Tradition: Catching the flight
I have a tradition I keep for myself: catching flights between two lives.
I have a tradition I keep for myself: catching flights between two lives.
School was out but winter break never felt lonely because we had each other: two peas in a pod, built-in best friends.
There is a language only women speak — heard in the clatter of pots at dawn and in the simmering broth that carries the memory of old kitchens across oceans and years.
Sometimes on those overcast evenings, my friend and I would skip across the harbour to her parents’ boat. Despite the rain, the sun made an appearance, peaking between the grey clouds and casting the waves in pink and sea-green with tips of orange-gold.
I wanted desperately to fall into myself like girls in romantic comedies are allowed to, let my hair grow greasy and spoon Ben and Jerry’s into my mouth, openly sob to Norah Jones in the living room. But, most real life women don’t have the time to fall apart completely and cinematically.
This is my beginning: allowing myself to feel every emotion and make mistakes without being so hard on myself.
During the first week of June, I felt a buzzed calm before a wave of lime green shade began to take over clubs and political campaigns alike.
A collection of personal essays from some of The Ubyssey's contributors on summer in India — its comfort, its power, the return to it.
“Tell me about yourself,” they say.
The seagulls angle themselves toward the sunset / Same as me
On the sidewalk are / heat and gum-turned-tar / and enough pigeons to slow you down.
Calling girls chiriya in Punjabi and many other South Asian languages is representative of the belief that we raise our girls with care, love and admiration, but ultimately their fate is decided for them.
The frayed threads of her blouse unravel and twist into feathers that coat her flailing arms until they become wings. Her calloused toes transform into gleaming talons that slice through her secondhand shoes.
Even now in Vancouver, UBC is home to the gulls. They perch themselves outside of the Nest, eating student leftovers from the turf — competing with the racoons — then ascend through the wind towards the ocean. I find so much comfort in knowing that they are everywhere.
The first and last book I ever stole from a library was titled something like, Birds: Everything You Need to Know.
When my mind can make out the peacock’s feathers vividly enough, the eyes almost wink, as if to acknowledge the grip that they have on the woes of maternal love.