If someone is not satisfied with an outcome, they edit it. They will actively go out of their way to discover and eliminate the mistake. Though the art of editing is typically associated with the field of journalism and writing, it can be applied to human interaction or, in a layman’s term, our social life.

We have all sat down and critically examined our group of friends, to determine who still fits in with the tone and structure of our life. Like a misspelled word, the ones who do not make the cut are scratched out permanently in red ink.

Having power is simply another means of control. Power over a situation, your body, or another person is naturally seductive, and ever forbidden.

Getting the upper hand is a game that everyone plays, but no one admits to. It is the ultimate game of wit for those with a hunger and passion for the cerebral. People are inherently controlling. This is the dark, seedy underbelly of humanity that is rarely discussed.

While I waited at a red light, I saw him walking, a steady, but abrupt pace. One leg stiffer than the other. He wore the same leather jacket, the ring in his eye brow. His long black hair hung around a stoic face, a face that seemed hard. I recognized him instantly.

A few weeks ago, we met at a rally in front of the children’s aid society. I asked him why he was there. “Judged unfit” he said, “Taken,” “No goodbyes.” He told me his child died in foster care. The most important thing taken from him, all he had left was the power to protest, to make them think they had not broken him yet.

The masked vulnerability in his gait, in his solid gaze staring straight ahead, holding his coffee in a paper cup. Tears sprang to my eyes as I watched his walk. Trying to embody toughness, to show disinterest through his walk – but his entire being cracking with sorrow.

In second year, I went through a phase where I made lists of the things I loved. These lists would not be of boring things like ‘music’ or ‘the colour blue’, but instead they were filled with random things like ‘organizing my iTunes library,’ ‘laughing so hard I start to cry’ or ‘eating a greasy breakfast with friends after a crazy night out’. Recently, I was reading through my old journals and came upon a number of these lists. Flipping through, there was an item that showed up time after time. Was it ‘diet Pepsi’? ‘Spooning’? Nope – it was ‘queer culture’.

Seeing “queer culture” written there, among the many random things that I’d loved, made me laugh. Queer culture? What? Why did I consider “queer culture” something I loved? These days, queer culture isn’t really a thing for me. My life is infused with queer cultural things, but I don’t really even think about it. Yes, I listen to Le Tigre, yes, I occasionally marathon episodes of The L Word, and yes, I occasionally go to a gay bar. But ‘queer culture’? What is it and do I in fact love it?

To try and make sense of this in the context of my life now is futile. Second year was…wow, five years ago, and though five years may not seem that long to some, the difference at this stage in my life is staggering. I’m no longer a 19 year-old university student learning to pay bills (and struggling to find the money to pay them), going to class (or not), and grappling with my identity in a way I no longer need to. But then I thought, “what was it about second year in particular?” Because the truth is, there was something about it.

When I arrived at Laurier in first year, I had been out of the closet for about three years already, somewhat experienced with elements of queer culture (read: I’d seen a few queer-related movies and spent a decent amount of time in at Church & Wellesley). Then I arrived in an all-girls’ dormitory, with a roommate I didn’t know, and another 15 or so girls on my floor that didn’t know me. I sort of went back in the closet, assessing the situation at hand, and deciding how comfortable I was letting my floormates get to know me. Eventually I did come out to all my closest friends, but during that year I sort of set my craving for a “queer experience” aside. I just wanted to enjoy my first year of university with my new friends, without having to branch off for my own unique experience; just be “normal”, so to speak. I don’t think I sacrificed or compromised anything by doing so; I just sort of took a year off.

In second year, I was more settled. I now had my own place with five friends, more freedom, more comfort with Laurier and Waterloo, and more overall stability. My friends knew me and I knew them, and I trusted them. If I wanted to branch off a bit this year, I felt I could, because I had a support network already in place. So I did! In October of 2006 I went to the Rainbow Centre for the first time, and that’s when things changed.

Over the next seven months, I was saturated in all things queer. I spent every spare moment in the Rainbow Centre, became a volunteer, and became friends with pretty much everyone there. I started a relationship with my first serious girlfriend. I went to Club Renaissance for the first time and it became a place I’d frequent at least twice a month. I watched movies, read books, and even wrote essays all on the topic of coming out, queer identities, queer culture… you get the picture. I was immersed in queerness, and I loved it. When I was sixteen, I’d started going to a queer youth group in Toronto, so it’s not as if this was the first time I’d spent with other queer-identified people or at gay bars, but this new experience at the Rainbow Centre combined with my increased sense of independence and freedom really stuck with me. I was a new person with a new peer group, a new purpose, and a new interest, and it really meant something.

So with all that considered, seeing “queer culture” on the list of things I loved really does make sense. Although I wouldn’t list it as something I love any longer, those second year experiences are still a part of me and always will be.

One of the many great and terrible things about growing up is slowly fitting into an identity that will cling to you for the duration of your life. The process goes without saying: we were all young and know what it’s like to wait for the day you wake up and your nose fits your face, you have pectorals to match Michael Phelps, or you’ve spontaneously lost 20 pounds. Miracles like that rarely happen, making the pursuit for a personal persona often difficult. I, unfortunately, never woke up with a bust to rival Scarlett Johansson, but I’ve learned slowly to live with that, as everyone should.

So we all know what it’s like to be insecure, and what it’s like trying to remedy that. But sometimes, there are lines that need not be crossed and positions that need not be expressed. Sometimes, you need to keep parts of your transformation to yourself. Some phases ought to be private, for the sake of other people’s sanity—like the search for ones sexuality.

I’ll venture a guess that a great number of my peers, if not all of them, have had to deal with this at some point in their life, and I’d like to make perfectly clear how completely normal and healthy the process is. What I would like to point out is how frustrating that process can be on the ones that have things better figured out. When trying to come to terms with something as quintessential as sexuality, people can, and will, go through periods of ambiguity. To be blunt, those that are straight want to experiment to see if they’re not—and they don’t often realize the detriment they cause other people while doing this.

Speaking as a confident bisexual person, having someone straight of the same sex hit on me for the sake of his or her own development alone can be a really awful experience. It’s bad enough that bisexual or gay people are often hurt in this process when a straight person changes their mind, but it de-legitimizes those with actual attractions to both sexes.

I’m not saying don’t explore your sexuality—that would be counterproductive. The goal of the modern age seems to be to make people feel completely comfortable no matter how deviant or unique they might be and, for the most part, that’s a good thing. What I’m warning against is being the one who makes a fool of themselves and others. Be gay, be straight, be asexual or be aroused by the thought of balloons—it’s all acceptable in some form. Practice safe experimentation; wear a common-sense condom and don’t confuse people.

Small towns can be peaceful, quiet, and offer needed solitude. You notice the wind in the trees, the music of leaves. Friendly, you say hello to everyone.

Two boys, 14 and 15, walking down a road of my small town. Holding hands, laughing, close, movements with meaning: a couple in love. As occurs naturally when I see a happy couple, my mouth unfolds in a smile.

For a minute, I forget that my reaction in this small town is one likely standing alone. Then I remember, and I feel vicissitude. I begin to look around, feeling a sense of panic, a hissing in the tall grass. Don’t they know? I fear for them, I feel protective.

But no one has noticed them. Yet. The innocent courage of their act, holding hands in my small town. This is Canada, 2011. Holding hands in public. It should not have to be courageous, it should just be. I hang onto this brief time with them; celebrate their momentary freedom.

Light lifts; birds without a sound take off from a quiet field. The shadow of a cloud slips over a meadow. Waves tumble on a shore, recede and return, a rhythm of soothing. A shooting star arcs silently in brilliance and is gone. The hum of insects. The quiet of night.

To teach the small towns.

To celebrate the boys.

To give them comfort.

That peace.

I think about William Wordsworth most when I’m laying lethargically across my couch, staring aimlessly into a bright television set. I suppose it should affect me differently; like when I’m trekking across a beach to spot a colony of yellow-eyed penguins, or silently gazing up at the Southern Cross. I should feel a jerk of emotions, calmness and retrospection. I should embrace the legacy of the romantic poets who paint the ideal portrait of escape and enchantment. Yet when I’m encompassed by exotic and serene landscape, I feel unsettled. I have to remind myself that soon, I will be back in that familiar groove in my overstuffed brown couch staring blankly ahead wishing I was somewhere meaningful.

I can’t help feeling that I’ve disappointed Wordsworth, and all the other writers who’ve discovered the healing powers of nature. I didn’t embrace the moments; I didn’t savour the scent of crisp mountain air. I didn’t find myself, or my life’s purpose.

I can never seem to walk out my door into an unpredictable world without some struggle. I watch the leaves change colour safely from a streak-free window or the back seat of a car. I observe the snowy caps of mountains from a plane window, as I jet past, on my way to somewhere else. I walk through jungles of concrete, tough pavement and indifferent people, wondering what it would be like to hear nothing but wind brushing against tired leaves and the gentle baas of sheep.

If I’d never known development, technology, and expanding population maybe I’d be more content in an insulated brick building. If I had grown up playing in trees and forests instead of on plastic slides and monkey-bars, maybe I wouldn’t be so disillusioned. I could be planted on the ground, instead of high above, on a metal swing. I wouldn’t feel more comfortable on a grey day wrapped in a hand-knitted blanket but would long to splash about in the rain without the worry of getting wet.

I’m disenchanted. I’ve lost the connection I should have to the land which sustains me.

And still, I have little concern for threats about respecting the land. Global warming is a sham, surely. I have little belief recycling has any benefits and ‘going green’ has become nothing more than a marketing ploy to appeal to the desperate humanitarian in consumers. Maybe some eager advertisement tells me that one person can make a difference towards a cleaner planet, but it isn’t in the hands of one person to ensure our earth is sustained, it’s in the hands of corporations and developers, politicians and scientists. It doesn’t matter how much recycling I do or whether I buy a reusable mug, trees will be continuously chopped down and oceans and rivers polluted by people with more power than I.

What can I possibly do for the world when I can’t even part from the comfort of my own house? When I feel overwhelmed by the unpredictability of the outside world and its future? I think back to when I was caressing the soft wool of a lamb in New Zealand; when I saw its powerful waterfalls, volcanic rock and eerie glow-worms. When I lost my breath on top a snow-capped mountain or felt the sting of wind splash onto my face from the Wellington harbour. I feel comfort. I feel optimistic. But it’s easy to feel this way when I’m living in yesterday, safely tucked under a blanket, removed and distant.

The legacy of great romantic writers couldn’t have reason to doubt my fondness for the outside world, however frightening it may be. For all I lack is appreciation; appreciation of the moment, of the world that allows for so many possibilities. This epiphany comes to me on a cloudy day, when I’ve already committed myself to an unproductive afternoon. It comes easy when I’m removed and unfeeling staring at photographs that don’t dare capture New Zealand’s rustic beauty. It comes too late.

Imagine, a world shaped especially for robins.

The volume of worms needed to please such an environment would cause the soil to always be extremely fertile. The sky would be clear of all smog, planes, and runaway balloons.

Open fields, where crops once existed in all their uselessness, would be replaced with forests, filled with all types of trees that robins like best. The only buildings that would be allowed to stand would be old barns and the tallest awnings, once meant for tended flowers and vines to creep up.

The ground would be littered with pieces of soft debris of miscellaneous origins, used exclusively for nest making. Twigs would be in high demand, as would scraps of cotton and soft wool, and be therefore hard to find. Lower class birds would have to settle for second rate objects, like coins and shiny rocks.
Home schooling would be the norm, with a high drop-out rate.

The water would be perpetually topped with a thin layer of bird feces, though few would mind; those that do complain won’t be heard; they’re not the majority. Intellect would be a burden in a world where the greatest talent is the essential ability to fly.

A world that was once the embodiment of an ecosystem, and filled with a myriad of diverse species would simply become a circulatory system of red feathers, ebbing and flowing for the needs of the few instead of the many. Animals that might have co-existed with the robins would be displaced.

Some would learn to adapt quickly, like the squirrels with their fondness of trees, and most insects, among some others. Most other species would be less fortunate. While a great many of the unwanted would have the good judgment to die off swiftly and quietly, others would linger, tortured by primitive memories of a world that could have allowed them.

I’d much rather sleep in a bed then a nest made of sticks and bits of cotton.

There are four thousand students coming into university this month, being introduced to their new zoo, and we’re all behind our own bars.

Four thousand people moving into residence with boxes and plastic containers, stuffed full of comforts and treasures meant for their mysterious living arrangements ahead. Four thousand terrified and silently excited, looking at the massive walls of the buildings and the awkward barriers between each other to be broken as they’re herded around by eager volunteers in ridiculous clothing.

That’s not to say we are cooped up: the ability to spend our wee hours in an off-campus coffee shop or falafel house is the most relished event between the “optional” activities and the intensity of rival color teams. We’ve been told since our humble beginnings in high school that university is the pinnacle of independence and low expectations: ‘the only person who cares what you do here is yourself’. This initial impression, though there in spirit, is sorely tested through our first week.

The close-knitted spirit of the week is staggering, despite the attempt to bring the bright-eyed and inexperienced together being represented with varying kinds of colorful murderers (Ninjas will stop your heart seems to be less in the spirit of community than expected). This method of bonding highlights the irony of trying to bring us together by separating us into competitive groups. If inclusion was what everyone was aiming for, they may have missed the mark by telling us we’re better than our fellow student depending on the colors of our face paint.

But there are always going to be borders; in our proud and oddly-shaped province, there are more towns than drink choices in the downstairs vending machines. Bringing samples of the unique youth from each municipality with the intent to bond them was never going to be easy. From our homes, we brought our own personal cages to keep us warm at night and assure us that we’re our own best friend here, no matter how many times we cheer for our team. Everyone wants to make friends, but it’s easier to put up an awkward wall and tell ourselves that we’re the only special one.

The attempt to break these borders highlights an important axiom: be apart of the group, but shine on your own. A life with no boundaries is dangerous, but life with too many is needlessly lonely, especially in a place so unfamiliar that even the seagulls look at you funny. So as you walk through the campus, clutching your purse as tight as knuckles allow, listening to music only you can hear, try to spot other peoples personal walls as they walk past. Everyone will open up – to an extent – and have even a small portion of the grand experience we’ve been promised in an endless wave of brochures.

All borders get crossed, because they are there to cross, and we all get restless with being lonely. You may not feel inclined to share your new zoo: but be sure to peek through the bars occasionally.

“A drug is neither moral nor immoral – it’s a chemical compound. The compound itself is not a menace to society until a human being treats it as if consumption bestowed a temporary license to act like an asshole.”
- Frank Zappa

I know it is orientation week. My sleep is reduced by the music that is loud enough to shake the ground, and the foundation of my house. I see students gathered in circles, and I know that at the centre of these circles is the source of the music.

Like moths to a flame. A moth may fly to close to a flame and be burnt instantly, but the students standing too close to the music will suffer long term hearing damage.

The reader may be inclined to use clichéd phrases like “party pooper” and “stick in the mud” to describe my outlook, but my concern is for the well being of my fellow students, really.

I’m just kidding. I don’t care if you go deaf. You have brought it upon yourself. I only wish that I could be there in twenty or thirty years, when you have lost the last of your hearing and you are cursing the negligent and self-indulgent behaviour of your youth.

My only regret is that you won’t be able to hear me laughing.

What makes us different? We stand at the border, confronting questions like:

“Should I binge drink until I vomit blood?”

“When that girl passes me, should I objectify her with a derogative term, thereby expressing my hatred toward women?”

“Should I scream at the end of this song?”

The sensible answer to both question is “No”. But rather than staying on my side of the border, the rational side, I have seen you cross the border.

Why?

I haven’t heard from my older brother since the end of April. His last message said that he was painting his dining room. If I had of known that would be the last thing he’d say, I would have made him tell me every thought that went through his head that first day when he breathed in the acrid smell of paint. I wouldn’t have let him go without promising he would call next week. Anything, he could say anything, just to prevent this division between us. Instead, I said “that sounds great, I have to go make supper now.” My words were flat, and I can’t go back and say I was having a bad day. I can’t even translate “I’m painting my dining room brown” into “I love you Louise.”

Not staying in contact with your family has its consequences: my brother missed our grandma’s funeral. He will suffer for it because he didn’t grieve with us, his tears will be hot and heavy while ours have lost strength since. My grandpa cried twice when the casket was lowered, once for his wife, and once for my brother who is estranged from us. I left hope that my brother would come home to us at the cemetery.

My clearest memory of my brother is when I was little: I was lying on the floor in the hallway, and he came and sat on my head. It is little different from when I was at the beach, and a wave pulled me under: both times my eyes encountered darkness, and I struggled to make my way up for air. My brother’s bottom flattened my head to the floor, and my neck was aching from the weight, I had to use all the strength in my arms to shove him off. He did things like that all the time. Maybe that was his way of showing that he loved me and my sisters?

Alberta seems so far away from Clinton, Ontario these days. That is where my brother, sister-in-law, and niece live. I am sure my sister-in-law is deserving of my brother’s devotion and love, but my arms feel empty. I was looking forward to many years of holding and carrying around my niece, and I don’t know if I ever will again. Mother or not, my sister-in-law took away the only child that I want to hold for the next five years. I’m conflicted about whether I want children of my own, but I never hesitated to take on the role of doting aunt. I can only hope that if I ever see my niece again, she has not been poisoned against me.

I’ve thought about going out west and getting a summer job. My older sister did, and our neighbours thought her ‘brave’ and ‘focused’. I guess I don’t have that wanderlust, because I won’t be going to Alberta any time soon. Every conversation about my brother ends the same way, “Of course he doesn’t hate you, he just needs some time to get back on his feet. He’ll find you when he’s ready”. It’s my extended family that worry he’s been left for dead, but I know he’s still out there. One day my brother will contact us, we will scratch each others’ eyes out, and then, the period of healing will begin.