to take their lives into their own hands,

to impact their livelihood.

My first step towards this goal of women’s empowerment

was to pursue a master’s degree in Women’s and Gender

Studies. I believed that this degree would help me gain a

better understanding of how gender shapes our identities and

interactions and how best we could bridge the gap between

humanity and equality. In spite of my passion for this area of

study, I received much backlash from the people I shared my

dreams with. First, they believed that the unequal treatment

and discrimination women faced were rooted in our culture,

and it would be impossible for anyone to win a fight against

culture. In addition, they expected me to pursue a more

“prestigious profession” such as becoming a doctor rather

than just a “common” advocate for women’s empowerment.

I felt broken and was really saddened to know that

my future dreams were seen as a threat rather than

something beneficial or befitting to my society. The love

and support my male friends received for pursuing a

career path in the sciences was difficult to compare to

the apathy I faced from the point I showed interest in

pursuing a career path in women’s empowerment.

To this day, many people around the world, irrespective of

their beliefs or education, view culture as “divine” and are

scared of questioning the discriminative cultural practices

that get in the way of equity and development. As a person

originating from a country endowed with one of the best

forms of cultural inheritance, I deeply understand and

acknowledge the central role culture plays in national

development, preservation of tradition, and the instilling of

morals. However, if there are any aspects of culture that don’t

promote equal treatment and opportunities, then there is

an urgent need for change. As Somerset Maugham (1938)

rightly stated, tradition is a guide and not a jailer; hence, there

should be no fear in advocating for a change in the status

quo to positively impact a people’s way of life. Despite the

lack of needed support and advice, I count it a joy that I still

focused on my dream of becoming an advocate for women

and children’s empowerment as well as building a career

around a subject area that promotes intersectional equity.

To me, nothing is more fulfilling than giving back to society,

especially in the aspect of empowering women and children.

The education and training I received over the past two

years as a Women’s and Gender Studies student was life

changing. I acquired a variety of experiences in my academic

and professional training. These experiences adequately

prepared me for a career in women’s advocacy and nurtured

in me a desire to promote equity using an intersectional

lens. Two major experiences that have entrenched my skills

and understanding of equity for all were serving as a Sexual

Violence Victim Counselor at the Riverview Center and as

a Violence Prevention Trainer at the Center for Violence



Prevention; both agencies are involved in the promotion

of equity and violence prevention in Iowa. As a counselor,

I offered free counseling services to address the emotional

and health needs of sexual violence victims from all social

categories. Also, by serving as a violence prevention trainer,

I trained other students to become agents of violence

prevention, which contributed to reducing violence and

promoting healthy relationships.

From these experiences, I developed so much empathy

for everyone; I became fully aware of the challenges that

people from diverse backgrounds face as a result of their

gender, values, and race. I realized that for equity to be

fully understood, it should include people from all social

categorizations such as race, class, and gender. This way,

no group feels left out in the movement for equal rights

and opportunities. In fact, the significant academic and

professional training I received as a Women’s and Gender

Studies student prepared me to not only become a doctoral

student but also a woman who values promoting equity

across all spheres of life. I believe that each person is great and

endowed with spectacular potential that can be made useful

when provided with the right set of circumstances.

Today, I’m more encouraged than ever to share my story with

the world. I feel inspired to work harder, even in the face of

opposition. I’ve learned that at every phase in life, adversities

are bound to happen, and it is how we respond to them that

makes all the difference. Some have had their life’s dreams

wiped away in a whisper while others have matured through

adversity to become success stories. As a young, educated,

African woman, I have faced my fair share of adversity,

many times nearly shattering my life’s goals and aspirations.

But ultimately, they molded me into becoming the

driven and resilient woman I am today. My goals in

life, be it personal, educational, or professional, are

deeply influenced by my desire to help in promoting

women’s empowerment and equity for all. Above all,

I want to be known as a person who:

Lived to

Endow

Generations with the right

Attitudes,

Courage, and the

Yearning for equity.

LONG LIVE THE HeForShe IMPACT 10x10x10.

This initiative is promoting equity by improving lives

and helping to deconstruct the many social constructs

hindering the goals and aspirations of females.


How are you? I miss you so much, I look forward to a day when we will live together, share a timeless hug, and take long, endless walks together. But until then, you, my beautiful little sister, will always be in my heart, mind, and spirit. I am writing this letter to your sixteen-year-old self about the moment I realized I am black as I would rather you live in blissful ignorance for now.It was not an exact moment, incident, or time of day. It happened over a period of time, this process of self-awakening. Like yourself, I was fortunate to grow up in a country where black was the only colour I knew, where black was and is beautiful! In Nigeria, I grew up listening to love songs like African Queen by Tuface Idibia, serenading the African woman for her beauty and lack ofimperfections. I grew up reading books written by strong African women like Chimamanda Adichie, who stimulated my intellectual being like no one else could. When I was about your age, our family would gather in front of the television and watch Nigerian movies that had most of their settings based in the palace. There would be a brave princess who refused to bow to barbaric traditions in her city and, in the end, brought positive change to her life and her people. I knew so many princesses that I was sure that if I dug far enough into my history, I would find that I too am royalty. It is not surprising that with all this influence around me, the African woman was a goddess to be worshipped on a high pedestal. In my childhood eyes, African equalled royalty.

Dear Onari

IBELEMARI KIO is a University of Waterloo alum.

PLEASE NOTE: The following story includes depictions of racism and racist slurs. Support around these issues are available from the Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit:

519-888-4567, ext. 40439, or via email to [email protected]

Counselling Services: 519-888-4567, ext. 32655

mailto:[email protected]



IBELEMARI KIO is a University of Waterloo alum.

Dear Onari,

How are you? I miss you so much, I look forward to a day when we will live together,

share a timeless hug, and take long, endless walks together. But until then, you, my

beautiful little sister, will always be in my heart, mind, and spirit. I am writing this letter

to your sixteen-year-old self about the moment I realized I am black – as I would rather you

live in blissful ignorance for now.

It was not an exact moment, incident, or time of day. It happened over a period of time,

this process of self-awakening. Like yourself, I was fortunate to grow up in a country where

black was the only colour I knew, where black was and is beautiful! In Nigeria, I grew up

listening to love songs like African Queen by Tuface Idibia, serenading the African woman

for her beauty and lack of imperfections. I grew up reading books written by strong African

women like Chimamanda Adichie, who stimulated my intellectual being like no one else

could. When I was about your age, our family would gather in front of the television and

watch Nigerian movies that had most of their settings based in the palace. There would

be a brave princess who refused to bow to barbaric traditions in her city and, in the end,

brought positive change to her life and her people. I knew so many princesses that I was

sure that if I dug far enough into my history, I would find that I too am royalty. It is not

surprising that with all this influence around me, the African woman was a goddess to

be worshipped on a high pedestal. In my childhood eyes, African equalled royalty.

In the year 2013, I arrived in Hamilton, Canada to pursue my post-secondary studies.

You had just been born then, in a city called Brampton, and it would be my first time

seeing you. I was only seventeen years old and it was my first time travelling outside the

borders of Africa. The culture shock I experienced was a dizzying frenzy that sometimes

had me confined in my room for days. The food was different. The people were


different. Everything was just different. And though everything else was different, I believed

I was still the same. I did not realize that to other people, I was very different as well. I found

Canadians quite funny. They were always surprised when they heard me speak English, even

before finding out that I’m Nigerian. Some of them were outrightly mean to me, and that

made me wonder why. As you know, in Nigeria, it is not uncommon to have strangers walk

up to you just to give you a compliment or offer some help if they see you in need. It seemed

like every part of Canada I went to was different.

During my first visit to Windsor, I was grocery shopping with Tammy when an old Caucasian

lady bumped into me and dropped her purse. She started apologizing profusely as she bent

down to pick up her purse but stopped dead in her tracks when she saw me. She had a look

of both horror and disgust smeared over her face as she hurriedly left my presence. She

hurried away as though one more minute in my presence would infect her with some deadly

communicable disease. I wondered why but let it go when I saw the pain our older brother

was in, having witnessed the incident.

These experiences and a lot more confused me a lot. I am very hygiene conscious, so I could not

possibly have been smelling. Why did the lady at the cafeteria refuse my order after I saw her

oblige the girls before and after me? These questions and more had me puzzled, I simply could

not understand why. Soon after, while scrolling through my feed on Facebook, a video of a black

man murdered by police officers surfaced. And as is my usual practice, I went to the comment

section; the comments were a horror story. A lot of people believed that the man deserved to

die because he was “black.” Because he was a “Nigger” and should have died long ago. I was

numb. I watched a few more similar videos, and it was then that everything began to fall into

place. Growing up, it was instilled in our minds that we are proudly Nigerian, and in the larger

picture, we are African. Never in my life had I considered another identity, but there in that

moment I realized that it did not matter how Nigerian/African I am. To the rest of the world,

I am black. We are black.



This reality was suffocating. I had no problem being identified as black, but I had a big

problem with what that black represented. To them, being black did not mean beauty or

royalty, it meant slavery, dirt, and many other demeaning things. It meant that, somehow,

I was less than everyone else, not because of who I am but merely because of what I look

like. This was my season of awakening; I started to view the world through a lens that

now made it all fall into place. I finally understood what those unfriendly stares and

“innocent” comments meant. I finally understood that when I walked into a store to

shop, the owner’s gaze did not follow my every move because they were waiting to help

me. I finally understood the look on Tammy’s face that day at the grocery store.

And then came the anger. These beings, who were foolish enough to think themselves supreme

merely because of the color of their pale skin, thought they were better than me because you

could see their veins faster than you could get a trace of mine? During this period, I detested being

referred to as “black.” I would correct people, telling them I was African and not black. We do not

refer to the Chinese as “yellow” or other races by the color of their skin. “So why do I have to be

called a color?” I reasoned with myself.

After the anger came confusion and depression. Onari, I was so depressed that I began considering

their “truth.” I remember, one day, I got so broken that I ran to the Bible in search of answers. As a

Christian, know God created everything, including us – human beings. So, did He really create us as

lesser beings? Were black people really created to suffer and die such inhumane deaths? All these

questions and more I asked God, and He answered me through the story of Moses and Miriam.

In sum, my beautiful sister, it took me over two years to rediscover my worth. Not too long ago,

I got a compliment from a girl who said I was beautiful “for [my] kind.” I am writing this letter

to let you know that you are a queen, regardless of “your kind.” I used to think that being “black”

was a plague. However, I realised that my identity as a black person is what keeps me connected

with the millions of people around the globe whose ancestors were sold as slaves. You are not

only Nigerian, you are also black, and that black, my sister, is beautiful.

Yours forever,

[name redacted]


Holding the Door SARA DAVIS is a staff member in Co-operative Education at the University of Waterloo.

What do you want to be when you grow up? Where will

you make your mark and plant your proverbial flag? How

will you change someone’s life? Will you invent that one

thing that will alter the course of history? What will be your

legacy? Pretty daunting proposals for any of us. Who, me?

I can’t do that. I can barely even decide what to eat for

dinner, let alone how to change the world for the better.

In a way, these big questions define us, surrounded by

our peers and the ever-changing dynamics of this ball of

magma, rock, and water that we all live on. Daily politics

show us how to make a change, but we still feel it isn’t

enough. How can I do that? Look at it all, how can I possibly

make a change? This is just how the world is; whatever I do

won’t be enough.

You tell yourself that maybe the person sitting next to you

has the big ideas, and maybe they’ll be the one to create the

world-changing thing. But that person might be thinking the

same thing as you. All of the other people in the room might

be thinking the same thing as you. But one of those people

might be thinking nothing like you.

That person might be thinking that nothing will change.

That person might be developing the idea that everything

always goes wrong for them. They may think that this is how

their life will be from now on. Their years will continue on a

slow downward slope. Even one kind thing, one thing would

make a difference.

But you know that there’s hope. There has to be! You’re

determined to make a mark. There has to be some small

thing you can do, surely not everything is monumental.

Then you pass that person in the door, they’ve dropped some

of their things and are struggling to pick them up. You pick

them up and open the door for them. They smile at you, and

you go your separate ways.

That person’s smile stays after they leave. They start looking

at the world a little brighter because someone helped them.

On a day when they couldn’t seem to catch a break, you took

the time to try to help them. To help someone else.

You keep walking with a new thought. You think of that

person you just passed, their smile. You might be thinking

of bigger things, but not everyone has to accomplish the big

things every day. There are little legacies you can leave with

people, little changes you can make in days.

You can hold open the door.

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PHOTO: UNSPLASH ARISA CHATTASA


Untitled PLEASE NOTE: The following story includes depictions of child abuse. Support around this issue is available from the Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit:






VINNY NEANG is a student in Social Development Studies at the University of Waterloo.

When I think of legacy, I think of my mother: her calloused

feet, dry and cracked from years of working at a factory

to support her children; her worn hands and aching muscles;

and massaging her shoulders as she’s wrapped in a sarong to

repay some of her sacrifices. Thirty years ago, she came from

Cambodia to start a new life in Canada. A new language to

learn, new friends to make, and a new family to start with

her husband. All foreign experiences to me as a Canadian-

born citizen. I think of my mother’s experiences growing up

in Cambodia and being an immigrant from Canada. There

are privileges that I was afforded for being a Canadian citizen,

some that are not applicable to my mother. Language is one

of them.

A few years back, my mother stumbled upon old childhood

videos of my older brother and me. We were young, around

the age of four or five. I was speaking Khmer exclusively –

English had not yet graced my ears. That changed when

I began school. I would slowly forget my first language, little

by little as I learned a new one. English is the language you

need to learn in order to survive here. If you don’t speak

it well or fluently, you’re looked down upon. My mother’s

boss once told her, “I would put you in my position if only

your English was better.” She goes to St. Louis now, an adult

school, hoping to “become better.” It saddens me whenever she

mispronounces a word and everyone around her laughs. She

tells me, “My English isn’t good,” and I always tell her, “Your

English is good enough,” but to Canada, it’s not.

My mother grew up during the Khmer Rouge. I remember

hearing stories from her as a child. She lived with her family

on a farm and fell in love with one of her cows. She told me

once, “When I came home from school, I would play with

my cow all day, and I’d pet its back and brush its hair. I loved

that cow so much.” But one day, she came home from school

and found her cow missing. Soldiers had come and taken her


cow away. She told me how she cried for two days straight and

how her mother got angry at her for crying. “There’s nothing

we can do, it’s not your cow anymore.” A country ravaged by

war never has any happy stories, there are only sad ones. The

saddest of all is how that same six-year-old that lost her cow

would later lose her mother. During the Khmer Rouge, doctors

were in short supply – many were killed and others were used

for military purposes – and my grandmother came down with

a flu and had no medicine or medical aid to help her battle it.

She passed away. Twenty years later, when my family moved

to Newmarket, I found my mother wailing to herself on our

balcony, drunk and crying about her death. War separates us

from our loved ones. I am lucky to be in a country free of war

and its effects. If I have a daughter of my own someday, I hope

war never graces her either.

Women do not have the same opportunities in Cambodia

as they do here in Canada. When my mother was sixteen

years old, her father arranged for her to marry one of her

first cousins. In her words, she told me of her disobedience

and the subsequent consequences of this disobedience; her

father beat her within an inch of her life for not accepting the

marriage. She managed to escape that life and found herself

a job and eventually met my father who whisked her away to

a country completely alien to her. Here in Canada, she was

able to find a job that sustained her and her children. When

I visited Cambodia at seventeen, the world that my mother

grew up in felt completely disconnected to me. The poverty,

pollution, language, and landscape were nothing my senses

could understand. The food and people were similar, but the

infrastructure, the smells, the marketplaces, the money – it

was so different from anything I knew growing up in a first-

world country. One day, I was walking with my cousins to a

restaurant for breakfast, and I came across a horrible smell

and sight; the river we were walking beside was ink-black

from pollution and there were garbage bags and litter strewn

everywhere alongside its stream. I was disgusted. I did not feel

any sense of pride being in Cambodia, instead, I felt alienation,

sadness, and anger.

We are lucky to be born in a country that has free health

care, a stable economy, a non-corrupt government, and free

education. These are not true across all countries. I can only

hope that when we look at ourselves, our neighbours, and our

future generations that we uphold these fundamental rights so

that the health, prosperity, and livelihood of our children can

remain bountiful. A year ago, my parents went to Toronto to

protest Hun Sen, Cambodia’s president, coming to Canada. My

parents sit together and listen to Cambodian news to keep up

with the politics going on in their country, but it is never good

news. They can only sit and contemplate the state of affairs

back home and hope for the better.



Untitled LORENA MCNAMARA is a student in International Development at the University of Waterloo.

I vividly remember being in senior kindergarten and saying to the boys in my class, “girls

rule and boys drool.” I felt so proud and unafraid to be a female and didn’t think about how

a phrase as simple as this would cause me to reflect years later. In grade three, I played soccer

competitively and remember being the only girl to play with the boys at recess. I scored a

goal on a boy and felt so proud of myself; however, this caused him to cry in embarrassment

because he “let a girl score on him.” I wore a uniform most days in elementary school but on

days where we didn’t have to, we had to follow a dress code of “no shoulders and shorts down

to knees.” Why couldn’t I show my shoulders? Why did everyone think that a young girl, at the

age of 12, had provocative ideations for wearing a tank top? In reality, it was summer and it

was hot. As I approached my early teens, I started taking my dog for walks on my own in the

evenings. Something shifted in me, and suddenly I felt scared to be out and alone in my own


neighbourhood. Maybe it was because I watched the news and knew about the horrible

things that were happening around the world, or because the Internet told me, a young girl,

to be extra careful and not get myself into “sticky situations.”

It wasn’t until my early teens that I finally started to understand the divide between males

and females, this being both positive and negative. Positive because I grew up in a family

that supported and encouraged equal opportunity for males and females, and I never

felt that I was incapable of something. Negative because I felt shocked to realize that this

equality is lacking in almost every aspect of human life. I saw no difference in who we were

as human beings, other than how we looked. I saw no difference until I learned and was

taught that there was indeed a difference. These are some simple things that I experienced

at the ages of 4, 8, and 12 that impact the way I approach daily life.

There are some things that I will never experience based on my identity, but there are

some things that I worry and think about daily because I identify as a woman. I rarely walk

with headphones in; I avoid walking around in the dark; I sit in the back of a taxi or an

Uber; I never go to the washroom alone at a bar or restaurant; and I try my best not to get

overemotional in meetings. These are just some things that run through my mind when

participating in daily interactions and thinking about them in depth it’s unfortunate that

I have to live my life this way. Wouldn’t it be nice not to live in fear? Not to feel judged

because I am a woman? Not to feel like I am “second”? When we think about what it is

to be a human, we quite literally and frequently say “mankind”; I learned that there was a

fireman, a policeman, and a mailman and assumed that these were not jobs I would ever

have because I was not a man. We as people, unfortunately and unintentionally, are treating

women as a second gender when we refer to everything as “man first.” Men and women have

been categorized into something more than just what you identify your gender to be. We

have been placed and shaped into categories, given unwritten rules to follow, and told how

to act because it’s determined that our gender decides this for us.

Gender is a social structure that has been socially constructed; therefore, it makes us

comprehensible to social actors (Marlow, 2018). Women are often subordinated by

ascriptions of femininity while masculinity affords power to men who enact it; this is why



people assume that men can be empowered while women may need to work harder (Marlow,

2018). When it comes to women, there is the assumption that they have no power because

of the “fragile femininity” that females encompass. When these constructed boundaries and

barriers are broken down, we then assume that a woman is empowered, but we are often

intimidated by this empowerment – a critical component of life that should change.

Change has been happening, and it could be said that 2017-2018 should be called the Year

of the Woman. It was a year of movements of women’s empowerment; #MeToo and Time’s

Up made significant waves throughout social media and in public conversations. Both of

these movements bring up issues that women specifically are facing around the world,

explaining in more detail the obstacles and challenges that everyday women face in both

their personal and professional lives. The broader concepts of both these movements

encompass the incredible need to stop sexual assault, harassment, abuse, and inequality

in the workplace. I reflect on these years with hope for what is to come. The legacy is big,

and people want to fight for it.

I can feel this shift in the energy of the universe, women are finding their power and their

voices as we see more activation in communities for gender equality. There is still a long

way to go, but we as a collective are beginning to take control and take back the power that

is ours. My past impacts my present. Reflecting on the situations I have been apart of and

the conversations I have taken part in, I am able to understand and determine how I want

my future to look. However, there are a variety of influences that give me hope. Legacy is

about what we leave, the impact we make, and what is connected to us. If I have the ability

to promote gender equality, to support and educate the people around me, and to reflect

and share about my journey as a woman thus far, I am leaving a legacy that strives for hope.

Hope to move forward, hope for change, and hope for women.

Reference: Marlow, S., & Martinez Dy, A. (2018). Annual review article: Is it time to rethink the

gender agenda in entrepreneurship research? International Small Business Journal, 36(1), 3–22.


The Legacy Lies in

Our Homes

SCARLETT MINSHULL is a student in Geological Engineering at the University of Waterloo.

PHOTO: UNSPLASH MIGUEL BRUNA



The legacy lies in our homes. It lies in our dinner talk, in

our coffee table books, and in our music and art draped

around our homes. It is embodied from infancy to young

adulthood. So please hear me when I say the conversation for

intersectional gender equity starts between mother and father,

son and daughter, and others. We cannot preach in the streets

when our grandparents believe a woman’s place is better

served at home than at college. We cannot be followers of the

body positivity movement on Instagram when we tell our son

that if he doesn’t start lifting weights, he’ll be smaller than

the girls in his class. How can we define our current advocacy

as a legacy when there is so much change to be witnessed in

our own homes? We regard the ones who marched before

us as the ignition for change, the legacy, but the fight is

intergenerational. The legacy must be bred in our homes.

We must walk, run with the torch, and carry on the legacy

for equality by starting in our homes. When we wake up

in the morning, we must inhale and exhale inclusivity.

When I attended the Toronto Women’s March in 2017, I took

a long time to consider what I wanted to write on my sign

that I would carry. I felt emotional thinking of how little

space I would have to convey the anger and disrupt I was

feeling for women, around the globe, in my community, in my

life. Women battling inequality in their daily routine, from

their workplace all the way to their walk home. I thought to

myself that one sign could never allow me to truly express

how I was feeling. Eventually, I found a quotation online that

summarized my inner ache, “I march because someone long

ago marched for me.” That was my connection, my meaning.

The intergenerational empathy that connects advocacy and

spirit. I wanted to exert the energy of my past sisters and

brothers who fought and marched for me. On the day of the

march, I witnessed many powerful signs and protests, but I was

impacted by the number of older women who thanked me

for my sign and encouraged my message. Storming on their

legacy, I witnessed the passion and energy that comes from

standing up to gender inequality. I was captivated by a legacy

that was being propelled forward loudly, in solidarity. On that

day, I made a commitment to myself to selflessly dedicate my

voice as a feminist to honour the ones before me.

When I began studying engineering at the University of

Waterloo, I joined Women in Engineering and Engineers

Without Borders, participating in a particularly impactful

“women in STEM” podcast. In my own hometown, I

participated in female author events and even read the

acclaimed Women Who Run with the Wolves: Myths and Stories

of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estésl. This

was my form of personal dedication as a feminist in 2019. I

figured remembering and honouring the powerful women

in history who sacrificed for my privilege was contributing

to their legacy. But even with all my involvement, I felt there

was a disconnect in the present between certain peers when

discussing the fight for gender equality. I knew female and

male students who were passionate about the conversation

and others who brushed it off as irrelevant or how “we’d

come so far, there are more important things.” How could a

movement birthed as a cry have been hushed to a whisper?

I reflected on my own feminism and realized I was living

for the romantic idea of human rights that are associated

with the past, not regarding the world’s present state and

the younger, current generation. Where did we go wrong?

Where did we go wrong in teaching and leading gender equity


change? For generations, it has been shouted from the streets,

studied in the classroom, and enforced in the workplace.

Bigger global movements, more policy on diverse hiring, and

encouragement into gender imbalanced university programs.

All of this, but still gender equality seems to be elusive.

So I ask you, where do we continue to go wrong? Why

don’t more of my peers share my interconnectedness to the

feminism movement? The fire, the drive, and the legacy

was appreciated but not acted on. I face confusion by the

discrepancy between spirit towards change for the future

and societal hesitation to support intersectional gender

equity. I regarded the word “legacy” as belonging solely to

the advocates, the fire starters before me, but this proves to

be one dimensional when, in fact, the legacy is a continuous

fight, regardless of generation, season, or place. It is that older

woman at the Women’s March watching me and my friends,

complimenting our commitment. I finally asked myself,

“Where are we going wrong with the way gender equality

is embodied? Why doesn’t the legacy connect with every

person my age? Where did we go wrong in defining the next

legacy?” Simple. We went wrong with the way we nurture

feminism in our homes.

Born with an equal heart by nature, we go wrong in nurturing

our young into complacency. Without the commitment to

nurturing and educating the next generation on equality

among women, men, and allies, we are faced with a new

generation who are numb to the flames. Table manners

and grammar seem to be a priority, but what about respect

for inclusivity? Before we can carry on the legacy from

the past, a legacy for the future must be encouraged from

birth. Parenting conscientiously is critical to ensure that the

next generation will interact not only with tolerance and

acceptance but with respect and admiration for their family

members, friends, colleagues, and community members.

Without providing this foundation for carrying on the

legacy, we would be fortunate if the youth of today search for

external platforms such as social media, community protests,

and other events. Otherwise, there is a risk for the other

option that seems all too common in 2019: silence, lack of

interest, and a repeated toxic cycle of miscommunication.

We did go wrong in assuming my generation would

participate in the equal work, equal pay, equal rights

movement without this education at home. Legacy must lie

in our homes. As a family, worthiness must be radiated to

every member. Respect for our minds, bodies, and feelings

must be the norm. A compassionate voice for others must

be encouraged before a “mind your own business” mentality.

The way to carry on a legacy and create a stronger union for

feminism is to nurture the equal heart. Simple, right?

We must nurture nature. We must all strive to encourage

younger generations to project their advocacy, especially at

home. My dedication as a feminist is to the past women who

marched before me and to ensure no young woman will have

to carry a sign thanking me for marching. Let’s start with the

legacy in our own homes and go from there. Simple.



PHOTO: UNSPLASH ANNIE SPRATT

The impact of empathy

JULIA COWDEROY is a student in Legal Studies at the University of Waterloo.

When I first learned of intersectional feminism,

I couldn’t help but feel cheated by the public

education system. While I was reciting Shakespeare

and fiddling with protractors, others from various

backgrounds were fighting for gender equality that

recognized multiple parts of their identity. Why

should the movement be noticeable to me? After all,

I’ve lived a privileged life, while women of colour and

the LGBTQ2 community are continuously disregarded

in social spheres and the criminal justice system when

attempting to access so-called “public” services.

When I began brainstorming for this essay, I felt

overwhelmed by the word “legacy” for its enormity


and the weight it carries. I thought of the many influential

women who had clawed, scraped, and paved the way forward

in order to create a path for me and women less privileged

than me. When I think of what it means to be an ally, my

mind is a revolving door of burning questions. Where do I fit

within all of this? What can I do? Is there any difference I can

make? Many people underestimate their ability to implement

change because the word itself has been glorified. Change

doesn’t happen instantaneously by a handful of activists.

Instead, it involves the interaction of many moving parts

that, together, influence a movement. I believe in the positive

effects of working locally and practicing gender equality

in everyday interactions. Last summer, I worked as a Camp

Counsellor for young newcomers to Canada, and I’ve also

worked with girls aged 10-13 in the Big Brothers Big Sisters

(BBBS) program Go Girls! From these experiences, I learned

about the potential of empathy rather than judgement and

how this enabled me to look beyond my worldview.

In my experience working at the summer camp, one moment

has stuck with me. A girl had been called “ugly,” and she

was in tears. Notions of beauty are a prominent topic in

intersectional feminism because representations of “ideal”

womanhood are continuously whitewashed, but this was

a concept I didn’t know how to translate to a young girl.

Frankly, I did not know how to handle the situation, but

my boss, Helana, managed it with beautiful simplicity. She

took the girl upstairs and taught her a song with a few lines:

“I am beautiful (x3), I am so stinking beautiful, and you are

beautiful too!” The girl then taught her two other friends

the song, and more girls from varying ethnic backgrounds

joined in and created a dance routine to go alongside it. The

girl who was crying just moments before was now radiating

with self-confidence and encouraging other campers to share

this positive self-expression. As it turned out, this song had

a greater impact than any concepts I could have tried to

explain. I watched happily from the sidelines and acted as

a cheerleader while the girls sang and danced, though I did

eventually have to interrupt their performance when they

decided that launching themselves off the stage would be

just what they needed to spice up their choreography. I was

impressed by how quickly my boss handled the situation and

embraced the camper with empathy. Her actions sparked

confidence not only within the young girls but in myself. I will

utilize Helana-like tact while volunteering and working with

diverse groups in the future.

For the past two years, I’ve been volunteering with the BBBS

Go Girls! program. The purpose of the program is to work

with pre-teen girls who could benefit from mentoring or girls

who take on leadership roles in the classroom and would

bring that energy to the groups. Over the course of one

session a week for five weeks, two mentors lead a group of

girls in physical activities and discussions about topics such

as healthy relationships, mental health, and self-confidence.

One activity comprised of praising the other girls in the group

beyond just their physicality, which a handful of the girls

were resistant to for different reasons. Some had difficulty

receiving the compliments, due to their low self-esteem, while

others struggled to create compliments that went beyond

physical appearance. Thankfully, the more outgoing girls

wrote up compliments with gusto, which encouraged the

initially reserved girls to join in too. Soon enough, the room

had turned into a vibrant space. Ironically, as I’m writing this



in the Princess Cafe, the server is wearing a shirt that reads

“Girls support Girls,” which sums up my sentiments exactly.

However, I did encounter some issues with the BBBS program,

most notably regarding the heteronormative assumptions

in scenario-based questions. One such hypothetical involved

having a crush on a “cute boy” in your class. Based on some

previous chats I’d had with the girls, I knew this excluded a

number of them. The girls were quick to speak out against

this flaw, and one mentee suggested we all share our pronouns

with the group to help further establish a comfortable space.

My co-mentor and I both shared mutual sentiments of

learning just as much from the group as the girls we were

supposed to be teaching. As a bisexual woman, I was quick to

challenge the heteronormative assumptions of this scenario,

but I didn’t consider using gender-neutral language. The

mentee’s leadership led to a conversation about gender and

sexuality. In some sessions, members of the group became

emotional with some of the topics, particularly involving

mental health and body image. That mentee may have

cried because they had never had a safe and welcoming

environment to talk about their struggles, and I can only

imagine what strong women these girls, and many like them,

will grow up to become. This generation has been allowed to

flourish in these sorts of empowering environments rather

than be stifled like many generations before them.

When the mentees were emotional during the sessions, it

made me consider notions surrounding gender normative

behaviour. Women are considered to be more emotional than

men, but feelings of exasperation or even outright rage can

be useful in the context of social justice. We are passionate

because we see the efforts of those who have come before

us and want to build on their legacy rather than go back in

time. When I think of emotions, I think of Greta Thunberg

holding back tears as she exclaimed, “How dare you!” to the

UN at the Climate Action Summit. Her tears didn’t make the

gravity of her words any less impactful, and in fact showed

how fiercely she cared about our future. Emotions remind

me of my mother bursting into tears in response to the lyric

“you are more than just a housewife” in Peter Gabriel’s Shaking

the Tree, and I tear up too because she has always been more

than that to me. When looking back at the earliest waves of

feminism, I think of Sojourner Truth’s speech Ain’t I a woman?

because it rallied for the inclusion of black women in the

suffrage movement. She thought only God heard her weep

when her children were sold off to slavery (Internet Modern

History Sourcebook, 1997). Yet now, two centuries later,

women of colour have recited her words back passionately

as if to cry, “We hear you!” This empathy has transcended

generations and will continue to impact subsequent

generations to come.

Action does not have to happen on a grand scale. While

observing change retroactively, it looks like a staggering

feat, but it all starts with micro-interactions that continue

to build. Apathy is an easy default position to take on; it

takes effort to be self-critical and actually act upon what you

believe in, but even the smallest step forward can eventually

become a sprint.

Internet Modern History Sourcebook. (1997). Sojourner Truth:

“Ain’t I a Woman?”, December 1851. Retrieved from https://

sourcebooks.fordham.edu/mod/sojtruth-woman.asp

https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/mod/sojtruth-woman.asp

This page has been intentionaly left blank.

40 | University of Waterloo40 | University of Waterloo


BY ANY OTHER NAMETHE BRAVE FACE

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LEGACY POETRY



The Student and The Goose: a conversation in verse (inspired by The Princess and the Frog, by the Brothers Grimm)

SARASVATHI KANNAN is a University of Waterloo alum.

Once during exam season, a student wandered campus in the snow.

She was looking for a reason to not study anymore.

On a bridge above a stream, she saw a lone goose idle.

Carefully, she looked for its mate, then attempted to sidle.

“Good day, good lady,” the goose cronked.

Startled, she dropped her keys with a clonk.

She cried, “What on earth?”

And gave him wide berth.

Then knelt to retrieve

Her lost keys.


WINNER Poetry

But the bird was sly,

And as the keys floated by

He hooked them with his beak

And again, began to speak.

“If you want your keys

Then say pretty please,

And give me a kiss

Or else I’ll hiss!

Don’t shy or mince

For I am a prince!”

“Kiss a bird?

Why, that’s absurd!”

The student exclaimed,

Her face aflame.

“There’s no need to fuss

About a little buss.

Take a chance

On our romance.”

The goose beguiled,

With avian wile.

The student inhaled the icy air

And replied with an answer fair.

“All I want is my property.

There’s no need to behave improperly.”

“What will you lose

If you kiss a goose?”

The goose inquired.

The student perspired.

“My dignity and sanity

And all my other faculties!”

She quickly retorted.

The goose snorted.

“But I am a prince!”

The goose evinced.

“So there’s nothing to fear,”

He persevered.


She rolled her eyes

And said with a sigh,

“If it had to be a story with a goose,

Then I would rather choose

The Goose Girl, with the wind and the horse,

Or The Golden Goose, with the endless source.

Not the frog in the well,

With the kiss and the spell.”

“If I had my druthers

I’d still have a sister and six brothers!

But alas, it was not meant to be

For they flew south and got lost at sea.

My sister broke her unvoiced vow

So a goose I remain, until now.”

“I thought that was the Wild Swans?

By Hans Christian Andersen, or am I wrong?”

“Eh, the type of bird can be switched.

The important part is that I was bewitched.”

“But if that’s the story that brought you here,

Then the cure is nettle shirts and silent tears.

So how can it be true,

That a kiss will revive you?”

The student puzzled.

The goose was ruffled.

“There’s a debt you owe,

So quid pro quo!

Keep your word

And peck the bird!”

The goose blustered.

Never had he been so flustered!

“I owe you nothing, you jerk!

Your stupid plan will not work.

I can see your luck has run out.

Of that, I have no doubt.”

The student ranted.

The goose almost recanted.


PoetryWINNER

“But every girl wants a happy life.

Kiss me and you can be my wife!”

“Who says marriage always leads to joy?

Who says I even like boys?

I want to graduate, I’m still in school

I want a career before kids, you fool!

Even if you turned into a man

You have no name, no money, no land.”

“Well,” huffed the gander

“I appreciate your candour.”

His plan now thwarted,

He no longer exhorted.

With a heave and a honk,

The keys landed with a plonk.

The student left in a huff.

Yet again, the goose was rebuffed.

“I couldn’t help but eavesdrop,

That tête-à-tête was quite a flop.

Fortunately, you’re in luck.

My boyfriend and I just broke up.

How about we give it a go?

You can be my Romeo!”

Said a student walking by,

Who just so happened to be a guy.

“That’s not how the story goes!”

The gander cried, discomposed.

The morals of this tale are true:

Assumptions shame both me and you.

You can’t judge a book by its cover,

Or a person by their lover.

Kisses should never be favours,

Not even for life savers.


colour

Dear Son ANNA WANG is a student in Computer Science at the University of Waterloo.

Dear son, I can barely sit still in this chair

Knowing you are coming into this world just over there

I’ve been waiting to meet you for my whole life

And now the moment is finally in sight

Dear son, you will not repeat my mistakes

While your father is mediocre, you will be great

You will be a better man in every possible way

Strong, smart, disciplined all starting today

Dear son, I will pick you up from every extra class

Be it programming, physics, Chinese, or math

I will cheer you on as you excel in every sport

And during your recitals, you will never fall short

Dear son, at eight years old you will win your first fight

At eighteen your good grades will change your life

At thirty you will be the biggest boss in the room

And at your funeral every white chrysanthemum will bloom

Dear son, our family has not been very fortunate

Famine, war, pain, we have seen the worst of it

Though we were never rich, we always stay true

To our principles, traditions, faith, and virtues

PHOTO: UNSPLASH ZELLE DUDA


WINNER Poetry

Dear son, you must carry on our family name

Or your ancestors would have died in vain

You must live to bring honour to your family

So one day your own son can live on happily

Dear son, you will be our only chance

For our quality of life to advance

Raising you will be our life’s purpose

One day, you will make our sacrifices worth it

Dear son, I know this is wrong to say

But when I saw you, my heart broke right away I knew that my legacy would be no longer

Because that was the day I was handed a daughter


The Brave Face HARDEEP BEGDA is a student in Accounting and Financial Management at the University of Waterloo.

PLEASE NOTE: The following submission includes depictions of domestic violence. Support around this issue is available from the Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit:



The following poem discusses the harrowing impact

of domestic violence against women. According to the

Canadian Women’s Foundation:

It costs women their lives: approximately every six days,

a woman in Canada is killed by her intimate partner.

Violence against women costs taxpayers and the

government billions of dollars every year: Canadians

collectively spend $7.4 billion to deal with the aftermath

of spousal violence alone.

It has a profound effect on children: Children who

witness violence in the home have twice the rate

of psychiatric disorders as children from non-violent homes.

“The Brave Face” aims to raise awareness

of these issues.

Source: www.canadianwomen.org/the-facts/

gender-based-violence/

›

›

›


http://www.canadianwomen.org/the-facts/gender-based-violence/


Poetry

He never treated her the way you would expect a partner to, and she

would take it. She was always much stronger than he was. She knew he

would fall into a darker place without us in the picture, so she never left.

She didn’t want that for us, but I wanted that for her. I wanted her misery

to end. Instead she looked misery in the eye, and donned a brave face, less

and less fazed by its inflictions as the days went on.

Her smile, as most smiles, was once contagious but not anymore, because

we couldn’t distinguish genuine happiness from the brave face. She always

said it was the former, but that’s exactly what a brave face would say. I hope

she doesn’t read this. It would break her heart to know that the illusion she

had created wasn’t working. We wanted her to feel as though something

was working at a time when nothing else quite was. We had perfected a

brave face of our own – inherited from her, reciprocated to her.

But the legacy of the brave face won’t live on. I will be better to mine than

he was to her and to us. Mine will be better to theirs. A new legacy – a

brave face of less permanence, revealing itself only when it is most needed:

as she attends her first day of kindergarten, as she approaches the net at

her soccer game, as she gives her valedictorian speech, and as she stands up

for those women who can’t slip in and out of their brave face as if it were a

silk robe, women like her grandmother.


PHOTO: UNSPLASH JEREMY BISHOP

Uprooted This anonymous submission comes from a student at the University of Waterloo.

PLEASE NOTE: The following story includes depictions of child abuse. Support around this issue is available from the Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit:



My mother and father planted me

by the River of Life,

on a hill o’erlooking Jerusalem.

They watered me with promises of holiness,

homemaking, heaven, heterosexuality, hakshavah.

My sapling twigs stretched up toward the sky;

my roots sank deep into the soil.

As they spread and spread

they saw the world: sorcery, sin, and science.

Each adventure stretched them further, straining,

but I grew. One year, my roots struck bedrock,

reeling. I first kissed a woman that year

and in rage my roots grasped upwards,

tangling ‘round our ankles,

knotted wooden fingers clasped tightly on my heart, pulling

my soul to hell. Gehenna.



Uprooted

I knew this hellfire well.

Consuming Salem witches, sodomites, and Sapphics,

this hellfire preached itself from pulpits;

it burned, drowned, and imprisoned;

It told me as a child I could not be;

it told me as a woman I could not love.

Turning from the flames, their vitriolic light

reflecting in my eyes, I uprooted myself.

Shearing away the dead weight

of my long hair, I crawled

fathom by fathom

as far as I could. Today

it is with tears of joy I water my own ground:

the immaculate soil on which I planted myself. Today

my liberated heart takes root in Ha’aretz Hamuvtachat –

the Promised Land – built from the promises

I have made myself. And today

when I look back toward the River of Life, I look back without a shadow of hatred.

My mother and father planted me there,

but in time they will understand.

For I have chosen the bittersweet waters of the River Jordan.

I have crossed that river of freedom

and I am a Tree of Life.


Saras

SaraThi

Va

by any other name SARASVATHI KANNAN is a University of Waterloo alum.

Saras

Susurrates, like silk saris over smooth skin

Fluvial, like sacred water over river stones

Carving the motherland before Mother Ganges was born

The essence of one self

atman

Va

Harsh, like the first word from the first voice

Jarring, like the world spoken into existence

Until the one word from the one voice

Summons individual to universal again

om

Thi

Simple, like the feminine that unites

Eternal, like Tridevi and Shakti

Finite and infinite all at once

Many as one and one as many

brahman

Sara

Princess the world over

Goddess for some

Patroness of intelligence and wisdom, music and arts, language and learning, creativity and purity

Many more names exist and yet

Could they be the same

Could they be as sweet

As that which first called forth me?



Poetry

Writing Holly’s Legacy EMMA SCHUSTER is a student in Environment Resources and Sustainability at the University of Waterloo.

How will they scrape my name off the wall

When it no longer holds any meaning to them?

Will they fill in the cracks that I left in their arguments

With cement?

How will I have left the adult world of politics

For my fellow teenage successor?

What will she have to pretend not to see?

/

Will she spot the unravelable carpet of corruption

That coats the boardroom floor,

Forming the foundation for every decision made?

Will she see all my “um”s and “ah”s,

The ones imposter syndrome scattered

Across every table and podium

I spoke at?

Will she trip over my upturned sentences,

The words that catch on my breath,

Questions I didn’t ask,

Like snags in the carpet

Phrased so I don’t seem too demanding,

Too on the offense,

Too unwoman?

/

I wanted to fill up space,

The example I wish I had,

But that was the show I put on for her.

For I would never allow her to watch me falter,

Fail under the overbearing eyes of the super,

Struggle as my peers shunned me for my assertiveness,

Because I didn’t want her to see that

As something she should expect to face.

I didn’t want her to see the sexism

As a hazing we are supposed to receive.

/

But my time is up – it is her turn

To walk these halls alone.

And I wish that

As a final gift I could impart, as if in a written

will,

A chance

To write her own legacy,

To decide how she wants to act

Without the pressure

Of putting on a show.

But there is only so much I can do.


On Being a Woman MAWJ AL-HAMMADI is a student in Health Studies at the University of Waterloo.

Legacy

Leg-a-cy

Is that a leg I see?

Yes.

A pant leg that fits perfectly all along my thigh,

But not my waist.

This is the inconvenience of being a woman.


Poetry

The Salt Story

KRISTEN FAJARDO is a student in Global Business and Digital Arts at the University of Waterloo.

It started

with a soggy pool of cherry tomatoes,

pushed to the edges of my dinner plate, ready

to be tossed. I was ten years old and hadn’t yet

heard the salt story.

don’t even think about it,

Dad said.

I met his hard gaze with something

worse than protest – a shrug, indifference – so he ripped

the plate from my hands, salvaged the watery mush

halfway through its trip to the compost bin.

The lines of his face weren’t so defined back then but

I remember watching each one pull

taut with anger, and as

he muttered wasteful and selfish between forkfuls,

I wrung my hands, scoffed out,

it’s only tomatoes, I eat everything but tomatoes,

glaring at him stubbornly, daring him

to keep rattling off his list –

entitled, spoiled, princess.

But then, his silence

was a gust of hot oven air, rushing across my skin, until

it stilled

into tired disappointment.

Then he shook his head, said

when he was ten, there were days he’d have to eat

two pinches of salt and call it dinner.

Dad told many stories about growing up

but the salt one

was the one I never forgot

because that night, I told mom,

who cares about cherry tomatoes?

I thought dad grew up rich!

I studied her delicate hands as they pushed

needle through thread, sewing up the tear

in a pair of old jeans. Quietly,

Mom said,

dad’s family was rich

but not in the way that mattered,

and only much later, would I learn that meant

that money bought nothing

in a home without love.

Ten years later, I learned you meet your parents twice:

first, when you’re born and second,

the day you realize they were people

before you existed

and are people beyond your existence.

So I never forget the story

of someone from a poor life in a rich home

who clawed his way out and across the world,

to build wealth without money, out of nothing

but sheer willpower; became richer

than he could have ever imagined because

I’ll never have to know what it feels like

to be the child in the salt story.


Untitled This anonymous submission comes from a student at the University of Waterloo.

I don’t want to be placed in a box

I don’t want to be told I can’t stop

But I’m not trying to reach the top

A height where I lose a part of me

On this treadmill that’s moving a little too fast

At a speed where I can’t live or just be

Because I want to stay here while it lasts

While my wheels keep turning

And I still see hope


I feel self-conscious in my engineering brand

When they assume I feel superior just because of what’s on my hand

But I care, I think, I feel

I don’t want others to be filled with zeal

Because I won’t be one of those who makes the fuzzy feel

out of place

The one who thinks life’s just a race

to the next idea

A race to go beyond what’s been done before

To break down door after door

Because I’m happy with caring and thinking and feeling

Not racing and chasing the Billionaire dream


I can be an engineer and still have thoughts


Poetry

To my Future Granddaughter ALAYNA WALLACE is a student in Social Development Studies at the University of Waterloo.

Click, click, click

are the hooves of the white stallion carrying nothing more

than my prince Charming

Knock, knock, knock

pounds my heart as I walk down the aisle

Clink, clink, clink

go the glasses of champagne at the wedding

and, Tick, tick, tick

sounds the timer on this fairy tale –

There were ridicules of my accent.

ha. ha. ha.

The pants I wore attracted nothing but glares.

whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

Whispers surprised by the colour of my skin

mur-, mur-, mur-

My life was not a fairy tale and

my life will never become one.

I didn’t want a grand entrance.

Nor did I need to be rescued.

I did not wait for a prince and

I was not home at midnight.

I did not spend my life cleaning /

or up at night awaiting my true love’s kiss.

I would live and I would love but

I would not do this as a princess,

I did it as a Queen.


Click, click, click

are your high heels walking down Bay Street

Knock, knock, knock

is their warning that you’re coming in strong

Clink, clink, clink

are the glasses toasting to your successes

And Tick, tick, tick

is only a measure of how fast you’ve done it –

Ha, ha, ha,

who’s laughing now?

whoosh, whoosh, whoosh

are the pants you continue to wear, and

mur – mur – mur –

are your thoughts of perseverance and resilience because

one day – just one day – we will get there.

The marks I leave in sand today and tomorrow,

allow for marks in concrete by you. /

Shine bright

Stay strong

Keep loving others

But always love you

You are perfect.

You are beautiful.

You are extraordinary.

But most importantly,

Know that you accomplish amazing things.

My time fighting is over

If you ever need me, I’ll be up there-

shining brightly in hopes you’ll see.

Remember the ones who came before you –

remember me.

One day we will meet again,

telling our tales of resiliency and of our

vulnerabilities.

I know you’ll make me proud because

when that day comes, you will have become

more than an angel:

You will have become a shooting star.

Shine bright,

You’re strong. /

Love,

Grandma


Poetry

Dance

JULIANNA SUDERMAN is a student in English and French Studies at the University of Waterloo.

time to learn the dance – step

to the walls, in them reflected

us led on leashes, the hunt

was premeditated, we became

domesticated and damned to

our roles, we were relegated

dainty and delicate,

each move calculated

we danced in our box,

followed the steps:

from feet to fingers to features –

blinking eyes

powdered nose

closed mouth –

repeat.

pale and precious, to be protected,

and petted and collared and called by pet names

ashamed to step falsely

to falter our feet

afraid of failure, not daring

to succeed –

and repeat.

procreate.

and propagate.

hush.

watch as the locked box lifts its top –

and shuts

on endless rows of blinking eyes; reflecting.

expecting.

teaching each other the dance

we were taught

beating our cold calloused hands till they’re raw

to leash and to lash and to teach to dance

these pets of our own – we leap

at that chance. now time to ask

isn’t it time that we taught a new dance?


To be remembered

EDMOND HU is a student in Accounting and Financial Management at the University of Waterloo.

The greatest hope in the world is to be remembered. That when you leave

somewhere, regardless if you were the king or just the peasant, someone will

have remembered your presence. That isn’t to say that you were the best, or

the worst, at whatever you did or didn’t do. Just that along the way someone

will think fondly of the time when you were in their life. The oddest things

stick out and make interactions and individuals memorable. Someone who

is empathetic in your time of need. People who take the time, when there

doesn’t seem to be enough hours in the day. Or even when you open the

door and they don’t say thank you. At the end of the day, people don’t want

to be forgotten. How sad it would be to have traversed the seasons of life

without leaving behind a footprint.

The character of one’s legacy shouldn’t be dictated by who they are, rather

it should be based on what they’ve done. Unfortunately, you have no say in

how people perceive what you’ve left behind. But the fire of your ambitions

shouldn’t be extinguished by forecasted rain. It should be empowered

knowing that you may be the cause for your embers to ignite more flames.

Rain will come. It may not be now, but inevitably it will. Just remember

that blazing, raging fires survive the storms, whereas smouldering flickering

flames are blown out in the wind. To diminish your memory because of your

gender is to give up without trying. Be unapologetic and take what’s yours.

If not you, then who? If not now, then when?

It’s your legacy.


Poetry

Daughters of Womyn

STEPHANIE SHOKOFF is a student in Therapeutic Recreation at the University of Waterloo.

/Daughters of womyn burnt at the stake

all because they tried to create their own fate

they wouldn’t submit to man’s ideological campaign

headed by the church and headed by the state./

/Daughters of womyn who wouldn’t conform

do their own thing, not follow societal norms

not going to settle to be some man’s wife

I am autonomous, I create my own life/

/Daughters of womyn valued less than a man

no knowledge was given, they couldn’t own land

taught to be submissive and taught to be small

they couldn’t fight back, they were property, that’s all./

/Daughters of survivors who tried to say no

their voices were silenced, they had no say

womyn of color are murdered each day

that is not justice, that’s not the way

bring the darkness to the light and do more than just pray. /

/daughters of womyn told their value was reproduction

heaven forbid, they have an abortion

women were dying for their reproductive rights

abortion caravans and free choice/

/blood of those witches

burnt at the stake

runs through my veins

ancient knowledge burnt in the flames/


/limited options, you could be someone’s wife

if your father paid your dowry you’ll be alright

if not, to a sew house, stereotyped spinster

yet her male counterpart, the bachelor, was seen in good light/

/daughters of womyn who fought for the vote

did their part in the wars while raising young children

lets not forget, they have a voice

and be thankful today that we have a choice/

/daughters of womyn with post secondary education

still expected to work, cook, and clean the homestead

hard working womyn, connected in spirit

these united strong womyn will never be defeated./

/to the womyn who have come before me, to the ones who have tried to live authentically,

to the ones who stood in their power, to the one who speak their own truth,

we are all connected/

/To the womyn of color who to this day are underrepresented and over criminalized

by a racist society

I hope for systemic change and justice. We are equals and always have been, and we are equal to any

person. /

/daughters of tomorrow, fear not the future

past injustice is coming to the light to be cleansed.

connected to millions of empowered youth

raising young children to embrace their own truth/

/children of tomorrow our hope for humanity

conscious and committed to gender equality

unanimously taught from a young age

that gender is fluid, and people deserve the same wage/


PoetryPoetry

To My Mother: a is a student at the University of Waterloo.

At 22, I’ve finally come home

to find peace with these roots

and faced you for the first time.

absorbing the pain of your sacrifices

touching the despair of your labor

those long nights on assembly lines and cold winter afternoons outside

scraping by on little and a simple belief that you’ve raised two girls into women with ability

to see to it that your potential is realized through us

to give podium to your sacrifices

those schoolchildren in India are lucky that they were present with you

every day for an hour

for all the years they got to spend watching you with curiosity for your craft

these days the battles your passion tries to put up are no match for the exhaustion and fear that

overtake you in capitalist routines

so you tell me for the 100th Saturday in a row that you can’t paint today because you are tired

and there are a million things to do.

and I can’t hear you over the noise of your spirit withering and wallowing

which is really loud now that I’m listening.

for years I ran from your pain

let my sensitivities manifest inside me as I put barricades on the door to your true love

to understanding your true nature

because I feared what was behind it would consume me

the incredible pain behind everything you give

to feel the toil behind your endless smile, guerrilla optimism, and persistence in your belief in us

even on the worst days.


your gentle spirit

loving nature

and a deep morality

you are suffering and surviving in your new world.

It does not take the time to understand you.

and meets the gentleness of your spirit with a sense of suspicion

or assumption of naivety

It overlooks the intricacies of your character …

and when it does peer in,

it thinks it is seeing something less.

in a culture devoid of spirituality and feeling,

the parts of your soul you shared used to feel more like curse

than gift.

a hindrance to my superficial wins.

what I understand now is that the sensitivity you have

bestowed upon me

must flourish in order for me to heal, to grow.

It will jeopardize my survival if I continue to hide.

now that we are finally face to face

I have found the courage to tell you

I am afraid

afraid that I will never see to it that the spirits of your character

see fruition out in the world

afraid that you will feel you have left deposits of your love in the

wrong place.

i am afraid that I will be buried under the pillars of your sacrifices

that they will feel too heavy on my shoulders

that I will never understand the intensity of blind faith that they

are filled with.

to pay your struggle back is a hefty task

I must remember to live each day

Consciously

Morally

Honestly

with

Love

Belief in Spirit

and the vivaciousness of faith you have put in your daughters.

for the future I imagine

a space of beauty

a place that finally invites your pain

finally.

with acceptance. with beauty. with strength. and with

the gravity it deserves.

i’ll keep walking

with an open heart

a vigilant conscience

and most importantly

forever with your spirit.

Poetry

2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 65PHOTO: UNSPLASH JARED MURRAY

Journey to Alone EMILY CARLSON a student in Pure Mathematics at the University of Waterloo.

I’ve started my journey to alone. Before this I didn’t think I would be able to ever

make it to alone. I knew other people were at alone, but I was stuck at lonely. I see

the path to alone now. It seems trekkable, but I am not sure how long this trek will

last. My path to alone is through being alone, for a long time. One long mediation

on what it means to be alone. One long meditation on what it is like to be me alone.

One long meditation to learn how to support myself. One long meditation to learn

what I need to do in life to be fulfilled. One long meditation to be ready to welcome

another into my life that I want to welcome. One long meditation to learn patience.

One long meditation to realize I will never learn everything possible, and that this

means I will never have to stop learning. One long meditation that will only end

when I cease to be conscious.

The journey to alone has settled in my body. It is comforting, serving as

companionship on this path empty of people.

To trek the path, I had to shed some weight. Travel is lighter when the past

is forgiven. Travel is lighter when the past is set free.

To continue the trek, I had to meet myself. Hiking with a stranger gets uncomfortable.

To enjoy the trek, I had to learn when to hold back and when to push.

I’ve arrived at alone.


Excerpts from a Written Oral History of a Young Queer Woman of Colour, as Told by Herself


In a course on literary theories

I learned about postcolonialism and intersectional feminism

And suddenly I had language and frameworks

To recognize interdependent systems of discrimination and advantage

To deconstruct the contextual elements of the societies that formed me

In oppression and privilege and empowerment

With the tools to succeed and conditions to fail

***


Poetry

On my second work term, I ate lunch with the other co-op students

All from UW, in engineering and computer science

One of them said he had “raped” a videogame

I asked him not to use that word in that context

He argued that “it’s just a word, it doesn’t mean anything if you don’t want it to”

I stopped talking, but I wanted to say

Words mean nothing to you, because you’ve never had someone yell

“Go home, dothead” out the window of a moving car in a neighbourhood in San Francisco

Never had random men whistle or call slurs across a street to see which woman turns

Never looked at this lunch table, with 3 girls and 6 boys and know that

1 in every 3 women will experience sexual harassment or violence in their lifetime

The next year, I studied abroad in England and learned that

Privileged, straight, white men start young and education isn’t a panacea

One night, I ate dinner with a fork and my hands instead of a knife

I admitted that I don’t know how to properly use a knife, because I’ve never really needed one

My dormmate said, “It’s because [Asians] are too poor to have utensils”

I was so shocked that I let another girl defend me

But I still finished the meal with my hands

One night, he came back to the dorms with the lads, drunkenly talking about

“AIDS girl” and “sloppy seconds,” congratulating himself and denigrating his partners

Feeding into the fallacies girdling female sexuality and promiscuity

I was too scared and upset to defend the girls he deemed unworthy of names, but they all deserved better

Last summer, I walked into a plus-size positive store to pick up an order

I gave my last name to the cashier, who couldn’t find my package

It was filed under my first name, because the store employees were confused by “a lot of letters”

I wanted to say

Your labels are all the same, so regardless of first or last name, you should know which is which

I wanted to say that my first name is 10 letters, only 1 more than Elizabeth, Catherine, Alexandra

But my first instinct was to laugh it off and say “that’s why I go by [name redacted]”


A month ago, we discovered that the Prime Minister wore blackface/brownface on multiple occasions

Someone told me that back then, “everyone was Eastern European” and “we didn’t know better”

I wanted to say a lot of things, like

My grandparents came to this country in 1967, amidst waves of immigrants seeking better lives

Black people have been escaping here since before Canada was an independent county

Since before Britain abolished slavery throughout the empire in 1833

Indigenous peoples have been here since before everyone else

Of course everyone knew better

Why else would it be more acceptable to pretend to be coloured than actually be coloured?

Now, I work in an office in a former factory, gutted and refurbished into

An industrial-chic, open concept, [insert buzzword here] workspace

Every day, I see women wearing blanket scarves, ponchos, and full-on winter coats

Because women and men thermoregulate differently, and

This office is climate-controlled to make men comfortable

Every day, I walk into meetings where I am the youngest person

The only person of colour, the only woman, maybe the only queer person

(I suppose the racism and sexism have prepared me for biphobia, when I finally come out

And out and out and out, because asserting queerness in a heteronormative environment never ends)

The only non-technical staff, a writer among engineers and scientists

Though my coworkers may tower over me, in height and importance

I don’t let their stature make me feel small

***

This is my legacy to myself

You can tell me that I talk too loudly, too passionately, too much

But I’m too quiet and friendly and polite too often

To stop speaking, stop caring, stop being myself

Hate me, dismiss me, ignore me if you dare

It hasn’t stopped me yet

2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 6969 | University of Waterloo

Poetry

What She Was

ALAYNE BRISLEY is a student in Honours Arts at the University of Waterloo.

She was a puzzle,

Waiting to be solved,

A compilation of beauty,

Only when assembled.

The box giving allusion of what’s to come,

But the idea is always prettier,

Than the grooves of fragility,

Than the completion of knowing.

She has been played with many times,

People’s rush of glee,

At the prospect of a new puzzle,

Someone they can fix,

Put back together.

But she kept a piece for herself,

And the anger of not being able to complete her,

Drove them to madness,

Fire of rage charred her edges,

And spitefully the scorned each took a piece.

She was faster to solve,

Her emptiness unveiled quicker,

And one day, a person will discover,

That she is but a hollow box.

They could have sworn,

That they had seen her pieces,

Just a second ago,

Just last night,

Before they knew.


Legacy as it relates to intersectional gender equality ADELINE LI is a student at

the University of Waterloo.

Women are made of air. That’s what it felt like to grow up in this

house. Where the walls contracted with my father’s breath, and

I saw the way my mother shifted, just a little, towards the exit.

Each twitch, the next itch, I could see her make a run for it.

But for twenty years, she never did.

I grew up and took up her part, but with my own twist. These

men were not my husband, yet I still watched for the next tic.

I waited my turn, to feel the boardroom expand with my own

breath. But it hasn’t happened, not yet.

I’ve never thought of myself as a coward, just shy. Maybe a bit

nervous. In denial at best.

I would never let my husband treat me like that. I thought. These

men are not my husband, just boys, who haven’t learned respect.

But still I had hope, that my strong, olive eyed daughter could do

better than her mother. Maybe she could tell him no, demand his

respect, walk like the walls are on her side just once, and not yield

to another man’s breath.

PHOTO: UNSPLASH RODION KUTSAEV


Poetry

Legacy SIMRIT DHILLON is a student in Public Health at the University of Waterloo.

Hands hold out

whispers of the past.

Screams and cries

to give us the future,

full of blossoming pink

and peach flowers,

soaring kites,

toothy smiles,

and glowing hearts.

Struggles and triumphs,

littering faces and tombstones …

forgotten and remembered – treasured.

Hands hold out

promises – fulfilled and broken.

It is our turn now

to keep their hopes burning,

like the saffron and fuchsia

sunset they had wished to paint for us,

under which brothers and sisters alike

held hands.


“somnambulist” MORTEZA DEHGHANI is a faculty member at the University of Waterloo.

2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 7373 | University of Waterloo

Poetry

the premise of the poem we are perusing today, our teacher says,

is how poetry can be central to humanistic studies. he quotes

an eminent Harvard professor who in her exegesis of a Wallace

Stevens poem compares a bird – maybe a mallard, i thought,

with its sense of mystery and silence at sunsets – to a poet,

and the ocean to poetry which cannot be known, maybe cannot even

survive or endure through time without a savior; the scholar. this is how

i understood the text, anyway. if without poetry we are somnambulists,

a word we walk into like sleepwalkers in class, then having no scholar

– to pluck people’s sleeves to say hey, poetry is our legacy, let’s read

it – leaves us in no doubt that the poetic art and all that comes with it,

will be a geography of the dead. i imagine driving down a stunning road,

without seeing anything. i imagine watching a football match

without sensing much. i imagine strolling by the pitch and hearing

no yelling, no booing, no f word here and there; these realities.

it’s a sense of patrimony, he adds, and is quick to respond to

our baffled looks looking for the meaning of this new word; “legacy”

he says, with a long i: to emphasize the notion, maybe, to give

some excitement to a class of half female students, half of whom

are not white; a Bob sitting next to a Rubab, a Chen next to a Glenn.

i’m used to this egalitarian shell; i’m doing arts; in my classes we read

theories of gender, ideas about a just society, about resistance

to discrimination of all kinds. i’ve heard how faculty study

female genital mutilation in postcolonial countries. i’ve heard


scholars explore disenfranchisement of minorities in what they call

third-world nations. i’ve heard research fellows investigate women’s

contribution to human rights, liberty, equity. i’ve seen doctoral candidates

publish on Muslim Lesbian African American workers to observe

intersectionality, within the four walls of lecture halls, the four walls

of campuses, and i’ve seen how some are like honeybees without honey

or honeysuckles with no fragrance, i’m afraid to say. you know that i mean

that action speaks louder than words cliché. our teacher skillfully draws

a triangle, with each corner showing the three elements of the poem;

the ocean, the bird, the scholar. i sketch something round, spherical,

jotting down notes; society for the ocean, equity for poetry, scholar for scholar.

as he is passionately talking about social implications of this way of

looking at the scholar, of this way of looking at academia, asking us

to share our thoughts, my mind is like a malleable hot asphalt road

at a summer noon, where all these things come and go, cross and intersect

and crash into each other, like a country road in the country i’ve come from

and i still love, where men and women are segregated at school, at work,

where men are allowed into stadiums, into football pitches, and women aren’t.

which i hate. as our teacher, kindly, with that quizzical smile

puts the question to me specifically, i suddenly come to, i hesitate …

i muster the courage to comment: a scholar, sir, i would say, is like salt,

which should preserve the food, if equity, oh, i mean poetry, can be called that,

and at the same time should make people flinch at what is wrong, but what if

the preserving salt goes bad? i know, i’m supposed to answer not ask.


Poetry

a scholar is like rain, no, well, like underground water reservoir, used

every day and kept for a rainy day – i realize the metaphor or whatever trope it is,

makes sense for my old country, home. well, that is, um, maybe for days

during long droughts, but what if, what if scholars sleepwalk into their books,

or, walk deep into the forest of words and get stranded there.

who will then be there to take us, through the dark paths, to the other side?

i mean, i’m sorry, i’m not … good at these things, er, a scholar can be

a Somnus, a god of sleep, which, as i just checked, the word somnambulist

comes from – who can invite to nothing but sleep, daydreaming,

inaction, abstraction. I think, as much as poetry is our patrimony,

we should aim to make equity our legacy too, but in action.

we have the knowledge of that, don’t we? can I use another metaphor?

look at our earth; a crust, a mantle, a core. equity is that core, holding

everything together, the crust and the mantle. and the scholar should take us,

through the underground, dark tunnels to that core, to show us

where we’ve come from, to show us that monolithic seed of unity,

oneness. we know the roadmap, we now need to set foot on that journey

to bring what’s there in the core back to the crust for everybody to see.

what is this legacy? invitation to action? leading a voyage? our teacher

smiles and says, you’ve learned the lesson well and captured the kernel

of the poem and the article about the ocean, the bird, and the scholar, adding

then … we should read more poetry.


thank you, mom MAHTAB DHALIWAL is a student in Applied Math at the University of Waterloo.

my Mother sold her dreams –

to buy a future for me

(i

was in

her belly

when she was

studying for her

second master’s

so, i know

she had

dreams)

she keeps dropping the receipts of how she bought my dreams

– she locks away her degrees and teaching experience, and opens the lock of her day care every morning,

he handles the toddler room and tries to babble away her botany degree –

– that time when she told me it’s okay to return home late from volunteering –

– or when, she convinced everyone that it’s okay for me to leave for university –

– and when she unhears the other women telling her to teach me to cook –

the older i get, the more receipts i pick up that she dropped over the times


Poetry

I love that I have dreams.

I will soon graduate

find a career

perhaps get married

maybe have a family

maybe a daughter?

Wait, if I have a daughter

do I have to sell my dreams for her future?

I will scream, stretch, and scramble

do all it takes for Me to secure the floor and sky for her

I don’t want anyone to take away, her space to dream

and more importantly,

i don’t want her to worry about having to sell her dreams


78 | University of Waterloo78 | University of Waterloo


DIVINE INTERVENTIONSHATTERED LANCESTHE PYRAM

ID

EPITAPH REW

RITTEN

SAIN

T MA

RTIN

A

JUST CONVERSATIONS

A L

IFE

’S W

OR

K

WHAT

MY

FATH

ER BEGAN

THE “MASTERS” OF TYPING

LEGACY FICTION


PHOTO: UNSPLASH ANNIE SPRATT

Divine Intervention



Divine Intervention

WINNER Fiction


I hate doctors.

Allow me to explain. I’m Indian.

Not enough? Okay, I hate doctors because I am expected to

either become one or marry one. I don’t know which my

parents would prefer; becoming a doctor is an arduous and

expensive process, but if I married a doctor then what would

I be? Nurse might be acceptable, or lab technician, hospital

administrator, etc. It definitely has to be something doctor-

related, in order to attract a doctor.

(Let me tell you, I’d prefer being a nurse to what happened

to my cousin; her parents got so desperate that they sent her

to a doctor’s conference and told her not to return without a

husband. I think she got the last laugh though; she met a guy

from Doctors Without Borders and hasn’t been home since.

Huh. Maybe that’s something to consider.)

I should clarify: the only acceptable doctoring is medically

related doctoring. Doctorate degrees don’t count. My dad’s

brother lives two hours away and has a PhD in mathematics,

his wife in economics, and their child is a computer engineer –


all acceptable, STEM-related disciplines – and yet we only

see them at community parties. My dad’s cousin, who lives

five hours and two states away, is a dentist. We see her family

every year for Labour Day, Diwali, and Thanksgiving. Also,

psychology doesn’t count as a science. My cousin – okay she’s

like my third cousin because we aren’t first cousins, and our

parents aren’t first cousins, so the closest we can be related is

third cousins, but we’re probably actually fifth but saying fifth

cousins sounds weird, so I just call her my cousin – became a

psychologist and the family’s never mentioned her since. She

also dyed her hair blond, so that could be the reason for the

moratorium on her name.

But this is a pretty common rant if you’re Indian, heck, if you

have strict parents in general. Your parents want you to follow

a particular path, and few are lucky enough to want that too.

You either suck it up and do what they want (usually after an

argument in which they threaten to disenfranchise, disinherit,

and disown you, with the whole my-money-my-rules-if-you-

don’t-like-it-leave speech), find a way to compromise, or you

call them on their bluff and end up a starving artist. To be

fair, I don’t particularly like or dislike medicine. I just don’t

want to go through eight years of gruelling academics, plus

practical placements and residency, to reach 30 with a quarter

million dollars in student debt, a 60-hour work week, and no

life. At least, that’s how I perceive doctors after seeing what

my brother and sister have gone through. How much of that

bitterness is directed at my parents, I can’t say.

The problem is that it’s my junior year, and all my parents’

hopes rest upon my test scores. The majority of my family,

nuclear and extended, have attended reputable schools with

top medicine programs: Yale, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Oxford,

etc. I’m expected to do the same, but, you know, no pressure;

I’ll just be an eternal source of shame to my family if I don’t

get accepted to an Ivy League school. So, I’ve been dragged to

the Saraswati Pooja to pray to the goddess of knowledge for

the first steps of my charted future to be successfully fulfilled.

Everyone else is talking: my brother is complaining that he

should be at the hospital, my sister is trying to calm my fussing

nephew, her husband is attempting to discretely check emails,

and my mom is droning on to my dad about my lack of

extracurricular activities, while he argues back that grades are

more important. Ayah remains silent, that familiar twinkle in

her eyes. You know, like Dumbledore, except my grandmother

is this little old Indian lady who wears Velcro sneakers with her

saris and carries a candy store in her handbag.

Anyway, because Ayah is ignoring everyone, I don’t feel too

bad about not participating either. It’s not like anyone wants

to hear my real opinions: that I’m pretty sure my brother uses

his hospital shifts as an excuse to get away from our family and

go drinking (not that I blame him), that I think two doctors

getting married is the worst idea possible and that my poor

nephew is going to suffer for it (he calls the nanny “mommy”),

or that even with a stellar application to med school the

competition is fierce and I’m equally terrified of disappointing

my family by not being accepted or of getting in and failing

out. They just want to hear me repeat their views. Except

for Ayah, who doesn’t say much but seems content with life.

Maybe I could be a professional housewife too, except for the

part where I need an appropriate husband.

I tried to explain the qualifications for appropriateness to a

non-Asian friend once. It’s like Dante’s nine circles of how-

bad-can-your-husband-be: paradise is a nice Indian doctor

from your specific caste; purgatory is a generic Indian boy

in a respectable but non-medical profession; and the inferno


WINNER Fiction

is a non-Indian boy in any job, period. It’s totally racist,

but I understand the fears behind this behaviour; the older

generations view marriage as the combination of two families

and are afraid of culture loss, which has inevitably happened

during immigration. To preserve our culture and way of life,

it’s best to marry someone from the same background. And

honestly, modern arranged marriages aren’t that different

from being set up with someone by your parents, whether it’s

someone from your church, the neighbour’s cousin, or a

co-worker’s sibling.

I want something different, but I don’t want to be cast out.

I like being a part of my community and culture, but I grew

up outside of India so it’s natural that I have Westernized

values, specifically individualism. I can tell you that I am not

looking forward to the inevitable, generational, East-West

duty-versus-desire culture clash that looms imminently in my

future. So I follow everyone to the temple and resign myself to

praying to a goddess I’m not sure I believe in for something I

don’t think I want so that I can achieve a goal that can’t make

me happy. What a wonderful way to spend a Friday night.

The temple is hot and dirty from the crush of people

crowded into the space in front of Saraswati’s shrine. Though

the marble floor is cool beneath my feet, I already feel sweaty

and prickly in the stifling, heavily embroidered fabric of my

fancy salwar kameez. We’re sitting cross-legged in a cluster on

the edge of the crowd, in case my nephew starts wailing.

don’t know how people do this for days on end – ten minutes

in and my thighs are cramping, and we have to be here for

two hours. Another twenty minutes and I’m bored to tears,

my legs numb.

***

I think I nodded off for over half the ceremony, because

Ayah pinches my arm to wake me up for the conclusion,

where we receive blessings. Afterwards, the crowd disperses

a little. My brother has already escaped, my sister is showing

off her son, my mother is gossiping with the other aunties,

and my brother-in-law and father are talking with the other

uncles. Ayah indicates for me to follow her as she prays at the

other shrines.

She performs a traditional prayer, muttering under her breath

and tugging on her ears before kneeling. I put my palms

together and mentally recite my standard prayer. I figure

that language and medium don’t really matter, as long as the

sentiment remains the same. I then circumambulate the shrine

three times, trailing Ayah. Strangely, after I complete the first

round, the chatter from everyone else in the temple seems

quieter, as if heard from a distance. After the second round,

my surroundings look hazy, as if seen through bleary eyes.

A second ago I was staring at the back of Ayah’s sari, and now

I’m in a cloud. Where did all this mist come from? Something

just moved; the carvings surrounding the shrine are alive. I

pinch myself and don’t wake up. Grotesque faces grimace in

laughter at me as stone skirts swish, thousands of arms snap

into position, and the creatures dance. I recognize the steps

from the bharatanatyam classes I took years ago. Each time a

stone foot stomps, the fog pales until I can’t see through the

blinding white light. Gold beams part the brilliant glare to

condense into figures, finally solidifying into the forms of gods.

***

For a while all I can do is gape in disbelief, not fully

comprehending the sight before my eyes. An array of

immortal beings lie before me, fading off into the universe.


Not just the major gods, but others I don’t recognize too, all

gazing back at me with amused smiles. Thousands of bodies in

a thick line, weaving their way through space and time stand,

for some unfathomable reason, right in front of me.

Eventually, I regain use of my senses as my mind came to

terms with the vision before my eyes. “Wha-what-what?”

I stutter, my voice shaking badly. Apparently, I’m still

recovering. However, I manage to recognize the three men in

front as Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma, the triumvirate of Hindu

gods. Flanking them are Parvati, Lakshmi, and Saraswati,

their respective consorts. Still behind the women are other

important figures from Hindu mythology, such as Ganesha

and Indra. So much for not believing – it doesn’t get any more

real than this.

Vishnu speaks first, in a voice that echoes through my head.

“We know that you do not believe. Yet still you dutifully pray

to each of us every week and always for others.”

Brahma continues, his ancient voice full of wisdom. “Though

you might lack faith, there is only honest sincerity and a

genuine desire to help in your prayers. Accordingly, we wish

to help you.”

“The question is,” Shiva ends, his voice brimming with

amusement and laced with understanding, “How?”

“I-I, I don’t know. I didn’t even know that you existed or that

you had heeded, much less answered, my prayers,” I babble

nervously, finally finding my voice.

“Of course we did. What do you want?” Shiva asks again.

Figures. My one chance to ask for anything, anything, and my

brain is blank. Even though people talk about what they’d do

with a genie in a magic lamp, to actually be confronted by the

chance of a lifetime is mind-boggling. With one wish and one

wish only, what would I do? Why, change the world of course.

What I did next completely changed mine.

“I don’t want to be a doctor!” As soon as the words tumble out,

I slap a hand over my mouth to suppress any other treasonous

statements that might escape. Blasphemy, in the presence of

gods! I can talk all I want about the struggle between duty and

desire, but I won’t get what I want until my family gets what

they want first. At that point, I’ll be middle-aged, drowning in

debt, work, and loneliness, with nothing to show for myself

but remnants of discarded dreams and a mid-life crisis. That’s

when I’ll realize how much time I’ve wasted hating my life

and that I have no idea of how to be happy.

“Very well. What is it you wish to be, then?” Brahma inquires

calmly, as if I hadn’t just spoken utter disloyalty against my

family. Once again, I’m staring open-mouthed. How am I

supposed to answer that? Sure, I’ve daydreamed about being

a violinist or ballerina or hair stylist, but it’s always something

unattainable. Better impossible because I can’t play an

instrument than impossible because I’m not allowed to.

“I-I don’t know,” I confess.

“Perhaps it would help if we gave you some choices?”

Ganesha offers.

“Yes please,” I nod gratefully. The small stone statues step

forward, each holding a lotus flower – the symbol of life,

struggle, awakening, spirituality, and, for me, the symbol of

choice. Before I even reach out to touch a petal, visions flash

before my eyes of lives I could live, people I could be. And now

that I see my options, I realize just how many thousands of

potential lives there are and that I can’t observe and analyze

every single one. In kindergarten, the teacher says that you


WINNER Fiction

can grow up to become anything. To see that statement take

on reality in the endless amount of lotus flowers stretching on

forever, the infinite number of potential lives that lie at my

fingertips, well, that’s logic-defying.

I could pick a flower and choose my life, and be secure in the

knowledge of my future. But could I find happiness, knowing

that I had irreversibly chosen the path I was to walk, and that

in doing so I had disregarded all other possibilities? Was it fair

to me, or to anyone else involved in my life and affected by

my decision, to pick without looking at every option? What

if the life that was best for me was miserable for my family,

or vice versa? Could I handle searching and searching until

I found the rare life that was happy for everyone I love, seeing

all the lives I would never live? What if that life had other

consequences, like nuclear war or a zombie apocalypse or

something? How could I pick?

“I am very grateful for the opportunity you have provided

me,” I begin hesitantly, “but I don’t need to see these

choices. I have no idea who I want to be, but I would like

the chance to find who I am meant to become. My wish

is for the opportunity to find myself,” I finally answer.

“You are sure of your decision? No one has ever refused

to choose before,” Parvati questions, and I know that I will

never have this chance again.

“I am.”

“Then we wish you the best of luck in your journey. We will

be watching over you,” Lakshmi says kindly. Saraswati winks

at me in approval and the gods fade away, leaving me blinking

in confusion in front of the shrine.

“Where on earth have you been? I’ve been calling for you

for five minutes!” my mother exclaims.

“Oh, you know, praying, hallucinating, finding myself, the

normal stuff you do at the temple,” I reply, flouncing over to

Ayah and ignoring the scandalized expressions on everyone

else’s faces.

“Finding yourself?” Ayah asks in an amused voice. “And what

have you discovered?”

I take a deep breath, gather my courage, and make my

announcement. “That I don’t want to be a doctor.”

“Acceptance starts within yourself,” Ayah nods sagely. I look

at her sharply. “As long as you are happy, beta, that is all that

I can hope for.” She gives me a stern look. “But whatever you

do, you do well. No bad grades.”

I laugh freely. It’s good to know that some things don’t

change. I don’t know if Ayah met the gods, if they gave her a

choice, or what made her pick this life, but there’s nothing to

gain from that kind of regret. If there’s one thing I’ve learned

tonight, it’s that you always have a choice. And sometimes,

doing your duty means choosing yourself. All it takes is a

little divine intervention.




HONOURABLE MENTION Fiction

Shattered Lances ANNA WHITEHEAD is a student in Honours Arts at the University of Waterloo.

“Heralds have been sent out with the announcement of the

Isles Tournament,” my father, King Xanthus, says as he enters

our private dining hall.

“So soon?” my mother, Queen Sophia, asks.

My father gestures for us to be seated. The long table is set

for three: my father, my mother, and me. The table is much

too big for us.

“I want the word spread across the realm. If word is not sent

out now it will not reach all the Kingdoms with enough time

for them to journey here,” my father explains.

The Isles Tournament. I have been looking forward to this, all

of the bravest warriors in the realm travelling to our Kingdom

to compete. It will be quite the spectacle and it will make us

forget our grief for a while. One look at the dark circles under

my parents’ eyes tells me that we could do with a break.

“You don’t think it is too soon?” my mother asks.

My father places a hand over hers, “I think it’s just what we

need, the people will enjoy it.”

They are so easy together. Even after almost thirty years of

marriage, two children, one invasion, two famines, three


epidemics, two wars, and the death of one child, they still love

each other; they still rely on each other. It’s beautiful, I want

that someday.

Someday, but not yet. Certainly not yet.

“Are you looking forward to the tournament Xanthe?”

my father asks as we start our meal.

Xanthe. My name is ridiculous. I am named after my father,

but I inherited none of his looks. Both of our names mean

“blonde hair,” and while that is fitting for my father, with his

golden hair, my hair is black as ink. My parents probably didn’t

think of that when they named me, but the irony remains.

“I am rather,” I say, smiling.

None of us mention the huge weight hanging over us. We

don’t mention the chair missing from the table or that the

champion of the last two Isles Tournaments won’t be there.

We don’t let the grief show on our faces. We eat in silence.

Not an awkward silence but a comfortable one.

After we have finished eating, I excuse myself and walk slowly

through the castle alone. It seems so much bigger and so much

emptier since the last epidemic went through. Many of the

people who used to be here are gone, servants and courtiers

alike. Quinn is in my room when I finally enter my chambers.

She has laid out my nightgown and has a small fire crackling

in the grate.

“Xanthe,” she says, turning as I enter the room.

Quinn and I grew up together, her father is the head groom

in the royal stables and her mother is a cook in the kitchens.

My father arranged for the royal nurseries to look after the

children of the castle staff while they were working, so Quinn

and I spent a great deal of time together as children. When my

parents decided I needed a maid rather than a nanny, I knew

who I wanted to ask. Quinn is my closest friend and I trust

her with my life.

“You look troubled,” Quinn says, crossing the room to me.

“The castle seems so empty,” I tell her.

Sadness clouds Quinn’s eyes. “It does,” she agrees.

“I’m glad the Isles Tournament is approaching; it will be

crowded and loud again.”

Quinn smiles. “It will be nice,” she agrees, “the epidemic took

so many, I almost wish we could keep some of the visitors.”

“Really?” I ask, “What about all the extra work?”

“There are worse things in life than work,” Quinn says wisely.

“True,” I agree and cross the room to the table where my

jewelry box sits. I remove the gems from my ears and my neck.

Quinn helps pull the pins from my hair, freeing the braids

circling my head and allowing them to hang freely with the

rest of my hair. I shake out my hair and run a brush through it.

“Did you like this style?” Quinn asks, referring to the half-updo

that she created with my hair this morning. I couldn’t follow

the way she braided small strands of my hair and wove them

with other braids, but it looked incredible.

“I did. You always manage to make this bush look stunning,”

I gather a section of my hair and wave it at her.

Quinn laughs. “It isn’t easy you know; your hair is quite

impossible.”

I roll my eyes. “It is that.”

“Will anyone from your family be entering the tournament?”

Quinn asks after a while.



I bite my lip. “I wouldn’t think so, my father doesn’t compete

anymore and now that Julian is,” I clear my throat, “anyway,

there aren’t many young men in my family anymore.”

Quinn frowns. “Why don’t you enter?” she asks.

I stare at her. “Me?”

“Why not?” Quinn asks. “You know how to joust and you’re

good at it. Why shouldn’t you enter?”

I’m stunned. I had never considered entering. I couldn’t enter

the Isles Tournament, could I? No woman has ever competed

in the tournament before, but why should that stop me? Just

because no woman has ever done it doesn’t mean it can’t be

done. Would I be allowed to enter?

“My father,” I say. “He would never allow it.”

As I say it, I feel my heart sinking. For one shining moment

I considered it, but what I said is true. My father would never

allow me to enter the tournament. Even if he did, what then?

Could I really stand a chance against a knight? Quinn watches

me but says nothing. My heart is pounding. What if I could

measure up against a knight? Quinn is right. I can joust,

and I’m good at it. Julian taught me years ago. We didn’t ask

Father’s permission, and when he found out he was so angry.

He’d be furious if I entered the tournament.

“I can’t,” I say.

Later, as I lay in bed, I find that I can’t turn my mind off. I can’t

stop thinking about the Isles Tournament. My father insisted

that I learn to use a sword as soon as I was old enough to hold

one, I even learned to shoot a bow, but jousting was never an

option for me. I am a woman, and that means I don’t need to

fight. Father wants me to be able to defend myself and nothing

more. I didn’t need to be able to plan battles or lead an army.

I didn’t need to know how to run a Kingdom. I was not a man

and I was not heir to the throne. That has changed now. I am

still a woman, but I am heir to the throne of the Isles. How can

I lead this Kingdom if I can’t protect it?

With Julian gone, my father has had to start over and prepare

me for the throne. I am learning how to lead a country, and

I am learning how to tell others to defend it. I don’t want to

be the Queen who sends her armies away to win a battle for

her. As Queen, it will be my job to protect the Isles, and, if war

arises, I should be the one who leads the charge. My father led

his armies into battle during two different wars: one before I

was born and one when I was seven. My brother led our army

into battle against invaders five years ago, he was twenty years

old. A year older than I am now. My father has won the Isles

Tournament a dozen times. It happens every three years, and

he competed in and won every one of them since he came

of age. The first time Julian won the tournament he was

nineteen. The same age I am now.

If they can do it, why can’t I?

My father is a good King: just and kind. Julian was following

in Father’s footsteps; he would have made him proud. The

people love my father and they loved my brother, but what

will they think of me? Princes go on quests and compete in

tournaments; they prove to their kingdom and themselves that

they have what it takes to be King. How can I possibly know

if I have what it takes to lead? Even if I did know I would be a

good leader, the people won’t. How can the people have faith

in me if I sit at home all the time? My father believes in me.

Is that enough?

***

Planning for the Isles Tournament is a lot of work, as it’s a

three-day event. I’ve got to figure out which rooms guests will


have and find space for their servants and their horses. My

father takes me through every step of the process. At dinner,

my mother and father take turns telling stories about past Isles

Tournaments and who won them. It’s nice to talk and laugh

instead of sitting in silence, staring at each other.

“My lance struck his chest and splintered, but his lance missed

me entirely. The momentum from my hit and the weight of

his own lance caused him to fly straight off the back of his

horse and into the dirt,” my father recounts animatedly.

My mother laughs. “Xanthus, you speak of all your victories,

but what about that tournament at my father’s castle when

my brother beat you in that archery contest?”

“I had a head cold,” my father says indignantly. “I couldn’t

focus on the target properly because of my streaming nose

and eyes. I was not in top form that day.”

“Julian always outshot you,” my mother teases.

We all freeze at the mention of his name. I look down at my

plate; if Julian were here, he’d be sitting where I am. I would

be moved down a place because I would not be heir to the

throne. He left big shoes to fill.

“He sure did,” my father says quietly. “He was the only one.”

“Other than Uncle Hector?” I say, smirking at my father.

My father glares at me, but he can’t hold it and a smile breaks

out across his face. His eyes are sad but there is happiness

lurking in them as well. Who says you can’t be happy and sad?

Mother reaches across the table for my hand; I give it to her,

and we grab my father’s hands. We are still a family and we

care about each other. My father is still alive, I don’t need to

fill his or Julian’s shoes yet. I have time.

Quinn is lighting the candles in my room when I enter.

I don’t pay any attention to her. Instead, I pace up and down.

Quinn doesn’t say anything, she leaves me alone as I try to sort

through everything in my head. I don’t need to prove myself

to my people, not yet. When I am Queen, how I rule will prove

to them that I am what they need. No, their opinions aren’t

the problem right now. My father and mother seem to think I

can handle the responsibility of the Kingdom, they aren’t the

problem either. Me. I’m the problem. I’m the one with doubts.

“Quinn, do you think I’ll make a good Queen?” I blurt out.

“I know you’ll make a good Queen,” Quinn says without

hesitation.

“How do you know?”

Quinn frowns, thinking for a moment. “Well, you’re a patient

person. You don’t rush things; you’d rather do something the

right way than the fast way. When you look at someone you

see a person, not their rank or their position. People are all

equal in your eyes and we all matter.”

I turn away and walk a few paces away from her. My head is

spinning. The fact that I worry about being a good Queen

means that I will be one? No, it means that I will try to be a

good Queen. What if I’m not cut out for this?

Spinning around I lock eyes with Quinn. “I am entering the

Isles Tournament. I’m going to enter, and I’m going to win. I

need to prove to myself that I am strong enough to be Queen.”

Quinn frowns. “You don’t need to prove yourself.”

I shake my head. “I need to believe in me, and I want to do

this. My brother, my father, and his father before him have

won this tournament. Every King to rule this Kingdom has

won the Isles Tournament. I will be the first Queen to rule this

land and will do it having won the Tournament as well.”



“How will you convince your father?”

A half-formed plan is all that I have. “I won’t tell him,”

I say to her. “I’ll enter as an anonymous knight and not

reveal my identity until I have won.”

“Not tell him?” Quinn’s eyebrows shoot up. “How will

you pull that off?”

“Do you think Sir Jeremy would help us?” I ask Quinn,

referring to the Kingdom’s First Knight.

She nods. “He would.”

“I need to practice a few times before the Tournament, Sir

Jeremy can help me with that,” I say, beginning to pace again.

“And you need an excuse to tell the King,” Quinn points out.

“I know”

Quinn smiles. “We’ll have you ready.”

***

The morning of the first day of the Isles Tournament is

bright and sunny, a little cool, but that will be a relief when

I’m dressed head to toe in metal armour. Sir Jeremy had the

armour made, claiming that it was for a squire. He also had

all my lances made. I owe him a lot for this.

Sir Jeremy’s words to me were, “I believe in the world

your father helped make, I believed in the world that your

brother strove to maintain, and I believe in the world that

you will protect.”

Practising with Jeremy was easier than I thought it

would be. As long as no one saw me put the armour

on, no one suspected that it was me, and I could face

any opponent without them realizing that it was a

princess that unhorsed them. Only Quinn and Jeremy

knew the true identity of the anonymous knight.

My armour is waiting in my tent, Quinn has laid it out in

such a way that it should be easy to quickly get on. I sit with

my parents in the places of honour as people fill the arena. I

glance around at the crowd; everyone is happy and laughing

today. My father was right, this tournament has made us

forget our grief for a while.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” my father’s voice fills the arena. I am

pleased to welcome you to the Isles, let the Tournament begin!”

I watch the matches, waiting for Quinn.

“My Lady.”

I turn to Quinn, my heart hammering in my ribs.

“There has been a disturbance in the pavilion, I was sent

to fetch you.”

Glancing at my father, I say, “I’ll come at once.”

“What’s going on?” my mother asks. My father just raises

his eyebrows at me.

“There has been a disturbance in the pavilion apparently,”

I inform them. “You two stay here and enjoy the Tournament,

I’ll handle it.”

My father smiles approvingly. I hope he won’t be too

disappointed in me when he realizes that this is a lie.

Quinn helps me into my armour and wishes me good luck.

“Are you ready?”

I turn to Sir Jeremy, who has just entered the tent. Quinn puts

a hand on my arm as she holds my helmet out for me to take.

I tuck my hair into it and raise the visor, allowing only my

eyes to be seen.


“Ready,” I confirm.

Mounting a horse while wearing armour is not the easiest

thing in the world, but I’ve been practising for weeks now and

can mount without much trouble. I wear no colours as I am

competing anonymously, while all the other knights wear the

colours of their houses. My silver-grey armour blending in

with the dappled grey coat of Tempest.

When my match is called, I ride forward. I will be facing Sir

Garrett, who is garbed in the blue and silver of his house; his

stallion paws the ground and stares down the row at Tempest,

who stares right back. A groom hands me my lance and I grip

it lightly, ready for the trumpet that will signal the start of the

match. If ridden perfectly, both lances will shatter as they hit

their opponent. In a perfect world, one of the riders would be

unhorsed and that would end the match. Until one rider is

unhorsed, we must pick up new lances and try again.

The trumpet sounds and Tempest shoots forward without any

prompting. He gallops forward, and I line up my lance with

the shoulder of my opponent. CRASH. Slivers of wood from

my lance fly everywhere as my lance collides with Sir Garrett’s

shoulder. His lance skids off my left arm and doesn’t break. I’m

pushed backwards in my saddle, but I maintain my seat and

throw the ruined remains of my lance to the ground and grab

a fresh one from the young squire standing by the ringside. Sir

Garrett also opts to use a new lance – smart, as the previous

one may be damaged.

The thundering of hooves echoes in my ears. I lean forward

a bit more and brace myself for the impact. Sir Garrett will

have corrected his aim and will land a solid hit on me this pass.

CRASH. Both lances shatter, but Sir Garrett is driven backwards

by the impact of the blow. He reels in the saddle for a moment

before his weight throws him off-centre and he plows into

the dirt. I become aware of the roar of the crowd. People are

waving and cheering, children are jumping up and down

with excitement. The roar is deafening. I have been to many

jousting tournaments in my life, but none of them compare to

this. Sitting in a throne cannot compare to galloping towards

an opponent. Dismounting, I flip my visor up, bow to the

King, wave to the crowds, and lead Tempest from the ring. I did

it. I’m advancing to the next round.

Quinn is waiting for me in the tent. Her face is flushed with

excitement and her hands shake slightly as she helps me out

of my armour and back into the red gown I was wearing

for the Tournament.

“That was incredible Xanthe!” Quinn says as she smooths

my hair.

I grin. “It was thrilling, I understand why men love these

tournaments so much.”

“Maybe women will enter them once you win,” Quinn suggests

mischievously.

“You never know,” I laugh. “I just have to win first.”

Quinn puts her hand on my arm. “You can do it; I believe

in you.”

I sneak out of the tent and back to my throne beside my

parents. No one looks twice at me; we have pulled off the

ruse for today.

“Is everything alright?” my mother whispers to me.

I smile at her. “I took care of it, don’t worry.”

My mother smiles back at me. “I am so proud of you Xanthe.”

I smile back, feeling sick. Will she still be proud of me when

she finds out what I was really doing?



Sir Jeremy wins his match in the first pass, and the crowd

erupts into cheer. Obviously, he is the people’s favourite. It’s

not surprising, he is the First Knight and every person in the

Kingdom will have heard of him.

Dinner is a festive occasion held in the banquet hall. I excuse

myself before it gets too late. I want to be well-rested for

tomorrow. As I leave the hall, Sir Jeremy winks at me. I just

smile and keep walking. I’ll have to face him tomorrow.

Quinn isn’t in my room when I get there, she’s probably

still serving in the banquet hall. Crossing to the window,

I sit down on the ledge. The sun went down about an hour

ago and the castle grounds are dark. Torches burn on the

outer walls.

I won today but what if that was a fluke? What if I really

can’t win this Tournament? If I don’t advance to the finals,

it would be alright. I wouldn’t have to reveal my identity,

no one would know that I failed. No one except Quinn,

Sir Jeremy, and me. That’s the problem though, I would

know that I failed. If I make it to the final and lose, I will

have to reveal my identity. My father will know I failed, my

mother will know I failed, and my people will know I failed.

Is it worth it?

I have to try.

***

Quinn is putting the final pin into my hair when there

is a knock on the door.

“Enter,” I call.

A nervous maid enters my chambers. “My Lady, the King

is asking for you.”

I frown, pretending to be confused though a part of me

wonders if we have been found out.

“Tell him that I am on my way,” I say and stand up, smoothing

out the wrinkles in my gown.

Quinn looks nervous, she’s worried about this part of the plan

too. She doesn’t say anything as I sweep past her and out the

door. What if my father does know that I competed yesterday?

What if someone saw and told him? He might be angry with

me, but what about Quinn? He wouldn’t fire her, would he? If

Quinn loses her job because of me, I will never forgive myself.

My father and Sir Jeremy are in the throne room when

I enter. My heart sinks even more. If he knows, what will

happen to Sir Jeremy?

“Xanthe,” my father says, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Relief washes over me, he doesn’t know.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

My father sighs. “I’m afraid we are being paid a visit by

some delegates from fisheries on the far coast. It is a most

inopportune time, but it cannot be helped. I need you to

meet with them. If I miss the Tournament the other Kings

may take it as a slight.”

“I will do my best,” I tell him calmly. Inside I’m singing.

My father doesn’t know, I will compete today, and I will win.

My father marches from the room, leaving me alone with

Sir Jeremy.

“Good luck out there today,” Sir Jeremy says, smiling at me.

I grin at him.

“I’m not going to go easy on you just because you’re my

future Queen,” Jeremy smirks.


“You’d better not,” I tell him. “If you do, my first act when

I become Queen would be to have you executed.”

Jeremy laughs. I can’t stop myself from throwing my arms

around his neck.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“I told you,” he says. “I believe in the world your father

made, and I know you will do everything in your power to

make it last.”

“Thank you,” I repeat, looking him straight in the eye before

running to find Quinn.

***

Tempest is excited. He paws the ground waiting for our turn.

The trumpet sounds and we’re off. I’m measuring distances

and angles in my head, but I slightly misjudge where my

opponent’s lance will hit me. Instead of hitting my upper body,

it drives into my hip and throws me from Tempest’s back. I

wince in pain as I heave myself to my feet and leave the ring.

The watching crowd boos, it was a rather scummy move. I still

have a chance. If I beat all my other opponents, I can make it

to the finals. It’s not over yet.

As I wait for my next match, I spot Quinn. With my helmet on,

she won’t know that I’ve seen her. She doesn’t look worried,

which makes me feel better. Quinn believes in me; Sir Jeremy

believes in me; I can do this.

Second opponent. Tempest’s thundering hooves are a comfort,

he won’t steer me wrong. I line up with the shoulder, brace

myself for the impact, and CRASH. My lance shatters, so does

my opponent’s. We both manage to stay in the saddle, so we

swing around for a second pass. Hooves drumming on the

ground and CRASH, but this time my opponent is thrown

from the back of his horse. His foot catches in the stirrup and

he is dragged a few meters before he gets his foot free. I bow

to the King, wave to the crowds, and retreat from the ring.

I can spot Quinn cheering from the stands.

Two opponents down and three to go.

I watch a few matches, waiting for my next ride. Sir Jeremy is

unhorsed only once; he will be my last opponent. I hope he

remembers that he isn’t going to go easy on me, I don’t want

him to let me win. I want to win because of my skill.

It takes three passes to knock my next opponent off his horse.

My fourth opponent comes off after the first pass. I’m not

sure, but I think his shoulder was injured in a previous fall.

Finally, it’s time for my last ride. My final opponent, Jeremy. If

he throws the match, I’ll kill him. I want to do this on my own.

A blast from the trumpet and we’re off. I’m determined to

knock Jeremy off his horse. CRASH. My lance doesn’t break,

Jeremy’s does. Second pass. CRASH. Both lances shatter into a

million tiny pieces. A slightly bigger piece of my lance strikes

Jeremy’s horse on the shoulder. The stallion rears up, startled

by the blow. Jeremy falls backwards off his horse and lands

in the dirt. The crowd screams, some in shock and others in

anger. They may have been supporting the mysterious knight

in other matches but not against their own First Knight. Sir

Jeremy will not be moving on, but I will be. Only one knight

managed to knock every opponent off their horse. Sir Ethan,

the first knight I faced today, the only one to knock me off

Tempest. I will face him in the final.

My father is so jovial from the Tournament that he doesn’t

remember the delegates that were coming to see us, and I don’t

remind him. Tomorrow, for better or worse, he will know the

truth. I hope he won’t be too angry. I am one match away

from winning the Tournament, like my brother before me and

my father before him. I will make them proud tomorrow.



***

This is it. I have just this one match and it’s all over.

Quinn and I decided that we would have another maid tell

my parents that I would be late to the Tournament, so they

wouldn’t look for me right away. Once the match got going,

they would be far too engrossed to bother wondering where

I am. The lies would soon be over.

Quinn’s hands are steady as she helps me into my armour.

We don’t talk. Finally, she hands me my helmet. I nod to

her and pull it on.

“You can do this,” Quinn says as I leave the tent.

Sir Jeremy waits outside my tent. “Good luck,” he mutters

and slaps me on the back.

I mount Tempest and enter the ring. Sir Ethan enters at

the other end. I heft my lance, it’s time to live up to my

family’s history.

The trumpet sounds and the familiar thunder of Tempest’s

hooves fill my ears. Closer, closer, line up my lance, and

CRASH. Both lances shatter, I come very close to losing my

seat, but at the last minute I grab Tempest’s mane and hold

on. A roar goes up from the crowd. I don’t have time to figure

out who they’re cheering for before grabbing a new lance and

facing Sir Ethan for the second pass. CRASH. It’s easier to keep

my seat this time. Sir Ethan seems shaken, but he keeps his

seat too. Third pass, CRASH. My lance doesn’t break, so I hold

onto it. Fourth pass, CRASH. Both lances shatter. Fifth pass,

CRASH. I’m getting tired, how much longer can either of us

hold out? Sixth pass, CRASH. My lance shatters against

Sir Ethan’s shoulder as his lance slides off mine, throwing

him off balance and off the back of his horse.

A cloud of dirt rises off the ground from where Sir Ethan

has landed. I drop my lance and slow Tempest, wheeling

him around to face my father. He rises from his throne and

extends an arm towards me.

“The champion of the Isles Tournament!” his voice booms,

filling the whole arena.

It’s time. Time for me to take off my helmet and reveal

my identity.

I, Princess Xanthe, future Queen, have won the most esteemed

jousting tournament in all the realm, just like my father and

brother before me. I should be happy, I should be ecstatic, but

I’m scared of my father’s reaction. I want him to be proud

of me. Slowly, I reach up and take off my helmet. Inky black

waves cascade like a waterfall, hanging down my back. Hair

that matches my mother’s. I stare into my father’s shocked

eyes, dark sapphire blue just like mine, as the entire arena

falls silent. Every eye is on me. My mother stands, but I don’t

move – my heart pounding.

“Xanthe, Princess of the Isles, heir to the throne, Tournament

Champion,” my father’s voice rings out into the silence.

His lips twitch and a smile spreads across them, reaching

to his eyes.

The crowd erupts, celebrating their future Queen.


Lila Hawkins had just unwrapped her last birthday present. A big, square box

with a handle and hinges. She didn’t need to unlatch it to know what it was, and

her excited squeal was followed by a mad dash to find her box of old letters, all

typed using similar machines. Lila eagerly sat down and opened the large lid of

the typewriter.

The vintage keys were at least sixty years old, but they still depressed as well

as they ever did, having been taken care of extremely well over the years. Lila

typed and typed for hours, quickly learning the functions and workings of her

machine. By midnight, Lila was so tired that she fell asleep right in her chair,

hair sprawled over the desk and right hand pointing almost directly at a seventy-

five-year-old inscription under the base.

February 24th, 1942

“Now go out there and get the story of the century!” Boxer yelled.

Helen sighed. The twenty-odd men who had all been listening to Boxer’s speech

were all about to print him free money in the hopes of getting a job in the

dingiest office of The New York Times. She couldn’t even pity them for being so

desperate because, at the moment, she was one of the men about to grovel for

work. No one here was about to hire a woman to write articles, hard times or not.

Helen had been forced to tuck her hair into her hat and wear one of Charles’ old

suits to get this so called “interview.”

The street outside the Times’ office was even more crowded with people than usual.

A boatload of soldiers had come in the day before, and they all looked to be

milling around looking for speakeasies and girls. Helen tried to avoid them as

she walked back towards her apartment. It was easier said than done, but she was

only stepped on twice by the time she reached the bottom of the steps.

“Hey doll. Took you a while.”

Helen looked up, surprised. “Audrey!”

Audrey’s caramel curls bounced as she hopped off the banister and ran to give

Helen a hug. Helen let her, still trying to figure out how she could be at her

apartment. Last she checked, Audrey had been recruited to work with the generals



Fiction

The “Masters” of Typing NADIA FORMISANO is a student in English at the University of Waterloo.

Lila Hawkins had just unwrapped her last birthday present.

A big, square box with a handle and hinges. She didn’t need

to unlatch it to know what it was, and her excited squeal was

followed by a mad dash to find her box of old letters, all typed

using similar machines. Lila eagerly sat down and opened the

large lid of the typewriter.

The vintage keys were at least sixty years old, but they still

depressed as well as they ever did, having been taken care of

extremely well over the years. Lila typed and typed for hours,

quickly learning the functions and workings of her machine. By

midnight, Lila was so tired that she fell asleep right in her chair,

hair sprawled over the desk and right hand pointing almost

directly at a seventy-five-year-old inscription under the base.

February 24th, 1942

“Now go out there and get the story of the century!”

Boxer yelled.

Helen sighed. The twenty-odd men who had all been listening

to Boxer’s speech were all about to print him free money in

the hopes of getting a job in the dingiest office of The New

York Times. She couldn’t even pity them for being so desperate

because, at the moment, she was one of the men about to

grovel for work. No one here was about to hire a woman to

write articles, hard times or not. Helen had been forced to tuck

her hair into her hat and wear one of Charles’ old suits to get

this so called “interview.”


The street outside the Times’ office was even more crowded

with people than usual. A boatload of soldiers had come

in the day before, and they all looked to be milling around

looking for speakeasies and girls. Helen tried to avoid them

as she walked back towards her apartment. It was easier said

than done, but she was only stepped on twice by the time she

reached the bottom of the steps.

“Hey doll. Took you a while.”

Helen looked up, surprised. “Audrey!”

Audrey’s caramel curls bounced as she hopped off the banister

and ran to give Helen a hug. Helen let her, still trying to figure

out how she could be at her apartment. Last she checked,

Audrey had been recruited to work with the generals training

soldiers overseas.

“Guess who was shipped here to be head of recruitment?”

Audrey said cheekily.

“Of course you were.”

The two women went inside, and Helen made tea for the both

of them. As she stirred in the sugar, Helen glanced back at

Audrey who was reading the latest issue of the Times and felt

a pang of envy. Audrey’d never had any trouble getting respect

or a good job. Her father had always been held in high esteem

as a corporal, which meant that after years of experience and

training at his side, Audrey had been offered her job as an army

General. She’d worked hard to get it, but she had it – which was

more than Helen could say.

“Are you still the only broad out there?” she asked Audrey,

handing her a cup.

“Yes ma’am. They haven’t found another gun-trained skirt to

replace me yet,” Audrey joked.

“Not sure they ever will.”

“You’d be surprised. Heard rumours around the base that

they’re thinking of bringing in the odd one here and there –

what with this war going on. They’re really looking for nurses.

Maybe you’d be better off as one of them.”

“For your information,” Helen said testily, “I just came from an

interview at the Times.”

“I was just teasing. How’s your mum?”

Helen let herself relax as she talked to Audrey, kicking off

her loafers and tossing her hat across the room. She talked a

little about how her mother was managing with the payments

she and Charles sent, which led to talking about Charles and

how Helen was worried that her brother had enlisted. Audrey

changed the subject to work again before Helen could think

too much about it.

“Well, you must be doing alright. This place is nice, and you’re

still helping out with your mum.”

Helen shrugged. “When I can. I’ve been working so much I

wore through my favourite shoes last week. That job at the

Times would be pennies from heaven compared to what I’m

earning at the agency and writing put together. If only I had

the story to nab it.”

“You’ll figure that out. You always have.”

Helen greatly appreciated Audrey’s support. Her words echoed

through her mind as they finished their tea. You always have.

In the days after Audrey’s visit, Helen spent every waking

moment hunting down her story. She followed executives,

police, and even soldiers to try and find a lead. Helen was first

on the scene of any crime and front row at every conference in

New York City. She even wore through another pair of shoes.


Fiction

After three weeks of intense scouting, Helen was forced to

conclude there was no story to be had. She returned home

following a press conference about war strategies. It might

have made a decent article if every newspaper – the Times

included – wasn’t already there. Helen kicked off her loafers

and flopped face-down onto her couch, nearly poking herself

in the eye with a card that was sticking out from between

the cushions.

“Oh, applesauce!” she yelled, rubbing her cheek.

Helen pulled the card out from between the cushions and

blinked at it. When her eyes came into focus, she read Audrey’s

scribbles:

D.D. Eisenhower (Gen.) – In charge of new rec. strat.

555-0623

Helen’s heart fluttered. “D.D. Eisenhower,” Dwight Eisenhower.

He was one of the high-ranking Generals in the army, which

must be what “Gen.” meant. Audrey had written he was “in

charge of new rec. strat.,” new recruitment strategies. This is it,

Helen thought. This is the story that’s going to get me that job.

Helen practically leaped over to her phone – which was

extremely old and worn, given she could barely afford it to

begin with – and dialled the number on the card as fast as she

possibly could. It took a minute to get an answer, and when she

did, Helen was almost surprised to hear a light female voice.

“Dwight Eisenhower’s line, who’s speaking?” Helen hesitated.

“It’s Audrey Pr- I mean, General Audrey Prince,” she said

quickly, hoping the secretary wouldn’t question her.

“Ah, yeah he said you’d be calling. I’ll patch you through.”

There were a few silent seconds, during which Helen gave a sigh

of relief and then tried to focus on her new, bigger problem.

The general picked up the phone with a slight grunt.

“Hello?” he asked disinterestedly.

Helen panicked. “Hey, sir. How’s it going?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Uh, this is General Prince, sir. You were expecting my call?”

“Robert? This phone must be on the fritz, you sound like

a woman,” said Eisenhower.

“No, sir. His daughter, General Audrey Prince.”

“Oh, Aubrey! How are you? Are they still making you train

those new recruits I’m sending you?” chuckled Eisenhower.

“Yes, sir. It’s quite the job,” Helen answered, trying to be

simultaneously vague and explicit.

“Did you get my letter about the new strategies?”

“I haven’t read it yet, sir. I thought it was odd that you were put

in charge of them, not that you aren’t able, sir.”

“It certainly isn’t my primary focus. As you’ll read in the letter,

things aren’t going as well as we’d hoped.”

Helen decided to employ a technique she’d been taught

the first time she’d interviewed someone. By just letting the

General ramble on about the state of affairs, she gained enough

information to write a story that would rock New York to its

core, if it had not been for …

“You do understand that I’m to deny this phone call ever

happened in case this becomes public?” Helen cursed away

from the receiver.

“Of course, sir. You didn’t say a word.”

***


Any self-respecting publisher would have sawed off his right

arm to publish Helen’s story, that is, any self-respecting

publisher who was willing to overlook the fact that she had no

sources on a story that called into perspective just how bad the

war was. So, in short …

“No self-respecting publisher would overlook the fact that you

have no sources on this, Masters,” Boxer said plainly, staring at

Helen the next day. “Whatever this huge story of yours is, you

need some kind of ace to back you up. You still have two days.”

Two days did not seem to be enough time to even start looking

for someone to confirm the story, let alone find someone

credible. Helen took to hanging around the docks where the

soldiers left on an almost daily basis. She tried desperately to

get their attention, even resorting to her blandest outfit (or, as

she liked to look at it, the one that made her look most like the

businessmen who she sometimes saw around Wall Street).

“Listen, fat-head,” grumbled an irritable soldier after Helen had

asked him about the new recruits, “that’s above my pay grade.

In fact, it’s above the pay grade of every hard-boiled soldier on

this dock. Do yourself a favour and stop wasting your time.”

Helen wasn’t in the mood to chase army recruits around the

dock, no matter how desperately she needed a source. She

ducked around a pair of women who were out shopping and

taking their time watching the soldiers mill around the dock,

shaking her head. The bar she found herself in front of by

coincidence seemed like the best idea she’d had all day.

“Scotch,” she said to the bartender, taking a seat at the bar.

“Rough day?” said a man a few seats down.

“You have no idea,” Helen answered, fighting the urge to down

her drink.

“Guy like you, must be a work thing. Investments?”

“Journalism. Need a source for a big piece. But apparently all

the soldiers out there aren’t high-ranking enough to know

what’s going on in their own organization.”

“Well, hey. I’m a private. Maybe I can help.”

Helen spent a full ten minutes going over what General

Eisenhower had said over the phone, looking for any sign that

he knew what she was talking about – or had at least heard

rumours about it. Finally, the private shook his head.

“I’m sorry, haven’t heard anything like that.”

It was at this point that Helen decided she was out of ideas. She

went home and flopped once again onto the couch, hating the

fact that it wasn’t the first time that week. There was only one

thing Helen could think to do.

“Hey, Audrey. How’s it going?”

Audrey helped Helen sort through her day over the phone, and

she listened to Helen’s explanations and stories about the dock

and the bar. Audrey seemed oddly quiet, but Helen ignored it

so she could get everything out. In the end, Audrey had only

one question.

“And how exactly did you get Dwight Eisenhower’s private

number?” Helen froze.

“I, uh, found it on a card that you left in my couch.”

It took Audrey quite a while to answer. “I thought so. Well,

seeing as you’ve called the general without permission while

impersonating me, you might as well just say I’m your source.”

Helen couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah. I’ll always help out my best doll.” Audrey laughed.


Fiction

“Thanks, Audrey! I won’t forget this!” Helen said excitedly.

“I know you won’t. But, Helen?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time just ask, and I’ll call for you.”

WARTIME TAKES ITS TOLL

by H. Masters

May 12th, 1942

The raging war in Europe is impacting America more than

we had previously suspected. Our new source reports that

the army’s recruits are dwindling – so much so that Generals

in charge of recruitment are considering the involvement

of women on the battlefield. Previously, women were only

allowed on the field to tend to injured soldiers, but never to

fight themselves. Now, the conditions seem so dire that we

will have no choice but to take every helping hand we can get.

Page 2b

“Masters, this may be the most revolutionary story I’ve ever

seen,” Boxer said in awe, scanning the article. Helen beamed.

“I can’t print this.”

“What? You just said-”

“Do you know what kind of havoc it would cause if this was

released to the public? There’d be mayhem!”

“But the position,” Helen mumbled.

“Masters, there’s no doubt you’ve got the job. I’d give my

right arm to have pieces like this in the Times. I just have to

announce it. Congratulations.”

The announcement did not go over well with all the other

candidates. Some pouted about it, and most grumbled their

discontent. Only Helen was grinning ear to ear. She tried to

hide her happiness until everyone had shuffled out of the

office, only to get shoved out of the way by a man who would

have done well as a soldier.

“Watch where you’re goin’ tiny,” he spat bitterly.

“Aw, come on, I’m sure he’s average height for a broad his age,”

said another man, laughing.

Helen took off her hat, shook out her hair, and grinned at

them. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

Lila stirred in her sleep. As she turned over and tried to readjust

the pile of papers that had become her makeshift pillow,

the light of her lamp lit up the etchings on the base of the

typewriter.

“To Helen, Congratulations on the new job. Love Audrey.”


The Pyramid RUO XUAN AN is a student in Medicinal Chemistry at the University of Waterloo.

Ruth stood at the top,

her father and mother were at the centre,

and below them, her grandparents.

The grandparents quarrelled.

A crack formed, and they fell.

Her mother and father quarrelled.

A chasm appeared, and they too fell.

Ruth stood alone, atop a crumbling pyramid,

shaking at its foundations.

She walked to the edge and looked down.

A dark pit stretching miles deep.

Suddenly, she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

She turned around and saw a man facing her.

“Hello,” he said softly. “My name is Boaz. I am your husband.”

“Yes,” replied Ruth. “I’m happy to see you.”

And she held his hand and lead him down the pyramid.

When they stepped onto the ground, the pyramid at last, unable to support its weight,

fell into the deep pit below.

As its stones disappeared into the abyss,

Ruth and her husband watched in silence.

“How sad,” said her husband.

“The work of our family has been for naught.”

“Not at all, my darling,'' said Ruth.

“We shall forgive their mistakes, but where my mother and grandmother buried their fears, I will face them with courage.”

Then Ruth looked down once more and saw a smooth stone at her feet.

“And where my father and grandfather were domineering, I shall be gentle,” said Boaz.

And he picked the stone up in his arms,

and together, they set out to find a place for their new pyramid.


Fiction

What My Father Began Inspired by my father (Bigani) who shared his teachings on the farm in the semi-desert country, Botswana.

MBABI TEMA is a student in Mathematical Studies (Business Specialization) at the University of Waterloo.


Memories flood my brain as my twins groan in protest. It’s 5:30 a.m. and they’re already

awake, fed and dressed for our weekend farm trip. I, too, had a protest pose: a low growl

accompanied by clenched teeth with my nose flared. My father used to shake us awake at

5:00 a.m. on weekends to prepare us for the day’s work. I used to think that he was punishing

us for something we did – my brother and I were notorious imps.

I remember my father driving into the sunrise. The early rays used to pierce through our

eyelids during the short nap on our way to the farm. To fully wake us up, father would ask

us to open the farm gate. The multiple padlocks, craftily entwined to keep thieves away, always

proved to be our sleep’s nemesis. Father would always tease us and ask, “Should I help?” By

the time we unlocked the gate, we were geared up for farm work!

My favourite days were those before the harvest season. I felt like a superhero protecting the

crops from the evil forces of weeds and birds. Before the sun’s mid-morning peak, my brother

and I would pluck out the weeds while chasing away the fearless dikgaka1 and pigeons that

weren’t fooled by our shabby looking scarecrow. Father always gave us the same tasks and

always expected nothing but diligence and speed from both of us. I didn’t know it at the time,

but he was preparing both of us to work hard at everything we do without a shred of an excuse.

He treated me, his only daughter, the same way he treated my brothers. And he made sure that

even as we opened his cleverly secured padlocks, removed weeds, and chased predators away,

we each received his fair encouragement, advice, and cheer.

Consequently, I grew up loving to work hard, not because I had anything to prove, but

because that was my way of life.

In grade 10, we had an agricultural project at school. As a class, we each had to cultivate

and care for an allocated piece of land. I was thrilled! I had my own little farm in the city.

I successfully, and joyfully, raised the bed, planted the seeds, and mulched like the superhero

I was. I asked my father to help me cover my plot with a raised, green net to shield my

seedlings from the scorching sun and birds – father always told us to know when to ask for

help. After a few weeks, some of my classmates had to replant, as their seedlings had either

fallen victim to the sun’s “ray ninjas” or Mother Earth’s creatures. I was confused when one

1 Dikgaka means Helmeted guineafowls


Fiction

of my classmates implied that most of the girls’ plots had failed due to the mere fact that the

plot owners were girls. I disagreed. I stated that it is a scientific fact that gender plays no role

in the germination process and that the seedlings simply died because of natural causes. For a

reason unknown to me, this became a big debate. All I could hear about was “which gender’s

plots were booming.” While I saw seedlings dying due to exposure to heat – mainly due to bad

luck for getting unshaded, unprotected plots – others saw gender obstructing the germination

process. I concluded that perhaps the world must be using a different way of life.

I promised myself that my children will know my way of life. What my father began. A life

where gender was not part of the germination process. A life where they offer insights that

lead to solutions instead of making ludicrous “facts.” A life where they know that work begins

before sunrise, and what they reap is because of their diligence and speed. A life where they

learn to wake up early to protect their hard work from the hungry, early vultures of this world.

“Why do we have to wake up so early?” said my little cub, verbally jostling me from my

morning reminisce. “Yeah! All babies are still sleeping,” my little lioness chipped in.

With a smile I said to them, “We wake up early to learn life, my little cubs. To learn life.”

My husband used to complain that his “little princess” shouldn’t be given the same tasks so that

she can be preserved for more “female tasks” on the farm. He too used to employ the world’s

way of life. As the kids grew, he saw that his “little princess” became strong enough to take care

of herself; she became strong enough to work hard, to achieve whatever she set her mind to;

and to his delight, she is strong enough to ask him for help. Her brother, too, is the light of

my heart. He too is strong. He too works hard. And to my delight, he leaps to his feet without

a second thought to help his sister whenever she needs help. She too leaps for his rescue. It

makes my heart melt for they are one step closer to fully understanding what my father began.

After being tranquilized by the day’s work, I tuck them in with a smile on my face. One day

I will tell them all that their grandfather taught me about being the best version of myself.

I will tell them to share with their friends, colleagues, and my future grandchildren all that my

father began. May the world come to see that everyone is uniquely strong in their own essence.

And may the world come to see our way of life – which my father began.




Fiction

Epitaph Rewritten

PHOENIX ALISON is a University of Waterloo alum.

I was only five years old when I first met the old woman at

the end of the lane, who my parents affectionately referred to

as Ms. Yvette. “This is my daughter, Rachel,” my mother said,

smiling down at Ms. Yvette who was tending to hydrangeas.

Bent over the flowers, the woman’s large eyes were on par

with mine. With her hand outstretched over the tiny bushels

of blues and purples, she drawled, “It’s so nice to meet you,

little one,” giving the most delicate handshake as her eyes

transformed into little half-moons, deepening the creases

around her eyes. With a hand on the small of her back, she

ushered me to play in her garden that occupied the entirety of

her front lawn. “Well, she looks just like you,” Ms. Yvette told

my mother before I tuned out of the grown-up talk and turned

into the garden. Lost between thick, lily stems, hedges of roses,

and a white sculpted bird bath, I only returned to reality when

my mother called out, beckoning me to continue our evening

walk. We had just moved to a new town, and while my mother

and I quickly became acquainted with the neighbourhood,

I was happy that our evening walks, and visits to Ms. Yvette’s

garden, became tradition.

As the years passed, I accompanied my mother on fewer

evening walks. Instead, I would run down the street or take

my bike to the park to meet my friends, whirring past Ms.

Yvette’s garden and house along the way. On sunny days,

she’d be outside and often wave me over, using the entirety of

her wingspan. This made her invitation impossible to miss.

Sometimes, she’d briefly chat before wishing me well, other

times she’d have cookies and share stories with me. Often, she

shared gardening tips or told me of the newest blossom in

her garden. Even though her garden eclipsed her house in the

summer, she knew its every detail.


Ms. Yvette taught me how to press flowers, which flowers were

edible, which ones helped the bees, and a plethora of other

facts about flowers that only an encyclopedia could remember.

When she wasn’t sharing tidbits about optimal growing

conditions for marigolds and peonies, she’d tell me about her

life, about her husband who had passed and how he had loved

her, about her daughter who lived overseas, and even about

how she had lived in London, which I found fascinating. Over

time, she sent me cards and gifts on holidays, and my parents

would often help her with more strenuous household chores.

There was a hot August afternoon and, at the age of eleven,

I wanted to spend time with my friends more than ever. As

usual though, Ms. Yvette was in her yard, waving me over

with her slow and trembling, but unmistakable, motion. I

steered my bike over, and a smile stretched across her entire

face. Asking where I was off to, I told her I couldn’t chat

long, since I was meeting some friends. “Very well, dear,” she

nodded, raising her hand in protest, “just one minute.” When

she returned, she gently handed me a small box. “Biscuits,” she

smiled, “for you and your friends.” Hastily, I thanked her and

gave a quick hug before speeding past the end of the lane and

into the park where my friends were already waiting.

“Rachel! About time!” Emily called out.

“Whatcha got in the box?” asked Jason, to which I yelled,

“Cookies!”

At once, the four of them ran over, grabbing at the box.

“Did your mom make these?” Sam asked, grabbing one as

soon as I opened the box.

“Actually, they’re from Ms. Yvette,” I said, barely finishing the

sentence before Jason looked at me, as if to ask, “who?”

“You know, Ms. Yvette. She lives at the end of the lane,” I said,

pointing to her house.

“Gross!” exclaimed Jason, immediately spitting out the cookie.

“You know she’s a witch, right?” The others followed suit,

throwing theirs on the ground.

“These cookies are probably poisoned,” “She’s so dirty,” “My

brother says she hides bodies in her garden – that’s why it’s

so big.” One by one, they all took turns hurling insults and

gossiping about Ms. Yvette. I stared back in shock, quickly

trying to protest that she was really nice. Emily shook her head

and shot down my defenses with malicious laughter. “Rachel,

that woman’s crazy,” Jason sneered before taking the box from

me and chucking it like a frisbee, ensuring it landed on Ms.

Yvette’s property.

That was the first encounter I had where my friends expressed

cruelty towards Ms. Yvette, but not the last one. In the years

that followed, I’d hear stories of what they’d do. From mocking

her slightly hunched posture, imitating the way she spoke, and

even sneaking into her garden at night and clipping her


Fiction

tulips. They high-fived each other, and I joined in, saying that

they should’ve clipped more since she probably wouldn’t even

notice. I laughed along with my classmates but felt guilty as

soon as I walked past Ms. Yvette’s house on my way home from

school. I knew that she would miss those tulips.

When I was seventeen, I remember coming home from school

one afternoon. My mother came downstairs and met me in

the kitchen as I was fixing myself a snack. “Rachel,” my mother

said gingerly as she sat down at the table, not making eye-

contact. I grimaced. It was worrisome whenever my mother

wasn’t her gregarious self. “Yes,” I started, joining her at the

table. She breathed deeply and then said, “You should know

that Ms. Yvette passed away last night. I know she cared about

you a great deal.” I felt my jaw clench and my forehead crease,

unable to bring forward any words. My mother stood up to

hug me, but I promptly excused myself and went upstairs, too

sick to eat my after-school snack.

Sick with grief, of course, but more so shame. I allowed others

to taint her memory, to paint her as some wretched crone,

when, in fact, I knew Ms. Yvette best of all these people. Sick

with regret. I should have protected her reputation when I

was younger. Instead, I chose to rewrite it to her detriment,

in exchange for some cheap laughs to make me feel as

though I belonged. And yet, I know these people could never

sympathize with me at this time.

Word spread quickly. Classmates learned of Ms. Yvette’s passing

and responded like a distasteful epitaph. At best, some were

indifferent. At worst, they ridiculed her. The topic came up

at lunch and Sam chided, “I hope someone clean moves into

her house and cuts down that eyesore of a garden.” Everyone

laughed at Ms. Yvette’s expense again – except for me.

“Ms. Yvette had the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen. If

anyone cuts it down, it’s because they could never maintain it

as well as she did,” I retorted, walking away from the table.

That evening, I passed the supermarket on my way home

and then passed Ms. Yvette’s empty house. The garden loomed

over and onto the sidewalk, unyielding. I walked straight

to my front yard and began to dig. It wasn’t long before my

mother had caught a glimpse and wandered outside to see

what I was doing. She sat silently beside me and picked up

the brown pouch from the supermarket. “Tulips?” she asked,

reading the label.

“Perennial tulips,” I corrected.

“For Ms. Yvette.” My mother nodded, understandingly.

I looked up at her with a half-smile and tears in my eyes. My

mother understood this to be the beginning of a garden of

tribute, but for me, it would be an eternal reminder of my

need for atonement.

110 | University of WaterlooPHOTO: UNSPLASH ANNIE SPRATT

Saint Martina EMMA SWARNEY is a student in Systems Design Engineering at the University of Waterloo.

PLEASE NOTE: The following submission includes depictions of domestic violence, suicide, and illegal abortion. Support around these issues are available from the Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit:





Fiction

She looks outside to what must be the most beautiful October day

she has ever seen, but she sits there passively, unmoved by the deep

ruby leaves on the trees and the gold sheen on the grass. Bela has

gone for the day, his dark brown, leather tool belt fastened around his

wide hips; a hammer, measuring tapes, unlucky lottery tickets, and

a small bottle of rye that he thinks she doesn’t know about converge

in their pockets and hang from various straps. His hand saws, pliers,

and a myriad of other metal implements are jumbled in his dusty

canvas bag. Who knows what else is in there? But she hasn’t thought

about that, or the rye, in months. Summer felt like fog, spring felt like

winter, and the fall feels like dying.

“What was your grandmother like?” I’d ask my father when

I was young. Each time I asked, I hoped that a story would

sprout from the empty space his response had brought me

to every time before.

“I don’t know,” he would reply, “she died a long time before

I was born.”

“Can I ask Grandpa?” I would chirp, usually from my booster

seat in the back of our VW Golf with manual crank windows.

“You can try,” he’d tell me in a discouraging way that was

undetectable to an oblivious and relentlessly curious

seven-year-old.

My questions never lingered in those days. Unanswered

questions were benign; they were like those white pieces of

fluff that look like bursting stars that float through the air in

summer months. If you’ve ever tried to trap one between your

palms, you’ll know that you always miss, lose sight of it, and

forget it until the next one comes along.

Then you get older, and you realize you missed.

“You’re a useless bitch,” he says, spitting on the ground next to her

bedside table. “God knows what He will do to you. You’re no longer

a mother and a wife but a useless sack of bones,” he barks in his still

formidable Hungarian accent. He’s tried so hard to soften it, but just

like his drinking, it cannot be banished – only further concealed.

He is hoping to get a response from her, but she lies staring at him

with the green quilt pulled up to her chest, eyes glazed as if in a

trance, simply observing him. Her face is surprisingly childlike for

a woman her age, but to him she no longer presents as a woman

but rather a dog. Yelling at her is like scolding a golden retriever. It

knows it did something wrong and will look you in the eye with a

twinge of something like remorse but then circle back and retreat to

its bed. However, in the case of Martina, she never left the bed in the

first place.

And, like a dog, you feel badly after you kick the poor thing and hear

it whimper.

When I was twelve, I did a family history project. I quickly asked

about my paternal great-grandparents, my thirst for answers to

long-held questions eclipsed my desire to go back to my room

and sulk. My father obliged and wrote down names as well as

approximate places and dates of birth. He quickly printed his

maternal grandparents’ information, but I sensed a pause as he

moved to his father’s parents. He surrendered their names in the

form of his block-like scrawl: Bela Jozef Svani, 1927, Hungary,

and Martina Maria Szabo, 1932, Southern Ontario.

Martina’s father took a ship in 1931 so that his future children

could escape the suffering and devastation of a childhood in

an impoverished Eastern Europe. He was married to a woman

fastidiously committed to her destiny as a mother of good Catholic

children in the Land of Opportunity. She decided on the ship that her

first born son was to be a doctor. He died of polio when he was two.

Martina helped dig the grave. When the next little boy was born, she

prayed every night for the Lord to spare him.

It’s not until the winter I turn eighteen that I ask my father


about my great-grandparents again. The Golf died years ago;

I no longer have a booster seat, but the unfilled hole that is

my paternal family history remains. We are on the highway

and my father is driving me back to school after the Christmas

break. As we roll past the bleak January landscape, over the

fields blanketed in snow, I see blue tarps over unfinished roofs.

“Didn’t your grandfather build houses?” I ask, filling the air that

was usually occupied by a Creedence Clearwater Revival playlist.

“He did,” my father says in the same factual way he did a

decade ago.

When it comes to speaking about his family – whether it’s the

day of my aunt’s birthday, the time his mother locked him

outside as a five-year-old in a snow storm as punishment, or

what they ate for dinner as kids – it’s all the same, unemotional.

I nod, expecting another silence. To my surprise, he continues.

Bela wants a drink. He is sitting on his strong haunches, leaning

back into his harness, feeling his own weight against gravity. He’s

never fallen off a roof, it was never an option. He’s been scaling the

houses he and his father built since he was six. By the time he was

five, all the doctors had moved away. They had gone to the city where

there was more money, there wasn’t much to begin with, and not

even a nurse remained. Then came the expenses of the New World

when they immigrated. It was better to not fall in the first place.

His mother filled the void of doctors with her medicine of gauze and

alcohol. Bela remembers his bigger injuries (a bad cut and violent

bump on the head), but what he remembers most is the beautiful

haze that would come with them. His mother would tend to him with

pieces of cloth soaked in boiling water and then give him the brandy.

Drinking it, he felt like he had ascended. He basked in a warmth that

was within him, holy. It was the happiest he ever was.

“He was a house builder,” my father continues. “He moved to

Canada with his family when he was eight,” he pauses, almost

gulping before he softly blurts, “he was a terrible alcoholic.”

His words settle in the air. This does not faze me too much.

One of my other great-grandfathers on my mother’s side drank.

I should give my father a break, but I jump right to my next

question. “What about your grandmother?”

His eyes are calm and on the road. He braces for his own

response. “My grandmother killed herself when Grandpa was

twenty-three. She spent most of her adult life depressed.”

I don’t know what to say, but I don’t have to because he goes on.

“Apparently, she was very smart. She had to teach my

grandfather how to read. They met at a church that ran

adult literacy groups. From how Grandpa talks, I think my

grandfather used to hit her. Her parents were also Hungarian,

and that’s about all I know about her to tell you the truth.”

That’s the last thing he says. The hills turn into the university

town, and we are consumed with conversations about

directions. I feel him shaking slightly when I hug him goodbye

at the entrance of my residence building.

***

Later that winter, I fall into a severe bought of mental illness.

A disgusting blend of anxiety and sadness washes over me in

waves, alarm bells and long dark tunnels. I guess it’s genetic. I

feel my great-grandmother’s spirit around me, mysterious and

despairing. I haven’t forgotten about my conversation with my

father. It lingers over me like a mobile for a child, inducing

wonder as I look up but perpetually out of reach.

That horrible winter, my roommate introduces me to a boy.

Made delusional by my mental state, I begin dating him. He

eats away at me like goldfish eat their food: gulping it down in

small chunks and then shitting in their wake.

Martina often asked herself whether she had ever been happy.


Fiction

She thought back to the times when she wanted to be a teacher. There

was no money for teachers’ college when it was time for her to go.

There was her mother to help and siblings to clothe. She did have one

pupil; she taught her husband how to read. That’s how they met, in

the Hungarian church basement. Bela was 27 when he came to her.

A broad-shouldered, sure man unable to read a nursery rhyme.

It was the only time she ever felt she had the upper hand.

I purge myself of the boy in March. It’s quick but messy. I am

my own again.

However, I become increasingly lethargic. My appetite wanes.

I take to collapsing on my bed at four o’clock in the afternoon,

a feat not usually achievable by someone whose mind races

most hours of the day. I am queasy at all times.

I complain to my mother about these things. My father and

I don’t ever speak on the phone. We haven’t talked about what

he told me in the car. I wanted to know why he trembled,

why he’d never spoken about it before then.

I am at my desk when my mother calls me. It’s an evening in

March. I pick up the phone.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Hi, Sweetheart.” I can tell she’s about to say something

I don’t like.

“Darling, you might be mad at me for telling you this. I know

you’re going through a really hard time and already have a

lot to worry about already … ”

I interject, “What is it?”

“Well,” she exhales, “the way you told me you’ve been feeling

for the past little bit, the tiredness, not wanting to eat …”

She’s nearing the punchline.

“It’s the same way I felt when I was first pregnant.”

It’s not a pleasant trip out to the pharmacy. My mind, already

the mental equivalent of a locust swarm, urges me to run.

And I do. The grey slush makes sucking noises as my sneakers

plunge into half puddles.

I get there, zero in on the aisle, and pick up the overpriced box,

which contains nothing more than two sticks with a woman

smiling stupidly on the package. I often wonder if they’ve really

considered their target market. If the lady at the checkout

counter is judging me, she doesn’t betray it. I surrender my

twenty dollars and bolt out.

I cannot wait to return home. I barge into the cheap sushi

restaurant next door and plead with the hostess to allow me to

use the washroom. She obliges but looks startled at this wild,

young girl with soaked shoes, begging her for a toilet as if her

life depends on it.

I open a stall and strip off my jeans down to my ankles, faded

purple underwear too. I open the box and pee on the stick. I am

in complete terror. The alarm bells are louder than they’ve ever

been. I think about what it would be like to get an abortion. I

think about what it would be like to give birth to a child whose

father I despise. Will it have a fish face just like him?

As my eyes start to well with tears and my breath quickens,

I look at my phone and see that two minutes have passed. I

glance down, shaking so hard that the test looks like the blade

of a fan.

It’s negative. I sob deeply with relief.

***

My grandfather dotes on his granddaughters, and, although I

know it’s unfair to my brothers, I can’t help but deeply relish it.

He is well suited to the role of the genial patriarch. He praises


us for our high physics grades, our pretty dresses at Christmas,

and our swim-team medals. He has bushy, white eyebrows and,

whenever we are out doing chores, loves talking to parents with

babies. “Oh, hello there! How are you?” he says, addressing the

infant directly.

However, his relationship with his children has been less

lighthearted. I hear it in my father’s cadence every time he

mentions him. There is an invisible weight to his voice, which

carries a grey substance that nestles itself in the smaller cracks

of my mind, begging me to ask what it is.

Peter learns of his mother’s death five days after the afternoon

when she passed. No details are given, but he knows from the terse,

unemotional writing what must have happened. There was a brief

funeral with only his sisters, father, and his mother’s favourite brother

in attendance. They pray for the forgiveness of her soul from the

Holy Father. Brother Marcus, Peter’s former history teacher from the

county’s Jesuit high school, leads the service. He offers no words of

absolution, of sacred motherhood, nor dutifulness. She betrayed all

her earthly work with in one swift and final motion. Now she can

only be administered the hope of forgiveness. Brother Marcus knows.

The Jesuits also run the hospital and, for all their holiness, cannot

help gossiping.

Peter returns to college on the train an hour after they scatter

her ashes.

Peter regrets what he did. He should have protected his sisters. He

knew how sick his father was, but prayer and study seemed like

enough at the time. He found a girl and married her, then fled to

the States for a life of academia. There, he indulged in the guilt

and tragedy of others, the ones who lived distantly in the past, their

stories of struggle made beautiful in Greek poetry.

His father drank himself to death a week after Peter’s wedding.

I am at home for my work term that fall, being rehabilitated

by the warmth of home cooked dinners and heated Settlers of

Catan games with my brothers. I have medication, and I go to

therapy. All seems to be well.

One day at dinner, my father makes an announcement.

“Grandpa’s sister is coming to visit.”

I am surprised as he says this. I often forgot that my

Grandfather had sisters; Aunty Elizabeth and Aunty Ruth

were more conceptual notions than real people.

“Which one?” I ask.

“It’s Ruth,” he says, “she’s coming in three weeks and we’re

going over to Gran and Grandpa’s for dinner.”

I go on eating my beef and broccoli stir fry, my interest

piqued. Again, questions are forming and finding their

footing in the grey residue of the portion of my brain saved

for unfinished stories.

For the months leading up to her mother’s death, Ruth checked on

her every morning before she caught the school bus – every evening

too. Her mother had been like this before, but never for so long. Her

father abandoned the room they shared three months ago, and he

could barely bring himself to look at her.

Ruth is very lonely. She has considered leaving to live with her sister,

Liz, in the city, who is becoming a teacher. Although Ruth knows she

should forgive her mother, she harbors a secret and sinful resentment

of her inertia, her laziness, and abandonment of motherhood. Every

time she goes to kiss her, she hears the chorus of her favourite hymn

from Sunday school: “God’s children work all through the day, and

come the night we sleep and pray. Sinners do no more than lay.”

Ruth is tiny. She stands two heads shorter than her older

brother, my grandfather. She is a neat woman and wears a

practical jacket that makes her unusually broad shoulders look

smaller than they probably are. They are just like my aunt’s.


Fiction

“Liz and I always joked that Peter must be adopted,” I hear her

say as my grandfather opens the front door. “Oh, my goodness!

Hello everyone! It’s so nice to see you.”

My brothers, mother, father, and I shuffle in, awkward hugs

abound. We sit down in my grandparent’s living room, on the

sofa that was fashionable in the 80s. My grandmother pours

Ruth and my grandfather glasses of wine that are obscenely

generous, unaware of my parents’ glares as she pours herself

an even larger one immediately after. Chatter about cousins,

grandchildren, family woes, and weddings commences. I steal

glances at my father, who focused on eating his salmon pâté

rather than conversing with his parents.

Ruth turns to me, cutting through an argument between my

grandparents on fresh versus frozen fish. “Peter tells me that

you have an interest in family history. I have some lovely

photos of my sister’s baptism.”

I respond, “Yes, Aunt Ruth, I would love to see them.” She pulls

out her iPad and I add my email to her contacts.

Dinner is ready. We take our places around the table as my

grandfather says a booming grace that you can very much feel.

After we have devoured an unusually fatty chicken, salty

parsnip mash, and a spiced chocolate cake, the family disperses.

My mother, grandmother, and brothers descend into the

basement to watch Survivor. They love reality television.

Playing the part of the obliging granddaughter, I linger, wiping

up dollops of white vegetable mush and dark brown crumbs

into my hand, depositing them in the compost.

My grandfather dismisses me and tells me to join the rest of

the family. Instead, I slip discreetly upstairs to see if I can find

a pair of rollerblades my aunt told me she owned in high

school. I love artifacts, and I plan on asking to borrow them if

I find them. No one knows that I am upstairs, which is why –

when I hear a small, tearful voice floating up from the

kitchen – I quietly descend the stairs so I can listen.

It’s Ruth. She sounds as though she can barely contain herself.

“Liz found it when she was cleaning out her storage unit.

It was in Dad’s old tool bag,” she chokes.

From her tone, I know that this is bad. But the test will be if

I can hear anything from either of the men. I listen for my

grandfather or my father. Silence. I can almost see their faces

etched into the stony expressions that I know they have. They

have looked like this before, my father at his best friend’s

funeral and my grandfather the day his beloved dog died.

No tears, only motionless faces.

Ruth continues, “I just couldn’t help myself, I had to show

someone. I never knew they wrote this, I just feel so guilty.”

She begins to sob. The shame fills the kitchen. It’s intangible,

yet everywhere, and it rises like heat onto the landing where

I’m standing rigidly, listening to everything. It feels like

someone is pouring something cold and viscous down my

back. It tingles and paralyzes me.

Silence again. I think I hear an intake of breath, promising

words of condolences and comfort, but instead I hear the

coffee grinder turn on violently, hitting my ears like a hammer

hitting a nail squarely on the head. My grandfather breaks the

muteness. “Regular or decaf?”

The end is what he means, to both my father and his sister.

No more. We’re done. As they begin an awkward conversation

over the merits of Colombian roasts, my heart sinks. The

emotion, which I want so badly to hear from either man, has

been further suppressed into a corner of their chest that is dark

and very far away.

It’s a miracle Martina got out of bed that morning. She didn’t even


abandon her quilted enclave to see the doctor five days ago. Bela

called him directly to the house, not because she hadn’t left the room

for a month, but because she had started vomiting every morning and

was eating even less than usual. He visits during the day while Bela

is working and Ruth is at school. Ruth, being just as smart as her

older brother and sister, thinks ahead and leaves a note for him to use

the key underneath the flowerpot to enter the house. “She is on the

second floor, in the first room on the left,” the note reads. He does as

it says and enters. He conducts his examination with his metal tools

that are in many ways just like her husband’s, only much cleaner

and designed for more lucrative tasks.

He pokes, he prods, and he thinks. He discreetly gives her the

diagnosis and leaves with his leather bag. She is left alone to

contemplate her fate.

When Ruth comes home that evening, she doesn’t see the empty

bottle of sherry on the nightstand. Instead, she remarks to herself

how peaceful her mother looks and smiles, thinking she may be

better tomorrow.

I retreat upstairs to play with my grandparent’s cat, Mr.

Tabby, and to mourn the encounter that could have revealed

everything to me that I ever wanted to know. As I coax Mr.

Tabby to allow me to pet him, I hear heavy footsteps coming

up the grey carpeted staircase. They are my Grandfather’s.

I hear him go into his study and pause. He is silent. Five

minutes pass before I hear him return downstairs to a strained

conversation between Ruth and my father.

I tiptoe to my grandfather’s study to find his desk aglow with the

light of his screensaver, a cheerful, animated scene of tropical

fish with a crab that crawls along the bottom. There is a folded

piece of yellow, filthy newspaper on the table. I read the title:

“Local Woman Takes Life of Unborn Child and Self in Brutal

Abortion Suicide”

Gravity feels greater. The sensation as I’m reading the headline

isn’t like the roof collapsing, but more like acid leaking very

slowly into my consciousness. It stings but takes a while to eat

away. Before I can be completely blinded, I quickly take photos

on my phone. My hands are shaking. I wait to read it until I

am firmly under my quilt at home, having given a kiss on the

cheek to Ruth and my grandfather upon leaving the house,

their faces set with determined smiles.

I begin to read:

October 18th, 1974

Tuesday, police confirmed the death of a local woman, Martina

Svani, who died by suicide on October 11th. “It’s the most

disturbing thing I’ve ever seen on the job,” said Sgt. Michael

Gatskill, who responded to the initial call made to Law

Enforcement by the perpetrator’s husband, Bela Svani.

It became apparent during the autopsy that in addition to

self-injury, the woman had intended to murder a child she was

carrying before taking a blade to her wrists.

Detective Mark Roberts spoke with The Local Herald about the

case. “This was clearly a deliberate abortion as well as a suicide,”

he says, visibly disturbed as he recounted the situation from his

office at the Cedarwood Regional Police Department Quarters.

The woman in question had learned of her pregnancy the day

before she killed herself. The autopsy, as well as evidence at the

scene, indicated a “coat hanger” abortion was performed with an

undisclosed metal implement from her husband’s workshop.

“This is a dark day for the community and all of God’s

children,” said Father Brian, the priest who presides over Svani’s

congregation. He noted that he had not seen Mrs. Svani at a

service for over four months. “What we must do is pray. These

are devastating crimes, and our strength will be in our collective

grieving and penance.”


Fiction

By Adam Brown, with research from Mary Smith.

***

The next week, I get an email. It’s from Ruth to me, my

grandmother, and mother. The patriarchs have been excluded

from this communication. I read the email:

“Hi all!

It was so lovely seeing you last weekend. As promised, here is the

picture I was talking about. The one of my Mom, Dad and, not so

big, big sister!

Thank you for the wonderful dinner Mariam. Send my love to

Peter and the boys!

Big hugs,

Ruth/Aunty Ruth”

I click the image attached and there she is: Martina, holding a

swaddled baby in front of the stone façade of the town church.

She stands about an inch shorter than my great-grandfather,

who himself stands almost a foot less than the priest. The photo

is black and white, but from the family history I know, which

is not much more than a collection of whispers, I know I have

her red hair. Her loose curls must have been vibrant that

morning – a day when she was ready to enjoy everything she

had been told she would enjoy in life.

What could she have been? I ask myself.

That night I dream of her. I see her in a blue dress with

carefully beaded patterns. She looks the same as she did in the

photo Ruth sent me. I know she should be shorter than me,

but we each look each other squarely in the eyes. She smiles at

me. She touches my forehead and crosses me. She gently grabs

my shoulder, looking back over her shoulder as though she’s

expecting someone to come in, guarding the entrance. Our

hair is not quite the same colour, but the darker strands

in mine match the lighter ones in hers perfectly.

I see her as I hope she saw herself: young, bright eyed,

and capable.

She touches my stomach and looks me deep in the eyes.

It was me, she is saying, but her mouth doesn’t move. She

lets go and dissolves.

I wake up in a peaceful lull but am soon arrested with what

I see; my mind is painting broad strokes around the image

of her graceful face. A heavenly glow surrounds her, with

eyes that meet your own from whichever angle you look

at them. A woman in the light. I have rejected my family’s

Catholic faith, but I see now that she is my saint: a martyr,

not a thief.

I hear her story clearly. She was burdened with another life

even though she could not bear her own. The weight of her

husband, children, and church crushed her down through her

life, suppressing the light of her soul. A woman whose guilt in

life was for her being, and in death for her absence.

These notions float in my mind without words. Martina is

with me, and I see her for what she is, my protector. Her legacy

is in my blood, and her story needs to be shouted loudly,

because it’s also my own.

My father is puttering around the kitchen doing chores.

I tread down the staircase. “Good morning,” he says.

“Morning dad.”

It’s Sunday. The day of the Lord. Now it’s my turn to preach.

“I want to talk to you about someone.”

118 | University of WaterlooPHOTO: UNSPLASH PAPAIOANNOU KOSTASY

Just Conversations RAE is a student in the Faculty of Arts at the University of Waterloo.

In Taiwan, in a college classroom.

The bell chimed. The class had ended. Lou realized she had

been staring into space for God knows how long. “Killing the

Angel in the House … what an avant-garde, Virginia Woolf,” Lou

murmured. Gianna and Angela agreed with her.

They had just finished 20th Century British Literature with

Professor Duncan, and now Lou and Angela were heading

to grab some lunch. Gianna had class so she couldn’t join

them. They walked into a pasta house and both ordered the

daily special.

“So, what do you think about today’s lecture? I’m kind of a

fan of Virginia Woolf now,” Angela said with a little blush

on her face.

“Same! I’ve never been so focused in that class before,”

said Lou.

“Really? ‘Cause I seem to have seen you zoned out at the end,”

Angela said with a smirk.

“That’s because I was thinking,” Lou defended herself. Angela

didn’t say anything.

After a while she said, “You know, the other day, I was putting

on my clothes and I was going to wear this V-neck thing, but

one thought came into my mind, ‘you shouldn’t wear this.

It’s too revealing. Girls shouldn’t wear clothes that are too

revealing.’ That’s kind of like the angel sneaking up my back

and telling me this.”

Lou was a little bit surprised that Angela told her this but also

not surprised because they liked to talk about this stuff.

Angela continued, “I know I’m not supposed care about what

other people think or what society’s expectations are … I’m

supposed to kill the angel,” and after a second pause, she added,


RAE is a student in Systems Design Engineering at the University of Waterloo.

Fiction

“which is ironic cause my name has ‘angel’ in it, but you know

what I mean.”

Lou nodded, “Yeah.” Their pastas arrived. “It’s hard to do, to

actually disregard gender ideology. Virginia Woolf probably

spent her whole life trying to figure out how to do that. Like

Duncan was saying, she wanted to figure out what a woman’s

writing was and what a woman was because in her time

everything was so male-centric. I think we can sort of relate

to that, even to this day.”

Angela nodded as a sign of approval and changed the subject

after they got a taste of the pasta. “Anyways, have I told you

about me and Alex?”

“Oh, yeah. You told me he asked you out a few times. So, I guess

you’re together, now?” Lou raised her eyebrows.

“Yep.” Angela blushed a little. They finished their pastas, talked

about other things, and went to their respective class.

Weeks later, in the classroom of Translation II.

“Oh, please, you gotta join us. We need two players to be able

to qualify for the tournament.”

“I’m sorry. Nothing against volleyball, I just hate sports,” said

Shawn, embarrassed. “Shawn, come on, you really don’t like

sports? You don’t have to play competitively. You just need to

stand there, and we’ll take care the rest,” said the captain of the

volleyball team.

“I already told you I don’t like it! I don’t even want to be in the

game!” Shawn was starting to get angry and finally the other

guys stopped inviting him.

“Well, they just need two more guys to play,” said Lou.

“I know. But you know how many times the guys shamed me

for not participating in sports. Yes, I’m a guy who doesn’t like

sports. What’s so wrong with that?” Shawn explained as his

face blushed with anger, but he cooled down within seconds.

“Anyway, where were we on the assignment?” he said and

resumed talking to Lou about the revisions he thought would

improve their translations. To him, it was just another day.

Lou never imagined what it was like to grow up as a boy. She

was not the girl society, or even her mother, expected her to be.

She was athletic, she didn’t sit still, and she didn’t like to wear

dresses, but she was rather quiet; so, that probably brought

her closer to the category of girls, if girls or women can be

categorized. But she was quiet because she was not confident

about herself. Growing up, Lou found herself outside of the

box and couldn’t fit in. The girls at her school were drawing,

wearing skirts, and trying to look pretty – doing girl things. She

liked to grab a basketball and play under sweltering heat. That’s

why she got so tanned, and people laughed at her about it, too.

When she didn’t want to wear a skirt to school, her mother

scolded her. When she sat with her feet open, her father scolded

her. When she beat everyone in the class in track and field and

got an invite from the varsity team, her parents said, “Why

can’t you be more like a girl?” It seemed like everything she

did was wrong, wrong for a girl to do. “Shawn probably felt that

sometimes,” she thought, “being outside of the box, being the

wrong boy.”


A week later at lunch time.

“Hey, long time.” It’s Gianna. Her and Lou haven’t had classes

together since British Literature. As usual, Gianna couldn’t talk

for ten minutes without mentioning some man she randomly

saw, either on the internet or on the street. “I think I really have

a thing for older men. Not old though, just a little bit older,”

she giggled.

“Really? What is it about them? Only older men work for

you?” Lou asked without thinking. Lou was glad that they could

have this kind of conversation without caring about other

people’s opinions.

“I mean, yeah, probably older women too. You never know,

right?” Lou was kind of shocked that Gianna didn’t seem to

be joking.

“Wow! Are you serious? I don’t think so. You are the straightest

person I’ve ever met,” Lou said.

Gianna laughed. “You’re probably right. But I do admire

strong women, though. Sometimes they tend to be older, too.

Hmm, maybe not attracted to them, I don’t know. We’ll see.

But what about you? Surely, you are more likely to do women

than me?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Lou laughed and smiled awkwardly.

“I guess I’m not against the idea.”

They changed the subject soon after and talked about food,

class, and other things as if this conversation was nothing. Lou

thought about Virginia Woolf. In her time, this kind of topic

was probably prohibited. Even ten years ago, this conversation

would probably not be happening. Is it because of college, of

this liberal atmosphere, of her LGBTQ+ friends, of the progress

they’ve made, or of the marriage equality law they had just

passed? Lou had no idea.

Despite all that, despite all her ideas and beliefs of equity, Lou

still had a fear, a fear of going onto the basketball court alone.

Sometimes, she just wanted to sweat and make some shots. She

would grab the ball in her hands, just like when she was a kid,

and walk towards the court. But the scene somehow always

stopped her for a moment. All men. The people on the court

were all men (at least they all looked like biological males).

The idea of playing with a bunch of men scared her, making

her uncomfortable. She wasn’t thinking about playing with

them because, hey, it’s unlikely to happen. “They just had no

respect for female ballers,” Lou thought to herself. That’s part

of the reason why she had never played with men in her life.

But in the end, she plucked up the courage and went to the

court to play. But there were some days when there were not

enough open courts, or she was too overwhelmed with all the

masculinity on the court that she would just leave.

But today was different.

As she was struggling with herself, whether to play on this

all male playing field, a voice caught her attention. Somebody

was calling her.

“Lou!” She didn’t hear it at first. “LOU! Hey, how are you?

It’s Alex. We met a couple days ago.”

Oh yes, Alex. Angela’s new boyfriend. “Oh, hi. Of course

I remember you,” said Lou.

“Are you here to play? Why don’t you join us? We are pretty

tired. Angela told me you are good at basketball,” Alex said

with welcoming smile.

“Yeah, sure! Thank you.”

The next day.

“Hey, I met your boyfriend yesterday. We played a little


Fiction

basketball together. He even invited a couple girls who couldn’t

find a court to join us,” said Lou.

“Oh, really? That’s nice of him to do that,” Angela said proudly.

“Yeah, on the sports field, men aren’t always likely to play

with women,” said Lou.

“You know, he wasn’t like this when we first met. He thought

we had reached gender equality and was a bit confused when

I complained to him about how society was treating women

unfairly.”

“I guess he really is a nice guy. He has no bias against women

playing sports,” said Lou as a compliment.

“Maybe,” replied Angela. “Well, I did talk to him about gender

issues a lot, so … .”

“Well, I guess you taught him well,” Lou said jokingly.

Three years later at a conference.

“Let us welcome our first speaker tonight. He is a fierce

advocate for gender equity and human rights. Tonight, he’s

going to share with us his personal experience with this issue.

Let us welcome Alex Frauenman to the stage.”

[Applause]

“Thank you. So, I’m only here to share a story, a story that

drastically changed my life and helped me become an advocate

for gender equality. It is a very simple story, so don’t get too

excited. The idea behind it is what I want to share with you.”

“One day, back in my college years, my girlfriend and I went to

a restaurant to have some dinner. The day couldn’t have been

simpler and more normal. When we entered the restaurant, the

waiter came to us and asked me, ‘Do you have a reservation?’

I said, ‘Yes.’ And I gave him my name and he took us to our

table. When we sat down, my girlfriend, Angela, was a little

upset, or shall I say, disturbed. Before I tell you why she was

upset, can anyone tell me what went terribly wrong with the

information I just gave you?” The audience was silent. “No?

Alright, that’s what I thought. I asked her what’s wrong and

she said, ‘Did you see the waiter? He looked directly at you

when he asked if we have a reservation.’ I said, ‘Yeah? What’s

wrong about that?’ She was even more disturbed. ‘You don’t

get it. We get that all the time. He looked to you because he

assumed you’re in charge. That’s the privilege of being a man.’”

There were mumbles in the audience. “It was in that moment

that I realized how ignorant I was. I didn’t have to do anything

and people would naturally look up to me, while women,

like Angela, had to try, had to work hard just to be considered

seriously. Guys, the men in the audience, I hope WE can all

see the invisible privilege we’ve been wearing. We should try

to take it off if and when we can. I’d like to share one of my

favorite quotes with you. ‘When you’re accustomed to privilege,

equality seems like oppression.’ I know a lot of guys have

probably never realized their privilege before but try not to act

too surprised when people ask for equality. All I’m asking for is

a simple first step. Put yourself in people’s shoes and empathize

with them. That goes for all genders. To the women in the

audience, and people everywhere around the world, I just want

to say that I see you, and I’m here for you. Thank you.”

[Applause]

Among the thundering round of applause, Alex saw Angela,

Lou, Gianna, and Shawn in the front row with proud smiles on

their faces, and many others clapping approvingly, some with

sparkling tears in their eyes.


Untitled PLEASE NOTE: The following submission includes depictions of domestic violence. Support around this issue is available from the Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit:





Fiction

ZIBA is a student in Accounting and Financial Management at the University of Waterloo.

June 4, 1946

The creaking of the wooden swing was maddeningly loud as it rolled back and forth

n its hinges, dust flying up in swirls with each kick of the little girl’s legs as she swung

herself higher and higher. She had her right hand stretched out, fingers splayed out in

pursuit of the clouds.

“Maya!”

Hearing her father’s voice, the little girl jumped off the swing and rushed to the porch,

jumping on his lap.

“Is it time for today’s lessons already?” Maya babbled out in excitement.

“Yes,” her father said fondly, and, gently ruffling her hair, he brought out a book of

alphabets and word structures.

The lesson continued for a couple of hours as the sun set slowly on the backdrop of the

remote Indian village, orange, purple, and gold streaks tainting the blue sky.

“What will I do when you get married and leave me, baby? Who will I play with every

day?” the father absent-mindedly muttered out loud as he stared at his little daughter

reciting the alphabet for the third time that evening, consistently swiping away the hair the

wind kept blowing onto her face.

His daughter heard. Her mouth twisted up into a pout. “Hmph,” she said. “I’ll never get

married, I’ll grow up and become a journalist just like you father!”

The father could only look on toward the horizon, eyes swimming with muted sorrow.

January 27, 1956

“Maya’s only fourteen!” the man exclaimed, voice shaking with barely contained emotion.

“And if we keep putting it off, she will cross sixteen and no one will agree to marry her,”

admonished his mother. “If you want what is good for her, start looking for a husband for

her immediately.”


A long sigh.

“Fine.” The man hung his head with the weight of despair. He understood. It was time

for his little girl to go.

June 4, 1956

A bright red velvet cloth separated the bride and groom. Maya had a shimmering gold

dupatta covering half her face; the uncovered part showed a pair of lips drawn tight in

fear, contrastingly adorned in a gorgeous shade of maroon befitting the beauty of the

bride herself.

“Do you accept Nizam as your lawfully wedded husband?”

A stretch of silence that seemed to drag on for an eternity. Then a soft whisper caressed

the slight breeze in the room.

“Qubool,” she said. I accept.

On the other side of the veil, the groom firmly announced the same; the girl struggled to

stop the tears threatening to cross the boundary between her eyes and cheeks. However,

she couldn’t stop her heart thudding in barely concealed trepidation. She couldn’t pay

attention to the people cheering all around her.

All she could think about was the fact that she would be moving to the city with her

newly wedded husband, who she just met today. Who knew if she would ever get to see

her father again?

January 27, 1957

Maya pressed the cool, dampened cloth against the bruise on her cheek, wincing a bit

at the sting it produced. By now she should’ve become used to it – her husband’s wrath.

She also should’ve been more careful about hiding the journal she wrote in. She forgot

how any sign of literacy, from her, triggered her husband. Women weren’t meant to be

writing. They belong in the kitchen. But she loved writing so much.

June 4, 1958

She cannot leave. She now has a little life tying her to this place.

I cannot leave, she thought, hand caressing her slightly protruded belly.


Fiction

June 4, 1959

Maya kept a steady gaze on the rosy child lying on the bed, wrapped up in her old saree,

gurgling; with her small hands outstretched towards the sky through the open window,

tiny fingers splayed out in pursuit of the clouds.

She cannot let her precious child continue to face the disgusted looks her own father

keeps gracing her with.

Escape. She must escape. She cannot let her little doll not be free to fly.

January 27, 1963

It was Maya’s seventeenth birthday. She lay in the middle of a worn bed, neck straining to

look outside the window at her little daughter kicking herself up higher and higher on a

rickety old wooden swing.

“Father,” she rasped out in a pinched voice. “Continue to teach my daughter how to read

and write too, okay? And don’t get her married too early.” Tears rolled down her strained

face, wrinkled with the burden of her disease and the knowledge that she would soon be

leaving behind her little doll.

“I want you to let my daughter fly. Fly away to wherever she wants to go. That is the

legacy I want her to carry on. Never let anyone clip her wings.”

The trembling man seated on the bedside refused to look at his dying daughter and

instead turned his gaze outside at his granddaughter. Asha was her name, which

meant hope.

She was truly his daughter’s beacon of hope, the vessel to carry her legacy forward,

the reflection of her dreams – dreams of breaking out of the stupid societal norms that

had crushed hers.

He would make sure his daughter’s hope lived on.

June 4, 1978

The creaking of the old rickety swing was maddeningly loud as an old man slowly

swung himself back and forth from his perch, eyes lost in the horizon and hand

clutching a copy of a recently published magazine. It was open to page 13.

“The need for educating women,” read the title. “Written by Asha Kumari.”

This page has been intentionaly left blank.



Fiction

A Life’s Work OLIVIA MISASI is a student in Software Engineering at the University of Waterloo.

As the clock struck midnight, a loud cry pierced through

the already existent screams of pain coming from Margaret’s

mouth as she collapsed back onto the hospital bed. She

closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the nurse took

her newborn daughter away to be cleaned.

“You did it,” her mother whispered proudly, gently

brushing a piece of sweat soaked hair from Margaret’s

eyes. “And she’s beautiful.”

She opened her eyes wearily, slightly glazed over from the

pain-induced haze. Blinking away the harsh fluorescent

lighting of the hospital room, she grabbed onto her mother’s

hand, wishing instead to be holding onto her daughter for the

first time. The two women waited in silence, too tense to be

comfortable, the air heavy with apprehension; a feeling that

was heightened by the clacking of loafers across the linoleum

tiles, breaking the silence. Squeezing her mother’s hand tightly,

Margaret’s eyes brushed past the figure in bright blue scrubs

and focused on the small bundle in soft pink nestled in her

arms. Before she realized, the bundle was being passed to her.

Letting go of her mother’s hand, she took the baby into her

arms, gently, as though the child was made of glass.

Staring down at her daughter’s face, she felt something stir

inside her chest: floodgates of emotion pouring out of her,

urging her to protect her child from all that life would throw

her way. She traced her finger along the side of her daughter’s

face, making note of the roundness of her cheeks, the softness

of her skin, and the tiny puffs of air she let out as she breathed.

Everything about her was so perfect, unblemished. Smiling

slightly to herself, she went to move her hand away, but found

herself unable to do so. Clenched around her finger was her

daughter’s small fist, refusing to let go.

Looking down at the sleeping form, she whispered, “I promise

you, Victoria, you are going to have the life I dreamed of

having, and I refuse to accept anything less for you.”

*****


“Alright, shift’s over. Clock out before you leave. Don’t

think you’ll be getting paid overtime if you forget to punch

your card.”

The booming voice of her supervisor carried over the sounds

of clanging metal and workplace chatter. Margaret wiped her

grease-stained hands on the dull-grey fabric of her uniform.

Tucking some loose hair underneath her bandana, she began

to put away various items that had failed inspection before

standing up from her small wooden stool in the corner; as

she did so, Margaret stretched her arms behind her, feeling

her shoulder blades contract and her back faintly crack with

a sharp pain. Sighing in relief, she fumbled around her purse,

looking for her punch card, and made her way over to the staff

exit. The factory floor was littered with various parts and ill-

made products that her coworkers had failed to put away.

Maneuvering her way through the various workbenches, she

found herself shying from the gaze of the factory men around

her. She kept her eyes locked on the floor in an attempt

to avoid the predatory stares. Despite her efforts, she felt

vulnerable and exposed, making her skin crawl in discomfort.

She had clocked out so quickly, she hadn’t realized what she

had done until she stuffed the card back in her pocket and

walked out the door.

As she left the factory, she was met with a gust of cold wind

slapping her in the face. She pulled her coat tighter around

herself and covered the bottom of her face with her collar. The

late autumn chill prompted her to walk faster; she broke into

a sprint when she saw her bus approaching the terminal, her

worn-out boots slapping against the pavement. Making it to

the station in the nick of time, she took a moment to catch

her breath as the bus doors opened with a faint hiss. Stepping

onto the bus, she dropped her fare into the coin box. She made

her way down the aisle, looking for an empty seat as her coins

clinked against the metal of the container. The last empty

seat was beside a man in an obvious deep sleep. Margaret

decided that her only option was to stand until she made it

to her next stop.

Grabbing onto the bright yellow pole in front of her,

Margaret waited for the bus to come to life and resume its

journey. When the doors closed and the light above blinked a

light green, Margaret tightened her grip and the bus lurched

forward. She swayed with the bus’s movement, almost losing

her balance whenever the bus made a sharp turn. After a few

more stops, the bus was tightly packed, and Margaret could

not even turn her head without accidentally touching the

person next to her. Contracting in on herself, she waited

impatiently for the bus to reach her stop, anxiously tapping

her fingers against her thigh. Over the course of the journey,

she had been bumped into five times, tripped twice, and was

even sneezed on. Just as Margaret was ready to get off the bus

and walk the remainder of the trip, it pulled up to her stop.

With a fair number of “excuse mes,” she managed to squeeze

out of the doors.

As soon as she got off the bus, she started walking – this time

to the hotel across the street. She checked her watch when she

arrived at the front doors. Alright, she thought, I still have a few

minutes before my shift starts.

There was no time to admire the decor spread throughout

the lobby or the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

Margaret made a beeline for the staff room the second she

entered the hotel. In the room, she quickly shed her factory

uniform and, from her locker, took a change of clothes. She

squirmed uncomfortably as she changed into her tacky, blue,

button-down shirt, the scratchy fabric irritating her skin.

Before leaving the room, she looked herself once over in the

mirror, tightened her ponytail and fixed her bandana. Satisfied


Fiction

with her appearance, she walked across the lobby to the

elevator and pushed the button that then lit up. She kept her

eyes trained on the screen above the elevator displaying the

floor number in blinking red lights.

As the number turned into an L, the elevator doors opened,

and she stepped inside. After pressing the button for the 8th

floor, Margaret sagged against the elevator railing. Leaning

her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes and sighed

as weariness seeped into her bones. Regardless of how tired

she was from the factory, when Margaret left the elevator,

she resigned herself to the task at hand: making sure every

unoccupied room was spotless before the new guests arrived.

She sighed again. This day just keeps getting longer and longer.

Hours passed, far too slowly for Margaret’s liking, and it

eventually reached 11:00PM, marking the end of her

workday. She wiped the sweat from her brow and pushed

herself off the cold tile floor. Taking the bucket of cleaning

supplies, she left the hotel room and locked the door behind

her. Dragging her feet, Margaret made her way back to the

staff room. She shoved the cleaning supplies into a spare

locker and hastily grabbed her belongings. Without looking

back, she left the hotel and returned to the bus stop,

embarking on her journey home.

On the bus ride home, she found herself fighting to stay awake.

Her eyes, heavy with sleep, were fixed on the display showing

the various street names, waiting for hers to appear. Just as her

eyelids shut and she started to drift off to sleep, “Rosewell Ave”

blinked on the screen above, and she forced herself out of her

seat. Exiting the bus, she nodded her thanks to the bus driver

and walked up the driveway to her house.

Sandwiched in between two others, the rust-coloured brick

house faded into the background. A small, bright pink bike

lay abandoned on the grass, stark in contrast to the dull grey

of the driveway. Margaret trudged up the front steps and dug

her keys out of her purse. The keys clanked against each other

as she twisted the door handle and entered the house. As she

kicked off her shoes and hung up her coat, she made a note of

the unopened envelopes littering the welcome mat. Stepping

over what was bound to be a variety of flyers and unpaid bills,

she climbed up the stairs, careful not to make a sound. She

walked down the hall to the last door on the left and gently

pushed it open.

The room, with the exception of a small night-light plugged

into the wall, was completely dark, but Margaret could still

make out the form of her daughter passed out underneath her

sheets and a pile of stuffed animals. Stepping over various toys

scattered across the floor, she made her way to her daughter’s

bedside. She knelt down beside the bed and lightly kissed her

daughter’s forehead.

“Goodnight, Victoria,” she whispered. “Sweet dreams.”

***

“Mom, hurry up! We’re going to be late,” Victoria yelled from

the doorway, anxiously checking her watch.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Margaret replied as she grabbed

her purse from the kitchen table, meeting her daughter at the

front door. The two left the house and she handed Victoria

the car keys before locking the door behind her. Turning

back around, she stifled a laugh when she caught sight of her

daughter eagerly waiting inside of the car. Victoria, having run

out of patience, made eye contact with her mom and gestured

for her to hurry up.

Margaret slid into the driver’s seat and started the car as

Victoria immediately turned on the radio. The hum of the

engine was instantly overpowered by the radio’s Top 40 pop

hits of the week. She tried to keep her attention focused on the


road ahead of her, but Margaret couldn’t help but steal glances

at her daughter; it had been months since she had seen her so

carefree. Until recently, whenever Margaret came home from

work, her daughter was locked away in her room finishing a

paper or studying for an exam. Whenever she went to check

on her, textbooks were strewn across the room, loose sheets

of paper covered the floor, and Victoria was the centre of the

hurricane. However, watching her daughter sing along to the

radio, with her eyes sparkling and a smile on her face, was a

welcome change.

In her opinion, Margaret found herself pulling into the high

school parking lot all too soon. Before she had even parked

the car, Victoria was already unbuckling her seatbelt and

getting ready to leave. The second the car stopped moving,

the teenager opened the car door, shouted, “I’ll see you in the

audience,” and ran into the building in search of her friends.

Shaking her head, Margaret made her way to the gymnasium.

Posters spewing inspirational quotes were plastered on the

walls of every single hallway she walked down, making up

for chipped paint and the endless rows of bland grey lockers.

Above the gym entrance, a banner hung from the ceiling with

“ConGRADulations Graduates” painted in large blue letters.

The doors were propped open and Margaret could already see

the effort Victoria and her classmates made to transform the

gymnasium into something more lively. Vibrant blue and gold

streamers were strung from the bleachers and silver balloons

rolled across the freshly waxed floor. Rows of white folding

chairs were positioned facing the make-shift stage, and some

parents had already begun to take their seats, filling up the

rows quickly.

Margaret hurried to take a seat before the ceremony started.

Finding an empty seat near the front of the stage, she sat

down and made idle chit-chat with the parents beside her. The

loud conversations fell to a soft hush as the school’s principal

stepped in front of the microphone.

“Good afternoon, friends, family, and faculty,” he started.

“Thank you all for joining us. And to the soon-to-be graduates,

today marks the beginning of a new chapter in your life.”

Margaret soon tuned out his voice, choosing to focus her

attention on the group of seniors sitting in the front three

rows. She scanned the backs of heads, hoping to identify

her daughter in the crowd of students, but she had no luck.

Looking around, she realized that most parents had pulled

out their phones – checking their emails or reading a news

article – instead of listening to the monotonous drone of the

principal’s welcome speech. She followed suit and scrolled

through her Facebook feed until she registered the principal

saying, “And with that, let us begin to welcome the graduates

onto the stage.”

Turning off her phone, she refocused her attention on the

stage and waited for her daughter to appear. Names were

called in alphabetical order, and students that Margaret had

never heard of walked on and off the stage. As the announced

names moved closer to the end of the alphabet, Margaret’s ears

pricked up and she became more engaged in the ceremony.

The moment Victoria’s name was called, Margaret started

cheering wildly. With tears pricking the corners of her eyes,

Margaret watched her daughter walk up to the stage with

her head held high. Victoria’s heels clicked against the floor

as she walked across the stage. After shaking hands with the

principal, Victoria looked out into the audience with her

diploma in hand. Making eye contact with her mom, her smile

grew, and Margaret’s heart burst with pride for all that her

daughter had accomplished.

***


Fiction

“What do you mean you’re dropping out?” Margaret shouted

into the phone.

“I mean I’m dropping out,” Victoria’s voice carried over the

speaker. “I quit. I’m done. I don’t know how much clearer

I can make it.”

Margaret, visibly trembling with anger, took a breath and

replied, “Let me rephrase. What makes you think you’re

allowed to just quit university?”

An audible sniffle and shuddering breath were heard over

the phone. “It’s been two years and I hate it here. The work,

the environment, the people – it’s all too much and I can’t

take it anymore.”

“And you think that means you can just drop out?” Margaret

questioned, her stubbornness overpowering any empathy she

held for her daughter. “Do you think I enjoyed every minute

of my life? Do you really think I enjoyed going to work

everyday or the people I worked with? Of course not!” She

could hear Victoria start to speak over the line, but she cut

her off. “Did I quit? No. Because I didn’t have a choice, and

neither do you. That’s final.”

With her last words, she hung up on her daughter. It may

be selfish, but she refused to let years of labour amount to

nothing: the years spent saving every penny, making budget

cuts, and working twice as hard to provide her daughter with

an education to better herself and her life. Margaret knew

firsthand where a lack of higher education would lead. She

knew that without a university degree, without that one sheet

of paper, the doors of opportunity for her daughter would

close, and she would be forced down the same path that

Margaret lived, a life full of unnecessary strife. The choice was

Victoria’s to make, but that did not mean that she had to agree

with the decision.

The ringing of her cellphone broke her train of thought.

Looking down, she saw Victoria’s name light up the screen.

It rang once. She swiftly hit decline.

***

Victoria was breathing heavily and, every so often, let out

a sharp hiss of pain. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair

was plastered to her sweat-soaked forehead. Gripping her

husband’s hand, she clenched her teeth as another wave of

contractions hit her.

“When is this going to be over?” she groaned, exhaustion

taking over her entire body. She had been in the hospital bed

for nearly thirteen hours and, with each passing hour, the stark

white of the walls become colder and more uninviting.

The nurse beside her looked at her with sympathy before

saying, “Anytime now. Just one more push.”

“Come on, babe,” her husband said softly. “You heard her.

Just one more push – you can do it.”

Another wave of contractions rolled over her, causing her

screams to fill the room once more. For a brief moment,

the room was completely silent before a soft cry echoed

off the walls. The doctor at the foot of her bed looked up

at her and smiled.

“Congratulations,” he said. “It’s a healthy baby boy.”

And Victoria let out a sigh of relief.

The 2020 HeForShe Writing Contest Anthology presents selected

submissions from students, faculty and staff at the University of Waterloo.

Through poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction, we encourage readers

to reflect on the experiences and stories and consider how the idea of

legacy brings us here, to this moment. The diversity of individual and

collective experiences presented here demonstrate the complexities of

the choices we make today and the ways they impact generations

to come. These authors challenge us to create legacies of our own

through open dialogue, reflection and action.

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LEGACY

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LEGACY - University of Waterloo