Tag: creative writing

Don’t Go Too Far

Don’t go too far, my love,
my darling, watch the waves and the
pounding surf wash upon the sand,
whirling forth in a flurry of salt and sea and sun.
Don’t trust those white caps while you wander
forth into a wondrous world, they’ll cheat you.
Watch the tide, the rise, fall, pull of water
As you laugh, gleefully, in the face of it.
Don’t stay out too late, my hope,
my daughter, watch the boys who laugh,
and smile and dance and disappear like
sea mist on a sunny morning. Don’t let
yourself get caught, ensnared in their nets,
harpooned like a wild, exotic sea creature,
who chanced upon their boats.
Don’t forget this moment, my pride,
my joy, my sunrise over the horizon, rising
above as ever. Don’t rush by roses and flowers
like sailboats in the distance, colourful, quaint,
and entirely out of reach. Don’t miss out on laughter that
bubbles over like foam on sugar soft beaches, or
dreams that float on currents of moonlight and magic.
Don’t go too far, my heart, my comfort,
my ray of sun on windswept days, my summer
breeze, lightly pushing me onwards, across
oceans and seas and lakes and rivers. Don’t leave me,
my guide, my seashell path down a barren coast, my
wave of adventure who will wash over me, drag me under,
teach me of the ocean, the worlds in which I wander,
and wash away. Don’t go too far, my mother.
October 8, 2017
how many days are in a weak?
The first day, you’ll wake up – groggy, almost as if you had just been dreaming the entire time.
You’ll reach to find your loved one in the bed, and come up short. The bed that once shared entwined legs will no longer be full of another warm body, but instead; pillows strewn and blankets piled high.
You’ll fall back to sleep, thinking they’ll be right back; maybe they just got up to go pee, or maybe they’re out having their morning coffee. You’re still half asleep, you aren’t thinking straight. What time is it anyway?
Three hours later, the sun is peeking into your room, and you rub your eyes. You check your phone: your background is still the same, but you have no texts, and no missed calls.
It’s 11 am – you slept in later than you planned, and you wonder what he’s doing.
You get up, wash your face, get dressed, make yourself some breakfast. You call his phone while doing so, only to be reminded by his voicemail that he is no longer the one you thought you knew.
At first, it doesn’t hit you. It just feels like you had a bad fight and that you’re going to make up – you always do.
At first, it’s almost like your loved one is just away working. Only 21 more days… but then again, who’s counting?
After distracting yourself all day, it’s night-time, and you realize you’re lonely (are you lonely? are you just alone?).
You see, that’s the thing about learning how to be single. You have to ask yourself these things. You have to accept that some questions won’t be answered.
The second day, your mom will come to visit. She’ll pat your hand, and ask you how you’re doing. You’ll tell her you’re fine, you may even smile apologetically. She’ll offer to take you to lunch – go. There’s no point sitting in the house. After an hour or two, you’ll ask her to stop being a helicopter parent – you need your space.
The third day, your best friend will call. She’s worried about you. She’s called a few times, but you haven’t worked up the nerve to answer. You finally tell her what happened. She’ll call him an asshole and tell you that you deserve better. She’s right; but that isn’t what you want to hear.
On the fourth day, you smile at your customers. You ask them all how they are, and when they say, “And you?”, you tell them “I’m good”, to be polite. You take their orders and make small talk while they pay their bills. You hope the regulars don’t notice that you’re not yourself.
You wake up on the fifth day feeling more energetic than the last four, you haven’t cried in two days and you consider that a win. You start filling the empty spaces where his things used to sit, with pictures of your friends, new books, some flowers.
The sixth and seventh day blend together. Has it already been a week? Your friend sends you quotes to help you feel better. You start reading poetry and make a new playlist. You force yourself to listen to the songs he said reminded him of you.
On the 10th day, you call his sister. Ask how she’s been, ask if she’s heard from him. She tells you he’s away working; that he hasn’t said much. Must be nice to be able to leave – in more ways than one.
Two weeks later, his friend comes into your work and tells you that he’s sorry for what happened. You tell him it’s not him who should be apologizing. He laughs, a little uncomfortably. Almost as if he doesn’t know what else to say. But then he does: He tells you the truth about his friend, your love…ex-love. Everything you needed to hear, and didn’t quite know it at the time. He gives you a hug, kisses you on the top of the head. You fight back the tears, you’ve never been one to cry in public. You wait until you get home, and you let the tears flow freely in the shower. You’re annoyed by how it still affects you.
That’s the thing about learning how to be single again. You have to let yourself heal. You need to give yourself time to mourn the loss of someone you used to spend so much time with. You have to tell yourself to let go, and stop making an effort. You have to convince yourself to stop wasting your time on something that doesn’t exist anymore. You have to put the past behind you, and focus on the moment in front of you. You have to remind yourself that you don’t need to be with someone in order to feel validated. You aren’t like the girls you see in movies, you’re your own saving grace.
A month later, as you pull away in the moving truck, you realize that it’s best to leave everything behind. Everything except the memories and the lesson it taught you. You pull away and then –
Just like that, you stop counting.
October 8, 2017
I Know How the Tide Feels
I know how the tide feels
When the moon pulls her close
To a land unyielding.
A rocky surface with crevices
Even ocean cannot fill.
I know how the finch feels
Flying against the wind.
Suspended, disarmed
By the very thing that helps him soar-
An impossible, invisible force.
I know how the daylily feels
When the hummingbird sips her nectar.
So quickly he moves on, gives it away
As if it weren’t life-giving-
As if she had not created it through her own body.
I know how the cicada feels
When it waits for dusk to fall,
Eyeing its conductor, anticipating its downbeat.
At the mercy of cosmic movement-
Measuring sound by light
October 8, 2017
Creation of a Daydream
He always had a pack of cinnamon gum and a cigarette behind his ear. His baggy jean jacket sat on his shoulders like it was meant to be there, those beat up converse looked like they could fall apart at any given moment. He walks like he’s confident and shy at the same time, his smile blooms like a flower and his eyes are in a constant state of daydreaming. I often wonder what such a person could be thinking about but it’s not what’s in his daydreams I suppose, it’s what those daydreams will become.
Poetry is a concept humans created to put words into meaning that sounds beautiful, even if it’s devastating. Poets draw on the emotions of others to suck them into their pages and throw their words at them like knives. The wounds we carry with the pain of the words can be wonderful. The sentiment of reading a poem rests in the minds of the consumers. The thought and the time and the pressure.
Time is another concept created by humans. Time was created to hold people in a frame and keep them running from the grabbing hands which rotate around the circumference of a plastic prison. Killing time should be a criminal offence. However being lost in time is a gift, being lost in wonderland, a place where everything glows.
Wonderland can be anything, it’s your place. My wonderland is a place of peace and love. Starry eyed lovers and delicate flowers that sway in the soft breeze. This moment shatters when I blink and remember the reality. The cigarette falls from his ear.
I drift through the multiverse. I don’t understand the concept of a universe. There is no explanation as to why only one place in time can exist. Every decision that is made, every heart that is broken, every time I make you laugh, every pin that is dropped causes a new world to bloom. How wonderful would it be to have the power to drift between all of these places without effort of imagination. To experience these things with you.
The jean jacket is hung up on the wooden coat rack and I am laying on the grass alone. I hear his footsteps on pavement thundering in my ears. My eyes open slowly and focus on the leaves of the tree above my head. Ready to fall to the ground as gracefully and the first dewdrop falls from a flower petal after a light shower. The leaves are shaped precisely with points at the ends and edges that appear to have been slightly burned in a bonfire. Curled up along the edges. Oranges, reds, yellows, and browns tangle together to become a mural of fall.
Cinnamon stings my senses and I turn away from its scent. Shivering, I wander aimlessly down the freezing riverside. The water flows silently under its shelter of ice. I am at peace but war rages around me. Nothing is permanent and everything will fade to nothing. Eventually these thoughts will evade me and I will cough from the cold I am about to catch.
The beat up converse fall apart completely. My life is not broken. My hair is long now and I’ve coloured it to shine against the sun’s rays and the moon’s glow. My face is faded but I am completely aware of my stance. I am in the middle of a clearing near the entrance of my thoughts. Unable to move I accept the fate before me. I fall but I do not hit the ground.
The blooming flower that is his smile is now wilted and discoloured. Escaping reality is my favourite pastime. Once you drift away and fall asleep everything that is broke repairs itself. Or at least that’s the illusion I am living in. Please forgive me.
October 8, 2017
Plight
Having recognized a purpose also comes with a plight.
You end up living in the fight.
I’m exhausted, I’m tired.
I feel it in my bones.
I’m always in the zone.
And it does take its toll,
On your body, mind and soul.
Having to wake up on each day,
trying not to lose your way.
And don’t forget what’s important,
Why you’re here in the first place.
My life isn’t mine anymore,
but it wasn’t really mine even before.
it’s always been of a bigger scope,
first a family asset,
now a feminist fucking joke.
Can you imagine living for yourself?
Might be better off being dead.
So I’m thankful
No, I’m thankful.
For the tired in my bones,
For I’d rather wake up aching,
Than wake up feeling cold.
March 21, 2017
Those Smoky Eyes
Her eyes were dark and smoky. His eyes were dazed and glazed. His senses dulled.
He couldn’t remember the last time he felt something real, not fabricated within the illusion
reflected by the clouds of drug induced haze. He knew he had to get out. Get out of this rut
he called “living”, drenched in booze and drugs, oozing in and out of his system. There was no peace, no serenity to hold him there. All there was for him was chaos, unhappiness—addiction.
That one word.
That one word he had heard so much about. He was warned again, and again, but he didn’t listen. He was hooked. It wasn’t even just the drugs; it was everything about the life. He had made some permanent rose coloured glasses with his deep-fried brain. He slept on an old futon mattress on the floor in sheets soaked in sweat, booze, and sex. He lived the life of the delinquent, but felt like a king.
He needed to get out, but there she was in all her glory. Her skin aglow with the dim lighting from the street light coming through the window. She was truly beautiful. As sailors fell for the sirens and crashed upon the deadly rocks, he fell for her. Her leading him deeper and deeper into her brown eyes, deeper and deeper in to his pit of despair.
He sat up on the edge of the mattress on the floor. He held his head in his hands. He knew what he had to do. But he didn’t want to go, he knew it was right. It is going hurt. The rustling of the sheets behind him began to move—the girl who he had thought he could love forever. Why did he have to do this again?
More moving brought him from his thoughts and spurred him into action. He stood up and put on his clothes. He had everything on when she asked him where he was going. “It has been good, but we can’t do this anymore.”
He couldn’t see her face but he knew what it looked like. The streams of tears caught the only light in the room, fragile crystals that weren’t supposed to be seen. He wished he hadn’t looked.
“I’m sorry… Peace.”
It felt like ripping off a huge piece of duct tape stuck on leg hair, but now it was okay. There was a weight that was lifted. His heart was broken and shattered, but it has released his soul to roam free. He left the apartment, into a building of many years of memories. He turned and went down the steps that always smelt a bit off and through the doors onto the stoop.
He shoved his hands into his pockets to protect them from the crisp morning air. He searched through his pockets: wallet, lighter, phone, joint, earbuds. He took out his earbuds and plugged himself in. It was almost time for the sun to rise. He hit play. As the guitars and drums began to blare into his ear, he began to walk. Leaving the memories behind him. It was cold. He should have worn more the night before. He wasn’t headed home quite yet either. He needed to see the sun rise and he knew exactly where.
He walked down to the mudflats and walked along a dyke. Farther and farther away from the town in the light darkness of early dawn. He didn’t reach his destination until the sky began to warm up with the beginning rays of sun. It was a rock he had walked out to his first year there. That version of him would have so many questions, he would not be able to answer any of them. He knew he really wouldn’t change anything. You can’t deny who you are, you just have to change it. At least, he knew that now. He was so different, but nothing really had changed. It was funny like that.
The sun rose slowly above the dark earth illuminating the farm fields with soft pink light. A new dawn, the same old, same old, so he took out the stale joint he had in his pocket, and he lit it.
March 21, 2017
Red Rhythm
keep the red coming until the last
d d
r r
i o
p p
falls from the emerald bottle into
my glass and a buzz is humming
through my veins and moving
me to the beat of this god
awful music I can’t
even drunkenly
pretend
to
know
the
words
to.
My
eyes
lock
with
yours
over
the brim of my glass
and as we dance… the music grows on me.
March 21, 2017
r-e-s-e-a-r-c-h: an anagram and a process
see
ease
har
har
har
re-sea
ah…
sh*
race
ear
hear
rear
a
rare
search
reach
ha
rah!
rah!
rah!
March 21, 2017
Headscapes
There’s people outside,
the thrashing and bustling kind.
Nowadays they seem to blur
like shadows in dithyrambic dazes.
We shiver at the thought
of joining them out there,
so we watch through
sectioned sickle panes.
And the days that go for us,
are punchy plucks of a
gut string.
Yet we raised our chins real high,
peeked out through the slats
and into their beady reddened eyes.
Let’s see what it sounds like outside
I thought of that earlier today:
what happens if the strings don’t
pluck in the same old way
March 21, 2017
Things That Should Have Been Curbed in 2016

1) The notion that “White Privilege” is offensive and racist towards White People.
Racism, cultural appropriation, and discrimination have been a hot-button issue throughout history. With the rise of social media platforms, along with the recent election of Donald Trump, there is a plethora of conversation online (and in print) about the hateful rhetoric that seems to be plaguing today’s society. Unfortunately, when people feel that their privilege is being threatened, they enter an automatic defense mode. It is often presented in such a manner where the defendant makes claims of innocence, justifying their feelings of discomfort by exclaiming that they are not guilty of racism, and that if their race is being questioned, that they are automatically being discriminated against. White privilege is not racist; it is not offensive in any way. It is a method of explaining the favorable treatment that white people often receive. There are no systems of oppression designed against white people. Thinking that reverse racism exists is what perpetuates the notion of white privilege further into the foundations of our society. It is a mechanism that is used to validate the comfortable position white people hold in society. Validating your own comfortable position by attacking a marginalized group (by saying white privilege is offensive, racist etc.) is a subtle way of invalidating and shutting down any group who’s LIVED EXPERIENCE has ever been one of systemic oppression. In extension, these feelings can often be described as “white fragility,” a state in which minimum amounts of racial stress becomes intolerable, triggering outward displays of emotion, such as anger, and behaviours such as argumentation. Yeah, this definitely could have been left behind in 2016.
2) That any Indigenous culture should just “get over” colonization.
Really? This one amazes me every time I hear it. Let us take a brief moment to recall Canadian History because we are not innocent in the ways or racism and cultural oppression. Residential schools were opened in conjunction with the Catholic and Protestant Churches and the government. Their aim was to remove any form of Indigenous culture from Indigenous children by forcefully removing them from their homes, placing them in schools where they would be taught Western values. As such, a cultural genocide was committed. Often, when hearing the word “genocide,” events such as the Holocaust, Bosnian, and Rwandan genocides. That is because Canada has attempted to repress its history. The horrors of the Residential schools did not end until 1996. Yes, most of us were living when the last school shut its doors. During their time in the Residential schools, Indigenous children were beaten, sexually assaulted, and mentally abused by their instructors. Often, these traumas were difficult to cope with. A stigma surrounds Indigenous peoples in Canada. Many people chose to believe that status cards, funding, government aid, and the Truth and Reconciliation Committee should all be abolished. They question why we should continue to apologize, and why we should continue to work towards mending our relationship with Indigenous peoples. What does it take to get over something like this? How could you possibly put a numerical value on an apology, how can you, a white person, get to dictate the appropriate measures for reconciliation after a cultural genocide has been committed? When you say these things, you act as though you assume the role of the oppressed, you may think you understand their oppression, but you simply do not. I know I do not understand, I never could. However, it is important to listen, to engage in conversation, and to be respectful of what you cannot understand. Please read the above statement about white privilege and then rethink your questions and sweeping generalizations about Indigenous peoples and Indigenous culture.
3) “She was asking for it”- REALLY?
For God sakes. How is this type of conversation STILL taking place? Did we not learn after Jian Ghomeshi and Brock Allen-Turner? I simply do not understand. The legal process further victimizes rape victims. Belittlement and slut-shaming occur in the courtroom in order to find loopholes in the victim’s statement. By asking her, “did you say no?” you are questioning her pain and her experience. By asking her, “how much did you drink?” you are assuming that all drunk women are ‘asking for it’, by asking her “what were you wearing” or “how many men have you slept with in the past”, you are slut-shaming her. Although there are false reports of rape, the treatment of victims in the courtroom is inexcusable. This is the reason that rape and sexual assault are so underreported. This process favours the accused, often bringing into play irrelevant aspects of his character, his achievements, and what he strives for in life. However, this does not take into account aspects of the victim’s character, her (or his) achievements in life, and how what she/he had strived for may feel as though it has become so out of reach. It’s simple, folks. If you can’t say no, you can’t say yes. There is no in-between; there is no grey area. There is yes, and there is no. Stop blaming the victim. Stop validating your need for supremacy. Stop questioning the pain of others, instead, start regarding it.
4) Feelings of self-doubt, as brought on by Instagram and other forms of Social Media.
I am guilty of this. Most people are guilty of this. It is so easy to feel self-doubt, and it is so easy to think that your value decreases based on the perceived notion of “perfection” in the others who you see on social media. In the last 10 years, we have “networking” apps explode. The original purpose of these apps was to stay in touch with your friends, to be able to connect with people you haven’t seen in a long time and to keep others updated on what is going on in your own life. However, it feels as though there has been a shift in the dynamic, a change in the way we behave on the Internet. Often, all we see is the picture. We believe that everybody’s lives are perfect and full of happiness based on how they display themselves on social media. Getting the “perfect picture” and pairing it with a “fire” caption that will get you over 300 likes is often a goal of most people. I know I am not innocent. There have been multiple occasions where I have found myself thinking, “if I went to the gym more maybe I would look like her and then I would be as happy as she appears.” I know this is wrong. After a conversation with one of my roommates, I found out that she was feeling the same way. She talked to me about how miserable looking at Instagram makes her. It caused her to question her own happiness by constantly comparing it to other girls’ social media pages. So, she slowly began to stop looking as much. As did I. I’ll leave this point here: everybody has their issues, but we have been conditioned to try and keep our problems to yourself. A picture is just that: a picture. You see what the poster wants you to see, just remember that your self-worth should not be determined by a like or how the world views your Instagram page.
5) Islamophobia.
Islam is a religion of peace. Often, people do not believe this when it is brought up in conversation. The first time I heard this was in my 11th grade world religion class. Our teacher told us that Islam was the closest religion to Christianity. She was right. It is not Islam you are afraid of, it is the “otherness.” The sense that you see something different, and that you are uncomfortable within a realm of your own privilege is what sets you off. This rhetoric gained prominence after 9/11. We were scared of them. They were scared of us. Although I am not an expert in Islamic studies, I know many men and women from the Arab world who identify as Muslims, and I can honestly say that they are much nicer than many other people I know. If we remove the concept of the “other,” perhaps we will all be able to see each other as we are: human.
March 21, 2017
unerotic erotica
when a cotton white shirt sits down
when it’s new, but about 23 wears in
when you smell it before you see it
when you think about putting your
knit brow
running nose
and contemplative pivoting chin on it
when his Plaines of a chest crouches over his stomach
when shoulders protrude out,
like two synchronized divers in unison swim over the ripples
that the blades have created
or when
when they remember to call their mum, and email their dad
when they have shared too much
when they change their hair because
your girl liked it that way
amiright? haha pfft
when they’re half in the bag,
and smiles are just for the boys,
happy to be blinking still
when Adam’s apples dance on first tries
when they borrow the book for themselves, but it’s for you
when they have paint on their canvas jacket from helping a neighbour last fall
when they think gnawing on their cupid’s bow
will help them remember the right answer
when will they realize, beauty is not born with, but is inevitable?
March 6, 2017
Girls and Sex: An Overview of how Peggy Orenstein Navigates a Complicated Landscape
Some of us grew up in semi-liberal or liberal households. Some of us grew up in conservative households. At one point or another, our parents would openly discuss the harms of drug and substance abuse, the negative consequences of consuming alcohol before 19 (or 18, in some cases), and why it is important to always follow the rules. As I continued to get older, I became more aware of the generation gap between my parents and I. This gap between mothers and daughters, and mothers and fathers has become even more evident as I see my parents’ friends struggling to make their way through the adolescent years of their teenage daughters. Even in the age of the “helicopter parent” there is a continued stigma and discomfort around the notion that their daughters have the potential to have a sex life. The same notion is not met with the same level of discomfort when their son’s sex lives are the topic of discussion.
At this point, it is safe to say that blaming girls’ clothing for boys’ sexual drive is counterproductive. However, we must first look inward at the ways in which girls’ clothing is marketed in comparison to boys. Orenstein writes about the methods that are used to market girls’ clothing. It is evident that boys’ clothing isn’t centered on the idea that they should bare their bellies and wear short-shorts when they dress, so why is this marketing tactic targeting girls from a young age? If we dig deeper by using Orenstein’s study as a framework, we may be able to see a correlation of self-objectification. Orenstein offers a strong definition of self-objectification: the pressure on young women to reduce their worth to their bodies and to see those bodies as a collection of parts that exist for others’ pleasure; to continuously monitor their appearance; to perform rather than to feel sensually. Could the marketing tactics of young girls’ clothing be subconsciously objectifying them? Could it be leading them towards a road of lower self-esteem and doubt? Perhaps it is the lack of conversation surrounding female sexuality on behalf of the parents, who often perpetuate the stigma from a young age that it is okay to follow media and gender norms by going along with fashion trends that sexualize the female body, but having conversations about how to engage in sexual activity safely is out of the question.
However, the stigma around young women’s dress is more likely to have damaging effects. It begins with the media normalizing how young girls are supposed to dress, what toys they are supposed to play with, and what shows they are supposed to be watching. By submitting to these cultural norms, their experience is shaped to fit a particular model. Parent’s discomfort with the teenage sex drive is actually more harmful for young girls’ self esteem, further creating a more difficult landscape for these girls to navigate.
Orenstein conducted an interview with 71 young women. In this series of interviews, she asked questions about the girls views on sexual conduct, what they hoped to get out of their sexual encounters, and how the level of discomfort they felt when talking about these experiences with family or their peers. The results were alarming. The general consensus was that their friends became an audience to be sought after and maintained, that their engagement in the sexual experience was not for their own pleasure, but more so for the purpose of fulfilling their partner’s “needs” before their own, and so that they would have stories to share with their friends to not come off as “prudish.” Not only is this behavior harmful to girls’ self-worth, but it can also be related to mental health issues. Orenstein describes this phenomenon as “using your experience to create an image of yourself.” Essentially, the more experience you gain sexually (even if it is not for your own enjoyment), your social status will be higher.
Let’s shift into a discussion about the negative consequences of social media. It is a game, and one that you need to play correctly in order to be “accepted” by your peers. Orenstein uses Sarah* as an example. She talks about a girl in her high school who continuously posted selfies. It was the general consensus that she either had no friends or was completely self-absorbed. It was never thought that, perhaps, this girl just enjoyed posting pictures of herself. The impacts of social media use have severe impacts on girls (and boys) well-being. Are selfies empowering or oppressive? Are they used to control girls and constrict them within a particular social norm, or are they a useful tool for expression and exclusion? When we are faced with these discussions there is rarely a strait and narrow path to follow, it perpetuates the ideology that there is a difficult landscape to navigate when it comes to teenage girls and sex.
Why is it called a blow “job”? The expectations for women’s bodies just continue to perpetuate a pre-existing notion of the misogynistic roles they are expected to fill in society: subordinate. Just before the Bill Clinton scandal in the White House, a 1994 survey in America revealed that just over 50% of women had never performed fellatio on a partner. In 2014, these numbers have alarmingly increased. A story in the New York Times declared that sixth-graders were now more inclined to treat fellatio “like a handshake with the mouth.” Has this practice been normalized because of the ever-growing presence of social media? Or is this stemming from the need to form an image of oneself, one that favors the female’s role in sex because it is increasingly being viewed as “normal.”
Sexually active teenage girls are often referred to as “sluts.” Sexually active teenage males are often referred to as “players.” It is extremely evident that this is a problem. Normalizing and gendering sexual behavior in teenagers is not only dangerous for their physical well-being, but also their mental well-being. Stigmatizing a normal practice (don’t turn your noses up, we are all human and puberty is a confusing, hormone-ridden, emotional roller coaster) to favor one gender over the other is not only wrong, but goes deeper to perpetuate gender roles in society as a whole. It targets women to be submissive, to be ashamed of their bodies and their desires, and calls them to question their characters for having a sex drive as a teenager. The media has sensationalized the idea of casual sex, yet targets and shames women who engage in this practice. The sexualized nature of the media not only encourages young women to call their self-worth to question, but it also perpetuates particular ideals about virginity, their role in the sexual landscape, and how they should go about the complex terrain of the “hookup culture.”
I am not a mother. I have no experience with parenting and I do not know how to care for someone who is entirely dependent on me. I write this article as an opinion piece, based off of my own experiences and the study conducted by Peggy Orenstein. If I may suggest one thing, it is that we call to question preexisting norms about teenage girls. I suggest that we become more open to discussion with these young women, who will someday be the future. I call all parents to step outside of their comfort zones and talk openly about sex with their children, which is a conversation I never had with my own parents (comfortably). This is a difficult landscape to navigate, with a variety of different factors influencing behaviors, interactions, and personal decisions. Opening up the floor to a more inclusive, non-gendered conversation about sex is what we may need in order to help maintain teenage girls self-esteem, let them know their worth, and ensure that any decision they make regarding their bodies is just that, their own.
For reference, please pick up a copy of Peggy Orenstein’s work.
Peggy Orenstein, “Girls and Sex: Navigating a Complicated Landscape”, (New York: Harper-Collins, 2016): 1-236.
March 6, 2017
Academic Dismissal
I promised myself a few years ago that I would write this article before I left Acadia, and now I’m finally in my last semester ever (hopefully!), so here it goes. Dear student body of friends and strangers, I present to you my biggest and most embarrassing secret. It’s something so deeply and personally disturbing that I’ve told very few people – not even my parents. Are you ready? I flunked out. I know I’m not the first nor the last person to ever fail university, but for me, receiving that letter of academic dismissal in the mail was a gut-wrenching conclusion to a particularly dismal string of events. I’m writing this article partially to relieve some of the weight of this secret I’ve been carrying around for three years now, but mostly as a precautionary tale for any readers who might find themselves in a similar situation.
In the spring of 2009, I was eagerly anticipating my high school graduation and less eagerly anticipating the next big life hurtle ahead of me: post-secondary education. I actually enjoyed school. I was a good student with good grades, and I participated in a wide breadth of extra-curricular activities. When it came time to make some big decisions about what to do next, like many of my peers, seventeen-year-old me applied to a variety of universities. I didn’t particularly have an end goal in mind career-wise, I just knew that I was smart and capable given my academic success to that point, and so going off to university seemed non-negotiable. I assumed I would just launch myself into school and figure things out on the way, because what seventeen-year-old knows exactly what they want to do for the rest of their lives anyway? As I had achieved well-rounded grades in both arts and sciences, my high school counselor strongly urged me to apply for science programs “to open windows to the future,” and I knew I liked people, so I chose psychology. I was accepted to all of the schools I applied to, so I chose Acadia based on reputation. Sound familiar so far?
The slow crash-and-burn began upon arrival. I was thrust into introductory biology, statistics, research and design, and all the other fun necessities of a science degree in psych. Possibly due to my lack of end goal and mostly due to my complete disinterest in any of these things, I was strong out of the gate but quickly fell far behind. It seemed that my plan to jump right in and swim until I reached the finish line was flawed. A pivotal moment that I can remember from my second year of school is laying on the floor of my friend’s room in Chipman with a group of people talking about their life aspirations beyond university, and suddenly realizing my own impending identity crisis. Who am I and what do I want to do?! I hardly recognized myself, failing courses and wondering what the point of any of it was. In high school I was just forced to take everything, my life had a regimented structure, and I identified myself by my extra-curriculars. I was a band kid and that somehow summed up the rest. Now I was nobody, and I was going nowhere.
Obviously the news that I was failing school didn’t exactly fly with my parents when I came home for Christmas that year. To be precise, they called me a “disappointment”… that was pretty difficult to hear. After many hours of talking and sobbing profusely with my mom, we decided that maybe I should switch majors. In retrospect, taking a step back from university to figure my life out would have been a prime choice at this point in the story, but that’s not what I did. I returned to school as an English major and began fast-tracking my way through the English program, cramming every vital course I’d missed into a 3 year plan in order to graduate by 2014. Switching to English was a breath of fresh air. I still didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but I had always enjoyed reading and writing as a kid, and I found the course content much more in line with my interests. The department and the class sizes were also way smaller than anything I had seen thus far. I made friends incredibly quickly, got to know everyone in all of my classes, and all of my profs knew me by name. It was like night and day.
From then on my marks improved and I was generally happy to be working on something I was both good at and enjoyed, but then in the spring of 2013 I got some unexpected news. My uncle had received a sudden diagnosis of terminal cancer. Following this news, my grandmother was also diagnosed with cancer. My family spent that summer in a state of somber anticipation. We spent four months saying goodbye. That somebody who had a family and a career and all the things they had ever dreamed of and worked towards could suddenly cease to exist in the midst of it all was nearly impossible for me to comprehend. It made everything seem pointless. In the fall of 2013, as I was beginning what should have been my graduating year of university, not only did my long-term relationship fall apart, but I lost two people to cancer in little over a month. Not wanting to burden my aching family with the profound impact this experience was having on my outlook on life, I kept it to myself. I stopped going to class, not because I wanted to but because I simply couldn’t seem to summon the strength or will power. I laid in bed and I watched the seasons change from fall to winter. I ignored my phone and my friends. I just stayed in bed. Christmas was extremely sad that year and further strengthened my resolve not to tell my parents I was sinking, because I could tell that they were barely coping as well.
That spring I got my letter of academic dismissal, as expected, and I put it in a drawer. I didn’t even open it for a long time because I couldn’t look at it without feeling sick to my stomach. I told my parents (and anyone else who inquired) that I was burnt out and that I wanted to take some time away from school. I didn’t tell them I got kicked out. I couldn’t bear to admit that I had failed them after everything they had been through already. I spent two long years working a minimum wage job in food service, hating the monotony of my days and contemplating my next move. Finally, last spring, I reached a boiling point in my stagnant life and reapplied to Acadia to finish what I had started … and here I am.
I wanted to write this article for anyone who might be feeling as unsure about their future as I did. In the leap from high school to university it seemed like everyone around you knew exactly where they’d head in life, and if you’re like me, you probably followed the masses hoping you would figure it out too. You probably didn’t let on that you were feeling a little lost and overwhelmed. I also wanted to write this article for anyone who feels like they’re carrying an impossible weight on their shoulders. I need you to know that you’re not alone, and that school isn’t everything, even if it feels like it is. I need you to recognize when you’re sinking and yelling for a lifeline, regardless of the size of the burden you’re trying to shoulder alone. I wish more than anything that somebody had reassured me that it was okay to take a step back and reevaluate my goals. I might have been more successful, for instance, if I’d taken some time after high school to really think about what I wanted to do before diving aimlessly into university because I felt like I had to. I pounded away at this degree for the sole purpose of having a degree. I did it because I thought it was what I had to do to validate my life, but at the risk of sounding cliché, I forgot that life is about finding happiness.
We’re taught that successful people just bite the bullet and go to university, get a good job, and live happily ever after. I’m sure that’s true for many, many people, but sometimes life gets in the way. Sometimes you don’t know why you’re doing something, and you need to figure out what you want before you proceed. So this is for all the people facing academic penalties at the end of this year. Your story isn’t over, your worth isn’t based on your degree, and your life isn’t a total loss. You got here because you’re smart and capable, and you’ll figure out what makes you happy eventually. Maybe it involves university, but maybe it doesn’t. Either way, there is absolutely no shame in taking time away to figure it out. I am now twenty five years old and finishing my bachelors degree, eight years after I first started here. We’re not all on the same time line, and it’s not a race to the finish line, because there is no finish line. Most importantly, none of us know how much time we have on this planet, so whatever you do, do it for you.
March 6, 2017
Are Millennials Too Sensitive?
There once was a boy who was told that everyone that should be nice to everyone and that if they were not kind, they were bad people. He then grew up to find that’s not how the world works.
As a society adapts, the mindset of the people within it change. This is also true in the change of a generation. They have learnt from the mistakes and triumphs of previous generation and use this information to change and base their lives upon. The education around them adapts to these new changes and shapes children. With the increase in mental health warning and bullying campaigns, are they really being shaped to deal with the rest of the world, or is it that the world has not yet to accept the changes that the new generation is bring? I believe that the new generations are not taught to be prepared for what the world will throw at them. They are only told that people will change and that they should not have to face the problems that occur in the world.
In my political science class, we were discussing our upcoming presentations for our research assignments. Our TA requested that if we are planning on showing any “graphic images” we get them checked prior to putting them into our visual for our assignment. This is a ridiculous sign of how sheltered this generation is: we know violent things are happening around the world but we play a blind eye to them. Not showing these images does not make them go away and does not solve the problems that they are causing them.
Now bullying is a topic that has only been under scrutiny for the past 20 years. It is now viewed as a national epidemic instead of a common fact of life. The young generations are now beginning to expect that everyone in life will be nice to them and if they are not there are a bully. But that is not how it works in life. You will be put down by people for making a mistake at work or for bumping into someone on the street. People will talk about you behind your back. You cannot change that. If anything, you should be taught to how ignore these comment and fight back, compared to just reporting them to the principal. You can’t report your boss in the future for yelling at you, so learn how to take criticism.
Previous generations have been built and thrived upon the “tough love” method. People would discipline their child to a certain extent, be that verbally or physically. But now, parents are actually being arrested for spanking their children with actual reasons. The school system does not tell the students the difference between abuse and discipline so they grow up with the belief that this is wrong and that their parents are not good people.
It is a generation under the veil of ignorance – they all imagine the world to be perfect, where everything happens their way. If things are happening outside of their community to other people it doesn’t matter. All that matters is what happens to them and that they are happy. When things that they don’t like occur, they don’t know how to handle it. They have been so shelter from the sadness and violence of the world, they when they get a large dose of if, it leads people to believe they have a mental illness.
Now the thing about mental illness is that it is something that is very real, many people are suffering from it. The statistics show that the rate of people who report suffering from depression have increased by 6% over just this year. Now I am not saying that these people’s claims are false, but the rate shows that the recent generation cannot handle the pressure that society has put upon them because they were not trained to handle stress. They were only told that the things that cause them stress are not right.
When any topics concerning race, sexuality, politics, or gender come into play, they become extremely agitated. They are brought up to think about living in a world when everyone should think the same way. But that is not how the world works. People have different opinions and are entitled to have those opinions, why must people be put down for not conforming to what views their society has. These generations have been told they everything should go their way, so when it doesn’t of course they don’t do how to handle it. Is it true that millennials and Gen Zs are overly sensitive? Yes it is. But who can blame them when they grow up in an environment like this one.
March 6, 2017
The Side Unseen
There was a girl who used to look in the mirror and tell herself one thing she loved about herself every day.
She always smiled,
she sung in the shower
and spent all of her hours
comfortable in her own skin.
She always found a reason to be alive
even when the clouds took over her mind,
She wrote poetry in the sky.
Now, she stares blankly at an unrecognizable face, hating what she sees. She spends
hours trying to scrub away the fingerprints left by the hands that took her love away,
and she always looks down while walking through a crowd.
But why?
She is constrained –
handcuffed to the essence of him
as she paces within a cage built from her own bones,
trying to create a safe place
as the secrets eat away.
There is no escaping the haunting memory,
and he walks free.
He grasps tightly on a failure to see
that no means no.
He is ignorant to the fact that even if no words are spoken at all, it still means no, and
she could not speak so don’t try to say
it wasn’t rape –
it doesn’t matter what he thought it meant,
there was no fucking consent.
He chewed her vulnerability into pieces and spit it in her face,
painted her in hatred,
and scarred her body with a never-ending disgrace,
an on-going nightmare
that she has to encounter every time
she sees herself in a god damn mirror.
Instead of love,
she feels Regret climbing up her throat as an old friend, whispering, how fucking sweet it would be to take it all away and forget.
She exists outside of the skin
she was given,
outside of her temple,
and she does not see –
she doesn’t take notice to the sun reflecting in her eyes,
or the dimples of her smile,
that hold a promise of better days
to follow,
she does not know,
the beauty that holds her face in its hands;
how it has kissed her sweeter than any boy has kissed her lips before, and how it has run its fingers through her hair,
Beauty,
radiates from her mind.
Every thought that has ever been her own dances in each breath she takes,
and she sits through the night,
crying, trying to rip off her skin
because he made her body so difficult to exist within.
She does not know how the stars long to hear her dream,
how empty the sky is without her laugh.
She does not know she is still beautiful through the continuation of self-destruction,
that destruction is still a form of creation,
and soon enough
she will be brand new.
Now, he is the reason
She writes her poetry on her wrists.
He is the reason she cannot wrap herself in the love she deserves as she tries to fall asleep,
the love she needs,
she cannot feel anything other than a constant state of empty.
He is the reason she forgot all of the reasons she should be alive and he is the reason,
she was never able to realize all the great things about herself that was left to count for.
He is the reason she does not believe in love,
not even love for herself,
any more.
March 5, 2017

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