Author Archives: chloe fraser

Creative Non-Fiction

Vicariously Vegan

Creative Non-Fiction by Lyndsey Bryden

 

Here’s a couple facts about my time in grade five.

  1. My teacher Mr. Feeley was an OG, sandal-wearing, hippie-generation rock climber who spent the year teaching the class about veganism between lessons on Pythagoras and chess.
  2. We watched a documentary in class on how climate change was happening because too many people eat meat and nobody wants to talk about it!
  3. I wanted to help.

And so with these three nuggets of information churning in my eleven-year-old brain, I decided I was gonna go vegan for the planet. That night my mom supportively bought me a package of tube-like TVP sausages, a meal I remember vividly because I was focused on the gorgeously shiny sausages the rest of my family was eating. To nobody’s surprise but my own, the change didn’t stick. Over the years I’ve enthusiastically embarked on a new dietary journey for the benefit of the planet at least a dozen times. Pescatarian, vegetarian, no red meat, fully vegan…each of these seemed like the perfect way to finally make a change. To make a difference. And there were occasional longer episodes of success, of course. But it never truly stuck.

I think the greatest success amongst a crop of unimpressive successes was when I stopped drinking milk. I feel the need to emphasize that I grew up drinking a truly astounding amount of milk. Like, ‘Mac and I would finish a 4L jug in a day’ amounts of milk. At some point I realized that even if I didn’t go fully vegan, switching to plant milk was an easy way I could make my diet more climate-friendly. So I asked my mom to start buying different types of plant milks, and tried them out until I settled on something I liked – Silk Soy Original, in the red carton. And the change stuck! For a long time. No more cow’s milk, except on the four-times-per-year special occasion of a glass after a slice of chocolate birthday cake. This went on for a while – at least three years.

But eventually, I started drinking milk again. I can’t pinpoint the exact reason. Learning about the dairy industry in one of my second year classes was definitely a factor. I had mentally prepared for the class to turn me off milk completely. But surprisingly, when our examination of the BC Dairy system was complete, I actually had a more positive perception. Whether that was because of what we’d learned or what I’d wanted to hear, I don’t know. The rest of the reasons are less concrete, less about what I was learning. It’s an easy way to get protein and calories, which as an athlete I desperately needed. It’s a nostalgic drink from my childhood. I like how it tastes – a hot take, I know. So I started drinking milk again. Yet another failed pass at a permanent dietary change – perhaps another failure for the climate.

Learning about the environment, where we’ve been and where we’re headed has been is a double edged sword. Because knowledge is power, don’t get me wrong. But it is so easy to become jaded. To feel like we’re going nowhere. To feel absolutely powerless. Because in university we’re taught that at the end of the day, taking action against climate change depends on legislative change to eliminate fossil fuels. And legislative change depends on creating a monumental tide of political will. Reading those words on the page, I know there is power there, for me and for all of us. But there’s also a grumbly Voice in my head muttering about how in the end, what’s on my plate matters a lot less than what’s on the legislative docket. I don’t really know why I’ve never been able to stay vegan. But I do know that the reason I’m at peace with my meat-eating is because of that Voice and the point it makes.

There were certain obstacles that popped up as I tried to lower my dietary carbon footprint. One was when I gave myself an iron deficiency after cutting red meat from my diet. My mom took me for a blood test after a particularly abysmal cross country season. I was sixtieth in the city next to my little brother’s second – ouch. I was diagnosed with iron deficiency to the tune of “This reading should be within 40-200, but you’re at a 3!”. Oops! Nobody ever told me vegans need to take iron pills. As an athlete, I was secretly happy, since I could blame that fall’s race results on my apparent inability to transport oxygen. As a longtime wannabe herbivore, I was demoralized, because this time it had felt like a change that was going to stick. Nevertheless, the entire fiasco shut the door on my red meat-less diet attempt. But in the back of my head, at least I had reassurance from the Voice. Nice try kid. Not to worry, this won’t change a thing. It’s not like it would’ve make a difference anyway.

It’s an interesting question. Do I feel guilty that I’m not plant-based? That I drink milk again, and occasionally go for a burger? Yes and no.

“ExxonMobil doesn’t give a shit how much tofu you eat.”

It’s the jaded Voice, and it’s trying to let me off the hook. But I’ve been trying to hook myself back on for a decade now. I don’t think I can say I’ve always given it my best shot. But I’m still shooting. Still trying to figure things out. And just like in grade five, I still want to help.

Learning about the systemic nature of the climate crisis has made me think beyond what I can change myself and more about how change can happen across the board. Sometimes I wonder if the Voice’s whole argument is just about making excuses, but I’m not sure it’s that simple. I think we all know the real answer is individual and collective change have to go hand in hand. Each is necessary. But unpacking my feelings about this has been like untangling rubbery wired earphones – it only seems to get more complicated. I don’t have a cleanly packaged answer. I wish I could say I did. I think I will in the future. A plant-based diet is something I aspire to, but I don’t beat myself up for not being there. I’d like to think I’ll get there eventually. Maybe for a couple years at a time. Maybe forever. Check back in twenty years.

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Fiction

We Spent The Night

Fiction by Matthew O’Hearn

We spent the night amidst the remnants of a small lake house. The structure was still mostly intact, but a layer of sand slowly consumed it from the ground up like a pervasive, ubiquitous plague. I lifted my body out of the filthy sheets, seeing an already awoken Friedrich from the side of my eye. The sentimental man wiped the sand off of the stack of photos in his chest pocket as he marched, lightly kissing them before putting them back in his pocket.

“Traudl’s probably forgotten about your sandy ass now Friedrich!” I joked.

“I don’t know about that, but I do know that Lena dumped your ass before it even got sandy the night before deployment!” Friedrich replied with a slow chuckle.

He got me there. Hopefully, instead of Lena, I could go back and at least see the Elbe before it dried up. In the side of my eye, I could see the neon red sun creeping over the horizon. Foolishly, I instinctively dragged my body across towards the bathroom, creaking the rusty faucet open in hopes of washing my disheveled face. I could only let out a mirthless chuckle when the sink basin remained dry, slapping myself awake because I forgot why we were here in the first place.

The twelve of us had been marching for several days, ever since the Ostmänner retook Stettin and we had to flee west across the Eastern Desert. The war began back in the year when winter never came, and the continent began to scorch and dry up. The Reich then had to expand out into the Eastern Desert, previously Poland, to secure the food and water needed to save our race. At least that was what I was told, I was too young to remember.

We wandered on this isolated lake house late last afternoon. It even had a boathouse by the small dock in the back, but it only led to nothing. In the hallway, you could see flickers of the life that the people who once lived here had. Now murky pictures of weddings, birthdays, and memories made in this very place littered the walls. That family of four has faded away just as their photos are, but their house has so courteously stuck around to be a home for just one last time. Stepping outside for some air, I notice Wilhelm is the next to get up through the back window. His eyes look heavy and droopy as he lowers his head, as if he is just realizing that this wretched place is his reality, and the weekend getaway he was dreaming about was just that.

Trudging through the sand back over towards the rotting dock, an echoing laugh pierced through the eerie silence like a chainsaw. I trudged up the small hill overlooking the dock towards where the sound was coming from, but had to immediately duck down when I reached the top. My heart pounded rapidly through my ears as my face went pale. There was a convoy of at least 50 or 60 Ostmänner marching across the desert with their screeching trucks below. Far more than the twelve of us could hope to hold up for even five minutes. My heart pounded rapidly through my ears as my face went pale, but I couldn’t stop myself from stealing glances over the hill. Their bulky makeshift khaki helmets and goggles masked their faces completely, with their trademark hooked bayonets affixed to their polished rifles. Rumour had it that they were hooked so they could torture us by easily pulling out our teeth and ripping off our nails if we were ever captured.

Leading from the front was an officer in his early 20s, no older than myself. He was the only one without a helmet on, laughing with his adjutant beside him. His thin silver epaulets indicated that he was a Captain based on my albeit failing memory. Snapping myself out of my trance, I sprinted back down towards the lakehouse to warn the rest. As the door came into view, I could see Lieutenant Lügner by the door frantically gesturing me inside.

“Get in and shut up!” he curtly said in a whispered shout.

After running inside I could only slouch by the wall, hyperventilating with my rusty rifle in a death grip.

“What were you thinking, Private? Do you know what would happen if they saw you? They’d riddle you with bullets before drinking your blood to stay hydrated,” the Lieutenant screamed, as his array of gleaming party badges clanged against his polished uniform.

I could only offer a blank nod to his beratements before he was so rudely interrupted by the reverberations of a mortar shell that shook the lakehouse and all of us inside. They found us. Bullets began to pound into the walls like Swiss cheese, followed by a piercing demented shrill that cut through all of the gunfire. The sound was too close, as if it was coming from inside the building. But I didn’t have to wonder for too long. In the corner of my eye, I could see Brüchig, the youngest of our group. He ran across the hallway with his arms extended like an airplane, before he abruptly stopped by the window and looked up and out towards the sky. Before I could call him away from the window, bullets riddled into his body as his blood splattered across the floor. But although his gruesome death was harrowing, it was his face that shook me to my core. A terrifying smile was plastered across his visage, staring completely through me as his corpse seeped blood across the floor.

“Leave the fucker and shoot back you cowards!” screamed the Lieutenant, as he vainly attempted to wipe Brüchig’s blood off of his uniform.

I could only crouch under the window. I stole glances as I half-heartedly shot my rifle over my head. But the bullets stopped all at once, leaving only a deafening ringing in my ears.

“Lay down your arms, your leader is already dead, the war is over,” a voice calmly echoed through the silence.

Peaking my head over the window, it was the Captain from before, looking resigned as if someone told him that he had to fetch some milk from the corner store.

“More lies! Keep firing back!” shrilled Lieutenant Lügner, as he broke the ceasefire with his sporadic pistol shots.

But eerily enough, no fire was returned from the Ostmänner. I could only hear a faint whizzing coming from on top of me. Every instinct in my body told me to run, but my body refused to comply. I stood frozen, making my peace as a fiery explosion consumed everything in front of me.

How long has it been? Pain, seethed through every inch of my body. I couldn’t move anything except my eyes under my closed eyelids. Opening them, rubble and bodies littered across the floor. A stinging thirst gripped my bone-dry throat.

“That’s the fucking Lieutenant that massacred the village near Posen has been over for over a month now. We’ve been looking for him for over a month now since the war ended,” the Ostmänner Captain muttered as he stared down at Lügner’s corpse.

A voice then said behind me excitedly, “Captain, this one is still alive!”

I brought myself back to my family in Friesland as the Captain approached me with his dismounted hooked bayonet in hand. He crouched down to look at me and I readied myself.

“You must be thirsty, drink this,” he said, as he used the tip of his bayonet to crack open a can of apple juice.

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Fiction

Duas Cidades (Two Cities)

Fiction by Mackenzie Kuenz

 

It was 4am and the birds were just barely chirping, Dona Paula stretched her body trying to wake up her tired muscles and bones. She got out of bed and lit a candle for her Orixá, Oxum, the Afro-Brazilian goddess of the waterfalls and fresh water and whispered her prayer. She was heading to work for the middle upper class white family that had hired her 15 years ago as their maid. She lived in the suburban favela in the outskirts of Salvador, the Blackest city outside of Africa. The distance to work was short but it would take her approximately 2 hours by bus. The bus was yellow indicating the neighborhood it served and lack of air conditioning, it was basically a rattling tin can, the trek hurt her stiff joints. The bus line started in the favela at the top of the hill and spiraled down picking up people along the way, soon it was packed. Everyone looked out for each other, those who got a seat held onto other people’s bags so those standing didn’t have to.

 

Dona Paula took a deep breath before getting off the bus, the sky was getting darker, the rain was coming. She couldn’t remember if she put out a bucket to collect the water that would drip through the roof when the rain started, it was too late to do anything now. Her kids were already at school. She started the 15-minute walk from the bus stop to the Almeda’s house mentally preparing herself and bracing herself for the microaggressions she would face. The rain started and she pulled out her flimsy umbrella and lengthened her steps. She entered the apartment and spoke for a minute with the doorman Seu Guará, who also expressed worry about the rain that would fall saying, “last year when it rained like this my house flooded and my neighbors who lived higher up lost their house, it slid down the cliff”.  Seu Guará shuddered remembering those times and Dona Paula felt a shiver go up her spine, her guides were warning her, today was going to be different, the rain that was coming was dangerous.

 

Dona Paula opened the door to the Almeda’s just as Sr. Alameda was leaving, he stopped and looked Dona Paula up and down and winked at her, Dona Paula looked down disgusted and greeted him good morning through her clenched teeth.  Sr. Alameda exclaimed, “such a rainy day to go to the office”, Dona Paula offered a meek smile and murmured “uh huh”.

 

In her head she cursed him, if only he cared about what this rain meant for her family and community, what it meant for a huge part of the city that was victim to environmental racism and poor infrastructure. She started preparing breakfast for the kids of the family while Sra. Alameda worked out at some chic spin studio up the street. Sra. Alameda was obsessed with being fit and her body image, Sr. Alameda always made snarky comments about her weight. Dona Paula felt some empathy towards Sra. Alameda, but that didn’t mean she was a pleasure to work with.

 

The Alameda’s had two kids, Leticia was 12 and Raul was 15, they were getting ready to go to school, private school that is. Dona Paula’s kids 11 and 16, Rodrigo and Julia would be at their public school by now. It hurt Dona Paula to have to leave so early and not make her own kids’ breakfast, she felt guilty to have to pass that responsibility onto her daughter Julia. Leticia and Raul walked up to the dining table complaining to Dona Paula, “it’s so rainy, I just want to stay home and curl up and watch TV”.

 

These kids did not realize how privileged they were to get driven to school even though it was raining, her kids would likely get stuck in the rain on the way home. Sometimes the bus could not make it back up the hill of the community because the rain rushed down like a waterfall, taking everything in its path. She wondered if she should give Leticia and Raul a taste of reality from outside their bubble, but she kept quiet and served them breakfast.

 

Sra. Alameda arrived from her workout complaining that her hair got wet and now she would have to straighten it again. Dona Paula understood that struggle, the rain ruined her hair too, but she had bigger problems to worry about. Sra. Alameda drank her smoothie with imported fruits despite having so many tropical fruits easily accessible. Dona Paula could barely afford local fresh fruit at this point, inflation and increasingly hostile politicians were making her life and the life for the majority of Soteropolitanos (people from Salvador) difficult. The bus prices kept going up, the price of everything was going up, and her salary stayed the same. She had tried to bring this up to Sra. Alameda, who said that she could help Dona Paula come up with a budget, Dona Paula scoffed; she was already cutting as many expenses as possible, and her family was eating the worst they had in years.

 

The rain continued to fall, and Dona Paula’s anxiety mounted, she could only imagine what her neighborhood looked like at this point. It was 3pm and her kids should have been home by now, but she had not heard from them yet. She decided to ask Sra. Alameda if she could leave early to be able to make it home and take care of her kids. She approached Sra. Alameda, who was on Pinterest planning her 2023 vision board, there were pictures of faraway places, fancy foods, and quotes like “good vibes only”. Dona Paula let out a quiet cynical laugh, asked her guides for strength, and started.

 

“Hello Sra. Alameda, do you think I could go home a bit early because the rain has not stopped, and I am worried about my children getting home”.

 

Sra. Alameda looked up at her over her designer glasses with a skeptical look and responded, “It’s just a little rain it’s not a big deal”.

 

Dona Paula took a deep breath and tried to explain fighting back tears “my community does not have the infrastructure that yours does, when it rains like this the staircases become waterfalls, and everything is taken, often buses cannot make it up the hill, some people’s houses slide down the hill, it really is dangerous and my kids are alone, my mom is alone, I need to be there”.

 

Sra. Alameda listened surprisingly attentively and pondered for a moment saying, “if you want to leave early, but tomorrow I expect you to come early to make up the time”.

 

Dona Paula trekked to the stop and stood with her fellow workers who had finished work for the day. People exchanged worried murmurs about the rain. Dona Paula checked her WhatsApp again and saw a message in the family group chat from Leticia. Leticia had sent “mum, we have made it home, but the buses can’t make it up the hill anymore, there is too much water coming down”. Dona Paula was relieved her children had made it home, but they were still not safe, and neither was she.

 

She responded, “my daughter, unplug what you can, get the squeegee ready to push the water back out, and keep updating me. Light a candle for your Orixá Iansã and pray for her to protect you and your brother. I am going to try to do everything I can to come home now but I don’t know if I will make it, please forgive me”.

 

Pictures by ivotavaress

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Fiction

Ciliwung: The Story of Short-Run vs Long-Run Survival Conundrum

Fiction by Winston Irwin

 

On a scorching tropical sunny day in a very badly ventilated colonial Dutch-style classroom, my sociology teacher conveyed a thought-provoking statement: “In the journey of deciding what kind of future I want the old me and future generations to live in, I am confronted with the pressing obstacle of choosing between short-run and long-run survival. By that I mean, if I chose the former, my survival would be guaranteed, but at the expense of Earth’s longevity. If I chose the latter, the planet’s survival would be secured but at the cost of my life. Someday, you will feel it too.”

My heart raced and sweat trickled down my face, but I wasn’t sure if it was caused by the intensity of his words or just the scorching heat of the sun. Funnily, this remains personally more pressing than the looming climate change question. Nonetheless, these bodily reactions are the responses to my deep curiosity to uncover why we could only choose one of them. I wondered how I could take the first step to investigate the truth behind this choice binary.

Both fortunately and unfortunately, my sociology teacher assigned us homework to interview marginalized communities in Jakarta. It was indeed the perfect opportunity for me to unravel the mystery, but it also meant facing unpleasant environment that I decided. I took the brave step to visit the marginalized community at Ciliwung riverbanks such that even my classmates applauded my courage. Let’s just say that the level of bravery it took to visit that place was equivalent to the nerve-wracking experience of visiting East Hastings. At that time, Ciliwung was in the spotlight in many Indonesian media outlets because it was the prime example of climate injustice in Indonesia. The national and provincial governments decided to demolish houses located on the riverbanks without providing tangible alternative accommodations or resources to the residents. Popular media outlets framed the place as hostile by portraying the many conflicts between residents and authorities.

 

On August 9th, 2014, I stood on the edge of a bridge while fear and sadness were gripping my heart so strong anyone can clearly see my discomfort buried under my poker face. As a 17-year-old who can be considered as part of Jakarta’s middle-upper class, I was fully aware how alienated I was from this “other-worldly” place. Then, I noticed mothers residing by the polluted Ciliwung river making their way to the river’s edge to wash their clothes. As they chatted, laughed, and gossiped like any close community, that moment appeared to be like any other ordinary evening; of course, that is if you don’t pay attention to the trashes floating around the river, the flies flying around, and the pungent smell killing your olfactory sense.

The rumours that their houses would be demolished soon, added to their existing daily worries of using Ciliwung’s contaminated water, only deepened the hardships endured by these ordinary individuals seeking for a sense of certainty in their everyday survival. They were already experiencing too much anxiety, too much uncertainty, too much pain, I was so afraid that the residents became hostile if I asked them to be interviewed.

Surprisingly, they warmly agreed to my interview request. During our conversation, we discussed about the rumours with great passion and kindness, which only showed that these residents are still kind-hearted and compassionate human beings who simply seek for peace, not hostile monsters as portrayed by the media.

They had no access to clean water, clean air, clean anything. They didn’t even possess the ability to access government’s infrastructure such as municipal trash pickup. The government had truly been neglecting that area for years, such that they had no choice but to keep polluting the river for their survival. It is not a wonder then that the Ciliwung river with its abundant trash was the hotbed for disease and illness, as well as the primary source of devastating floods in Jakarta every monsoon season. The last thing these residents could do in this agonizing place is to find a sense of solace and happiness from the tight-knit community of Ciliwung.

“Are they not human, those politicians, those authorities? Are they evil, not to relate with our sufferings? Why do they need to destroy our homes and forcibly strip away our lives?” said one mother whom I interviewed. From their perspective, the government is the hostile monster in this story.

While it may be tempting to put the blame on the government at this point, it is important to note that the government’s decision was not an easy one. Without destroying the houses, the source of pollutants, the government could not proceed to revitalize the river to prevent further deadly floods in the city. The government did provide alternative housing in Jakarta’s outskirts, but the living condition was not significantly better either – it would be like asking East Hastings residents to move to the worst part of Surrey. Hence, it became understandable why Ciliwung residents refused to move and retaliated.

With no light at the end of the tunnel, the forced demolition finally commenced in late 2016. When I saw the news for the first time, I was shocked. No… not shocked. Worse than that. Even the word ‘stunned’ couldn’t describe how stunned I was at that time, given that I visited the place before and interacted with the people. I started sweating like I was in the classroom, and I tried my best to hold up my tears not knowing the fate of the mom whom I interviewed. The sound of the residents crying coming out from the TV was as loud, disturbing, and frightening as the siren of an ambulance declaring that one’s life will be over soon. Some mothers and children were seen kneeling in front of authorities and begging for forgiveness and a second chance although they knew that the authorities couldn’t do anything as the order came from top politicians. To my sociology teacher, this spectacle may not have seemed that different to Indonesians begging the Dutch authorities for mercy during the colonial period.

 

Yet, few years later, the whole problem of Ciliwung floods indeed got better, just like my teacher said. Few months after the demolition project finished, the authorities partially revitalized and normalized Ciliwung, and floods became significantly less dangerous. This illustrates that at the cost of these people’s lives in the short-run, nature slowly heals in the long-run. The statement unfortunately proved even truer when the COVID-19 pandemic happened. We saw with our own eyes that the limit of movements and the death of millions of people provided some openings for Earth to heal.

As climate change gets even more severe day by day, I wonder if the answer to my teacher’s question, the response to this whole climate change emergency, and the only solution to reverse environmental collapse is to doom humankind. Perhaps, I will need to live a few more years to take the next big step in unraveling this mystery.

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Creative Non-Fiction

Climate Puzzles

Creative non-fiction by Anna Shubina

 

Learning is like a puzzle. Each piece is part of a continuous journey. Be patient and trust it. And get ready for the upcoming.

Imagine moving to a new country at a quite grown age and learning something that the vast majority of your generation there fought for since they were children.

This is what has been happening to me. And here are my insights.

 

PUZZLE #1

The mission of each generation varies from place to place. Coming from a country that had been continuously on the edge of attacks or shellings – we fought for our safety and just appreciated each minute of being safe and alive. In Ukraine, geography topics on climate weren’t introduced in depth to me. So knowing where was the closest bombing shelter and “the further you move from the equator the colder it gets” were some of the things that stuck in my brain.

But Canada broadened my knowledge and showed me how else we can take care of our land besides defending it. Starting from Canada’s impact on world history to current global living conditions. The cross-over of international and intersectional experiences all in one place. Together with everyone, you apply your knowledge and advocate for something that affects human well-being. You realize the power of young minds and actions. The power of studying at world-ranking universities playing huge games in economies and politics.

PUZZLE #2

Modern technology is cool but are you aware of its implications? Usually, you expect from a media degree something very creative and being involved in exciting projects. This is true but let’s also add climate depression on top. As a student new to climate conversation – mandatory Media History courses, ENGL 232 and ENGL 332, were those triggers to encourage my action and learning. You know when there’s something that you are deeply interested in and would like to connect your future with – but simultaneously it is something that destroys our world.

Media evolution was a huge focus of these classes. First, we start with nature alternation: the computer’s capability to recreate natural sounds (e.g. bird songs) to listen to within the comfort of our homes. Then the more comforting and accessible we want our experiences to be, the more digital users appear around the world. And what this means? E-X-T-R-A-C-T-I-O-N. Would like a new iPhone? Sure! Have you heard it takes thousands of years for e-waste to decompose? But you really need to elevate the quality of your marketing with that new device, so.. what do you do?

Something clicked in my mind like a toaster. As an emotionally sensitive person with intense visual imagination – the climate future did not look good to me.

PUZZLE #3

You’re assigned a presentation about an art exhibition which you had to visit. You expect nothing more than to see some pretty paintings and yawn a few times. I hadn’t visited Belkin Art Gallery before – so to make it less anxious, we gathered a little student group.

“Elemental Cinema” was a series of films about four elements – water, earth, fire, and air. Artists reconstructed the colonial framework of linear existence and present new approaches to thinking about our living. “What does it mean to disorder Western thinking?” The art pieces challenged categorization across the notions of nature.

This exhibition made you openly speak about climate change in class. It fascinated you to the core that you could not sit still anymore.

I noticed this parallel in how mathematical thinking resulted in huge consequences for our understanding of the universe. Instead of living all as one whole – we see nature as separate items. But in reality, water is a part of the air, the air is a part of the earth, the earth is a part of water and so on. Without the existence of one or another, our planet cannot function the way it was created.

PUZZLE #4

Learning about global warming in scholarly articles and exhibitions is one thing but when you feel it on your own skin – that’s when you remember it the most.

Last summer my day and even week plans were completely shuttered by orange smoke in the air. (I don’t remember moving to Mars?) Vancouver was literally like a cutlet on a frying pan.

“AIR QUALITY ADVISORY FOR METRO VANCOUVER,”

“EXTREME WILDSMOKE,”

“BURNING WILDFIRES,”

“URGENT: AIR QUALITY WARNING”

… were blowing my phone with notifications across platforms.

You’re struck. The freshest air was only within the four walls of your apartment which pressured your physical body from all sides.

All the courses and assignments on corporations, monopolies, and conglomerates rapidly scrolled through your eyeballs.

Why this is all put onto our young shoulders? Feeling such an enormous burden simply due to somebody wanting to increase their profits.

How my sustainability peers are dealing with that?

PUZZLE #5

I asked the universe and She answered me. The Media Studies department dropped an email about a course on climate change.
“Wanna sign up together?” I asked my co-worker as he wasn’t a climate advocate and knew everything about that.

So I went.

First class.
Doing introductions.

Biology, Ocean Conservations, Environmental Sciences. Protested since they were a child.

Woow, Anna, you have to catch up on things. You know you want to be like them, so you have to work on this. I know, this is why I’m here.

I brought up my outcomes from Media History classes on any occasion I could. I just wanted to be relatable to them. And it made me proud.

This course made me realize that fighting for a cause had various solutions by approaching from the field you’re a professional in – (such a slay).

The thrilling feeling when you make connections with passionate and dedicated students that you’re admiring.

The motivation you have to do readings and watch other students speak about something they care about or are overwhelmed about.

All together in this journey.

 

PUZZLE #6

As somebody who was hired to work in the governing body of our student community – you had to absorb a lot of information about those who advocate for us on a regular basis.

This was my first time fully participating in and promoting AMS Elections. Relationship with RBC was a hot question for almost every candidate running. Before it never crossed my mind that such a financial institution, I saw an ad on every single street, was actually destroying us and our land behind our backs.

You realize how many justice groups are on campus and memorize their names. You get to know their worries and demands. And learn how people in power act upon those.

It was a difficult feeling when you read about your university, the place you call a second home, investing in human rights violations.

Especially where a country’s name, which oppresses your people back home, was on that list. So you grab a piece of a carton, attend a divestment protest, and join a unison of young powerful voices.

The number of students who came for the March for Divestment was a sign of hope. The more I educate myself, the better job I can do in supporting people and fixing terrible things.
A figure of myself before entering UBC and today showed growth, and I was excited about further development.

 

PUZZLE #7

[This user is typing at the moment…]

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Fiction

My Home Planet

Children’s fiction by Anna Shubina

 

Earth lives in a happy family. Her parents Mommy Sun and Daddy Moon love her so much. Her mom has beautiful long golden hair. Earth wants to be as pretty as her mom when she grows up. And her dad always wears this magical costume that changes shapes at night. It makes Earth laugh each time he puts her to sleep. At night Dad’s one body half disappears but then he looks normal in the morning.

Earth adores going on trips with her parents to different planets. She first saw aliens when she was ONLY THREE. They were actually kind and showed lots of cool tricks, like jumping super high or running super fast. She visited Neptune, Venus, and Saturn. But Earth had never explored her own home planet yet…

After Earth turned six, her parents realized it was time for her to start school. To learn about her home planet and find new friends.

“You’re right! Earth enjoys having fun in her room and reading books – but it’s finally time to step outside,” says Mommy Sun.

Earth lives in an unusual home to her human neighbours – star walls, a rocket fridge in the kitchen, and portal doors. Usually, when somebody visits, they say this home is like another reality.

“HOOORAAYY!!” The whole house shakes off Earth’s joy. ”Finally, I will get to eat lunch in the cafeteria, do homework, and learn about astronomy!”

“Let’s pack up your backpack!” Daddy Moon reveals a little gift to her daughter.

This is the day! Uniform, supplies, lunch – all set and ready. Hugging her parents tight and now Earth is on her way to school. Her smile brightens the whole street. One little birdy greeted her with a sweet melodic song on the school lawn. Wonderful weather makes Earth feel confident and excited about starting a new chapter.

Pressuring low light and skin-burning temperature. The school interior sharps Earth’s eyes with saturated orange colours and smoky air.

“Are all schools like that?” She thought to herself. An unexpected environmental change disoriented and blurred Earth’s vision while figuring out a room number on the schedule given to her. Rough shoulder push. Somebody bumped into Earth. This was Tree, she was running away from somebody and unfortunately did not notice the new student on her way. All of her books fell on the ground.

“Do you need help?” Earth asks but doesn’t receive a reply. Tree just gestures to look back to be careful; by overwhelmingly grabbing all books, she stands up to continue running. Tree looked scared, in Earth’s opinion. “Somebody offended her?”

“HEY! Let me go through or what?!” Earth’s heart jumps from an expected loud voice. “Can you move? What are you staring at?!” This is Fossil, the son of the richest businessman on the planet. He believes his opinions and needs are the most important in this school. His father taught him, people, with money, must be always respected.

For the first time, Earth feels anxiety. Her palms are shaking along with her voice. She’s sure her parents know how to deal with such a situation – but sadly she doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” she moved to the right side, even though there was lots of space where Fossil could go around her.

“You’re the slowest person I’ve met in my life. Decisions have to be made fast. Time is money. Understand?” Fossil shouted into Earth’s ear. His scream stunned everyone in the hallway.

This is not the kind of first school day Earth dreamed of. She imagined a place of smiles and friendships, where everyone is caring for each other. What happened to her home planet?

“Good morning, class! Please welcome our new student!” The teacher points to the classroom centre for Earth to stand at. “Do you guys remember what we usually say to new classmates?”

“Why should we waste our class time on that? And plus, why are we starting our class without Fossil – he is the class leader?!” This is Litter, he is Fossil’s best friend. He follows Fossil’s every single step and does anything he asks. If somebody tries to misbehave or not listen to Fossil, Litter knows how to defend him. Usually, it involves not very nice actions.

“Here I am! Not a long wait this time – had to teach some students valuable advice,” announces Fossil as he enters the room.

”Oh Fossil, thankfully you are here. Would you like to welcome the new student?” says Teacher.

“That’s my job. Class on 3, 2, 1..”
“NICE TO MEET YOU!” everyone shouted.
“Not bad, but alright for low-income children. Let’s proceed with the class, Teacher.”
“I really appreciate such a warm welcome, Fossil. Earth, go sit somewhere in the back. There are some leftover chairs,” shows the Teacher. Earth noticed that only ‘green’ students like her sat there while all ‘grey’ students were at the front. That made Earth feel very sad and unfair.

Mommy Sun comes back from work.
“How’s our child doing? Let’s celebrate such an important day with cake!

EARTH! Come meet Mommy!”
“Returned without any word and just closed in her room,” says Daddy Moon.

”I’ve never seen her like that. I even briefly noticed something on her forehead.

For some time, Earth’s smile was back when she saw the school playground. She hoped there was at least something that could uplift her mood. But the playground structures seemed so modern and tall like in the sci-fi books she read. It felt a bit conflicting playing here. She couldn’t see sunrays and listen to her favourite bird songs because of the loud construction noise.

“My father built all of that! Lots of investments and capital. Envy?” Fossil appeared in front of Earth.
Earth debated about how to reply. She really wants to keep it nice without any fights.

“This is cool! But I wish they weren’t as high… Can’t quite see the sky and nature. Do you know why this house tree makes gas? But it still looks fun! I’m about to go on a slide with Tree. Have a good day!”
Fossil blocks Earth from going. He gestures to Litter to back him up.

“Did you ask my permission?” Fossil says.

“Oh sorry. Isn’t it for everyone to play?” Earth replies.

“So first you offend my dad’s hard work. Talk to me with accusations. There’s NO WAY I allow YOU to stand on this territory.”

“Sorry? But..”

“Did you hear what he said? You always have to follow his rules!” adds Litter.

Further away Teacher observes the happening but pretends like nothing is happening.

“Calling Teacher! Why school accepts such terrible treatment of their students?”

“No no Mommy, please don’t do that. I’ll get used to this!”

“Used to this! To what? Getting bruises and disrespect? Installing whole factories on children’s playgrounds. Idolizing sons of millionaires who bully ordinary kids in the hallway. Woow, things haven’t changed since my time.”

A few weeks later school reopened its doors. The collective work of parents and students made Teacher reconsider their actions. Earth was involved in repainting the walls into beautiful rainbows. Tree helped to plant flowers on the lawn. The playground was rebuilt into its more accessible and sustainable version. Teacher heard the concerns about Fossil and Litter and realized what harm was caused – and expelled them.

“I am deeply sorry, my dear students” Teacher begins class with an apology. “The power of money blinded me. I thought it would only do good for us. But I was wrong, I completely forgot about the purpose of being a teacher – to create a caring and safe environment for students and their well-being. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

Since then, Earth has enjoyed spending all of her time at school. It became the best place to study and have fun with her classmates, like Tree and Mountain. Now school hallways shine in bright rainbow colours and are full of student smiles. Thanks to her parents, Earth learned that it’s important to be kind and care for one another in order to live a happy life on this planet.

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Fiction

The Extra-Marital Affair

Fiction by Sanchita Sannigrahi

 

Bright lights, pearl white painted walls, a grand couch with a one edge higher making it almost look back from the Victorian era and a whole team of people behind me. This is all I ever wanted in life – be successful and be relevant. This was the most important day of my life, for my business and for the people who trusted me, my husband, Abhimanyu Singh. Let me come to my husband a little later.

I walked into the meeting room, nervously waiting for Abhi to arrive, along with another investor, although he was the least of my problems.

“There you come. Welcome honey! How has your day been going?” I asked.

“Well! Let’s hope this board meeting makes the day for me.” He spoke as if this was the last thing he wanted to do.

It almost felt like he doesn’t believe I can do this. Every time we spoke about this, he would ask if I ever lacked something. But this was not why I started working, it was because I had always been ambitious. This was him, too indulged into his business to even care about me.

So, my partner, Sunil and I started our presentation.

“We have hosted 11 eco-friendly weddings this quarter, 2 were low profile which did not generate much profit, but we have some good news, the Hinduja wedding profited the company with about 2 crores. Other new weddings total profited with 5.5 crores and currently we stand in good competition in the market with 6 more deals awaited to be closed. We expect these deals to bring us another 4 crores, through which we plan to invest in creating a more sustainable business, incorporating more innovative elements like environment-friendly flower decor in our new package and also a team.” I ended with the brand name in the slide in big bold letters “MADE IN HEAVEN”.

“This is good!” my husband exclaimed.

“I am happy you have managed to stay afloat. I was not expecting that, this is good.” My partner almost jiggled in joy as he handed out the company financials to him.
This was good for me, I was finally able to make a point to him. I could finally call myself Shreya Singh, a first of my kind businesswoman. I started very small, with small goals of low waste, resource friendliness to create a major impact.

Abhi and I have been together for two years now. Our marriage to me had become nothing but two people who sleep in the same bed. Although there was nothing that he didn’t do for me. For the outside world, we were the ideal couple, perfect clothes, much in love, but there was something missing. I felt it. All marriages come to still at some point, and the love needs to be re-ignited, but for me it was like that since day 1. I never seemed to be enough for him. I felt lonely in that world, a world full of luxuries and endless money, something that I always wanted, but I wanted to be loved now.

I would be alone in that big house, for long nights, waiting for Abhi to come home. My mom would always tell me there is something missing in my life. And that missing was to add a new member, ‘a baby’. But I was not ready for it. Instead I decided to build something for myself, to make a difference in this world, that would keep me busy and I called ‘Made in Heaven’ my baby.

“Hi baby! When are you going to be home?” I called Abhi.

“Hey! I will be late, there are some issues in the factory, I have to sort it out tonight.” He responded in ignorance.

“Okay! How late? I made dinner and sent the staff home, so that we could spend some time alone.” I tried to cheer up the conversation.

“Not today baby! I might sleep in a hotel nearby.”

I was confused because there was no hotel nearby. The factory was in an isolated place, and the closest hotel would be about 20 minutes from the house.

This is it, I knew something was odd about him. Late at night, coming home in the morning, I never saw him at home. The aberration ate me up. I needed to know what he was upto. I decided to go check the restaurant he was at. Calming myself to think, he must have a business dinner. I reached there and to my surprise he was there right infront of my eyes, with Faiza, his childhood friend. In these two years I had become very good friends with Faiza and I didn’t understand why he did not include me in this dinner plan. As I almost spied on them hiding behind the pillar, I knew this was something more than friends catching up dinner.

They finished and headed upstairs to the hotel room, walking hand in hand, almost in love. I had never seen him like this. He was happy! Smiling and laughing at her pathetic jokes. I felt in my gut,

“Is she the reason for all the late nights?”

“No! No! Faiza won’t do this to me, she has always envied us as a perfect couple, she would never do this.”

But as I followed them, my fears started to come true. They went into the room and that was it. I didn’t see them after that. I actually couldn’t see them after that. I knew my marriage was over. All that effort I had put into for him to fit into his world, my perfect dream, everything started crashing down. He was the love of my life, and I was his. Then what went wrong?

I rushed home in shock, and no tears. I couldn’t cry, I started asking myself all these questions.

“Is this because I became too busy in building my business? I should have done what mom had said, the baby would have been something that kept us together and him happy. But I never asked him if he wanted to have one.” I kept having this internal fight with myself asking whether I was less, or did he want something else in his life. I waited all night for him. I didn’t understand if I knew all this while that I was being cheated on, whether I should leave him, or just accept things as they are? I could not go back to the life that I worked so hard to leave behind. Being betrayed was not a part of my manifestation. My own ‘Made In Heaven’ dream was gone. I lost.

The next morning, I heard his car enter and I jumped out of bed.

“Where were you last night?”

“I told you, I was at the factory.”

“Can you for once please look me in the eye and speak to me?” “What do you want?” He yelled.

“I want you to tell me the truth. Where were you?”

He knew what I was getting at. He didn’t seem to feel guilty, but almost relieved. As if a huge rock was removed from his chest.
That’s it, I knew it in my mind, this marriage was over. Not because of the infidelity, but because there was nothing left that bound us together except a piece of paper.

As I left the conversation, I realized this affair was nothing to me, it was my ticket to living my dream on my own terms with no fears pulling me back. I owed Abhi my dream that he helped me live, but more than that he owed his happiness to me, and that made things equal.

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Fiction

Lily and Aster at the End of the World

Fiction by Radical Creasy

 

A little boy stands on a wobbly wooden chair at the too-short table in his mother’s kitchen, wearing overalls and a striped button-down shirt. His head is slightly too large for his body and is topped with a knit Carhartt hat, bought secondhand. He is waving his arms wildly and singing some off-putting six-year-old version of death metal. He stops abruptly. It is at this moment that he asks his mother, “Mommy, is the world ending?”

She just looks at him, teetering on the chair. His curly blonde hair falls in a surprisingly charming mop over his curious honey-brown eyes, making her wish she had a simple answer. He still has a fleck of mud drying in his hair and on the bib of his overalls from his afternoon romp in the woods. He’s like any other little boy; he plays with trucks and Legos and watches cartoons and resents when his mother asks him to sweep the floor. He is also nothing like anyone who has ever existed. He dances around when there’s no music playing, like his life depended on his body continuing to move. He asks too many questions, if there were such a thing. He is the contrast of light and dark, as if shadows had a body. There is nothing behind his mother’s eyes as she tries to figure out how to tell her little boy that Yes, darling, the world is ending, but not just yet.

His mother is a quiet type, young-looking for 33. She pulls her billows of brunette curls into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck with a hair tie she has somehow kept track of for months. Lily likes her coffee too sweet and too milky. It’s her way of clinging to joy in a world that pours her bitter, black, freshly-brewed reality every morning. She worries – she worries for her son, she worries for herself, for their future and for the millions of people who are worried about the same things. When Aster was born, she really wanted to be the kind of mother who put her all into parenting. She wanted to cut his apples and his cheese into little cubes and store them in perfect little Tupperware containers to hand him as he leaves for school. She knew that if she cared too much, she would inevitably hurt him.

She answers his question. “Maybe.”

She answers this way because he asks 100 questions a day. She answers this way because she can’t bear to tell him the truth; rather, she can’t find the words to explain such a complicated truth to a six-year-old. But if the world is going to end, doesn’t Aster deserve the truth, difficult as it may be to hold? She’s angry with him for being too young to understand. He’s angry with her because she doesn’t let him have five juice boxes in one day (too much sugar and too much plastic waste, she thinks). Later, he will be angry with her because she failed to tell him the truth when he asked whether or not the world was ending.

The next morning, she watches the morning news from her low-rise apartment – the kind with the dull grey outside paint and a din in the kitchen that doesn’t budge no matter how many lamps you add. The forecast for the coming week projects higher temperatures than the state has ever seen (which is saying a lot for Oregon in mid-July). The pang of regret living in her stomach punches her in the gut. She didn’t tell him the truth. She dumps her milk-coloured coffee into the ugliest travel mug to ever exist and texts her therapist. Her hands shake and her lungs feel suddenly small as she thinks about Aster’s question. Can we move our session to 5pm today? I can’t wait until tomorrow.

 

Incident Two / Part Two

 

“Lily?”

She blinks herself back into the room and stands up to meet her therapist. She’s been seeing Rye for a few months now, and found their even-keeled temperament unnerving. The lilt of their voice had a way of drawing out of you every secret you’ve held in your throat since primary school. Rye was 36 – only a few years older than Lily, but somehow they possessed the patience of a tired grandpa who still listens intently to a story his granddaughter has heard several times. Lily thought she was paying Rye to listen to her dump her problems onto the overly poofy green couch every two weeks, but Rye’s job was actually being a level-headed guide for Lily as she navigated the paradigm shift that came with her climate-induced existential crisis.

Lily is a kindergarten teacher. She loves kids – always has – and went straight into teaching after getting her Master’s degree in early childhood education. The curriculum changed in 2010 and she was now required to teach about climate change, but she couldn’t even explain it to her son. She was detrimentally protective of him. That was the same year she got diagnosed with severe depression and an unclassified anxiety disorder. She didn’t start seeing Rye until two years later, after an incident where Aster had asked one of his many questions and she had given him no answer at all.

Today, Lily’s hands shake from the moment Rye called her name. She sits, slowly, feverishly, on the stupidly puffy couch Rye loves so much, perched like a tiny bird ready to flee at the first sign of danger.

“Lily, I sense a lot of tension today. Can you describe how it feels to be in your body right now?” Rye asks. Lily stares aimlessly across the baby blue office for a moment before crossing her arms and shrugging her shoulders with a defiance usually seen only in children.

“I feel incompetent as a parent, and my lungs feel tiny. I can’t breathe today,” she says. Rye uncrosses their legs, takes a slow, deep breath and asks another question in the same measured, observant tone as before.

“What would it look like if you felt the way you want to feel in your body?” Rye asks. Lily climbs off the puffy couch and onto the floor. She sits upright, her legs spread wide like she’s rolling a ball to a toddler, and gestures to her body spread across the hardened carpet.

“Like this,” she says. “I want to be open, but I can’t.” She sits like that for a short minute before she climbs back onto the couch, clutches the throw pillow and fidgets with the decorative knots of thread attached to it. Rye knows that she’s struggling to find words. They probe, asking what the next right step could be. Lily shrugs, her words meandering until she says something about pulling out every book on homeschooling from the old decrepit library that haunts the corner of her apartment block.

She takes a deep breath, then gets up and rummages through Rye’s desk for a sheet of blank paper. Lily scribbles homeschooling books and bus conversion and run away from society? and normal life for Aster. She puts air quotes around the word “normal” before crossing out that list item and adding all dead in 20 years in its place. She stands, holds the paper out in front of Rye’s face, waits for them to read it, then shoves it in her coat pocket and walks out of the office.

The door closes behind her with an apathetic click. Lily knows it’ll fly open again in a week, when her fears of failing as a parent of a boy in a world that’s ending will flood her throat and fill her eyes with saltwater again. Rye will listen. Rye will help her rationalize. Rye is good at that. Lily will slowly come to know, to trust, that Aster will be fine. She will learn that she, too, will be fine.

She doesn’t know it yet, but soon, she’ll be living in a bus in the woods with Aster, distanced from the ever upward-creeping temperature of the city. She’ll do sessions with Rye online. Aster will never wear shoes. He will adore this fact. He will be confused for a while as to why they left the city, but he’ll be happy. Lily will be proud.

Yes, the world is going to end. She vows to tell Aster when she can find the words. There is no ‘perfect’ at the end of the world, she thinks as she walks out into the July heat, her wild brown hair unburdened by the dry air. But I can tell him the truth.

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Creative Non-Fiction

Love in the Void at the End of the World

Creative non-fiction by Radical Creasy

CW: mentions of psychiatric medication, sexual violence and addiction

 

“That’s why I’m an antinatalist,” she said plainly.

I took a comically large bite of my hummus toast and leaned toward her across the table. Allison, a vegan anarchist from my dreadful calculus class, had not only explained to me why she was vegan – for the environment and because of animal cruelty – but she had also dropped the “having kids is wrong” card during the first hour of our first ever lunch together.

“But what about people like me who want kids?” I asked.

Sitting under the angrily yellow lighting of the university’s vegan cafe, this was the first time I had heard the word antinatalism. Even though I could logically figure out what antinatalism meant – something about being against childbirth? – the boldness of her statement forced me to pause. I remember feeling offended. I felt it in my chest. How could someone so adamantly reject childbearing when so many of us want it so badly? It would take me years to realize that my decision to have children was not actually a decision. It was a choice that I had been taught had one correct answer. I remember feeling activated, almost angry at her, for being so against people having children. You don’t have to have kids, but who are you to tell other people what to do with their bodies? Biology professor Guy McPherson’s prediction that we’d all be dead in 10 years hadn’t really hit me yet.

I think I wanted to be like her – at least, I wanted to have strong convictions like her. I had yet to find out which ones. The following years would lead me to learn that I was also an antinatalist and a wannabe vegan, but I wouldn’t connect my conversation with Allison to those beliefs in a pipeline until now. I felt some sort of shame associated with my non-veganness and my desire to raise kids that came from my body. I recall feeling like she was right to be vegan, to be an antinatalist, and yet I felt it in my body as an offense. The general narrative I’d been spoon-fed by society was that our value as women came from our maternal capacities. Allison was vehemently rejecting this.

University coursework in sociology taught me that decisions like this are commonly presented to us as prescriptions: you should be looking for your life partner, you should have children, you shouldn’t get an abortion, you shouldn’t sleep with other people. It wasn’t about having kids or not having kids. It was about the choice. I wanted kids, so why was I so angry about abortion bans? I had no idea how to be alone. Wouldn’t it be nice to have children to take care of me at the end of the world? Yes. But not only would I be suffering, but they would be suffering with me. Why subject anyone to this climate emergency? Then it hit me. That’s why Allison is an antinatalist.

When the United States started seriously limiting abortion access for people with uteruses in 2022, I was living in my van after a rock bottom depressive episode, an abusive relationship, and the deterioration of my sense of self into precious little shreds. I wrote for a living, and published whatever was on my mind on my personal blog in my free time. I started asking too many questions all at once, driving my mental health to a critical point where I posted a blog called “We Need to Talk About Abortion” and ended it with the threat of mounting the kneecaps of those who threaten my bodily autonomy to the dashboard of my camper van. Of course, I wasn’t actually planning on removing the kneecaps of pro-birth people, but I viscerally felt the government’s attempt to crack down on my bodily autonomy. I felt it in my throat, like I wanted to scream. I felt it in my gut, like it was being death gripped by the hand of an angry man. My rage that day was tangible, and it still lives near the top of my blog’s homepage – simmering, seething, waiting for someone to claim it and use it as fuel to light the White House on fire.

Before my partner was my partner, we laid in bed together, my arm draped over his chest, and I asked him – terrified – if he wanted kids. That question turned into a three hour philosophical debate in which he claimed having children was unethical and I spat back something about bodily autonomy. I was angry at him. (I fell in love with him anyway). He was right. I quickly realized that having kids without the consent of those children to be born was cruel, unethical. And to bring them into the world as it burns? Even worse. I joined him in his antinatalist beliefs, much to the surprise of my four-years-younger self who had resented Allison for believing the same thing.

How had I ended up here? I’ve always wanted kids! My questions didn’t have answers. I hated that fact. Looking at it now, though, it’s no small wonder that I rejected the imposition of life on another human being when just a year before, I was laying in bed, staring straight up at the ceiling, my eyes fully glazed over and my mouth half open and a box cutting knife laying next to me that just minutes ago, had been pressed against my wrist, unmoving. The room was spinning around me. Does anything actually matter? Fuck if I know.

My psychiatrist would tell you that I needed to be on stronger meds, that I was pondering the devastating reality of existence because I didn’t have enough serotonin. My mom would tell you that it was because I didn’t eat right and I needed to go outside more often. My friends would probably tell you that it was because I was quarantined during a global pandemic. Future me would tell you that it was because I was freshly out of an abusive relationship with my lover-turned-rapist and I was hurting and why would I ever want kids if I was nearly forced to?

I didn’t know how to be alone. I was addicted to drugs, existentially depressed, and still covered in invisible bruises from loving a narcissist.

Why is it so hard to be alone? Why is existence unbearable? How do I fix that?

I waffled over the answers to these questions for a year. I still do.

Do I actually want kids, or was I conditioned to believe that?
Is having kids my solution to my loneliness?
How dare I subject my kids to the suffering of this world?
If I, with all my privilege, am suffering so deeply, where will my kids be at my age?

At some point, I decided it was worth it to prevent any potential future suffering and protect them from burning along with the planet. My heart half-breaks knowing I will never carry a child, but I am an antinatalist because I believe in joy. For those of us who exist, we might as well love, and with vigor. And for those of us who don’t yet exist, for those who will never exist, enjoy the void. We made this choice because we love you.

And dearest reader, I will never tell you what to do with your body. You may have children and raise them with their toes in the dirt if you’d like. And I will look upon their childhood joy with nostalgia and jealousy and fear. But before you do, consider my words. Do you think there is more suffering or more joy in this world?

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