A Descriptive Essay
If you looked through that window with the dispassionate gaze that more skilled writers routinely assume, you would see that there’s not much visual information being conveyed. A dock, a boat turned over, a wooden makeshift fence to the left of the opening toward the lake, the entire area covered in a resting layer of snow that submerges any winter boot on impact.
Or, What Is Biculturalism?
we French&English never lost
our civil war
endure it still
a bloody civil bore
the wounded sirened off
no Whitman wanted
it’s only by our lack of ghosts
— Earle Birney, “Can. Lit.” (1962)
One of the perks of being a feminist ally is gaining a new appreciation of social diversity. As your constructivist laser vision makes every fixed idea you ever entertained about gender crumble before your very own eyes, you start to feel lighter somehow, less encumbered by prejudice and the need to conform.
Before I departed for Canada in August, I was dead set on joining a political club or youth organization once I’d settle there. Having looked at the options, however, some uncertainty has started to trickle in.
I’m here, back among Canadians. It’s been three years since I last walked on this soil. But it’s my first time acknowledging to whom it belongs.
A Semi-Autobiographical Story*
*) The events in question are fictionalized only insofar as my brain failed to recall them in the correct order and context. So to stitch it all back together took some narrative embellishments here and there. I recommend that you check out the first post I made about summer camp before delving into this one, so click here if you haven’t read it yet.
Only a few days after I had arrived home from camp, I found myself walking up a hillside, wheezing audibly with each step. I had been going by bike for as long as I didn’t mind passing over asphalt but quickly resorted to hiking after I had spotted a more appealing route at the roadside: an opening in the woods. I locked my bike to a post that was also a bus stop, crossed the road, and sped up the incline.
‘I’m alive,’ said Douglas. ‘But what’s the use? They’re more alive than me. How come? How come?’ And standing alone, he knew the answer, staring down at his motionless feet.
— Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
What, as a writer, are you supposed to do with an experience so monumental that it resists story, that it defies condensation into cold, deliberate type? I’m not going to lie to you: I’m at a loss. But I might as well give you some snippets.