WHAT MY FATHER BEGAN
TO BE REMEMBERED
LEGACY HOLDING THE DOOR
ON BEING A WOMAN
THE LEGACY LIES IN OUR HOME
THE IMPACT OF EMPATHY EPITAPH REWRITTEN EPITAPH
JOURNEY TO ALONE
JUST CONVERSATIONS
WRITING CONTEST 2020 THE SALT STORY THE PYRAMID UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO’S
DANCE
A LIFE’S WORK SURREAL REFLECTIONS ON A POSSIBLE LEGACY CONTENTS OF A JEWELLERY BOX AN ANTHOLOGY FROM THE
THE BRAVE FACE THE STUDENT AND THE GOOSE
LEGACY DIVINE INTERVENTION WHAT SHE WAS
DEAR SON
SOMNAMBULIST LEGACY AS IT RELATESSAINT TOMARTINA INTERSECTIONAL GENDER EQUITY
THANK YOU, MOM
ADVOCATING FOR EQUITY – THE BEST LEGACY FOR POSTERITY
SHATTERED LANCES THE “MASTERS” OF TYPING
DAUGHTERS OF WOMYN
WRITING HOLLY’S LEGACY
UPROOTED
DEAR ONARI
BY ANY OTHER NAME
TO MY MOTHER
QUEER WOMAN OF COLOUR, AS TOLD BY HERSELF EXCERPTS FROM A WRITTEN ORAL HISTORY OF A YOUNG
TO MY FUTURE GRANDDAUGHTER 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. 2020 LEGACY 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. 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 DESIGN Courtesy of W Print Creative Services University of Waterloo 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.
2 | University of Waterloo LEGACY Table of Contents
HeForShe Writing Contest Information ...... 4 “To My Future Granddaughter” by Alayna Wallace ...... 57 Acknowledgement of Judges ...... 5 “Dance” by Julianna Suderman ...... 59 Introductory remarks by “To Be Remembered” by Edmond Hu ...... 60 President Feridun Hamdullahpur ...... 6 “Daughters of Womyn” by Stephanie Shokof ...... 61
CREATIVE NON-FICTION SELECTED SUBMISSIONS “To My Mother” by a ...... 63
“Contents of a Jewellery Box” by Anonymous “Journey to Alone” by Emily Carlson ...... 65 Creative Non-Fiction Winner ...... 11 “Excerpts from a Written Oral History of a Young “Surreal Refections on a Possible Legacy” by Anonymous ....15 Queer Woman of Colour, as Told by Herself” by Sarasvathi Kannan ...... 66 “Advocating for Equity – The Best Legacy for Posterity” by Joyceline Amoako ...... 18 “What She Was” by Alayne Brisley ...... 69 “Dear Onari” by Ibelemari Kio ...... 22 “Legacy as it Relates to Intersectional Gender Equity” by Adeline Li ...... 70 “Holding the Door” by Sara Davis ...... 26 “Legacy” by Simrit Dhillon ...... 71 Untitled by Vinny Neang ...... 28 “Somnambulist” by Morteza Dehghani ...... 72 Untitled by Lorena McNamara ...... 31 “Thank You, Mom” by Mahtab Dhaliwal ...... 76 “The Legacy Lies in Our Home” by Scarlett Minshull ...... 34
“The Impact of Empathy” by Julia Cowderoy ...... 37 FICTION SELECTED SUBMISSIONS
“Divine Intervention” by Sarasvathi Kannan POETRY SELECTED SUBMISSIONS Fiction Winner ...... 80 “The Student and the Goose” by Sarasvathi Kannan “Shattered Lances” by Anna Whitehead Poetry Winner ...... 42 Honourable Mention ...... 86 “Dear Son” by Anna Wang “The ‘Masters’ of Typing” by Nadia Formisano ...... 98 Poetry Winner ...... 46 “The Pyramid” by Ruo Xuan An ...... 102 “The Brave Face” by Hardeep Begda ...... 48 “What My Father Began” by Mbabi Tema ...... 103 “Uprooted” by Anonymous ...... 50 “Epitaph Rewritten” by Phoenix Alison ...... 106 “By Any Other Name” by Sarasvathi Kannan ...... 52 “Saint Martina” by Emma Swarney ...... 110 “Writing Holly’s Legacy” by Emma Schuster ...... 53 “Just Conversations” by Rae ...... 118 “On Being a Woman” by Mawj Al-Hammadi ...... 54 Untitled by Ziba ...... 112 “The Salt Story” by Kristen Fajardo ...... 55 “A Life’s Work” by Olivia Misasi ...... 126 Untitled by Anonymous ...... 56
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 3 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 Jirina K. Poch President and Vice-Chancellor Writing and Multimodal Communication Specialist, Writing Dr. Diana Parry and Communication Centre Associate Vice-President Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion/ Monica Lynch HeForShe IMPACT 10x10x10 Communications Design Specialist, Campus Lead Creative Services, Marketing and Strategic Initiatives Nick Manning Associate Vice-President David Brandon Tubbs of Communication Manager, Executive Communications
Dr. Clare Bermingham Janessa Good Director, Writing and Events and Engagement Communication Centre Co-ordinator, Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit Ryan Jacobs Tara Sutton Director, Print + Retail Solutions Communications and Engagement Jaime Philip Specialist, Human Rights, Manager, Business Development Equity and Inclusion Unit and Marketing, Print + Retail Solutions Karen Creed Thompson, Marissa Halter Project Co-ordinator, Technical Customer Service Creative Services, Marketing Co-ordinator, Print + Retail Solutions and Strategic Initiatives
4 | University of Waterloo 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 POETRY FICTION
Dr. Tara Collington Dr. Sarah Tolmie Jeremy Steffler French Studies, Faculty English Language and Faculty Relations Manager, of Arts Literature, Faculty of Arts Co-operative Education
Cheryl Maksymyk Amanda Fitzpatrick David Tubbs Waterloo Indigenous Student VP Student Life, Waterloo Associate Director, Executive Centre Manager, St. Paul’s Undergraduate Student Communications, University University College Association Communications
Dr. Mario Coniglio Dr. Jeff Casello Dr. Marlee Spafford Earth and Environmental School of Planning, Associate Dean of Science, Sciences, Faculty of Science Faculty of Environment Undergraduate Studies
Panel Co-ordinator: Ayesha Masud Panel Co-ordinator: Janessa Good, Events and Co-ordinator, RAISE Janessa Good, Events and Engagement Co-ordinator, Engagement Co-ordinator, Panel Co-ordinator: Human Rights, Equity Human Rights, Equity Janessa Good, Events and and Inclusion Unit and Inclusion Unit Engagement Co-ordinator, Human Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 5 LEGACY
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.
6 | University of Waterloo The voices featured in this edition of the to discover an array of new, rich and vibrant HeForShe Anthology are focused on the notion perspectives and build a legacy of empathy of legacy, both in struggling against the and understanding. We have so much to learn constraints imposed by the legacy of societal from one another. Our society is better when and familial traditions and also the legacy we everyone has a seat at the table and the are looking to craft through our own actions. opportunity to be heard.
Courage, sadness, violence, love, spirituality, This may be the final edition of the HeForShe companionship and more are explored by the Anthology, but its legacy is found in the hearts talented writers from across the University and minds of its writers and the willingness of campus. Their voices echo across generations its readers to open themselves to the fresh as they share their perspectives, experiences perspectives and experiences found within. and imagination on legacy, gender equity and Thank you for taking the time to learn HeForShe with readers. from the voices found inside the HeForShe Their thoughts and emotions are powerful and Anthology. Together we can continue to inspire will continue to inspire our community to match generations of those who identify as men the struggles and challenges of achieving and women to build a more equitable society gender equity with understanding, compassion for all and truly be HeForShe. 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 FERIDUN HAMDULLAHPUR reading the words and listening to the voices PRESIDENT AND VICE-CHANCELLOR within this anthology will offer you the chance UNIVERSITY OF WATERLOO
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 7 This page has ben intentionaly left blank.
8 | University of Waterloo THE IMPACT OF EMPATHY
THE LEGACY LIES IN OUR HOME SURREAL REFLECTIONS ON A POSSIBLE LEGACY
CONTENTS OF A JEWELLERY BOX LEGACY CREATIVE NON-FICTION
ADVOCATING FORselected EQUITY – THEsubmissions BEST LEGACY FOR POSTERITY
DEAR ONARI
HOLDING THE DOOR
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 9 This page has ben intentionaly left blank.
10 | University of Waterloo 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. I remember sitting in a lecture and discussing what it means As an emotional, self-concerned, young woman, I like to to touch something. How, in our present society, we crave say that this box is the physical manifestation of all the the touch of human-made things to ground us in the busy trauma and pain I have left buried and unaddressed. yet isolating and information-heavy environment we live in. In reality, its a jewellery box. Not too expensive, The girl at the front of the class was connecting the feeling rectangular shape and dark in colour, with a simple of living in a city to the strong need to feel connected to metal lock at the front. Every woman in my family has other people through the objects we possess. Her question directly or indirectly contributed to the contents of this made me think about the things I have touched, and what jewellery box. It is tucked away somewhere deep in my things made me feel the most connected, the least isolated. mother’s possessions. Almost as a shock, my mind jumped to the jewellery box.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 11 There’s this process my mother goes through, it’s very Growing up, I thought that was a weakness. Learning about thoughtful and meticulous. Every few months, usually before western feminism meant recognizing the very clear picture bed, my mother will slowly take the jewellery box out and that was laid out next to it, and the women I descended from place it on a newly made bed. She’ll be absolutely quiet, which never ft that picture. It made me feel inferior to the women is rare for her. Slowly, she’ll take out every piece of jewellery, around me while growing a sense of superiority to the women undress it from its withering newspaper wrapping, and trace in my family who came before me. every stone, hole, pin, and detail with her fngers. She spends When I was young, I would get angry at my mother for at least ten to ffteen minutes on each piece. When she’s done, performing her ritual with the jewellery box. I thought she’ll lay it down next to the piece of jewellery of the person she was being too emotional, too nostalgic, that she was they both originally belonged to. After it’s all laid out, my stuck. Where I came from felt like a stain, and the women who mother will sit and stare at it, fnish her cup of tea, then go raised me felt like they were lesser. My ancestors seemed like on carefully dressing each piece and putting them back in the small, greedy people for hoarding wealth and giving it 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 so much power over themselves. That jewellery box made hanging on to in her chest, but she’ll never cry or say anything, me feel like a token of that lesser society, made me feel just go to bed. I could never escape my past, that I would always carry the weight of my mother, her mother before her, and her My mother once told me, when I was very little and my mother before her. grandmother had just died, that everyone who has and will ever love me lives in my chest. And that is what it means to It creates an uneasiness in the personality, this feeling of being love. That someone gives a part of themselves to you, so you above where you come from yet not good enough for what can keep it forever, even after they are gone. She told me all you aspire to. It’s something every daughter of an immigrant my grandmother’s words, thoughts, laughs, and tears were goes through. Its a hubris we all possess that makes us pat within me, and that was the most precious present I had. That ourselves on the back for our thoughtfulness when we wear everyone in my family, all the men and women that came traditional clothes in public or post Eid Mubarak on our before me, lived inside me because they too loved me. Without social media. We feel as if we are doing our culture justice, as even knowing me. They loved my hair without ever smelling if we are its heroes and are pushing it into the bright light of it and my laugh without ever hearing it. They did everything modernism and progress. It’s ugly and hollow. And when you in their power so that one day I could laugh, even if they could open the jewellery box, you’re forced to face that grotesque never see it, and that was their love. hubris within you.
Love, in our culture, is rooted in selfessness. Love is meant to The girl at the front of the lecture hall was speaking about dissolve the ego and expand the mind. It is never about I; it her isolating experience in the countryside and how it made is always about us. It is a spiritual exercise, the purest form of her more thankful for the handmade things around her. worship. In my family, it is the women that love the strongest. How her consumerism was replaced by a thoughtfulness for
12 | University of Waterloo WINNER Creative Non-fiction
how things are made and how we use them. She said that the wrappings. It smelt of anise and cardamom. I took the more isolated she felt, the more she clung on to that feeling frst piece of jewellery out, a pair of pearl earrings. My of love or care coming from her things. She predicted that grandmother had these made the last day she ever spent in in the future, as society continues to grow more isolated, the India, knowing she would never return. She never wore the monetary value of handmade objects would grow. That we earrings in her lifetime. She spent her last bit of wealth on would seek love and connection in things. having them made and then stored them away so that one day I could wear them. 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 My grandmother sufered. Both of my grandmothers did. must be. I doubt my parents know that either. Or anyone And they never talked about it. It’s hard for me to face their in the family, even those who had the jewellery made. My sufering. The part of me shaped by the western ideals I live ancestors were never rich, and by the looks of it, their lack of in fnds their sufering shameful because it is rooted in their wealth did not seem to bother them. Trade made Central Asia oppression, even if in their ignorance they did not consider a place of migration, and no one stayed in one place for long. themselves oppressed. The part of me that, when thinking So rather than attaching themselves to land, my ancestors, about “meaningful touch,” jumps to the thought of the unable to bury all their dead in one place, made jewellery to jewellery box, is ashamed of myself. Perhaps it is the guilt of have something to attach their love to. being the frst woman in my family to sufer less than those before me. Perhaps it is the guilt of feeling superior in intellect Jewellery was solely the domain of women. Entrusted with and skill. Perhaps its the catharsis of understanding that my what little wealth the family had, they made jewellery when grandmothers chose to sufer because if they did not, I would they deemed appropriate. They were its caretakers, and its not have the privilege to look down upon them today. inheritance and possession were up to their discretion. When a woman got married, she proudly adorned herself with the My mother let me wear the pearl earrings when I was sixteen years old. They were heavy and pulled down on my ears. They memories and honour of her female ancestors before her. The made me look more mature and taller. Throughout the night jewellery was made of silver and gold, for its rarity and worth I kept touching them. I let them ground me. My grandmother but also its longevity, with every woman making a piece with was a little more than fve feet tall, and she was a champion the intent that her granddaughter, wherever she may be, will amateur wrestler in her city. A month after meeting my six- have a piece of her family to proudly adorn herself with. foot-tall, lanky poet of a grandfather, she proposed to him, The frst time I opened the jewellery box myself was when telling him he better write her a good poem if he wanted I was eleven. I don’t remember the circumstances that led me her to move all the way from India to Pakistan because the to ask my mother whether I could or not, but I remember she train ticket was so awfully expensive. They had a good life had a deep smile on her face, one that touched her eyes and together, that is, until he died of lung cancer at the age of 43, formed creases on her cheeks. We both washed our hands and leaving four unmarried and ill sisters, two young children, a sat on the bed. Once opened, I touched all the old newspaper less than Rs 500 pension, and countless medical bills behind.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 13 My grandmother moved the family into a one-bedroom, that a woman, who you’ve never met, must have had to spend embroidered day and night to pay her children’s school the last of her family’s money on earrings for a girl she would tuition, and walked obscene distances to buy reasonably priced never live to see. The conviction of a woman who single- medicine for her sisters-in-law. After a few years, my great- handedly provided for a family of seven when she could’ve uncle bought a reasonably-sized house and asked her and easily walked away. The grace of a woman who, in the face of the family to move in with him. Finally, things seemed to be illness and poverty, always had the loudest laugh in the room, looking up. But a few weeks after moving into the new family the hardest clap in the audience, and the softest smile. You feel house, my grandmother went blind from her diabetes and a peace grow over you as you recognize that your strength as passed away a few days before her daughter got married. a woman does not come from your ability to run away from the slurs of your mothers and grandmothers. Rather, like your My grandmother would not be categorized as a modern grandmothers, it comes from the ability stand your ground, woman. She did not live in a progressive society. But, at the look the struggle in the eye, and smile. end of the day, modernity and progress are just a myth that glorify western culture and its ideals. Rooted in our inferiority A week after moving into the big house, my grandmother, out complex, we begin to think that the more we assimilate and of sheer happiness, booked everyone in the family tickets to the whiter we become, the more agency we have. So, as women India with what little money she had. She bought my father of colour, we do everything in our power to grasp at the a camera so he could record the entire trip. Everyone was agency that is constantly being denied to us. Brown women in excited, but my grandmother was absolutely elevated. She the West spend their lives running away from the slurs their forced all her sisters to cook for her while she was there, snuck mothers and grandmothers were branded with. all the children out to buy street food in the middle of the We forget the language because English will always be a sign night, and bested all my uncles at their card games, running of status and intellect, even if Urdu poetry brought emperors their pockets dry. She bought everyone a new sari before she to their knees. We stop eating the food because eating with left and snuck some desserts into her luggage. The morning your hands is barbaric and uncivilized. We change our names that she boarded the train back to Lahore, my grandmother and give our children Anglo names. We watch ourselves be spent the last of her money and took a ricksha ride from the passed up by brown men for more interesting white females east to the west end of her city, saying goodbye for the last in every single movie and tv show. We fantasize about being time. Her fnal stop before the train station was in a cramped with white men because half-brown children are always more little alley at the corner of which was a tiny jewellery shop pleasant than full brown ones. Because white men are less that specialized in earrings. threatening than our own. Life is not about who remembers who, who considers you This struggle to become less brown created a restlessness progressive, and who considers you oppressed. It’s not about within me. An unspoken trauma that I had locked away. But how much money you make nor your name on a piece of eventually, you open the jewellery box. You hold the pearl paper. Life is about those last few rupees your grandmother earrings in your hand. You feel the immeasurable strength spent on your pearl earrings.
14 | University of Waterloo Creative Non-fiction
Surreal refections 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 frst entered my feld 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 diferently than all the others (who were the same gender as they were).
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 15 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 refect 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 conficted 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 frst, 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 feld, 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.
16 | University of Waterloo Creative Non-fiction
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 refection, fnally being forced to ask myself this question today, I would say that confrmation by others is not a requirement. One has to live one’s life as one sees ft. 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 unsatisfed 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 ofer 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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18 | University of Waterloo Creative Non-fiction
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 frst-hand I had not come to this realization until I had the opportunity many forms of gender disparity, both subtle and forthright, to take courses in gender studies and related areas in college; that disempowered women from economic independence I then realized that even I, an urban-raised, educated woman, to sexual freedom. To this day, many African communities had been a victim of this culture in a way. have elements of male dominance and superiority subtly entrenched in the culture and belief system, so intricate that My upbringing, education, and career path had been heavily it’s extremely difcult to identify such indicators. For example, infuenced by the whims of a man, my father. Not to discount husbands have absolute control over deciding the family’s size the visionary and supportive father I am blessed with, I did and birth control, wives cannot voice their opinion for fear of recognize that my dad had been the sole decider of many been domestically abused, and fathers decide the career path important decisions in my upbringing. I was just a puppet of their daughters and even who their daughters can marry! saying, “yes sir” and working hard to achieve my life’s goals
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 19 that were set by someone else. Indeed, a major part of the To this day, many people around the world, irrespective of Ghanaian belief system has an underlying superiority attached their beliefs or education, view culture as “divine” and are to being a man and a certain inferiority complex with being scared of questioning the discriminative cultural practices a woman. Almost as if the woman has been programmed that get in the way of equity and development. As a person to believe that she cannot think, fend for herself, or create a originating from a country endowed with one of the best successful world on her own. These tough deliberations in my forms of cultural inheritance, I deeply understand and mind, during my college years, are what inspired in me a desire acknowledge the central role culture plays in national to want to contribute to women’s empowerment and give development, preservation of tradition, and the instilling of women the resources to take their lives into their own hands, morals. However, if there are any aspects of culture that don’t to impact their livelihood. promote equal treatment and opportunities, then there is an urgent need for change. As Somerset Maugham (1938) My frst step towards this goal of women’s empowerment rightly stated, tradition is a guide and not a jailer; hence, there was to pursue a master’s degree in Women’s and Gender should be no fear in advocating for a change in the status Studies. I believed that this degree would help me gain a quo to positively impact a people’s way of life. Despite the better understanding of how gender shapes our identities and lack of needed support and advice, I count it a joy that I still interactions and how best we could bridge the gap between focused on my dream of becoming an advocate for women humanity and equality. In spite of my passion for this area of and children’s empowerment as well as building a career study, I received much backlash from the people I shared my around a subject area that promotes intersectional equity. dreams with. First, they believed that the unequal treatment To me, nothing is more fulflling than giving back to society, and discrimination women faced were rooted in our culture, especially in the aspect of empowering women and children. and it would be impossible for anyone to win a fght against culture. In addition, they expected me to pursue a more The education and training I received over the past two “prestigious profession” such as becoming a doctor rather years as a Women’s and Gender Studies student was life than just a “common” advocate for women’s empowerment. changing. I acquired a variety of experiences in my academic I felt broken and was really saddened to know that and professional training. These experiences adequately my future dreams were seen as a threat rather than prepared me for a career in women’s advocacy and nurtured something benefcial or beftting to my society. The love in me a desire to promote equity using an intersectional and support my male friends received for pursuing a lens. Two major experiences that have entrenched my skills career path in the sciences was difcult to compare to and understanding of equity for all were serving as a Sexual the apathy I faced from the point I showed interest in Violence Victim Counselor at the Riverview Center and as pursuing a career path in women’s empowerment. a Violence Prevention Trainer at the Center for Violence
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Prevention; both agencies are involved in the promotion African woman, I have faced my fair share of adversity, of equity and violence prevention in Iowa. As a counselor, many times nearly shattering my life’s goals and aspirations. I ofered free counseling services to address the emotional But ultimately, they molded me into becoming the and health needs of sexual violence victims from all social driven and resilient woman I am today. My goals in categories. Also, by serving as a violence prevention trainer, life, be it personal, educational, or professional, are I trained other students to become agents of violence deeply infuenced by my desire to help in promoting prevention, which contributed to reducing violence and women’s empowerment and equity for all. Above all, promoting healthy relationships. I want to be known as a person who:
From these experiences, I developed so much empathy Lived to for everyone; I became fully aware of the challenges that Endow people from diverse backgrounds face as a result of their Generations with the right gender, values, and race. I realized that for equity to be Attitudes, fully understood, it should include people from all social Courage, and the categorizations such as race, class, and gender. This way, Yearning for equity. no group feels left out in the movement for equal rights and opportunities. In fact, the signifcant academic and LONG LIVE THE HeForShe IMPACT 10x10x10. professional training I received as a Women’s and Gender This initiative is promoting equity by improving lives Studies student prepared me to not only become a doctoral and helping to deconstruct the many social constructs student but also a woman who values promoting equity hindering the goals and aspirations of females. 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 diference. 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,
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 21 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 whereDear black was Onari 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 IBELEMARI KIO is a University of Waterloo alum. television and watch Nigerian movies that had most of their settings based in the palace. There would be a brave princess PLEASE NOTE: who refused to bow to barbaric traditions in her city and, in the The following story includes depictions of racism and racist end, brought positive change to her life and her people. I knew so slurs. Support around these issues are available from the Human many princesses that I was sure that if I dug far enough into my Rights, Equity and Inclusion Unit: history, I would find that I too am royalty. It is not surprising 519-888-4567, ext. 40439, or via email to [email protected] that with all this influence around me, the African woman was a Counselling Services: goddess to be worshipped on a high pedestal. In my childhood eyes, 519-888-4567, ext. 32655 African equalled royalty.
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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 IBELEMARI KIO is a could. When I was about your age, our family would gather in front of the television and University of Waterloo alum. 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 fnd that I too am royalty. It is not surprising that with all this infuence 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 frst time seeing you. I was only seventeen years old and it was my frst time travelling outside the borders of Africa. The culture shock I experienced was a dizzying frenzy that sometimes had me confned in my room for days. The food was diferent. The people were
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 23 diferent. Everything was just diferent. And though everything else was diferent, I believed I was still the same. I did not realize that to other people, I was very diferent as well. I found Canadians quite funny. They were always surprised when they heard me speak English, even before fnding 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 ofer some help if they see you in need. It seemed like every part of Canada I went to was diferent.
During my frst 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 ofcers 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.
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This reality was sufocating. I had no problem being identifed 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 fnally understood what those unfriendly stares and “innocent” comments meant. I fnally 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 fnally 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 sufer 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]
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 25 SARA DAVIS is a staff member in Co-operative Education at Holding the Door the University of Waterloo.
What do you want to be when you grow up? Where will always goes wrong for them. They may think that this is how you make your mark and plant your proverbial fag? How their life will be from now on. Their years will continue on a will you change someone’s life? Will you invent that one slow downward slope. Even one kind thing, one thing would thing that will alter the course of history? What will be your make a diference. legacy? Pretty daunting proposals for any of us. Who, me? But you know that there’s hope. There has to be! You’re I can’t do that. I can barely even decide what to eat for determined to make a mark. There has to be some small dinner, let alone how to change the world for the better. thing you can do, surely not everything is monumental. In a way, these big questions defne us, surrounded by Then you pass that person in the door, they’ve dropped some our peers and the ever-changing dynamics of this ball of of their things and are struggling to pick them up. You pick magma, rock, and water that we all live on. Daily politics them up and open the door for them. They smile at you, and show us how to make a change, but we still feel it isn’t you go your separate ways. 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 That person’s smile stays after they leave. They start looking won’t be enough. at the world a little brighter because someone helped them. On a day when they couldn’t seem to catch a break, you took You tell yourself that maybe the person sitting next to you the time to try to help them. To help someone else. has the big ideas, and maybe they’ll be the one to create the world-changing thing. But that person might be thinking the You keep walking with a new thought. You think of that same thing as you. All of the other people in the room might person you just passed, their smile. You might be thinking be thinking the same thing as you. But one of those people of bigger things, but not everyone has to accomplish the big might be thinking nothing like you. things every day. There are little legacies you can leave with people, little changes you can make in days. That person might be thinking that nothing will change. That person might be developing the idea that everything You can hold open the door.
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PHOTO: UNSPLASH ARISA CHATTASA 2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 27 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: 519-888-4567, ext. 40439, or via email to [email protected] Counselling Services: 519-888-4567, ext. 32655
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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 I began school. I would slowly forget my frst language, little feet, dry and cracked from years of working at a factory by little as I learned a new one. English is the language you to support her children; her worn hands and aching muscles; need to learn in order to survive here. If you don’t speak and massaging her shoulders as she’s wrapped in a sarong to it well or fuently, you’re looked down upon. My mother’s repay some of her sacrifces. Thirty years ago, she came from boss once told her, “I would put you in my position if only Cambodia to start a new life in Canada. A new language to your English was better.” She goes to St. Louis now, an adult learn, new friends to make, and a new family to start with school, hoping to “become better.” It saddens me whenever she her husband. All foreign experiences to me as a Canadian- mispronounces a word and everyone around her laughs. She born citizen. I think of my mother’s experiences growing up tells me, “My English isn’t good,” and I always tell her, “Your in Cambodia and being an immigrant from Canada. There English is good enough,” but to Canada, it’s not. are privileges that I was aforded for being a Canadian citizen, My mother grew up during the Khmer Rouge. I remember some that are not applicable to my mother. Language is one hearing stories from her as a child. She lived with her family of them. on a farm and fell in love with one of her cows. She told me A few years back, my mother stumbled upon old childhood once, “When I came home from school, I would play with videos of my older brother and me. We were young, around my cow all day, and I’d pet its back and brush its hair. I loved the age of four or fve. I was speaking Khmer exclusively – that cow so much.” But one day, she came home from school English had not yet graced my ears. That changed when and found her cow missing. Soldiers had come and taken her
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 29 cow away. She told me how she cried for two days straight and I visited Cambodia at seventeen, the world that my mother how her mother got angry at her for crying. “There’s nothing grew up in felt completely disconnected to me. The poverty, we can do, it’s not your cow anymore.” A country ravaged by pollution, language, and landscape were nothing my senses war never has any happy stories, there are only sad ones. The could understand. The food and people were similar, but the saddest of all is how that same six-year-old that lost her cow infrastructure, the smells, the marketplaces, the money – it would later lose her mother. During the Khmer Rouge, doctors was so diferent from anything I knew growing up in a frst- were in short supply – many were killed and others were used world country. One day, I was walking with my cousins to a for military purposes – and my grandmother came down with restaurant for breakfast, and I came across a horrible smell a fu and had no medicine or medical aid to help her battle it. and sight; the river we were walking beside was ink-black She passed away. Twenty years later, when my family moved from pollution and there were garbage bags and litter strewn to Newmarket, I found my mother wailing to herself on our everywhere alongside its stream. I was disgusted. I did not feel balcony, drunk and crying about her death. War separates us any sense of pride being in Cambodia, instead, I felt alienation, from our loved ones. I am lucky to be in a country free of war sadness, and anger. and its efects. If I have a daughter of my own someday, I hope We are lucky to be born in a country that has free health war never graces her either. care, a stable economy, a non-corrupt government, and free Women do not have the same opportunities in Cambodia education. These are not true across all countries. I can only as they do here in Canada. When my mother was sixteen hope that when we look at ourselves, our neighbours, and our years old, her father arranged for her to marry one of her future generations that we uphold these fundamental rights so frst cousins. In her words, she told me of her disobedience that the health, prosperity, and livelihood of our children can and the subsequent consequences of this disobedience; her remain bountiful. A year ago, my parents went to Toronto to father beat her within an inch of her life for not accepting the protest Hun Sen, Cambodia’s president, coming to Canada. My marriage. She managed to escape that life and found herself parents sit together and listen to Cambodian news to keep up a job and eventually met my father who whisked her away to with the politics going on in their country, but it is never good a country completely alien to her. Here in Canada, she was news. They can only sit and contemplate the state of afairs able to fnd a job that sustained her and her children. When back home and hope for the better.
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LORENA MCNAMARA is a student in International Development at Untitled 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 refect 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
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 31 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 fnally 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 diference in who we were as human beings, other than how we looked. I saw no diference until I learned and was taught that there was indeed a diference. 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 freman, 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 frst.” 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 afords power to men who enact it; this is why
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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 signifcant waves throughout social media and in public conversations. Both of these movements bring up issues that women specifcally 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 refect on these years with hope for what is to come. The legacy is big, and people want to fght for it.
I can feel this shift in the energy of the universe, women are fnding 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. Refecting 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 infuences 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 refect 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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 33 The Legacy SCARLETT MINSHULL is a student in Geological Engineering at the Lies in University of Waterloo. Our Homes
PHOTO: UNSPLASH MIGUEL BRUNA
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The legacy lies in our homes. It lies in our dinner talk, in brothers who fought and marched for me. On the day of the our cofee table books, and in our music and art draped march, I witnessed many powerful signs and protests, but I was around our homes. It is embodied from infancy to young impacted by the number of older women who thanked me adulthood. So please hear me when I say the conversation for for my sign and encouraged my message. Storming on their intersectional gender equity starts between mother and father, legacy, I witnessed the passion and energy that comes from son and daughter, and others. We cannot preach in the streets standing up to gender inequality. I was captivated by a legacy when our grandparents believe a woman’s place is better that was being propelled forward loudly, in solidarity. On that served at home than at college. We cannot be followers of the day, I made a commitment to myself to selfessly dedicate my body positivity movement on Instagram when we tell our son voice as a feminist to honour the ones before me. that if he doesn’t start lifting weights, he’ll be smaller than When I began studying engineering at the University of the girls in his class. How can we defne our current advocacy Waterloo, I joined Women in Engineering and Engineers as a legacy when there is so much change to be witnessed in Without Borders, participating in a particularly impactful our own homes? We regard the ones who marched before “women in STEM” podcast. In my own hometown, I us as the ignition for change, the legacy, but the fght is participated in female author events and even read the intergenerational. The legacy must be bred in our homes. acclaimed Women Who Run with the Wolves: Myths and Stories We must walk, run with the torch, and carry on the legacy of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estésl. This for equality by starting in our homes. When we wake up was my form of personal dedication as a feminist in 2019. I in the morning, we must inhale and exhale inclusivity. fgured remembering and honouring the powerful women When I attended the Toronto Women’s March in 2017, I took in history who sacrifced for my privilege was contributing a long time to consider what I wanted to write on my sign to their legacy. But even with all my involvement, I felt there that I would carry. I felt emotional thinking of how little was a disconnect in the present between certain peers when space I would have to convey the anger and disrupt I was discussing the fght for gender equality. I knew female and feeling for women, around the globe, in my community, in my male students who were passionate about the conversation life. Women battling inequality in their daily routine, from and others who brushed it of as irrelevant or how “we’d their workplace all the way to their walk home. I thought to come so far, there are more important things.” How could a myself that one sign could never allow me to truly express movement birthed as a cry have been hushed to a whisper? how I was feeling. Eventually, I found a quotation online that I refected on my own feminism and realized I was living summarized my inner ache, “I march because someone long for the romantic idea of human rights that are associated ago marched for me.” That was my connection, my meaning. with the past, not regarding the world’s present state and The intergenerational empathy that connects advocacy and the younger, current generation. Where did we go wrong? spirit. I wanted to exert the energy of my past sisters and Where did we go wrong in teaching and leading gender equity
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 35 change? For generations, it has been shouted from the streets, for inclusivity? Before we can carry on the legacy from studied in the classroom, and enforced in the workplace. the past, a legacy for the future must be encouraged from Bigger global movements, more policy on diverse hiring, and birth. Parenting conscientiously is critical to ensure that the encouragement into gender imbalanced university programs. next generation will interact not only with tolerance and All of this, but still gender equality seems to be elusive. acceptance but with respect and admiration for their family members, friends, colleagues, and community members. So I ask you, where do we continue to go wrong? Why Without providing this foundation for carrying on the don’t more of my peers share my interconnectedness to the legacy, we would be fortunate if the youth of today search for feminism movement? The fre, the drive, and the legacy external platforms such as social media, community protests, was appreciated but not acted on. I face confusion by the and other events. Otherwise, there is a risk for the other discrepancy between spirit towards change for the future and societal hesitation to support intersectional gender option that seems all too common in 2019: silence, lack of equity. I regarded the word “legacy” as belonging solely to interest, and a repeated toxic cycle of miscommunication. the advocates, the fre starters before me, but this proves to We did go wrong in assuming my generation would be one dimensional when, in fact, the legacy is a continuous participate in the equal work, equal pay, equal rights fght, regardless of generation, season, or place. It is that older movement without this education at home. Legacy must lie woman at the Women’s March watching me and my friends, in our homes. As a family, worthiness must be radiated to complimenting our commitment. I fnally asked myself, every member. Respect for our minds, bodies, and feelings “Where are we going wrong with the way gender equality must be the norm. A compassionate voice for others must is embodied? Why doesn’t the legacy connect with every be encouraged before a “mind your own business” mentality. person my age? Where did we go wrong in defning the next The way to carry on a legacy and create a stronger union for legacy?” Simple. We went wrong with the way we nurture feminism is to nurture the equal heart. Simple, right? feminism in our homes. We must nurture nature. We must all strive to encourage Born with an equal heart by nature, we go wrong in nurturing younger generations to project their advocacy, especially at our young into complacency. Without the commitment to home. My dedication as a feminist is to the past women who nurturing and educating the next generation on equality marched before me and to ensure no young woman will have among women, men, and allies, we are faced with a new to carry a sign thanking me for marching. Let’s start with the generation who are numb to the fames. Table manners legacy in our own homes and go from there. Simple. and grammar seem to be a priority, but what about respect
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The impact of empathy
JULIA COWDEROY is a student in Legal Studies at the University of Waterloo.
When I frst learned of intersectional feminism, I couldn’t help but feel cheated by the public education system. While I was reciting Shakespeare and fddling with protractors, others from various backgrounds were fghting 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
PHOTO: UNSPLASH ANNIE SPRATT
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 37 and the weight it carries. I thought of the many infuential girl who was crying just moments before was now radiating women who had clawed, scraped, and paved the way forward with self-confdence and encouraging other campers to share in order to create a path for me and women less privileged this positive self-expression. As it turned out, this song had than me. When I think of what it means to be an ally, my a greater impact than any concepts I could have tried to mind is a revolving door of burning questions. Where do I ft explain. I watched happily from the sidelines and acted as within all of this? What can I do? Is there any diference I can a cheerleader while the girls sang and danced, though I did make? Many people underestimate their ability to implement eventually have to interrupt their performance when they change because the word itself has been glorifed. Change decided that launching themselves of the stage would be doesn’t happen instantaneously by a handful of activists. just what they needed to spice up their choreography. I was Instead, it involves the interaction of many moving parts impressed by how quickly my boss handled the situation and that, together, infuence a movement. I believe in the positive embraced the camper with empathy. Her actions sparked efects of working locally and practicing gender equality confdence not only within the young girls but in myself. I will in everyday interactions. Last summer, I worked as a Camp utilize Helana-like tact while volunteering and working with Counsellor for young newcomers to Canada, and I’ve also diverse groups in the future. worked with girls aged 10-13 in the Big Brothers Big Sisters For the past two years, I’ve been volunteering with the BBBS (BBBS) program Go Girls! From these experiences, I learned Go Girls! program. The purpose of the program is to work about the potential of empathy rather than judgement and with pre-teen girls who could beneft from mentoring or girls how this enabled me to look beyond my worldview. who take on leadership roles in the classroom and would In my experience working at the summer camp, one moment bring that energy to the groups. Over the course of one has stuck with me. A girl had been called “ugly,” and she session a week for fve weeks, two mentors lead a group of was in tears. Notions of beauty are a prominent topic in girls in physical activities and discussions about topics such intersectional feminism because representations of “ideal” as healthy relationships, mental health, and self-confdence. womanhood are continuously whitewashed, but this was One activity comprised of praising the other girls in the group a concept I didn’t know how to translate to a young girl. beyond just their physicality, which a handful of the girls Frankly, I did not know how to handle the situation, but were resistant to for diferent reasons. Some had difculty my boss, Helana, managed it with beautiful simplicity. She receiving the compliments, due to their low self-esteem, while took the girl upstairs and taught her a song with a few lines: others struggled to create compliments that went beyond “I am beautiful (x3), I am so stinking beautiful, and you are physical appearance. Thankfully, the more outgoing girls beautiful too!” The girl then taught her two other friends wrote up compliments with gusto, which encouraged the the song, and more girls from varying ethnic backgrounds initially reserved girls to join in too. Soon enough, the room joined in and created a dance routine to go alongside it. The had turned into a vibrant space. Ironically, as I’m writing this
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in the Princess Cafe, the server is wearing a shirt that reads because we see the eforts of those who have come before “Girls support Girls,” which sums up my sentiments exactly. us and want to build on their legacy rather than go back in time. When I think of emotions, I think of Greta Thunberg However, I did encounter some issues with the BBBS program, holding back tears as she exclaimed, “How dare you!” to the most notably regarding the heteronormative assumptions UN at the Climate Action Summit. Her tears didn’t make the in scenario-based questions. One such hypothetical involved gravity of her words any less impactful, and in fact showed having a crush on a “cute boy” in your class. Based on some how fercely she cared about our future. Emotions remind previous chats I’d had with the girls, I knew this excluded a me of my mother bursting into tears in response to the lyric number of them. The girls were quick to speak out against “you are more than just a housewife” in Peter Gabriel’s Shaking this faw, and one mentee suggested we all share our pronouns the Tree, and I tear up too because she has always been more with the group to help further establish a comfortable space. than that to me. When looking back at the earliest waves of My co-mentor and I both shared mutual sentiments of feminism, I think of Sojourner Truth’s speech Ain’t I a woman? learning just as much from the group as the girls we were because it rallied for the inclusion of black women in the supposed to be teaching. As a bisexual woman, I was quick to sufrage movement. She thought only God heard her weep challenge the heteronormative assumptions of this scenario, when her children were sold of to slavery (Internet Modern but I didn’t consider using gender-neutral language. The History Sourcebook, 1997). Yet now, two centuries later, mentee’s leadership led to a conversation about gender and women of colour have recited her words back passionately sexuality. In some sessions, members of the group became as if to cry, “We hear you!” This empathy has transcended emotional with some of the topics, particularly involving generations and will continue to impact subsequent mental health and body image. That mentee may have generations to come. cried because they had never had a safe and welcoming environment to talk about their struggles, and I can only Action does not have to happen on a grand scale. While imagine what strong women these girls, and many like them, observing change retroactively, it looks like a staggering will grow up to become. This generation has been allowed to feat, but it all starts with micro-interactions that continue to build. Apathy is an easy default position to take on; it fourish in these sorts of empowering environments rather takes efort to be self-critical and actually act upon what you than be stifed like many generations before them. believe in, but even the smallest step forward can eventually When the mentees were emotional during the sessions, it become a sprint. made me consider notions surrounding gender normative behaviour. Women are considered to be more emotional than Internet Modern History Sourcebook. (1997). Sojourner Truth: men, but feelings of exasperation or even outright rage can “Ain’t I a Woman?”, December 1851. Retrieved from https:// be useful in the context of social justice. We are passionate sourcebooks.fordham.edu/mod/sojtruth-woman.asp
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 39 This page has been intentionaly left blank.
40 | University of Waterloo40 | University of Waterloo THANK YOU, MOM
LEGACY
WHAT SHE WAS JOURNEY TO ALONE TO JOURNEY THE SALT STORY
TO MY MOTHER
THE STUDENT AND THE GOOSE LEGACY AS IT RELATES TO INTERSECTIONAL GENDER EQUITY
DEAR SON THE BRAVE FACE
BY ANY OTHER NAME
LEGACY POETRY
selected submissions UPROOTED
EXCERPTS FROM A WRITTEN ORAL HISTORY OF A YOUNG
QUEER WOMAN OF COLOUR, AS TOLD BY HERSELF TO BE REMEMBERED BE TO
TO MY FUTURE GRANDDAUGHTER
ON BEING A WOMAN
DANCE
DAUGHTERS OF WOMYN
SOMNAMBULIST
WRITING HOLLY’S LEGACY
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 41 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.
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But the bird was sly, And as the keys foated 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 afame. “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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 43 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 few 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 rufed.
“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 fustered! “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.
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“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,” hufed 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 huf. Yet again, the goose was rebufed. “I couldn’t help but eavesdrop, That tête-à-tête was quite a fop. 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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 45 colour
ANNA WANG is a student in Computer Dear Son 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 fnally 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 frst fght 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
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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 sacrifces 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
PHOTO: UNSPLASH ZELLE DUDA
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 47 HARDEEP BEGDA is a student in Accounting and Financial Management The Brave Face 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: 519-888-4567, ext. 40439, or via email to [email protected] Counselling Services: 519-888-4567, ext. 32655
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 efect 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/
48 | University of Waterloo 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 infictions 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 frst 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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 49 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: 519-888-4567, ext. 40439, or via email to [email protected] Counselling Services: 519-888-4567, ext. 32655
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 frst kissed a woman that year and in rage my roots grasped upwards, tangling ‘round our ankles, knotted wooden fngers clasped tightly on my heart, pulling my soul to hell. Gehenna.
PHOTO: UNSPLASH JEREMY BISHOP 50 | University of Waterloo Uprooted
I knew this hellfre well. Consuming Salem witches, sodomites, and Sapphics, this hellfre 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 fames, their vitriolic light refecting 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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 51 SARASVATHI KANNAN is a by any other name University of Waterloo alum.
Saras Susurrates, like silk saris over smooth skin Fluvial, like sacred water over river stones Saras Carving the motherland before Mother Ganges was born The essence of one self atman
Va Harsh, like the frst word from the frst voice Jarring, like the world spoken into existence Until the one word from the one voice Summons individual to universal again Va om
Thi Simple, like the feminine that unites Eternal, like Tridevi and Shakti Finite and infnite all at once Many as one and one as many brahman Thi
Sara 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 frst called forth me?
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SARASVATHI KANNAN is a University of Waterloo alum. Writing Holly’s Legacy
How will they scrape my name of the wall EMMA SCHUSTER is a student in When it no longer holds any meaning to them? Environment Resources and Sustainability Will they fll in the cracks that I left in their arguments at the University of Waterloo. 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 foor, 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 ofense, Too unwoman? / / But my time is up – it is her turn I wanted to fll up space, To walk these halls alone. The example I wish I had, And I wish that But that was the show I put on for her. As a fnal gift I could impart, as if in a written For I would never allow her to watch me falter, will, Fail under the overbearing eyes of the super, A chance Struggle as my peers shunned me for my assertiveness, To write her own legacy, Because I didn’t want her to see that To decide how she wants to act As something she should expect to face. Without the pressure I didn’t want her to see the sexism Of putting on a show. As a hazing we are supposed to receive. But there is only so much I can do.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 53 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 fts perfectly all along my thigh, But not my waist. This is the inconvenience of being a woman.
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KRISTEN FAJARDO is a student in Global Business and Digital Arts The at the University of Waterloo. Salt Story
It started Dad told many stories about growing up with a soggy pool of cherry tomatoes, but the salt one pushed to the edges of my dinner plate, ready was the one I never forgot to be tossed. I was ten years old and hadn’t yet because that night, I told mom, heard the salt story. who cares about cherry tomatoes? I thought dad grew up rich! don’t even think about it, I studied her delicate hands as they pushed Dad said. needle through thread, sewing up the tear I met his hard gaze with something in a pair of old jeans. Quietly, worse than protest – a shrug, indiference – so he ripped Mom said, the plate from my hands, salvaged the watery mush dad’s family was rich halfway through its trip to the compost bin. but not in the way that mattered, The lines of his face weren’t so defned back then but and only much later, would I learn that meant I remember watching each one pull that money bought nothing taut with anger, and as in a home without love. he muttered wasteful and selfsh between forkfuls, I wrung my hands, scofed out, Ten years later, I learned you meet your parents twice: it’s only tomatoes, I eat everything but tomatoes, frst, when you’re born and second, glaring at him stubbornly, daring him the day you realize they were people to keep rattling of his list – before you existed entitled, spoiled, princess. and are people beyond your existence. But then, his silence So I never forget the story was a gust of hot oven air, rushing across my skin, until of someone from a poor life in a rich home it stilled who clawed his way out and across the world, into tired disappointment. to build wealth without money, out of nothing Then he shook his head, said but sheer willpower; became richer when he was ten, there were days he’d have to eat than he could have ever imagined because two pinches of salt and call it dinner. I’ll never have to know what it feels like to be the child in the salt story.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 55 This anonymous submission comes from Untitled 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 don’t want to be placed in a box 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 flled 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 don’t want to be placed in a box I can be an engineer and still have thoughts
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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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 57 Click, click, click You are perfect. are your high heels walking down Bay Street You are beautiful. Knock, knock, knock You are extraordinary. is their warning that you’re coming in strong Clink, clink, clink But most importantly, are the glasses toasting to your successes Know that you accomplish amazing things. And Tick, tick, tick is only a measure of how fast you’ve done it – My time fghting is over If you ever need me, I’ll be up there- Ha, ha, ha, shining brightly in hopes you’ll see. who’s laughing now? Remember the ones who came before you – whoosh, whoosh, whoosh remember me. are the pants you continue to wear, and mur – mur – mur – One day we will meet again, are your thoughts of perseverance and resilience because telling our tales of resiliency and of our vulnerabilities. one day – just one day – we will get there. I know you’ll make me proud because The marks I leave in sand today and tomorrow, when that day comes, you will have become allow for marks in concrete by you. / more than an angel:
Shine bright You will have become a shooting star. Stay strong Keep loving others Shine bright, But always love you You’re strong. / Love, Grandma
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Dance
time to learn the dance – step to the walls, in them refected JULIANNA SUDERMAN is a student us led on leashes, the hunt in English and French Studies at was premeditated, we became the University of Waterloo. 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 fngers to features – blinking eyes powdered nose closed mouth – repeat. pale and precious, to be protected, watch as the locked box lifts its top – and petted and collared and called by pet names and shuts ashamed to step falsely on endless rows of blinking eyes; refecting. to falter our feet expecting. afraid of failure, not daring teaching each other the dance to succeed – we were taught and repeat. beating our cold calloused hands till they’re raw to leash and to lash and to teach to dance procreate. these pets of our own – we leap and propagate. at that chance. now time to ask hush. isn’t it time that we taught a new dance?
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 59 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 fre 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 fames. Rain will come. It may not be now, but inevitably it will. Just remember that blazing, raging fres survive the storms, whereas smouldering fickering fames 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.
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Daughters of Womyn
STEPHANIE SHOKOFF is a student /Daughters of womyn burnt at the stake in Therapeutic Recreation at the all because they tried to create their own fate University of Waterloo. 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 fght 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 fames/
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 61 /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 fuid, and people deserve the same wage/
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a is a student at the To My Mother: University of Waterloo.
At 22, I’ve fnally come home to fnd peace with these roots and faced you for the frst time. absorbing the pain of your sacrifces 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 sacrifces 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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 63 your gentle spirit i am afraid that I will be buried under the pillars of your sacrifces loving nature that they will feel too heavy on my shoulders and a deep morality that I will never understand the intensity of blind faith that they are flled with. you are sufering and surviving in your new world. It does not take the time to understand you. to pay your struggle back is a hefty task and meets the gentleness of your spirit with a sense of suspicion I must remember to live each day or assumption of naivety Consciously It overlooks the intricacies of your character … Morally and when it does peer in, Honestly it thinks it is seeing something less. with Love in a culture devoid of spirituality and feeling, Belief in Spirit the parts of your soul you shared used to feel more like curse and the vivaciousness of faith you have put in your daughters. than gift. a hindrance to my superfcial wins. for the future I imagine what I understand now is that the sensitivity you have a space of beauty bestowed upon me a place that fnally invites your pain must fourish in order for me to heal, to grow. fnally. It will jeopardize my survival if I continue to hide. with acceptance. with beauty. with strength. and with the gravity it deserves. now that we are fnally face to face I have found the courage to tell you i’ll keep walking I am afraid with an open heart afraid that I will never see to it that the spirits of your character a vigilant conscience see fruition out in the world and most importantly afraid that you will feel you have left deposits of your love in the forever with your spirit. wrong place.
64 | University of Waterloo Poetry
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 fulflled. 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.
PHOTO: UNSPLASH JARED MURRAY 2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 65 Excerpts from a Written Oral History of a Young Queer Woman of Colour, as Told by Herself
SARASVATHI KANNAN is a University of Waterloo alum.
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
***
66 | University of Waterloo 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 fnished 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 fnd my package It was fled under my frst 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 frst or last name, you should know which is which I wanted to say that my frst name is 10 letters, only 1 more than Elizabeth, Catherine, Alexandra But my frst instinct was to laugh it of and say “that’s why I go by [name redacted]”
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 67 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 ofce 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 diferently, and This ofce 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 fnally come out And out and out and out, because asserting queerness in a heteronormative environment never ends) The only non-technical staf, 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
68 | 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, But she kept a piece for herself, Than the grooves of fragility, And the anger of not being able to complete her, Than the completion of knowing. Drove them to madness, Fire of rage charred her edges, She has been played with many times, And spitefully the scorned each took a piece. People’s rush of glee, At the prospect of a new puzzle, She was faster to solve, Someone they can fx, Her emptiness unveiled quicker, Put back together. 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.
| University of Waterloo 2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 6969 Legacy as it relates to intersectional ADELINE LI is a student at gender equality 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
70 | University of Waterloo Poetry
SIMRIT DHILLON is a student in Public Legacy 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 fowers, soaring kites, toothy smiles, and glowing hearts. Struggles and triumphs, littering faces and tombstones … forgotten and remembered – treasured.
Hands hold out promises – fulflled and broken. It is our turn now to keep their hopes burning, like the safron and fuchsia sunset they had wished to paint for us, under which brothers and sisters alike held hands.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 71 MORTEZA DEHGHANI is a faculty member at the “somnambulist” University of Waterloo.
72 | 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 bafed 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
| University of Waterloo 2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 7373 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 specifcally, 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 finch at what is wrong, but what if the preserving salt goes bad? i know, i’m supposed to answer not ask.
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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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 75 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
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I love that I have dreams. maybe a daughter? maybe have a family perhaps get married fnd a career I will soon graduate
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 foor 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
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78 | University of Waterloo78 | University of Waterloo A LIFE’S WORK
WHAT MY FATHER BEGAN JUST CONVERSATIONS
SHATTERED LANCES
DIVINE INTERVENTION
LEGACY FICTION
selected submissions THE “MASTERS” OF TYPING
SAINT MARTINA THE PYRAMID
EPITAPH REWRITTEN
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 79 Divine Intervention
PHOTO: UNSPLASH ANNIE SPRATT 80 | University of Waterloo WINNER Fiction
SARASVATHI KANNAN is a Divine Intervention University of Waterloo alum.
I hate doctors. (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 Allow me to explain. I’m Indian. to a doctor’s conference and told her not to return without a Not enough? Okay, I hate doctors because I am expected to husband. I think she got the last laugh though; she met a guy either become one or marry one. I don’t know which my from Doctors Without Borders and hasn’t been home since. parents would prefer; becoming a doctor is an arduous and Huh. Maybe that’s something to consider.)
expensive process, but if I married a doctor then what would I should clarify: the only acceptable doctoring is medically I be? Nurse might be acceptable, or lab technician, hospital related doctoring. Doctorate degrees don’t count. My dad’s administrator, etc. It defnitely has to be something doctor- brother lives two hours away and has a PhD in mathematics, related, in order to attract a doctor. his wife in economics, and their child is a computer engineer –
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 81 all acceptable, STEM-related disciplines – and yet we only I’ll just be an eternal source of shame to my family if I don’t see them at community parties. My dad’s cousin, who lives get accepted to an Ivy League school. So, I’ve been dragged to fve hours and two states away, is a dentist. We see her family the Saraswati Pooja to pray to the goddess of knowledge for every year for Labour Day, Diwali, and Thanksgiving. Also, the frst steps of my charted future to be successfully fulflled. psychology doesn’t count as a science. My cousin – okay she’s Everyone else is talking: my brother is complaining that he like my third cousin because we aren’t frst cousins, and our should be at the hospital, my sister is trying to calm my fussing parents aren’t frst cousins, so the closest we can be related is nephew, her husband is attempting to discretely check emails, third cousins, but we’re probably actually ffth but saying ffth and my mom is droning on to my dad about my lack of cousins sounds weird, so I just call her my cousin – became a extracurricular activities, while he argues back that grades are psychologist and the family’s never mentioned her since. She more important. Ayah remains silent, that familiar twinkle in also dyed her hair blond, so that could be the reason for the her eyes. You know, like Dumbledore, except my grandmother moratorium on her name. is this little old Indian lady who wears Velcro sneakers with her But this is a pretty common rant if you’re Indian, heck, if you saris and carries a candy store in her handbag. have strict parents in general. Your parents want you to follow Anyway, because Ayah is ignoring everyone, I don’t feel too a particular path, and few are lucky enough to want that too. bad about not participating either. It’s not like anyone wants You either suck it up and do what they want (usually after an to hear my real opinions: that I’m pretty sure my brother uses argument in which they threaten to disenfranchise, disinherit, his hospital shifts as an excuse to get away from our family and and disown you, with the whole my-money-my-rules-if-you- go drinking (not that I blame him), that I think two doctors don’t-like-it-leave speech), fnd a way to compromise, or you getting married is the worst idea possible and that my poor call them on their bluf and end up a starving artist. To be nephew is going to sufer for it (he calls the nanny “mommy”), fair, I don’t particularly like or dislike medicine. I just don’t or that even with a stellar application to med school the want to go through eight years of gruelling academics, plus competition is ferce and I’m equally terrifed of disappointing practical placements and residency, to reach 30 with a quarter my family by not being accepted or of getting in and failing million dollars in student debt, a 60-hour work week, and no out. They just want to hear me repeat their views. Except life. At least, that’s how I perceive doctors after seeing what for Ayah, who doesn’t say much but seems content with life. my brother and sister have gone through. How much of that Maybe I could be a professional housewife too, except for the bitterness is directed at my parents, I can’t say. part where I need an appropriate husband.
The problem is that it’s my junior year, and all my parents’ I tried to explain the qualifcations for appropriateness to a hopes rest upon my test scores. The majority of my family, non-Asian friend once. It’s like Dante’s nine circles of how- nuclear and extended, have attended reputable schools with bad-can-your-husband-be: paradise is a nice Indian doctor top medicine programs: Yale, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Oxford, from your specifc caste; purgatory is a generic Indian boy etc. I’m expected to do the same, but, you know, no pressure; in a respectable but non-medical profession; and the inferno
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is a non-Indian boy in any job, period. It’s totally racist, I think I nodded of for over half the ceremony, because but I understand the fears behind this behaviour; the older Ayah pinches my arm to wake me up for the conclusion, generations view marriage as the combination of two families where we receive blessings. Afterwards, the crowd disperses and are afraid of culture loss, which has inevitably happened a little. My brother has already escaped, my sister is showing during immigration. To preserve our culture and way of life, of her son, my mother is gossiping with the other aunties, it’s best to marry someone from the same background. And and my brother-in-law and father are talking with the other honestly, modern arranged marriages aren’t that diferent uncles. Ayah indicates for me to follow her as she prays at the from being set up with someone by your parents, whether it’s other shrines. someone from your church, the neighbour’s cousin, or a She performs a traditional prayer, muttering under her breath co-worker’s sibling. and tugging on her ears before kneeling. I put my palms I want something diferent, but I don’t want to be cast out. together and mentally recite my standard prayer. I fgure I like being a part of my community and culture, but I grew that language and medium don’t really matter, as long as the up outside of India so it’s natural that I have Westernized sentiment remains the same. I then circumambulate the shrine values, specifcally individualism. I can tell you that I am not three times, trailing Ayah. Strangely, after I complete the frst looking forward to the inevitable, generational, East-West round, the chatter from everyone else in the temple seems duty-versus-desire culture clash that looms imminently in my quieter, as if heard from a distance. After the second round, future. So I follow everyone to the temple and resign myself to my surroundings look hazy, as if seen through bleary eyes. praying to a goddess I’m not sure I believe in for something I A second ago I was staring at the back of Ayah’s sari, and now don’t think I want so that I can achieve a goal that can’t make I’m in a cloud. Where did all this mist come from? Something me happy. What a wonderful way to spend a Friday night. just moved; the carvings surrounding the shrine are alive. I The temple is hot and dirty from the crush of people pinch myself and don’t wake up. Grotesque faces grimace in crowded into the space in front of Saraswati’s shrine. Though laughter at me as stone skirts swish, thousands of arms snap the marble foor is cool beneath my feet, I already feel sweaty into position, and the creatures dance. I recognize the steps and prickly in the stifing, heavily embroidered fabric of my from the bharatanatyam classes I took years ago. Each time a fancy salwar kameez. We’re sitting cross-legged in a cluster on stone foot stomps, the fog pales until I can’t see through the the edge of the crowd, in case my nephew starts wailing. blinding white light. Gold beams part the brilliant glare to don’t know how people do this for days on end – ten minutes condense into fgures, fnally solidifying into the forms of gods. 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. 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 of into the universe.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 83 Not just the major gods, but others I don’t recognize too, all chance of a lifetime is mind-boggling. With one wish and one gazing back at me with amused smiles. Thousands of bodies in wish only, what would I do? Why, change the world of course. a thick line, weaving their way through space and time stand, What I did next completely changed mine. for some unfathomable reason, right in front of me. “I don’t want to be a doctor!” As soon as the words tumble out, Eventually, I regain use of my senses as my mind came to I slap a hand over my mouth to suppress any other treasonous terms with the vision before my eyes. “Wha-what-what?” statements that might escape. Blasphemy, in the presence of I stutter, my voice shaking badly. Apparently, I’m still gods! I can talk all I want about the struggle between duty and recovering. However, I manage to recognize the three men in desire, but I won’t get what I want until my family gets what front as Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma, the triumvirate of Hindu they want frst. At that point, I’ll be middle-aged, drowning in gods. Flanking them are Parvati, Lakshmi, and Saraswati, debt, work, and loneliness, with nothing to show for myself their respective consorts. Still behind the women are other but remnants of discarded dreams and a mid-life crisis. That’s important fgures from Hindu mythology, such as Ganesha when I’ll realize how much time I’ve wasted hating my life and Indra. So much for not believing – it doesn’t get any more and that I have no idea of how to be happy. real than this. “Very well. What is it you wish to be, then?” Brahma inquires Vishnu speaks frst, in a voice that echoes through my head. calmly, as if I hadn’t just spoken utter disloyalty against my “We know that you do not believe. Yet still you dutifully pray family. Once again, I’m staring open-mouthed. How am I to each of us every week and always for others.” supposed to answer that? Sure, I’ve daydreamed about being a violinist or ballerina or hair stylist, but it’s always something Brahma continues, his ancient voice full of wisdom. “Though unattainable. Better impossible because I can’t play an you might lack faith, there is only honest sincerity and a instrument than impossible because I’m not allowed to. genuine desire to help in your prayers. Accordingly, we wish to help you.” “I-I don’t know,” I confess.
“The question is,” Shiva ends, his voice brimming with “Perhaps it would help if we gave you some choices?” amusement and laced with understanding, “How?” Ganesha ofers.
“I-I, I don’t know. I didn’t even know that you existed or that “Yes please,” I nod gratefully. The small stone statues step you had heeded, much less answered, my prayers,” I babble forward, each holding a lotus fower – the symbol of life, nervously, fnally fnding my voice. struggle, awakening, spirituality, and, for me, the symbol of choice. Before I even reach out to touch a petal, visions fash “Of course we did. What do you want?” Shiva asks again. before my eyes of lives I could live, people I could be. And now Figures. My one chance to ask for anything, anything, and my that I see my options, I realize just how many thousands of brain is blank. Even though people talk about what they’d do potential lives there are and that I can’t observe and analyze with a genie in a magic lamp, to actually be confronted by the every single one. In kindergarten, the teacher says that you
84 | University of Waterloo WINNER Fiction
can grow up to become anything. To see that statement take “Then we wish you the best of luck in your journey. We will on reality in the endless amount of lotus fowers stretching on be watching over you,” Lakshmi says kindly. Saraswati winks forever, the infnite number of potential lives that lie at my at me in approval and the gods fade away, leaving me blinking fngertips, well, that’s logic-defying. in confusion in front of the shrine.
I could pick a fower and choose my life, and be secure in the “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been calling for you knowledge of my future. But could I fnd happiness, knowing for fve minutes!” my mother exclaims. that I had irreversibly chosen the path I was to walk, and that “Oh, you know, praying, hallucinating, fnding myself, the in doing so I had disregarded all other possibilities? Was it fair normal stuf you do at the temple,” I reply, founcing over to to me, or to anyone else involved in my life and afected by Ayah and ignoring the scandalized expressions on everyone my decision, to pick without looking at every option? What else’s faces. if the life that was best for me was miserable for my family, or vice versa? Could I handle searching and searching until “Finding yourself?” Ayah asks in an amused voice. “And what I found the rare life that was happy for everyone I love, seeing have you discovered?” all the lives I would never live? What if that life had other I take a deep breath, gather my courage, and make my consequences, like nuclear war or a zombie apocalypse or announcement. “That I don’t want to be a doctor.” something? How could I pick? “Acceptance starts within yourself,” Ayah nods sagely. I look “I am very grateful for the opportunity you have provided at her sharply. “As long as you are happy, beta, that is all that me,” I begin hesitantly, “but I don’t need to see these I can hope for.” She gives me a stern look. “But whatever you choices. I have no idea who I want to be, but I would like do, you do well. No bad grades.” the chance to fnd who I am meant to become. My wish is for the opportunity to fnd myself,” I fnally answer. 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 “You are sure of your decision? No one has ever refused choice, or what made her pick this life, but there’s nothing to to choose before,” Parvati questions, and I know that I will gain from that kind of regret. If there’s one thing I’ve learned never have this chance again. tonight, it’s that you always have a choice. And sometimes, “I am.” doing your duty means choosing yourself. All it takes is a little divine intervention.
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86 | University of Waterloo 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 The Isles Tournament. I have been looking forward to this, all Isles Tournament,” my father, King Xanthus, says as he enters of the bravest warriors in the realm travelling to our Kingdom our private dining hall. 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 “So soon?” my mother, Queen Sophia, asks. my parents’ eyes tells me that we could do with a break. My father gestures for us to be seated. The long table is set “You don’t think it is too soon?” my mother asks. for three: my father, my mother, and me. The table is much too big for us. My father places a hand over hers, “I think it’s just what we need, the people will enjoy it.” “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 They are so easy together. Even after almost thirty years of for them to journey here,” my father explains. marriage, two children, one invasion, two famines, three
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 87 epidemics, two wars, and the death of one child, they still love who I wanted to ask. Quinn is my closest friend and I trust each other; they still rely on each other. It’s beautiful, I want her with my life. that someday. “You look troubled,” Quinn says, crossing the room to me. Someday, but not yet. Certainly not yet. “The castle seems so empty,” I tell her. “Are you looking forward to the tournament Xanthe?” Sadness clouds Quinn’s eyes. “It does,” she agrees. my father asks as we start our meal.
Xanthe. My name is ridiculous. I am named after my father, “I’m glad the Isles Tournament is approaching; it will be but I inherited none of his looks. Both of our names mean crowded and loud again.”
“blonde hair,” and while that is ftting for my father, with his Quinn smiles. “It will be nice,” she agrees, “the epidemic took golden hair, my hair is black as ink. My parents probably didn’t so many, I almost wish we could keep some of the visitors.” think of that when they named me, but the irony remains. “Really?” I ask, “What about all the extra work?” “I am rather,” I say, smiling. “There are worse things in life than work,” Quinn says wisely. None of us mention the huge weight hanging over us. We don’t mention the chair missing from the table or that the “True,” I agree and cross the room to the table where my champion of the last two Isles Tournaments won’t be there. jewelry box sits. I remove the gems from my ears and my neck. We don’t let the grief show on our faces. We eat in silence. Quinn helps pull the pins from my hair, freeing the braids Not an awkward silence but a comfortable one. circling my head and allowing them to hang freely with the After we have fnished eating, I excuse myself and walk slowly rest of my hair. I shake out my hair and run a brush through it. through the castle alone. It seems so much bigger and so much emptier since the last epidemic went through. Many of the “Did you like this style?” Quinn asks, referring to the half-updo people who used to be here are gone, servants and courtiers that she created with my hair this morning. I couldn’t follow alike. Quinn is in my room when I fnally enter my chambers. the way she braided small strands of my hair and wove them She has laid out my nightgown and has a small fre crackling with other braids, but it looked incredible. in the grate. “I did. You always manage to make this bush look stunning,” “Xanthe,” she says, turning as I enter the room. I gather a section of my hair and wave it at her.
Quinn and I grew up together, her father is the head groom Quinn laughs. “It isn’t easy you know; your hair is quite in the royal stables and her mother is a cook in the kitchens. impossible.” My father arranged for the royal nurseries to look after the I roll my eyes. “It is that.” children of the castle staf while they were working, so Quinn and I spent a great deal of time together as children. When my “Will anyone from your family be entering the tournament?” parents decided I needed a maid rather than a nanny, I knew Quinn asks after a while.
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I bite my lip. “I wouldn’t think so, my father doesn’t compete I didn’t need to know how to run a Kingdom. I was not a man anymore and now that Julian is,” I clear my throat, “anyway, and I was not heir to the throne. That has changed now. I am there aren’t many young men in my family anymore.” 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? Quinn frowns. “Why don’t you enter?” she asks. With Julian gone, my father has had to start over and prepare I stare at her. “Me?” me for the throne. I am learning how to lead a country, and “Why not?” Quinn asks. “You know how to joust and you’re I am learning how to tell others to defend it. I don’t want to good at it. Why shouldn’t you enter?” 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 I’m stunned. I had never considered entering. I couldn’t enter arises, I should be the one who leads the charge. My father led the Isles Tournament, could I? No woman has ever competed his armies into battle during two diferent wars: one before I in the tournament before, but why should that stop me? Just was born and one when I was seven. My brother led our army because no woman has ever done it doesn’t mean it can’t be into battle against invaders fve years ago, he was twenty years done. Would I be allowed to enter? old. A year older than I am now. My father has won the Isles “My father,” I say. “He would never allow it.” Tournament a dozen times. It happens every three years, and he competed in and won every one of them since he came As I say it, I feel my heart sinking. For one shining moment of age. The frst time Julian won the tournament he was I considered it, but what I said is true. My father would never nineteen. The same age I am now. allow me to enter the tournament. Even if he did, what then? Could I really stand a chance against a knight? Quinn watches If they can do it, why can’t I? me but says nothing. My heart is pounding. What if I could My father is a good King: just and kind. Julian was following measure up against a knight? Quinn is right. I can joust, in Father’s footsteps; he would have made him proud. The and I’m good at it. Julian taught me years ago. We didn’t ask people love my father and they loved my brother, but what Father’s permission, and when he found out he was so angry. will they think of me? Princes go on quests and compete in He’d be furious if I entered the tournament. tournaments; they prove to their kingdom and themselves that they have what it takes to be King. How can I possibly know “I can’t,” I say. if I have what it takes to lead? Even if I did know I would be a Later, as I lay in bed, I fnd that I can’t turn my mind of. I can’t good leader, the people won’t. How can the people have faith stop thinking about the Isles Tournament. My father insisted in me if I sit at home all the time? My father believes in me. that I learn to use a sword as soon as I was old enough to hold Is that enough? 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 fght. Father wants me to be able to defend myself and nothing Planning for the Isles Tournament is a lot of work, as it’s a more. I didn’t need to be able to plan battles or lead an army. three-day event. I’ve got to fgure out which rooms guests will
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 89 have and fnd space for their servants and their horses. My I don’t pay any attention to her. Instead, I pace up and down. father takes me through every step of the process. At dinner, Quinn doesn’t say anything, she leaves me alone as I try to sort my mother and father take turns telling stories about past Isles through everything in my head. I don’t need to prove myself Tournaments and who won them. It’s nice to talk and laugh to my people, not yet. When I am Queen, how I rule will prove instead of sitting in silence, staring at each other. 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 “My lance struck his chest and splintered, but his lance missed can handle the responsibility of the Kingdom, they aren’t the me entirely. The momentum from my hit and the weight of problem either. Me. I’m the problem. I’m the one with doubts. his own lance caused him to fy straight of the back of his horse and into the dirt,” my father recounts animatedly. “Quinn, do you think I’ll make a good Queen?” I blurt out.
My mother laughs. “Xanthus, you speak of all your victories, “I know you’ll make a good Queen,” Quinn says without but what about that tournament at my father’s castle when hesitation. my brother beat you in that archery contest?” “How do you know?” “I had a head cold,” my father says indignantly. “I couldn’t focus on the target properly because of my streaming nose Quinn frowns, thinking for a moment. “Well, you’re a patient and eyes. I was not in top form that day.” person. You don’t rush things; you’d rather do something the right way than the fast way. When you look at someone you “Julian always outshot you,” my mother teases. see a person, not their rank or their position. People are all
We all freeze at the mention of his name. I look down at my equal in your eyes and we all matter.”
plate; if Julian were here, he’d be sitting where I am. I would I turn away and walk a few paces away from her. My head is be moved down a place because I would not be heir to the spinning. The fact that I worry about being a good Queen throne. He left big shoes to fll. means that I will be one? No, it means that I will try to be a “He sure did,” my father says quietly. “He was the only one.” good Queen. What if I’m not cut out for this?
“Other than Uncle Hector?” I say, smirking at my father. 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 My father glares at me, but he can’t hold it and a smile breaks need to prove to myself that I am strong enough to be Queen.” 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? Quinn frowns. “You don’t need to prove yourself.” Mother reaches across the table for my hand; I give it to her, I shake my head. “I need to believe in me, and I want to do and we grab my father’s hands. We are still a family and we this. My brother, my father, and his father before him have care about each other. My father is still alive, I don’t need to won this tournament. Every King to rule this Kingdom has fll his or Julian’s shoes yet. I have time. won the Isles Tournament. I will be the frst Queen to rule this Quinn is lighting the candles in my room when I enter. land and will do it having won the Tournament as well.”
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“How will you convince your father?” knew the true identity of the anonymous knight.
A half-formed plan is all that I have. “I won’t tell him,” My armour is waiting in my tent, Quinn has laid it out in I say to her. “I’ll enter as an anonymous knight and not such a way that it should be easy to quickly get on. I sit with reveal my identity until I have won.” my parents in the places of honour as people fll the arena. I glance around at the crowd; everyone is happy and laughing “Not tell him?” Quinn’s eyebrows shoot up. “How will today. My father was right, this tournament has made us you pull that of?” forget our grief for a while. “Do you think Sir Jeremy would help us?” I ask Quinn, “Ladies and gentlemen!” my father’s voice flls the arena. I am referring to the Kingdom’s First Knight. pleased to welcome you to the Isles, let the Tournament begin!” She nods. “He would.” I watch the matches, waiting for Quinn. “I need to practice a few times before the Tournament, Sir Jeremy can help me with that,” I say, beginning to pace again. “My Lady.”
“And you need an excuse to tell the King,” Quinn points out. I turn to Quinn, my heart hammering in my ribs.
“I know” “There has been a disturbance in the pavilion, I was sent to fetch you.” Quinn smiles. “We’ll have you ready.” Glancing at my father, I say, “I’ll come at once.” *** “What’s going on?” my mother asks. My father just raises The morning of the frst day of the Isles Tournament is his eyebrows at me. 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 “There has been a disturbance in the pavilion apparently,” armour made, claiming that it was for a squire. He also had I inform them. “You two stay here and enjoy the Tournament, all my lances made. I owe him a lot for this. I’ll handle it.”
Sir Jeremy’s words to me were, “I believe in the world My father smiles approvingly. I hope he won’t be too your father helped make, I believed in the world that your disappointed in me when he realizes that this is a lie. brother strove to maintain, and I believe in the world that Quinn helps me into my armour and wishes me good luck. you will protect.” “Are you ready?” Practising with Jeremy was easier than I thought it would be. As long as no one saw me put the armour I turn to Sir Jeremy, who has just entered the tent. Quinn puts on, no one suspected that it was me, and I could face a hand on my arm as she holds my helmet out for me to take. any opponent without them realizing that it was a I tuck my hair into it and raise the visor, allowing only my princess that unhorsed them. Only Quinn and Jeremy eyes to be seen.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 91 “Ready,” I confrm. the dirt. I become aware of the roar of the crowd. People are waving and cheering, children are jumping up and down Mounting a horse while wearing armour is not the easiest with excitement. The roar is deafening. I have been to many thing in the world, but I’ve been practising for weeks now and jousting tournaments in my life, but none of them compare to can mount without much trouble. I wear no colours as I am this. Sitting in a throne cannot compare to galloping towards competing anonymously, while all the other knights wear the an opponent. Dismounting, I fip my visor up, bow to the colours of their houses. My silver-grey armour blending in King, wave to the crowds, and lead Tempest from the ring. I did with the dappled grey coat of Tempest. it. I’m advancing to the next round. When my match is called, I ride forward. I will be facing Sir Quinn is waiting for me in the tent. Her face is fushed with Garrett, who is garbed in the blue and silver of his house; his excitement and her hands shake slightly as she helps me out stallion paws the ground and stares down the row at Tempest, of my armour and back into the red gown I was wearing who stares right back. A groom hands me my lance and I grip for the Tournament. it lightly, ready for the trumpet that will signal the start of the match. If ridden perfectly, both lances will shatter as they hit “That was incredible Xanthe!” Quinn says as she smooths their opponent. In a perfect world, one of the riders would be my hair. unhorsed and that would end the match. Until one rider is I grin. “It was thrilling, I understand why men love these unhorsed, we must pick up new lances and try again. tournaments so much.”
The trumpet sounds and Tempest shoots forward without any “Maybe women will enter them once you win,” Quinn suggests prompting. He gallops forward, and I line up my lance with mischievously. the shoulder of my opponent. CRASH. Slivers of wood from my lance fy everywhere as my lance collides with Sir Garrett’s “You never know,” I laugh. “I just have to win frst.” shoulder. His lance skids of my left arm and doesn’t break. I’m Quinn puts her hand on my arm. “You can do it; I believe pushed backwards in my saddle, but I maintain my seat and in you.” throw the ruined remains of my lance to the ground and grab I sneak out of the tent and back to my throne beside my a fresh one from the young squire standing by the ringside. Sir parents. No one looks twice at me; we have pulled of the Garrett also opts to use a new lance – smart, as the previous ruse for today. one may be damaged. “Is everything alright?” my mother whispers to me. The thundering of hooves echoes in my ears. I lean forward a bit more and brace myself for the impact. Sir Garrett will I smile at her. “I took care of it, don’t worry.” have corrected his aim and will land a solid hit on me this pass. My mother smiles back at me. “I am so proud of you Xanthe.” CRASH. Both lances shatter, but Sir Garrett is driven backwards by the impact of the blow. He reels in the saddle for a moment I smile back, feeling sick. Will she still be proud of me when before his weight throws him of-centre and he plows into she fnds out what I was really doing?
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Sir Jeremy wins his match in the frst pass, and the crowd wonders if we have been found out. erupts into cheer. Obviously, he is the people’s favourite. It’s “Tell him that I am on my way,” I say and stand up, smoothing not surprising, he is the First Knight and every person in the out the wrinkles in my gown. Kingdom will have heard of him. Quinn looks nervous, she’s worried about this part of the plan Dinner is a festive occasion held in the banquet hall. I excuse too. She doesn’t say anything as I sweep past her and out the myself before it gets too late. I want to be well-rested for door. What if my father does know that I competed yesterday? tomorrow. As I leave the hall, Sir Jeremy winks at me. I just What if someone saw and told him? He might be angry with smile and keep walking. I’ll have to face him tomorrow. me, but what about Quinn? He wouldn’t fre her, would he? If Quinn isn’t in my room when I get there, she’s probably Quinn loses her job because of me, I will never forgive myself. still serving in the banquet hall. Crossing to the window, My father and Sir Jeremy are in the throne room when I sit down on the ledge. The sun went down about an hour I enter. My heart sinks even more. If he knows, what will ago and the castle grounds are dark. Torches burn on the happen to Sir Jeremy? outer walls. “Xanthe,” my father says, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” I won today but what if that was a fuke? What if I really can’t win this Tournament? If I don’t advance to the fnals, Relief washes over me, he doesn’t know. it would be alright. I wouldn’t have to reveal my identity, no one would know that I failed. No one except Quinn, “What’s happened?” I ask.
Sir Jeremy, and me. That’s the problem though, I would My father sighs. “I’m afraid we are being paid a visit by know that I failed. If I make it to the fnal and lose, I will some delegates from fsheries on the far coast. It is a most have to reveal my identity. My father will know I failed, my inopportune time, but it cannot be helped. I need you to mother will know I failed, and my people will know I failed. meet with them. If I miss the Tournament the other Kings Is it worth it? may take it as a slight.”
I have to try. “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.
Quinn is putting the fnal pin into my hair when there My father marches from the room, leaving me alone with is a knock on the door. Sir Jeremy.
“Enter,” I call. “Good luck out there today,” Sir Jeremy says, smiling at me.
A nervous maid enters my chambers. “My Lady, the King I grin at him. is asking for you.” “I’m not going to go easy on you just because you’re my I frown, pretending to be confused though a part of me future Queen,” Jeremy smirks.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 93 “You’d better not,” I tell him. “If you do, my frst act when he is dragged a few meters before he gets his foot free. I bow I become Queen would be to have you executed.” to the King, wave to the crowds, and retreat from the ring. I can spot Quinn cheering from the stands. Jeremy laughs. I can’t stop myself from throwing my arms around his neck. Two opponents down and three to go.
“Thank you,” I tell him. 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 “I told you,” he says. “I believe in the world your father remembers that he isn’t going to go easy on me, I don’t want made, and I know you will do everything in your power to him to let me win. I want to win because of my skill. make it last.”
“Thank you,” I repeat, looking him straight in the eye before It takes three passes to knock my next opponent of his horse. running to fnd Quinn. My fourth opponent comes of after the frst 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 fnal opponent, Jeremy. If Tempest is excited. He paws the ground waiting for our turn. he throws the match, I’ll kill him. I want to do this on my own. The trumpet sounds and we’re of. I’m measuring distances A blast from the trumpet and we’re of. I’m determined to and angles in my head, but I slightly misjudge where my knock Jeremy of his horse. CRASH. My lance doesn’t break, opponent’s lance will hit me. Instead of hitting my upper body, Jeremy’s does. Second pass. CRASH. Both lances shatter into a it drives into my hip and throws me from Tempest’s back. I million tiny pieces. A slightly bigger piece of my lance strikes wince in pain as I heave myself to my feet and leave the ring. Jeremy’s horse on the shoulder. The stallion rears up, startled The watching crowd boos, it was a rather scummy move. I still by the blow. Jeremy falls backwards of his horse and lands have a chance. If I beat all my other opponents, I can make it in the dirt. The crowd screams, some in shock and others in to the fnals. It’s not over yet. anger. They may have been supporting the mysterious knight As I wait for my next match, I spot Quinn. With my helmet on, in other matches but not against their own First Knight. Sir she won’t know that I’ve seen her. She doesn’t look worried, Jeremy will not be moving on, but I will be. Only one knight which makes me feel better. Quinn believes in me; Sir Jeremy managed to knock every opponent of their horse. Sir Ethan, believes in me; I can do this. the frst knight I faced today, the only one to knock me of Tempest. I will face him in the fnal. Second opponent. Tempest’s thundering hooves are a comfort, he won’t steer me wrong. I line up with the shoulder, brace My father is so jovial from the Tournament that he doesn’t myself for the impact, and CRASH. My lance shatters, so does remember the delegates that were coming to see us, and I don’t my opponent’s. We both manage to stay in the saddle, so we remind him. Tomorrow, for better or worse, he will know the swing around for a second pass. Hooves drumming on the truth. I hope he won’t be too angry. I am one match away ground and CRASH, but this time my opponent is thrown from winning the Tournament, like my brother before me and from the back of his horse. His foot catches in the stirrup and my father before him. I will make them proud tomorrow.
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*** hold out? Sixth pass, CRASH. My lance shatters against Sir Ethan’s shoulder as his lance slides of mine, throwing This is it. I have just this one match and it’s all over. him of balance and of the back of his horse. Quinn and I decided that we would have another maid tell my parents that I would be late to the Tournament, so they A cloud of dirt rises of the ground from where Sir Ethan wouldn’t look for me right away. Once the match got going, has landed. I drop my lance and slow Tempest, wheeling they would be far too engrossed to bother wondering where him around to face my father. He rises from his throne and I am. The lies would soon be over. extends an arm towards me.
Quinn’s hands are steady as she helps me into my armour. “The champion of the Isles Tournament!” his voice booms, We don’t talk. Finally, she hands me my helmet. I nod to flling the whole arena. her and pull it on. It’s time. Time for me to take of my helmet and reveal “You can do this,” Quinn says as I leave the tent. my identity.
Sir Jeremy waits outside my tent. “Good luck,” he mutters I, Princess Xanthe, future Queen, have won the most esteemed and slaps me on the back. jousting tournament in all the realm, just like my father and brother before me. I should be happy, I should be ecstatic, but I mount Tempest and enter the ring. Sir Ethan enters at I’m scared of my father’s reaction. I want him to be proud the other end. I heft my lance, it’s time to live up to my of me. Slowly, I reach up and take of my helmet. Inky black family’s history. waves cascade like a waterfall, hanging down my back. Hair The trumpet sounds and the familiar thunder of Tempest’s that matches my mother’s. I stare into my father’s shocked hooves fll my ears. Closer, closer, line up my lance, and eyes, dark sapphire blue just like mine, as the entire arena CRASH. Both lances shatter, I come very close to losing my falls silent. Every eye is on me. My mother stands, but I don’t seat, but at the last minute I grab Tempest’s mane and hold move – my heart pounding. on. A roar goes up from the crowd. I don’t have time to fgure out who they’re cheering for before grabbing a new lance and “Xanthe, Princess of the Isles, heir to the throne, Tournament facing Sir Ethan for the second pass. CRASH. It’s easier to keep Champion,” my father’s voice rings out into the silence. my seat this time. Sir Ethan seems shaken, but he keeps his His lips twitch and a smile spreads across them, reaching seat too. Third pass, CRASH. My lance doesn’t break, so I hold to his eyes. onto it. Fourth pass, CRASH. Both lances shatter. Fifth pass, CRASH. I’m getting tired, how much longer can either of us The crowd erupts, celebrating their future Queen.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 95 This page has ben intentionaly left blank.
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 fnd 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- fve-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 ofice 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’ ofice 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 of the banister and ran to give Helen a hug. Helen let her, still trying to fgure out how she could be at her apartment. Last she checked, Audrey had been recruited to work with the generals
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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. February 24th, 1942 A big, square box with a handle and hinges. She didn’t need “Now go out there and get the story of the century!” to unlatch it to know what it was, and her excited squeal was Boxer yelled. followed by a mad dash to fnd her box of old letters, all typed using similar machines. Lila eagerly sat down and opened the Helen sighed. The twenty-odd men who had all been listening large lid of the typewriter. to Boxer’s speech were all about to print him free money in
The vintage keys were at least sixty years old, but they still the hopes of getting a job in the dingiest ofce of The New depressed as well as they ever did, having been taken care of York Times. She couldn’t even pity them for being so desperate extremely well over the years. Lila typed and typed for hours, because, at the moment, she was one of the men about to quickly learning the functions and workings of her machine. By grovel for work. No one here was about to hire a woman to midnight, Lila was so tired that she fell asleep right in her chair, write articles, hard times or not. Helen had been forced to tuck hair sprawled over the desk and right hand pointing almost her hair into her hat and wear one of Charles’ old suits to get directly at a seventy-fve-year-old inscription under the base. this so called “interview.”
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 97 The street outside the Times’ ofce was even more crowded “Not sure they ever will.” with people than usual. A boatload of soldiers had come “You’d be surprised. Heard rumours around the base that in the day before, and they all looked to be milling around they’re thinking of bringing in the odd one here and there – looking for speakeasies and girls. Helen tried to avoid them what with this war going on. They’re really looking for nurses. as she walked back towards her apartment. It was easier said Maybe you’d be better of as one of them.” than done, but she was only stepped on twice by the time she reached the bottom of the steps. “For your information,” Helen said testily, “I just came from an interview at the Times.” “Hey doll. Took you a while.” “I was just teasing. How’s your mum?” Helen looked up, surprised. “Audrey!” Helen let herself relax as she talked to Audrey, kicking of Audrey’s caramel curls bounced as she hopped of the banister her loafers and tossing her hat across the room. She talked a and ran to give Helen a hug. Helen let her, still trying to fgure little about how her mother was managing with the payments out how she could be at her apartment. Last she checked, she and Charles sent, which led to talking about Charles and Audrey had been recruited to work with the generals training how Helen was worried that her brother had enlisted. Audrey soldiers overseas. changed the subject to work again before Helen could think “Guess who was shipped here to be head of recruitment?” too much about it. Audrey said cheekily. “Well, you must be doing alright. This place is nice, and you’re “Of course you were.” still helping out with your mum.”
The two women went inside, and Helen made tea for the both Helen shrugged. “When I can. I’ve been working so much I of them. As she stirred in the sugar, Helen glanced back at wore through my favourite shoes last week. That job at the Audrey who was reading the latest issue of the Times and felt Times would be pennies from heaven compared to what I’m a pang of envy. Audrey’d never had any trouble getting respect earning at the agency and writing put together. If only I had or a good job. Her father had always been held in high esteem the story to nab it.” as a corporal, which meant that after years of experience and “You’ll fgure that out. You always have.” training at his side, Audrey had been ofered her job as an army General. She’d worked hard to get it, but she had it – which was Helen greatly appreciated Audrey’s support. Her words echoed more than Helen could say. through her mind as they fnished their tea. You always have.
“Are you still the only broad out there?” she asked Audrey, In the days after Audrey’s visit, Helen spent every waking handing her a cup. moment hunting down her story. She followed executives, police, and even soldiers to try and fnd a lead. Helen was frst “Yes ma’am. They haven’t found another gun-trained skirt to on the scene of any crime and front row at every conference in replace me yet,” Audrey joked. New York City. She even wore through another pair of shoes.
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After three weeks of intense scouting, Helen was forced to The general picked up the phone with a slight grunt. conclude there was no story to be had. She returned home “Hello?” he asked disinterestedly. following a press conference about war strategies. It might have made a decent article if every newspaper – the Times Helen panicked. “Hey, sir. How’s it going?” included – wasn’t already there. Helen kicked of her loafers “I’m sorry?” and fopped face-down onto her couch, nearly poking herself in the eye with a card that was sticking out from between “Uh, this is General Prince, sir. You were expecting my call?” the cushions. “Robert? This phone must be on the fritz, you sound like “Oh, applesauce!” she yelled, rubbing her cheek. a woman,” said Eisenhower.
Helen pulled the card out from between the cushions and “No, sir. His daughter, General Audrey Prince.” blinked at it. When her eyes came into focus, she read Audrey’s “Oh, Aubrey! How are you? Are they still making you train scribbles: those new recruits I’m sending you?” chuckled Eisenhower. D.D. Eisenhower (Gen.) – In charge of new rec. strat. “Yes, sir. It’s quite the job,” Helen answered, trying to be 555-0623 simultaneously vague and explicit. Helen’s heart futtered. “D.D. Eisenhower,” Dwight Eisenhower. “Did you get my letter about the new strategies?” He was one of the high-ranking Generals in the army, which must be what “Gen.” meant. Audrey had written he was “in “I haven’t read it yet, sir. I thought it was odd that you were put charge of new rec. strat.,” new recruitment strategies. This is it, in charge of them, not that you aren’t able, sir.” Helen thought. This is the story that’s going to get me that job. “It certainly isn’t my primary focus. As you’ll read in the letter, Helen practically leaped over to her phone – which was things aren’t going as well as we’d hoped.” extremely old and worn, given she could barely aford it to Helen decided to employ a technique she’d been taught begin with – and dialled the number on the card as fast as she the frst time she’d interviewed someone. By just letting the possibly could. It took a minute to get an answer, and when she General ramble on about the state of afairs, she gained enough did, Helen was almost surprised to hear a light female voice. information to write a story that would rock New York to its “Dwight Eisenhower’s line, who’s speaking?” Helen hesitated. core, if it had not been for …
“It’s Audrey Pr- I mean, General Audrey Prince,” she said “You do understand that I’m to deny this phone call ever quickly, hoping the secretary wouldn’t question her. happened in case this becomes public?” Helen cursed away from the receiver. “Ah, yeah he said you’d be calling. I’ll patch you through.” “Of course, sir. You didn’t say a word.” There were a few silent seconds, during which Helen gave a sigh of relief and then tried to focus on her new, bigger problem. ***
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 99 Any self-respecting publisher would have sawed of his right “Guy like you, must be a work thing. Investments?” arm to publish Helen’s story, that is, any self-respecting “Journalism. Need a source for a big piece. But apparently all publisher who was willing to overlook the fact that she had no the soldiers out there aren’t high-ranking enough to know sources on a story that called into perspective just how bad the what’s going on in their own organization.” war was. So, in short … “Well, hey. I’m a private. Maybe I can help.” “No self-respecting publisher would overlook the fact that you have no sources on this, Masters,” Boxer said plainly, staring at Helen spent a full ten minutes going over what General Helen the next day. “Whatever this huge story of yours is, you Eisenhower had said over the phone, looking for any sign that need some kind of ace to back you up. You still have two days.” he knew what she was talking about – or had at least heard rumours about it. Finally, the private shook his head. Two days did not seem to be enough time to even start looking for someone to confrm the story, let alone fnd someone “I’m sorry, haven’t heard anything like that.” credible. Helen took to hanging around the docks where the It was at this point that Helen decided she was out of ideas. She soldiers left on an almost daily basis. She tried desperately to went home and fopped once again onto the couch, hating the get their attention, even resorting to her blandest outft (or, as fact that it wasn’t the frst time that week. There was only one she liked to look at it, the one that made her look most like the thing Helen could think to do. businessmen who she sometimes saw around Wall Street). “Hey, Audrey. How’s it going?” “Listen, fat-head,” grumbled an irritable soldier after Helen had asked him about the new recruits, “that’s above my pay grade. Audrey helped Helen sort through her day over the phone, and In fact, it’s above the pay grade of every hard-boiled soldier on she listened to Helen’s explanations and stories about the dock this dock. Do yourself a favour and stop wasting your time.” and the bar. Audrey seemed oddly quiet, but Helen ignored it so she could get everything out. In the end, Audrey had only Helen wasn’t in the mood to chase army recruits around the one question. dock, no matter how desperately she needed a source. She ducked around a pair of women who were out shopping and “And how exactly did you get Dwight Eisenhower’s private taking their time watching the soldiers mill around the dock, number?” Helen froze. shaking her head. The bar she found herself in front of by “I, uh, found it on a card that you left in my couch.” coincidence seemed like the best idea she’d had all day. It took Audrey quite a while to answer. “I thought so. Well, “Scotch,” she said to the bartender, taking a seat at the bar. seeing as you’ve called the general without permission while impersonating me, you might as well just say I’m your source.” “Rough day?” said a man a few seats down. Helen couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you serious?” “You have no idea,” Helen answered, fghting the urge to down her drink. “Well, yeah. I’ll always help out my best doll.” Audrey laughed.
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“Thanks, Audrey! I won’t forget this!” Helen said excitedly. “But the position,” Helen mumbled.
“I know you won’t. But, Helen?” “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 “Yeah?” announce it. Congratulations.” “Next time just ask, and I’ll call for you.” The announcement did not go over well with all the other WARTIME TAKES ITS TOLL candidates. Some pouted about it, and most grumbled their by H. Masters discontent. Only Helen was grinning ear to ear. She tried to May 12th, 1942 hide her happiness until everyone had shufed out of the ofce, only to get shoved out of the way by a man who would The raging war in Europe is impacting America more than have done well as a soldier. we had previously suspected. Our new source reports that the army’s recruits are dwindling – so much so that Generals “Watch where you’re goin’ tiny,” he spat bitterly. in charge of recruitment are considering the involvement “Aw, come on, I’m sure he’s average height for a broad his age,” of women on the battlefeld. Previously, women were only said another man, laughing. allowed on the feld to tend to injured soldiers, but never to fght themselves. Now, the conditions seem so dire that we Helen took of her hat, shook out her hair, and grinned at will have no choice but to take every helping hand we can get. them. “As a matter of fact, I am.” Page 2b Lila stirred in her sleep. As she turned over and tried to readjust “Masters, this may be the most revolutionary story I’ve ever the pile of papers that had become her makeshift pillow, seen,” Boxer said in awe, scanning the article. Helen beamed. the light of her lamp lit up the etchings on the base of the “I can’t print this.” typewriter.
“What? You just said-” “To Helen, Congratulations on the new job. Love Audrey.”
“Do you know what kind of havoc it would cause if this was released to the public? There’d be mayhem!”
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 101 RUO XUAN AN is a student in Medicinal The Pyramid 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 fnd a place for their new pyramid.
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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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 103 Memories food 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 fared. 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
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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 scientifc 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 diferent 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 ofer 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.
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Epitaph Rewritten
PHOENIX ALISON is a University of Waterloo alum.
I was only fve years old when I frst met the old woman at walk. We had just moved to a new town, and while my mother the end of the lane, who my parents afectionately referred to and I quickly became acquainted with the neighbourhood, as Ms. Yvette. “This is my daughter, Rachel,” my mother said, I was happy that our evening walks, and visits to Ms. Yvette’s smiling down at Ms. Yvette who was tending to hydrangeas. garden, became tradition. Bent over the fowers, the woman’s large eyes were on par with mine. With her hand outstretched over the tiny bushels As the years passed, I accompanied my mother on fewer of blues and purples, she drawled, “It’s so nice to meet you, evening walks. Instead, I would run down the street or take little one,” giving the most delicate handshake as her eyes my bike to the park to meet my friends, whirring past Ms. transformed into little half-moons, deepening the creases Yvette’s garden and house along the way. On sunny days, around her eyes. With a hand on the small of her back, she she’d be outside and often wave me over, using the entirety of ushered me to play in her garden that occupied the entirety of her wingspan. This made her invitation impossible to miss. her front lawn. “Well, she looks just like you,” Ms. Yvette told Sometimes, she’d briefy chat before wishing me well, other my mother before I tuned out of the grown-up talk and turned times she’d have cookies and share stories with me. Often, she into the garden. Lost between thick, lily stems, hedges of roses, shared gardening tips or told me of the newest blossom in and a white sculpted bird bath, I only returned to reality when her garden. Even though her garden eclipsed her house in the my mother called out, beckoning me to continue our evening summer, she knew its every detail.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 107 Ms. Yvette taught me how to press fowers, which fowers were At once, the four of them ran over, grabbing at the box. edible, which ones helped the bees, and a plethora of other “Did your mom make these?” Sam asked, grabbing one as facts about fowers that only an encyclopedia could remember. soon as I opened the box. When she wasn’t sharing tidbits about optimal growing conditions for marigolds and peonies, she’d tell me about her “Actually, they’re from Ms. Yvette,” I said, barely fnishing the life, about her husband who had passed and how he had loved sentence before Jason looked at me, as if to ask, “who?” her, about her daughter who lived overseas, and even about “You know, Ms. Yvette. She lives at the end of the lane,” I said, how she had lived in London, which I found fascinating. Over pointing to her house. time, she sent me cards and gifts on holidays, and my parents would often help her with more strenuous household chores. “Gross!” exclaimed Jason, immediately spitting out the cookie. “You know she’s a witch, right?” The others followed suit, There was a hot August afternoon and, at the age of eleven, throwing theirs on the ground. I wanted to spend time with my friends more than ever. As usual though, Ms. Yvette was in her yard, waving me over “These cookies are probably poisoned,” “She’s so dirty,” “My with her slow and trembling, but unmistakable, motion. I 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 steered my bike over, and a smile stretched across her entire gossiping about Ms. Yvette. I stared back in shock, quickly face. Asking where I was of to, I told her I couldn’t chat trying to protest that she was really nice. Emily shook her head long, since I was meeting some friends. “Very well, dear,” she and shot down my defenses with malicious laughter. “Rachel, nodded, raising her hand in protest, “just one minute.” When that woman’s crazy,” Jason sneered before taking the box from she returned, she gently handed me a small box. “Biscuits,” she me and chucking it like a frisbee, ensuring it landed on Ms. smiled, “for you and your friends.” Hastily, I thanked her and Yvette’s property. gave a quick hug before speeding past the end of the lane and into the park where my friends were already waiting. That was the frst encounter I had where my friends expressed cruelty towards Ms. Yvette, but not the last one. In the years “Rachel! About time!” Emily called out. that followed, I’d hear stories of what they’d do. From mocking “Whatcha got in the box?” asked Jason, to which I yelled, her slightly hunched posture, imitating the way she spoke, and “Cookies!” even sneaking into her garden at night and clipping her
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tulips. They high-fved each other, and I joined in, saying that Word spread quickly. Classmates learned of Ms. Yvette’s passing they should’ve clipped more since she probably wouldn’t even and responded like a distasteful epitaph. At best, some were notice. I laughed along with my classmates but felt guilty as indiferent. At worst, they ridiculed her. The topic came up soon as I walked past Ms. Yvette’s house on my way home from at lunch and Sam chided, “I hope someone clean moves into school. I knew that she would miss those tulips. her house and cuts down that eyesore of a garden.” Everyone laughed at Ms. Yvette’s expense again – except for me. When I was seventeen, I remember coming home from school one afternoon. My mother came downstairs and met me in “Ms. Yvette had the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen. If the kitchen as I was fxing myself a snack. “Rachel,” my mother anyone cuts it down, it’s because they could never maintain it said gingerly as she sat down at the table, not making eye- as well as she did,” I retorted, walking away from the table. contact. I grimaced. It was worrisome whenever my mother That evening, I passed the supermarket on my way home wasn’t her gregarious self. “Yes,” I started, joining her at the and then passed Ms. Yvette’s empty house. The garden loomed table. She breathed deeply and then said, “You should know over and onto the sidewalk, unyielding. I walked straight that Ms. Yvette passed away last night. I know she cared about to my front yard and began to dig. It wasn’t long before my you a great deal.” I felt my jaw clench and my forehead crease, mother had caught a glimpse and wandered outside to see unable to bring forward any words. My mother stood up to what I was doing. She sat silently beside me and picked up hug me, but I promptly excused myself and went upstairs, too the brown pouch from the supermarket. “Tulips?” she asked, sick to eat my after-school snack. reading the label.
Sick with grief, of course, but more so shame. I allowed others “Perennial tulips,” I corrected. to taint her memory, to paint her as some wretched crone, when, in fact, I knew Ms. Yvette best of all these people. Sick “For Ms. Yvette.” My mother nodded, understandingly. with regret. I should have protected her reputation when I I looked up at her with a half-smile and tears in my eyes. My was younger. Instead, I chose to rewrite it to her detriment, mother understood this to be the beginning of a garden of in exchange for some cheap laughs to make me feel as tribute, but for me, it would be an eternal reminder of my need for atonement. though I belonged. And yet, I know these people could never sympathize with me at this time.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 109 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: 519-888-4567, ext. 40439, or via email to [email protected] Counselling Services: 519-888-4567, ext. 32655
PHOTO: UNSPLASH ANNIE SPRATT 110 | University of Waterloo Fiction
She looks outside to what must be the most beautiful October day a mother and a wife but a useless sack of bones,” he barks in his still she has ever seen, but she sits there passively, unmoved by the deep formidable Hungarian accent. He’s tried so hard to soften it, but just ruby leaves on the trees and the gold sheen on the grass. Bela has like his drinking, it cannot be banished – only further concealed. gone for the day, his dark brown, leather tool belt fastened around his He is hoping to get a response from her, but she lies staring at him wide hips; a hammer, measuring tapes, unlucky lottery tickets, and with the green quilt pulled up to her chest, eyes glazed as if in a a small bottle of rye that he thinks she doesn’t know about converge trance, simply observing him. Her face is surprisingly childlike for in their pockets and hang from various straps. His hand saws, pliers, a woman her age, but to him she no longer presents as a woman and a myriad of other metal implements are jumbled in his dusty but rather a dog. Yelling at her is like scolding a golden retriever. It canvas bag. Who knows what else is in there? But she hasn’t thought knows it did something wrong and will look you in the eye with a about that, or the rye, in months. Summer felt like fog, spring felt like twinge of something like remorse but then circle back and retreat to winter, and the fall feels like dying. its bed. However, in the case of Martina, she never left the bed in the “What was your grandmother like?” I’d ask my father when frst place. I was young. Each time I asked, I hoped that a story would And, like a dog, you feel badly after you kick the poor thing and hear sprout from the empty space his response had brought me it whimper. to every time before. When I was twelve, I did a family history project. I quickly asked “I don’t know,” he would reply, “she died a long time before about my paternal great-grandparents, my thirst for answers to I was born.” long-held questions eclipsed my desire to go back to my room “Can I ask Grandpa?” I would chirp, usually from my booster and sulk. My father obliged and wrote down names as well as seat in the back of our VW Golf with manual crank windows. approximate places and dates of birth. He quickly printed his maternal grandparents’ information, but I sensed a pause as he “You can try,” he’d tell me in a discouraging way that was moved to his father’s parents. He surrendered their names in the undetectable to an oblivious and relentlessly curious form of his block-like scrawl: Bela Jozef Svani, 1927, Hungary, seven-year-old. and Martina Maria Szabo, 1932, Southern Ontario. My questions never lingered in those days. Unanswered Martina’s father took a ship in 1931 so that his future children questions were benign; they were like those white pieces of could escape the sufering and devastation of a childhood in fuf that look like bursting stars that foat through the air in an impoverished Eastern Europe. He was married to a woman summer months. If you’ve ever tried to trap one between your fastidiously committed to her destiny as a mother of good Catholic palms, you’ll know that you always miss, lose sight of it, and children in the Land of Opportunity. She decided on the ship that her forget it until the next one comes along. frst born son was to be a doctor. He died of polio when he was two. Then you get older, and you realize you missed. Martina helped dig the grave. When the next little boy was born, she prayed every night for the Lord to spare him. “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 It’s not until the winter I turn eighteen that I ask my father
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 111 about my great-grandparents again. The Golf died years ago; gulping before he softly blurts, “he was a terrible alcoholic.” I no longer have a booster seat, but the unflled hole that is His words settle in the air. This does not faze me too much. my paternal family history remains. We are on the highway One of my other great-grandfathers on my mother’s side drank. and my father is driving me back to school after the Christmas I should give my father a break, but I jump right to my next break. As we roll past the bleak January landscape, over the question. “What about your grandmother?” felds blanketed in snow, I see blue tarps over unfnished roofs. His eyes are calm and on the road. He braces for his own “Didn’t your grandfather build houses?” I ask, flling the air that response. “My grandmother killed herself when Grandpa was was usually occupied by a Creedence Clearwater Revival playlist. twenty-three. She spent most of her adult life depressed.” “He did,” my father says in the same factual way he did a I don’t know what to say, but I don’t have to because he goes on. decade ago. “Apparently, she was very smart. She had to teach my When it comes to speaking about his family – whether it’s the grandfather how to read. They met at a church that ran day of my aunt’s birthday, the time his mother locked him adult literacy groups. From how Grandpa talks, I think my outside as a fve-year-old in a snow storm as punishment, or grandfather used to hit her. Her parents were also Hungarian, what they ate for dinner as kids – it’s all the same, unemotional. and that’s about all I know about her to tell you the truth.”
I nod, expecting another silence. To my surprise, he continues. That’s the last thing he says. The hills turn into the university
Bela wants a drink. He is sitting on his strong haunches, leaning town, and we are consumed with conversations about back into his harness, feeling his own weight against gravity. He’s directions. I feel him shaking slightly when I hug him goodbye never fallen of a roof, it was never an option. He’s been scaling the at the entrance of my residence building. houses he and his father built since he was six. By the time he was *** fve, all the doctors had moved away. They had gone to the city where Later that winter, I fall into a severe bought of mental illness. there was more money, there wasn’t much to begin with, and not A disgusting blend of anxiety and sadness washes over me in even a nurse remained. Then came the expenses of the New World waves, alarm bells and long dark tunnels. I guess it’s genetic. I when they immigrated. It was better to not fall in the frst place. feel my great-grandmother’s spirit around me, mysterious and His mother flled the void of doctors with her medicine of gauze and despairing. I haven’t forgotten about my conversation with my alcohol. Bela remembers his bigger injuries (a bad cut and violent father. It lingers over me like a mobile for a child, inducing bump on the head), but what he remembers most is the beautiful wonder as I look up but perpetually out of reach. 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. That horrible winter, my roommate introduces me to a boy. Drinking it, he felt like he had ascended. He basked in a warmth that Made delusional by my mental state, I begin dating him. He was within him, holy. It was the happiest he ever was. eats away at me like goldfsh eat their food: gulping it down in small chunks and then shitting in their wake. “He was a house builder,” my father continues. “He moved to Canada with his family when he was eight,” he pauses, almost Martina often asked herself whether she had ever been happy.
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She thought back to the times when she wanted to be a teacher. There “It’s the same way I felt when I was frst pregnant.” was no money for teachers’ college when it was time for her to go. It’s not a pleasant trip out to the pharmacy. My mind, already There was her mother to help and siblings to clothe. She did have one the mental equivalent of a locust swarm, urges me to run. pupil; she taught her husband how to read. That’s how they met, in And I do. The grey slush makes sucking noises as my sneakers the Hungarian church basement. Bela was 27 when he came to her. plunge into half puddles. A broad-shouldered, sure man unable to read a nursery rhyme. I get there, zero in on the aisle, and pick up the overpriced box, It was the only time she ever felt she had the upper hand. which contains nothing more than two sticks with a woman I purge myself of the boy in March. It’s quick but messy. I am smiling stupidly on the package. I often wonder if they’ve really my own again. considered their target market. If the lady at the checkout counter is judging me, she doesn’t betray it. I surrender my However, I become increasingly lethargic. My appetite wanes. twenty dollars and bolt out. I take to collapsing on my bed at four o’clock in the afternoon, a feat not usually achievable by someone whose mind races I cannot wait to return home. I barge into the cheap sushi most hours of the day. I am queasy at all times. restaurant next door and plead with the hostess to allow me to use the washroom. She obliges but looks startled at this wild, I complain to my mother about these things. My father and young girl with soaked shoes, begging her for a toilet as if her I don’t ever speak on the phone. We haven’t talked about what life depends on it. he told me in the car. I wanted to know why he trembled, why he’d never spoken about it before then. I open a stall and strip of my jeans down to my ankles, faded purple underwear too. I open the box and pee on the stick. I am I am at my desk when my mother calls me. It’s an evening in in complete terror. The alarm bells are louder than they’ve ever March. I pick up the phone. been. I think about what it would be like to get an abortion. I “Hi, Mum.” think about what it would be like to give birth to a child whose father I despise. Will it have a fsh face just like him? “Hi, Sweetheart.” I can tell she’s about to say something I don’t like. 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 “Darling, you might be mad at me for telling you this. I know glance down, shaking so hard that the test looks like the blade you’re going through a really hard time and already have a of a fan. lot to worry about already … ” It’s negative. I sob deeply with relief. 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 …” My grandfather dotes on his granddaughters, and, although I know it’s unfair to my brothers, I can’t help but deeply relish it. She’s nearing the punchline. He is well suited to the role of the genial patriarch. He praises
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 113 us for our high physics grades, our pretty dresses at Christmas, by the warmth of home cooked dinners and heated Settlers of and our swim-team medals. He has bushy, white eyebrows and, Catan games with my brothers. I have medication, and I go to whenever we are out doing chores, loves talking to parents with therapy. All seems to be well. babies. “Oh, hello there! How are you?” he says, addressing the One day at dinner, my father makes an announcement. infant directly. “Grandpa’s sister is coming to visit.” However, his relationship with his children has been less I am surprised as he says this. I often forgot that my lighthearted. I hear it in my father’s cadence every time he Grandfather had sisters; Aunty Elizabeth and Aunty Ruth mentions him. There is an invisible weight to his voice, which were more conceptual notions than real people. carries a grey substance that nestles itself in the smaller cracks of my mind, begging me to ask what it is. “Which one?” I ask.
Peter learns of his mother’s death fve days after the afternoon “It’s Ruth,” he says, “she’s coming in three weeks and we’re when she passed. No details are given, but he knows from the terse, going over to Gran and Grandpa’s for dinner.” unemotional writing what must have happened. There was a brief I go on eating my beef and broccoli stir fry, my interest funeral with only his sisters, father, and his mother’s favourite brother piqued. Again, questions are forming and fnding their in attendance. They pray for the forgiveness of her soul from the footing in the grey residue of the portion of my brain saved Holy Father. Brother Marcus, Peter’s former history teacher from the for unfnished stories. county’s Jesuit high school, leads the service. He ofers no words of absolution, of sacred motherhood, nor dutifulness. She betrayed all For the months leading up to her mother’s death, Ruth checked on her earthly work with in one swift and fnal motion. Now she can her every morning before she caught the school bus – every evening only be administered the hope of forgiveness. Brother Marcus knows. too. Her mother had been like this before, but never for so long. Her The Jesuits also run the hospital and, for all their holiness, cannot father abandoned the room they shared three months ago, and he help gossiping. could barely bring himself to look at her.
Peter returns to college on the train an hour after they scatter Ruth is very lonely. She has considered leaving to live with her sister, her ashes. Liz, in the city, who is becoming a teacher. Although Ruth knows she should forgive her mother, she harbors a secret and sinful resentment Peter regrets what he did. He should have protected his sisters. He of her inertia, her laziness, and abandonment of motherhood. Every knew how sick his father was, but prayer and study seemed like time she goes to kiss her, she hears the chorus of her favourite hymn enough at the time. He found a girl and married her, then fed to from Sunday school: “God’s children work all through the day, and the States for a life of academia. There, he indulged in the guilt come the night we sleep and pray. Sinners do no more than lay.” and tragedy of others, the ones who lived distantly in the past, their stories of struggle made beautiful in Greek poetry. Ruth is tiny. She stands two heads shorter than her older brother, my grandfather. She is a neat woman and wears a His father drank himself to death a week after Peter’s wedding. practical jacket that makes her unusually broad shoulders look I am at home for my work term that fall, being rehabilitated smaller than they probably are. They are just like my aunt’s.
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“Liz and I always joked that Peter must be adopted,” I hear her when I hear a small, tearful voice foating up from the say as my grandfather opens the front door. “Oh, my goodness! kitchen – I quietly descend the stairs so I can listen. Hello everyone! It’s so nice to see you.” It’s Ruth. She sounds as though she can barely contain herself. My brothers, mother, father, and I shufe in, awkward hugs “Liz found it when she was cleaning out her storage unit. abound. We sit down in my grandparent’s living room, on the It was in Dad’s old tool bag,” she chokes. sofa that was fashionable in the 80s. My grandmother pours Ruth and my grandfather glasses of wine that are obscenely From her tone, I know that this is bad. But the test will be if generous, unaware of my parents’ glares as she pours herself I can hear anything from either of the men. I listen for my an even larger one immediately after. Chatter about cousins, grandfather or my father. Silence. I can almost see their faces grandchildren, family woes, and weddings commences. I steal etched into the stony expressions that I know they have. They glances at my father, who focused on eating his salmon pâté have looked like this before, my father at his best friend’s rather than conversing with his parents. funeral and my grandfather the day his beloved dog died. No tears, only motionless faces. Ruth turns to me, cutting through an argument between my grandparents on fresh versus frozen fsh. “Peter tells me that Ruth continues, “I just couldn’t help myself, I had to show you have an interest in family history. I have some lovely someone. I never knew they wrote this, I just feel so guilty.” photos of my sister’s baptism.” She begins to sob. The shame flls the kitchen. It’s intangible,
I respond, “Yes, Aunt Ruth, I would love to see them.” She pulls yet everywhere, and it rises like heat onto the landing where out her iPad and I add my email to her contacts. I’m standing rigidly, listening to everything. It feels like someone is pouring something cold and viscous down my Dinner is ready. We take our places around the table as my back. It tingles and paralyzes me. grandfather says a booming grace that you can very much feel. Silence again. I think I hear an intake of breath, promising After we have devoured an unusually fatty chicken, salty words of condolences and comfort, but instead I hear the parsnip mash, and a spiced chocolate cake, the family disperses. cofee grinder turn on violently, hitting my ears like a hammer My mother, grandmother, and brothers descend into the hitting a nail squarely on the head. My grandfather breaks the basement to watch Survivor. They love reality television. muteness. “Regular or decaf?” Playing the part of the obliging granddaughter, I linger, wiping up dollops of white vegetable mush and dark brown crumbs The end is what he means, to both my father and his sister. into my hand, depositing them in the compost. No more. We’re done. As they begin an awkward conversation over the merits of Colombian roasts, my heart sinks. The My grandfather dismisses me and tells me to join the rest of emotion, which I want so badly to hear from either man, has the family. Instead, I slip discreetly upstairs to see if I can fnd been further suppressed into a corner of their chest that is dark a pair of rollerblades my aunt told me she owned in high and very far away. school. I love artifacts, and I plan on asking to borrow them if I fnd them. No one knows that I am upstairs, which is why – It’s a miracle Martina got out of bed that morning. She didn’t even
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 115 abandon her quilted enclave to see the doctor fve days ago. Bela Gravity feels greater. The sensation as I’m reading the headline called him directly to the house, not because she hadn’t left the room isn’t like the roof collapsing, but more like acid leaking very for a month, but because she had started vomiting every morning and slowly into my consciousness. It stings but takes a while to eat was eating even less than usual. He visits during the day while Bela away. Before I can be completely blinded, I quickly take photos is working and Ruth is at school. Ruth, being just as smart as her on my phone. My hands are shaking. I wait to read it until I older brother and sister, thinks ahead and leaves a note for him to use am frmly under my quilt at home, having given a kiss on the the key underneath the fowerpot to enter the house. “She is on the cheek to Ruth and my grandfather upon leaving the house, second foor, in the frst room on the left,” the note reads. He does as their faces set with determined smiles. it says and enters. He conducts his examination with his metal tools I begin to read: that are in many ways just like her husband’s, only much cleaner and designed for more lucrative tasks. October 18th, 1974 Tuesday, police confrmed the death of a local woman, Martina He pokes, he prods, and he thinks. He discreetly gives her the Svani, who died by suicide on October 11th. “It’s the most diagnosis and leaves with his leather bag. She is left alone to disturbing thing I’ve ever seen on the job,” said Sgt. Michael contemplate her fate. Gatskill, who responded to the initial call made to Law When Ruth comes home that evening, she doesn’t see the empty Enforcement by the perpetrator’s husband, Bela Svani. bottle of sherry on the nightstand. Instead, she remarks to herself It became apparent during the autopsy that in addition to how peaceful her mother looks and smiles, thinking she may be self-injury, the woman had intended to murder a child she was better tomorrow. carrying before taking a blade to her wrists. I retreat upstairs to play with my grandparent’s cat, Mr. Detective Mark Roberts spoke with The Local Herald about the Tabby, and to mourn the encounter that could have revealed case. “This was clearly a deliberate abortion as well as a suicide,” everything to me that I ever wanted to know. As I coax Mr. he says, visibly disturbed as he recounted the situation from his Tabby to allow me to pet him, I hear heavy footsteps coming ofce at the Cedarwood Regional Police Department Quarters. up the grey carpeted staircase. They are my Grandfather’s. The woman in question had learned of her pregnancy the day I hear him go into his study and pause. He is silent. Five before she killed herself. The autopsy, as well as evidence at the minutes pass before I hear him return downstairs to a strained scene, indicated a “coat hanger” abortion was performed with an conversation between Ruth and my father. undisclosed metal implement from her husband’s workshop. I tiptoe to my grandfather’s study to fnd his desk aglow with the “This is a dark day for the community and all of God’s light of his screensaver, a cheerful, animated scene of tropical children,” said Father Brian, the priest who presides over Svani’s fsh with a crab that crawls along the bottom. There is a folded congregation. He noted that he had not seen Mrs. Svani at a piece of yellow, flthy newspaper on the table. I read the title: service for over four months. “What we must do is pray. These “Local Woman Takes Life of Unborn Child and Self in Brutal are devastating crimes, and our strength will be in our collective Abortion Suicide” grieving and penance.”
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By Adam Brown, with research from Mary Smith. 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, The next week, I get an email. It’s from Ruth to me, my and capable. grandmother, and mother. The patriarchs have been excluded from this communication. I read the email: She touches my stomach and looks me deep in the eyes.
“Hi all! It was me, she is saying, but her mouth doesn’t move. She lets go and dissolves. 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 I wake up in a peaceful lull but am soon arrested with what big, big sister! I see; my mind is painting broad strokes around the image of her graceful face. A heavenly glow surrounds her, with Thank you for the wonderful dinner Mariam. Send my love to eyes that meet your own from whichever angle you look Peter and the boys! at them. A woman in the light. I have rejected my family’s Big hugs, Catholic faith, but I see now that she is my saint: a martyr, Ruth/Aunty Ruth” not a thief.
I click the image attached and there she is: Martina, holding a I hear her story clearly. She was burdened with another life swaddled baby in front of the stone façade of the town church. even though she could not bear her own. The weight of her She stands about an inch shorter than my great-grandfather, husband, children, and church crushed her down through her who himself stands almost a foot less than the priest. The photo life, suppressing the light of her soul. A woman whose guilt in is black and white, but from the family history I know, which life was for her being, and in death for her absence. is not much more than a collection of whispers, I know I have These notions foat in my mind without words. Martina is her red hair. Her loose curls must have been vibrant that with me, and I see her for what she is, my protector. Her legacy morning – a day when she was ready to enjoy everything she is in my blood, and her story needs to be shouted loudly, had been told she would enjoy in life. because it’s also my own. What could she have been? I ask myself. My father is puttering around the kitchen doing chores. That night I dream of her. I see her in a blue dress with I tread down the staircase. “Good morning,” he says. carefully beaded patterns. She looks the same as she did in the “Morning dad.” 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 It’s Sunday. The day of the Lord. Now it’s my turn to preach. me. She touches my forehead and crosses me. She gently grabs “I want to talk to you about someone.” my shoulder, looking back over her shoulder as though she’s expecting someone to come in, guarding the entrance. Our
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 117 RAE is a student in the Faculty Just Conversations of Arts at the University of Waterloo.
In Taiwan, in a college classroom. “Really? ‘Cause I seem to have seen you zoned out at the end,” Angela said with a smirk. The bell chimed. The class had ended. Lou realized she had been staring into space for God knows how long. “Killing the “That’s because I was thinking,” Lou defended herself. Angela Angel in the House … what an avant-garde, Virginia Woolf,” Lou didn’t say anything. murmured. Gianna and Angela agreed with her. After a while she said, “You know, the other day, I was putting They had just fnished 20th Century British Literature with on my clothes and I was going to wear this V-neck thing, but Professor Duncan, and now Lou and Angela were heading one thought came into my mind, ‘you shouldn’t wear this. to grab some lunch. Gianna had class so she couldn’t join It’s too revealing. Girls shouldn’t wear clothes that are too them. They walked into a pasta house and both ordered the revealing.’ That’s kind of like the angel sneaking up my back daily special. and telling me this.”
“So, what do you think about today’s lecture? I’m kind of a Lou was a little bit surprised that Angela told her this but also fan of Virginia Woolf now,” Angela said with a little blush not surprised because they liked to talk about this stuf. on her face. Angela continued, “I know I’m not supposed care about what “Same! I’ve never been so focused in that class before,” other people think or what society’s expectations are … I’m said Lou. supposed to kill the angel,” and after a second pause, she added,
PHOTO: UNSPLASH PAPAIOANNOU KOSTASY 118 | University of Waterloo Fiction
RAE is a student in Systems Design Engineering at the University of Waterloo.
“which is ironic cause my name has ‘angel’ in it, but you know guys stopped inviting him. what I mean.” “Well, they just need two more guys to play,” said Lou. Lou nodded, “Yeah.” Their pastas arrived. “It’s hard to do, to “I know. But you know how many times the guys shamed me actually disregard gender ideology. Virginia Woolf probably for not participating in sports. Yes, I’m a guy who doesn’t like spent her whole life trying to fgure out how to do that. Like sports. What’s so wrong with that?” Shawn explained as his Duncan was saying, she wanted to fgure out what a woman’s face blushed with anger, but he cooled down within seconds. writing was and what a woman was because in her time “Anyway, where were we on the assignment?” he said and everything was so male-centric. I think we can sort of relate resumed talking to Lou about the revisions he thought would to that, even to this day.” improve their translations. To him, it was just another day. Angela nodded as a sign of approval and changed the subject Lou never imagined what it was like to grow up as a boy. She after they got a taste of the pasta. “Anyways, have I told you about me and Alex?” 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 “Oh, yeah. You told me he asked you out a few times. So, I guess dresses, but she was rather quiet; so, that probably brought you’re together, now?” Lou raised her eyebrows. her closer to the category of girls, if girls or women can be
“Yep.” Angela blushed a little. They fnished their pastas, talked categorized. But she was quiet because she was not confdent about other things, and went to their respective class. about herself. Growing up, Lou found herself outside of the box and couldn’t ft in. The girls at her school were drawing, Weeks later, in the classroom of Translation II. wearing skirts, and trying to look pretty – doing girl things. She “Oh, please, you gotta join us. We need two players to be able liked to grab a basketball and play under sweltering heat. That’s to qualify for the tournament.” 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 “I’m sorry. Nothing against volleyball, I just hate sports,” said scolded her. When she sat with her feet open, her father scolded Shawn, embarrassed. “Shawn, come on, you really don’t like her. When she beat everyone in the class in track and feld and sports? You don’t have to play competitively. You just need to got an invite from the varsity team, her parents said, “Why stand there, and we’ll take care the rest,” said the captain of the can’t you be more like a girl?” It seemed like everything she volleyball team. did was wrong, wrong for a girl to do. “Shawn probably felt that “I already told you I don’t like it! I don’t even want to be in the sometimes,” she thought, “being outside of the box, being the game!” Shawn was starting to get angry and fnally the other wrong b o y.”
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 119 A week later at lunch time. 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. “Hey, long time.” It’s Gianna. Her and Lou haven’t had classes Sometimes, she just wanted to sweat and make some shots. She together since British Literature. As usual, Gianna couldn’t talk would grab the ball in her hands, just like when she was a kid, for ten minutes without mentioning some man she randomly and walk towards the court. But the scene somehow always saw, either on the internet or on the street. “I think I really have stopped her for a moment. All men. The people on the court a thing for older men. Not old though, just a little bit older,” were all men (at least they all looked like biological males). she giggled. The idea of playing with a bunch of men scared her, making “Really? What is it about them? Only older men work for her uncomfortable. She wasn’t thinking about playing with you?” Lou asked without thinking. Lou was glad that they could them because, hey, it’s unlikely to happen. “They just had no have this kind of conversation without caring about other respect for female ballers,” Lou thought to herself. That’s part people’s opinions. 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 “I mean, yeah, probably older women too. You never know, court to play. But there were some days when there were not right?” Lou was kind of shocked that Gianna didn’t seem to be joking. enough open courts, or she was too overwhelmed with all the masculinity on the court that she would just leave. “Wow! Are you serious? I don’t think so. You are the straightest person I’ve ever met,” Lou said. But today was diferent.
Gianna laughed. “You’re probably right. But I do admire As she was struggling with herself, whether to play on this strong women, though. Sometimes they tend to be older, too. all male playing feld, a voice caught her attention. Somebody Hmm, maybe not attracted to them, I don’t know. We’ll see. was calling her. But what about you? Surely, you are more likely to do women “Lou!” She didn’t hear it at frst. “LOU! Hey, how are you? than me?” It’s Alex. We met a couple days ago.” “Well, I don’t know,” Lou laughed and smiled awkwardly. Oh yes, Alex. Angela’s new boyfriend. “Oh, hi. Of course “I guess I’m not against the idea.” I remember you,” said Lou. They changed the subject soon after and talked about food, “Are you here to play? Why don’t you join us? We are pretty class, and other things as if this conversation was nothing. Lou tired. Angela told me you are good at basketball,” Alex said thought about Virginia Woolf. In her time, this kind of topic with welcoming smile. was probably prohibited. Even ten years ago, this conversation would probably not be happening. Is it because of college, of “Yeah, sure! Thank you.” this liberal atmosphere, of her LGBTQ+ friends, of the progress The next day. they’ve made, or of the marriage equality law they had just passed? Lou had no idea. “Hey, I met your boyfriend yesterday. We played a little
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basketball together. He even invited a couple girls who couldn’t I said, ‘Yes.’ And I gave him my name and he took us to our fnd a court to join us,” said Lou. table. When we sat down, my girlfriend, Angela, was a little upset, or shall I say, disturbed. Before I tell you why she was “Oh, really? That’s nice of him to do that,” Angela said proudly. upset, can anyone tell me what went terribly wrong with the “Yeah, on the sports feld, men aren’t always likely to play information I just gave you?” The audience was silent. “No? with women,” said Lou. 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 “You know, he wasn’t like this when we frst met. He thought when he asked if we have a reservation.’ I said, ‘Yeah? What’s we had reached gender equality and was a bit confused when wrong about that?’ She was even more disturbed. ‘You don’t I complained to him about how society was treating women get it. We get that all the time. He looked to you because he unfairly.” assumed you’re in charge. That’s the privilege of being a man.’” “I guess he really is a nice guy. He has no bias against women There were mumbles in the audience. “It was in that moment playing sports,” said Lou as a compliment. that I realized how ignorant I was. I didn’t have to do anything and people would naturally look up to me, while women, “Maybe,” replied Angela. “Well, I did talk to him about gender like Angela, had to try, had to work hard just to be considered issues a lot, so … .” seriously. Guys, the men in the audience, I hope WE can all “Well, I guess you taught him well,” Lou said jokingly. see the invisible privilege we’ve been wearing. We should try to take it of if and when we can. I’d like to share one of my Three years later at a conference. favorite quotes with you. ‘When you’re accustomed to privilege,
“Let us welcome our frst speaker tonight. He is a ferce equality seems like oppression.’ I know a lot of guys have advocate for gender equity and human rights. Tonight, he’s probably never realized their privilege before but try not to act going to share with us his personal experience with this issue. too surprised when people ask for equality. All I’m asking for is Let us welcome Alex Frauenman to the stage.” a simple frst step. Put yourself in people’s shoes and empathize with them. That goes for all genders. To the women in the [Applause] audience, and people everywhere around the world, I just want to say that I see you, and I’m here for you. Thank you.” “Thank you. So, I’m only here to share a story, a story that drastically changed my life and helped me become an advocate [Applause] for gender equality. It is a very simple story, so don’t get too Among the thundering round of applause, Alex saw Angela, excited. The idea behind it is what I want to share with you.” Lou, Gianna, and Shawn in the front row with proud smiles on “One day, back in my college years, my girlfriend and I went to their faces, and many others clapping approvingly, some with a restaurant to have some dinner. The day couldn’t have been sparkling tears in their eyes. simpler and more normal. When we entered the restaurant, the waiter came to us and asked me, ‘Do you have a reservation?’
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 121 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: 519-888-4567, ext. 40439, or via email to [email protected] Counselling Services: 519-888-4567, ext. 32655
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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 fying 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, fngers splayed out in pursuit of the clouds.
“Maya!”
Hearing her father’s voice, the little girl jumped of 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 rufing 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 of, 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.”
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 123 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 beftting 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 frmly 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.
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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 fngers 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 fy.
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 fy. 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 refection 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.”
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OLIVIA MISASI is a student in Software A Life’s Work Engineering at the University of Waterloo.
As the clock struck midnight, a loud cry pierced through arms. Before she realized, the bundle was being passed to her. the already existent screams of pain coming from Margaret’s Letting go of her mother’s hand, she took the baby into her mouth as she collapsed back onto the hospital bed. She arms, gently, as though the child was made of glass. closed her eyes and took a deep breath as the nurse took Staring down at her daughter’s face, she felt something stir her newborn daughter away to be cleaned. inside her chest: foodgates of emotion pouring out of her, “You did it,” her mother whispered proudly, gently urging her to protect her child from all that life would throw brushing a piece of sweat soaked hair from Margaret’s her way. She traced her fnger along the side of her daughter’s eyes. “And she’s beautiful.” face, making note of the roundness of her cheeks, the softness of her skin, and the tiny pufs of air she let out as she breathed. She opened her eyes wearily, slightly glazed over from the Everything about her was so perfect, unblemished. Smiling pain-induced haze. Blinking away the harsh fuorescent slightly to herself, she went to move her hand away, but found lighting of the hospital room, she grabbed onto her mother’s herself unable to do so. Clenched around her fnger was her hand, wishing instead to be holding onto her daughter for the daughter’s small fst, refusing to let go. frst time. The two women waited in silence, too tense to be comfortable, the air heavy with apprehension; a feeling that Looking down at the sleeping form, she whispered, “I promise was heightened by the clacking of loafers across the linoleum you, Victoria, you are going to have the life I dreamed of tiles, breaking the silence. Squeezing her mother’s hand tightly, having, and I refuse to accept anything less for you.” Margaret’s eyes brushed past the fgure in bright blue scrubs ***** and focused on the small bundle in soft pink nestled in her
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 127 “Alright, shift’s over. Clock out before you leave. Don’t clinked against the metal of the container. The last empty think you’ll be getting paid overtime if you forget to punch seat was beside a man in an obvious deep sleep. Margaret your card.” decided that her only option was to stand until she made it to her next stop. The booming voice of her supervisor carried over the sounds of clanging metal and workplace chatter. Margaret wiped her Grabbing onto the bright yellow pole in front of her, grease-stained hands on the dull-grey fabric of her uniform. Margaret waited for the bus to come to life and resume its Tucking some loose hair underneath her bandana, she began journey. When the doors closed and the light above blinked a to put away various items that had failed inspection before light green, Margaret tightened her grip and the bus lurched standing up from her small wooden stool in the corner; as forward. She swayed with the bus’s movement, almost losing she did so, Margaret stretched her arms behind her, feeling her balance whenever the bus made a sharp turn. After a few her shoulder blades contract and her back faintly crack with more stops, the bus was tightly packed, and Margaret could a sharp pain. Sighing in relief, she fumbled around her purse, not even turn her head without accidentally touching the looking for her punch card, and made her way over to the staf person next to her. Contracting in on herself, she waited exit. The factory foor was littered with various parts and ill- impatiently for the bus to reach her stop, anxiously tapping made products that her coworkers had failed to put away. her fngers against her thigh. Over the course of the journey, she had been bumped into fve times, tripped twice, and was Maneuvering her way through the various workbenches, she even sneezed on. Just as Margaret was ready to get of the bus found herself shying from the gaze of the factory men around and walk the remainder of the trip, it pulled up to her stop. her. She kept her eyes locked on the foor in an attempt With a fair number of “excuse mes,” she managed to squeeze to avoid the predatory stares. Despite her eforts, she felt out of the doors. vulnerable and exposed, making her skin crawl in discomfort. She had clocked out so quickly, she hadn’t realized what she As soon as she got of the bus, she started walking – this time had done until she stufed the card back in her pocket and to the hotel across the street. She checked her watch when she walked out the door. arrived at the front doors. Alright, she thought, I still have a few minutes before my shift starts. 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 There was no time to admire the decor spread throughout herself and covered the bottom of her face with her collar. The the lobby or the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. late autumn chill prompted her to walk faster; she broke into Margaret made a beeline for the staf room the second she a sprint when she saw her bus approaching the terminal, her entered the hotel. In the room, she quickly shed her factory worn-out boots slapping against the pavement. Making it to uniform and, from her locker, took a change of clothes. She the station in the nick of time, she took a moment to catch squirmed uncomfortably as she changed into her tacky, blue, her breath as the bus doors opened with a faint hiss. Stepping button-down shirt, the scratchy fabric irritating her skin. onto the bus, she dropped her fare into the coin box. She made Before leaving the room, she looked herself once over in the her way down the aisle, looking for an empty seat as her coins mirror, tightened her ponytail and fxed her bandana. Satisfed
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with her appearance, she walked across the lobby to the of the driveway. Margaret trudged up the front steps and dug elevator and pushed the button that then lit up. She kept her her keys out of her purse. The keys clanked against each other eyes trained on the screen above the elevator displaying the as she twisted the door handle and entered the house. As she foor number in blinking red lights. kicked of her shoes and hung up her coat, she made a note of the unopened envelopes littering the welcome mat. Stepping As the number turned into an L, the elevator doors opened, over what was bound to be a variety of fyers and unpaid bills, and she stepped inside. After pressing the button for the 8th she climbed up the stairs, careful not to make a sound. She foor, Margaret sagged against the elevator railing. Leaning walked down the hall to the last door on the left and gently her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes and sighed pushed it open. as weariness seeped into her bones. Regardless of how tired she was from the factory, when Margaret left the elevator, The room, with the exception of a small night-light plugged she resigned herself to the task at hand: making sure every into the wall, was completely dark, but Margaret could still unoccupied room was spotless before the new guests arrived. make out the form of her daughter passed out underneath her She sighed again. This day just keeps getting longer and longer. sheets and a pile of stufed animals. Stepping over various toys scattered across the foor, she made her way to her daughter’s Hours passed, far too slowly for Margaret’s liking, and it bedside. She knelt down beside the bed and lightly kissed her eventually reached 11:00PM, marking the end of her daughter’s forehead. workday. She wiped the sweat from her brow and pushed herself of the cold tile foor. Taking the bucket of cleaning “Goodnight, Victoria,” she whispered. “Sweet dreams.” supplies, she left the hotel room and locked the door behind *** her. Dragging her feet, Margaret made her way back to the staf room. She shoved the cleaning supplies into a spare “Mom, hurry up! We’re going to be late,” Victoria yelled from locker and hastily grabbed her belongings. Without looking the doorway, anxiously checking her watch. back, she left the hotel and returned to the bus stop, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Margaret replied as she grabbed embarking on her journey home. her purse from the kitchen table, meeting her daughter at the On the bus ride home, she found herself fghting to stay awake. front door. The two left the house and she handed Victoria Her eyes, heavy with sleep, were fxed on the display showing the car keys before locking the door behind her. Turning the various street names, waiting for hers to appear. Just as her back around, she stifed a laugh when she caught sight of her eyelids shut and she started to drift of to sleep, “Rosewell Ave” daughter eagerly waiting inside of the car. Victoria, having run blinked on the screen above, and she forced herself out of her out of patience, made eye contact with her mom and gestured seat. Exiting the bus, she nodded her thanks to the bus driver for her to hurry up. and walked up the driveway to her house. Margaret slid into the driver’s seat and started the car as Sandwiched in between two others, the rust-coloured brick Victoria immediately turned on the radio. The hum of the house faded into the background. A small, bright pink bike engine was instantly overpowered by the radio’s Top 40 pop lay abandoned on the grass, stark in contrast to the dull grey hits of the week. She tried to keep her attention focused on the
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 129 road ahead of her, but Margaret couldn’t help but steal glances loud conversations fell to a soft hush as the school’s principal at her daughter; it had been months since she had seen her so stepped in front of the microphone. carefree. Until recently, whenever Margaret came home from “Good afternoon, friends, family, and faculty,” he started. work, her daughter was locked away in her room fnishing a “Thank you all for joining us. And to the soon-to-be graduates, paper or studying for an exam. Whenever she went to check today marks the beginning of a new chapter in your life.” on her, textbooks were strewn across the room, loose sheets of paper covered the foor, and Victoria was the centre of the Margaret soon tuned out his voice, choosing to focus her hurricane. However, watching her daughter sing along to the attention on the group of seniors sitting in the front three radio, with her eyes sparkling and a smile on her face, was a rows. She scanned the backs of heads, hoping to identify welcome change. her daughter in the crowd of students, but she had no luck. Looking around, she realized that most parents had pulled In her opinion, Margaret found herself pulling into the high out their phones – checking their emails or reading a news school parking lot all too soon. Before she had even parked article – instead of listening to the monotonous drone of the the car, Victoria was already unbuckling her seatbelt and principal’s welcome speech. She followed suit and scrolled getting ready to leave. The second the car stopped moving, through her Facebook feed until she registered the principal the teenager opened the car door, shouted, “I’ll see you in the saying, “And with that, let us begin to welcome the graduates audience,” and ran into the building in search of her friends. onto the stage.” Shaking her head, Margaret made her way to the gymnasium. Turning of her phone, she refocused her attention on the Posters spewing inspirational quotes were plastered on the stage and waited for her daughter to appear. Names were walls of every single hallway she walked down, making up called in alphabetical order, and students that Margaret had for chipped paint and the endless rows of bland grey lockers. never heard of walked on and of the stage. As the announced Above the gym entrance, a banner hung from the ceiling with names moved closer to the end of the alphabet, Margaret’s ears “ConGRADulations Graduates” painted in large blue letters. pricked up and she became more engaged in the ceremony. The doors were propped open and Margaret could already see the efort Victoria and her classmates made to transform the The moment Victoria’s name was called, Margaret started gymnasium into something more lively. Vibrant blue and gold cheering wildly. With tears pricking the corners of her eyes, streamers were strung from the bleachers and silver balloons Margaret watched her daughter walk up to the stage with rolled across the freshly waxed foor. Rows of white folding her head held high. Victoria’s heels clicked against the foor chairs were positioned facing the make-shift stage, and some as she walked across the stage. After shaking hands with the parents had already begun to take their seats, flling up the principal, Victoria looked out into the audience with her rows quickly. diploma in hand. Making eye contact with her mom, her smile grew, and Margaret’s heart burst with pride for all that her Margaret hurried to take a seat before the ceremony started. daughter had accomplished. Finding an empty seat near the front of the stage, she sat down and made idle chit-chat with the parents beside her. The ***
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“What do you mean you’re dropping out?” Margaret shouted The ringing of her cellphone broke her train of thought. into the phone. Looking down, she saw Victoria’s name light up the screen. It rang once. She swiftly hit decline. “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.” Victoria was breathing heavily and, every so often, let out Margaret, visibly trembling with anger, took a breath and a sharp hiss of pain. Her cheeks were fushed, and her hair replied, “Let me rephrase. What makes you think you’re was plastered to her sweat-soaked forehead. Gripping her allowed to just quit university?” husband’s hand, she clenched her teeth as another wave of contractions hit her. An audible snife and shuddering breath were heard over the phone. “It’s been two years and I hate it here. The work, “When is this going to be over?” she groaned, exhaustion the environment, the people – it’s all too much and I can’t taking over her entire body. She had been in the hospital bed take it anymore.” for nearly thirteen hours and, with each passing hour, the stark white of the walls become colder and more uninviting. “And you think that means you can just drop out?” Margaret questioned, her stubbornness overpowering any empathy she The nurse beside her looked at her with sympathy before held for her daughter. “Do you think I enjoyed every minute saying, “Anytime now. Just one more push.” of my life? Do you really think I enjoyed going to work “Come on, babe,” her husband said softly. “You heard her. everyday or the people I worked with? Of course not!” She Just one more push – you can do it.” could hear Victoria start to speak over the line, but she cut her of. “Did I quit? No. Because I didn’t have a choice, and Another wave of contractions rolled over her, causing her neither do you. That’s fnal.” screams to fll the room once more. For a brief moment, the room was completely silent before a soft cry echoed With her last words, she hung up on her daughter. It may of the walls. The doctor at the foot of her bed looked up be selfsh, but she refused to let years of labour amount to at her and smiled. nothing: the years spent saving every penny, making budget cuts, and working twice as hard to provide her daughter with “Congratulations,” he said. “It’s a healthy baby boy.” an education to better herself and her life. Margaret knew And Victoria let out a sigh of relief. frsthand 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.
2020 HeForShe Writing Contest | 131 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. This page has been intentionally left blank. LEGACY