Markham Creates
MARKHAM CREATES COMMUNITY CHALLENGE
Finalists Announcement – July 1, 2020 at 10 AM!
Join Mayor Frank Scarpitti and representatives from the City of Markham’s Culture Department and Markham Public Library for the official unveiling of the Markham Creates Community Arts Challenge finalists, as part of the City’s Virtual Canada Day Celebrations.
The virtual initiative was launched in late May to get the community to unleash their creativity and showcase their talents while we physically distanced to help stop the spread of COVID-19.
Five finalists will be announced in each of the following categories:
· Performing Arts
· Visual Arts
· Exhibit Design
· Creative Writing
The 20 finalists will also get the special opportunity to be mentored in their field by professional artists such as Jully Black, George St. Kitts, John Abrams, Missy Marston and more.
Tune in on July 1, 2020 at 10 AM and celebrate our local artists on Canada Day. Because, Markham’s got talent!
Thank you to all who participated in the Markham Creates Community Challenge.
The City of Markham invites all residents of Markham to create, engage and share your artistic expressions and be part of a city movement. During a time of social distancing, through the arts, we can connect.
“Markham Creates” is a call to Markham residents or groups to showcase your creativity through a medium of choice: Performing Arts, Visual Arts, Exhibit Design. and Creative Writing.
For full challenge details, please visit Markham.ca/creates
Five top finalists (in each category) will be chosen and shall receive:
- MENTORSHIP by a distinguished professional artist in the respective discipline
- PERFORMANCE/EXHIBITION
- ONLINE EXHIBIT/SHOWCASE
- CERTIFICATE OF RECOGNITION signed by Mayor Scarpitti.
The four Categories you can submit to:
- Performing Arts (Flato Markham Theatre)
- Visual Arts (Varley Art Gallery)
- Exhibit Design (Markham Museum) *NEW OPTION FOR SUBMISSION*
- Creative Writing (Markham Public Library)
If you have any questions, please contact markhamcreates@markham.ca
How to enter your submission:
- Complete the Submission Form no later than 11:59 PM, EST on Wednesday June 17, 2020. *NEW DEADLINE TO SUBMIT*
- All required documents or video uploads as specified by each category must be included with your Submission Form in order to qualify. Only one submission per applicant is permitted per category.
- Once you make a successful submission – please check your email to ensure you receive a thank you confirmation.
- Check out the Virtual Display pages below “Performing Arts” / “Visual, Writing & Exhibits”
The selection committee will consist of a panel selected by the City of Markham. The committee will review all submissions and select five finalists in accordance with the category selection criteria to be announced on Canada Day!
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The Varley Art Gallery wishes to engage the community through creative expression while celebrating visual arts and culture in Markham.
This program is open to artists of all abilities, aged from 13 years to senior citizen, who are interested in receiving mentorship and coaching in relation to their art practice.
At this time the project is specifically focused on artists who paint.
Enjoy viewing submissions from our creative community! Content displayed here are initial submissions only.
View All Ideas5 months ago
Submission - Coco Lin
Artist Name: Coco Lin Title: Medium: Acrylic Artist Statement: During this unprecedented time, hoarded food and safety gear are currently a huge part of my life. I wanted to capture it in a still life painting so I could later on, look back and remember what it was like being in quarantine.
6 months ago
Submission - Kitty Ko
Artist Name: Kitty Ko Title: Medium: Ink and Brush Artist Statement: Ink and brush have become my best friends. It is my belief that the key to being a good artist is the ability to remain a student; continuing to learn new things and always finding ways to improve. In this busy world, I can find my world when I paint.
6 months ago
Submission - Samneet Mann
Artist Name: Samneet Mann Title: Medium: Artist Statement: This piece is a representation of how I feel when I wear clothes from my culture. Over the years I have become more comfortable with my identity and feel like a warrior in my ethnic clothing. This piece is a reflection of that power I feel now.
6 months ago
Submission 3 - Shahrzad Khosravi
Artist Name: Shahrzad Khosravi Title: Medium: Acrylic Artist Statement: Acrylic paintings on canvas 30 inch x 40 inch
6 months ago
In Focus - Elaina Sabo
Artist Name: Elaina Sabo Title: In Focus Medium: WaterColour/Acrylic Artist Statement: My name is Elaina Sabo and I am a young aspiring artist. I have been creating art ever since I can remember as a way to escape reality and bring images from my imagination into our reality. My usual work consists of pencil and marker illustrations.
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New option for the Exhibit Design challenge! Do you have a collection, that is, do you collect stamps, figurines, photos, etc.? Did you know that your collection can be turned into an exhibit and the Markham Museum is here to help! Please note that if you have started your family history in Markham exhibit, we still are accepting those submissions too!
The submission must include:
2-3 photos showcasing your collection
A short statement as to why you were inspired to collect those items in particular and what significance it has to you. Your collection can be one that you started or you have carried on from someone else. It can have 5 items or can have 1000!
Original Challenge (still open for submissions)
The Markham Museum invites the community to creatively relate the story of their family’s settlement and/or life in Markham using words, images and family ‘artifacts.’
The Exhibit Design of your family story may include panels, models, maps, illustrations, audio, video and/or photographs of people, events and/or significant family objects.
Enjoy viewing submissions from our creative community! Content displayed here are initial submissions only.
View All Ideas5 months ago
Lesley Wooton - Unusual Craft Tools Collection
I am a founding member of the Markham Guild of Village Crafts, and for many years taught traditional rug-hooking for the Guild. I am a collector by nature, and among other interests enjoy travelling and collecting antiques. Therefore crafts, from here and other countries, and through the ages, coalesce in my interest in collecting unusual craft tools that people have used to create, to make their work easier and enhance their lives. My collection ranges in materials from metal to wood, silk, paper and plastic; in size; and in age from the 17th century until today.
5 months ago
What to wear
A series of fashion illustration that explores each person’s story and show how what we choose to wear reflects ourselves and our relationship with everything around us.
5 months ago
Ananiya Narmathan — Mineral collection
For almost 2 years, I have collected numerous seashells, rocks, and minerals with my family. Each rock, mineral, and seashell have their own unique features and are all beautiful in their own way. I have used majority of the seashells I have collected for crafts so here are the minerals and rocks I have collected...
5 months ago
Frances Yoong
There are 89 flowers here. Since the emergency order started on March 17 in Ontario, I crochet a flower for each day we stay home until now. I feel like we have to do something to remember this difficult time in 2020.
5 months ago
Dhara Bharanitharan
My kids made me admire at you...beauty in its own way.
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Participants will submit one piece of original, unpublished creative writing. The story must centre around their experience arriving, settling, or living in Markham. The story is to be presented in one of two ways.
- A poem, which can be in any form, but must be under 5000 words.
- A fiction piece, which must be under 5000 words.
Enjoy viewing submissions from our creative community! Content displayed here are initial submissions only.
View All Ideas5 months ago
Claire Chen - 2 Poems: I Hate Corona Virus & Apples
I Hate CoronaVirus By: Claire Chen, age 10 Sunday.April.12.2020 Hello, Coronavirus, You’re ruining my day. I cannot visit my best friend, Or listen to the bay. You cause a bunch of trouble, Your pandemic is still on, I really, really, really, hate you; When will you be gone?! I cannot step outside, The house is such a bore, I really can’t do anything, You’re rotten to the core! You’ve made a lot of shortages, “There’s our stuff!” Then, poof! The things are gone, and you’re to blame, You are such a goof! Our nice frontline workers, Are risking their own lives, You just sit there watching us Go right down in fives. I know you to help Our old earth to be healed, Please don’t do it like this way, No apples can be peeled! We’re spending all our money, On essentials and some soap, But don’t be happy, just quite yet, No one’s losing hope! Apples By: Claire Chen, Age 10 I am crunchy, I am sweet, I’m made of fruit, No sign of meat. My skin is ruby red, On my inside, I am gold, Now here’s a goody tip for you; Eat me when I’m cold! I’m famous; don’t you see? I start with letter A, I’ve even got a saying, I can keep the doc away! I come up to your mind, When you think about a treat, I’ll say this stanza once again, In other words; repeat! I am crunchy, I am sweet, I’m made of fruit, No sign of meat. I’ve told you all about me, But there’s something left to do, Act along and eat me, please, You really will, won’t you?
5 months ago
Windigo: Hunter of the Outsider: A Critical Examination of Race in the City of Markham - Tahira Kassam
Artist’s Statement: I am an aspiring Author from Markham, Ontario. I started writing because I want to bring attention to important issues that face our communities, and I enjoy combining real subjects such as race and gender with fantastical elements. I found this piece difficult to write because instead of following one storyline, I alternated between a present-day fictional story, and a memoir recounting my experiences. I did this because I wanted to combine my thoughts with theories that I had learned in school. While still fictional, I chose to supplement some areas with fact to strengthen the impact of the story. I am standing in a barren field. The wind is gusting around me and still my clothes cling to my sweat drenched skin, so full of moisture that they cannot be dislodged. I take another step into yet another area of unmarked foliage, now entering into a patch of wheat stalks. Their long yellow-brown sheaves envelop me. I am invisible to the prying eye as I saunter through the growth taller than my own frame of 5 feet 6 inches. I am 25 years old. I feel free; the constraints tying my existence to this place loosening as I inch closer to the city limits. My feet feel as if they have been weighed down by rocks as I move closer to the border. Brown Muslim Outsider I grow tired of shouldering the load and collapse into the mud stricken dirt, an earthworm poking out of its little hole amid the earth, as if to say hello. I examine the cuts and scrapes on my palms. Minor. They do not feel as such, and I imagine multiple fractures beneath the skin, their cracks spreading unassumingly, though on the surface a mere scratch on a hand laying overtop the crushed straw that broke my fall. I stand shakily, brushing the dust and pollen from my clothing, getting a sweet waft of grainy earth and sunshine, combined with the sweat emanating from my skin. Again, I take a deep breath and begin to trudge straight in the direction that I had been moving in. Or so I’d hoped – my fall had left me disoriented and amid the towering growth around me, I had no landmark to train my eyes upon to point me in the right direction. Darkness began looming overhead, and I was now truly on my own. I make my way through the darkness, weary. The only source of light was coming from my glow-in-the-dark wristwatch, the time showing that it was already 11:40pm. I banish thoughts of giving up from my mind, and I continue on towards my goal; getting out of the city; it was not an easy task. I recall back to a time when I was seven years old. I could vaguely make out the shape of my parents in the hallway, whispering in hushed tones. Something wasn’t quite right – I could tell that my mom’s face was twisted in anguish from the crease at the back of her neck. My father was standing straighter than usual; bolder, shoulders back, as if trying to brace himself against some invisible attacker. I was young, but I knew enough about my parents to realize that there was something that they weren’t telling me. They had caught me listening in to their conversation, so they joined me in my bedroom, fake smiles plastered across their faces. “Why don’t you sleep now, beta?” my mother asked uncomfortably. Ignoring her question entirely, I looked deep into my mother’s oval eyes. “What were you and dad talking about in the hallway?” My voice had trailed off, seeing the worried expression creeping across my mother’s features. My dad answered before my mother could reply. “Honey, you should not be listening in on our private conversations, and in any case, this is nothing to discuss with a child” he answered, kissing the top of my head; his prickly facial hair tickled me. He said this firmly, but I could tell that my dad wasn’t actually mad. He stroked my cheek with endearment, and softly touched his wife’s shoulder and left the room, swiftly. My mom looked on with an expression that I couldn’t quite place on her face. She turned back towards me, and I could see the cogs in her brain were whirring and turning, deciding whether she should say what she was thinking. “Do you want me to tell you a bedtime story?” Before I could reply, she had begun. “There once was a town far, far away. It was a quiet town, full of humble people. They had no idea that deep in the wilderness, these creatures existed. They were called Windigos. They had dark, winged limbs and bright yellow eyes; eyes that were capable of murder. These Windigos hunted people like us. Outsiders. People that did not fit in with the rest of society. They were cruel and unforgiving- they killed without regard of age or gender – they only see one thing and one thing only – to what group you belonged to. Whether you had a support system – “I want you to promise me something...” she said, interrupting her horrific tale with a query. “Yes, mom, what is it?” “I want you to promise me that you’ll never stray too far from our community – from us. We are your family. We are your community. Promise me!” she cried out, her voice growing shrill. “I – I promise, mom.” Without another word, my mother had cut the tale short, and left my bedroom. I had lain in the dark, with the soft light still illuminating across the room, my eyes following a trail of dust, only visible within the stream of light. Why would my mother tell me this horrifying tale? And a story of pure, fabricated fiction at that. What did that accomplish? My mind had spun in circles. Unless – maybe there was more fact than fiction to this tale after all. Shivering from the memory, combined with the chilliness of the atmosphere setting in, I peered around at the empty greenery surrounding me. I gazed out from within the stalks of wheat. There was a tall patch of corn a few feet ahead that I could walk between, but I would first have to venture out into the flat plane, where anything could be lurking. In the darkness, I wasn’t able to see my surroundings very clearly and the terror engulfed me. I want you to promise me that you’ll never stray too far from our community – from us. The words rang in my ears as I stepped out of the cover of darkness and into the short grass. I was completely at these creatures’ mercy now. *** When people think about racism and exclusion on the basis of skin colour, things that come to mind are; a police officer stopping a person of colour on the street for a ‘random’ search; a Muslim couple being taken out of line at an airport for suspicious behaviour; a young Black boy being sat down by his parents and being given “the talk”, but this talk is not one of the birds and the bees or of sexuality, but one that starts at a far younger age. The conversation details that you should never resist arrest or speak back to a police officer, because whether you are six or sixteen years of age, they will not treat you as a child and they will not hesitate to inflict harm. These are all well-researched forms of discrimination and institutional disadvantage that we as a society are familiar with, but the form of racism that I want to tell you about is one that is difficult to define, talk about, or prove. There is no checklist that you will be able to refer to that says, yes, she did in fact experience racism because factors a b and c were present. Inter-ethnic/ minority racism is when individuals from minority groups are racist or discriminatory towards other ethnic groups. Growing up as an Indian- Pakistani Canadian in the city of Markham has shaped my life and my experiences thus far; they will also continue to shape my experiences in the years to come. What I mean by an Indian-Pakistani Canadian is someone that is of South Asian ethnicity that was either born in Canada or immigrated to Canada at any stage in their life. In my case, my mom was born in Karachi, Pakistan, and my dad was born in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. They had met in Canada in the late 1980s and I was born in Toronto in the mid-90s, moving to Markham early in my formative years in January of 2003. I feel that the specific city that I grew up in, as opposed to the province or country as a whole, played a big role in how I was socialized to view myself and my self-worth. When I moved to Markham in 2003, it had a very large ethnic Chinese population, and not unlike China Town in Toronto, I feel that a specific subculture or diaspora emerged. A diaspora is defined as a group of individuals who have developed their own communities after arriving from abroad. China Town in Toronto may be a stronger example of a diaspora due to the very distinct culture present, but even in Markham, you will see many restaurants that specialize in Asian cuisines, people speaking Cantonese and Mandarin, and you will find malls and churches that cater to a specific demographic. Upon moving to Markham in elementary school, I remember I that I always felt out of place and different from the rest of my classmates. I also felt that they regarded me differently from others in our class. The idea that I experienced racism as a marginalized person among other marginalized people may seem like a strange concept, but this is not a new form of racism in our society. This has been something that has always existed, but has rarely been written about. Why you might ask? The reason that I said racism between minority groups is a strange concept is because of two reasons. First, minorities do not have as much power as the dominant societal groups in Canada. When you look at the people in government making decisions, these people are neither Indian nor Chinese. However, I argue that in Markham, there is a definitive power hierarchy among ethnic groups, with the Chinese holding the most power due in part to the population size. Secondly, it is strange because there is expected to be a certain amount of transfer sympathy among these groups, such that they both understand what it feels like to experience racism, so they should supposedly try to avoid inflicting that feeling on others. However, that has not proven to be the case, due to a lack of social solidarity between the two groups. Instead of realizing that discriminating against others is unneeded, inter-ethnic/ minority racism is still a reality in our present-day society. Still not convinced that inter-ethnic racism is real? I want you to imagine an Asian family turning their noses up at a Black person for their darker skin-tone, subconsciously associating whiteness with beauty. Particularly in the South Asian community, light skin is thought to be connected to class or a person’s higher caste; skin-whitening creams are also used to subscribe to Eurocentric beauty ideals. Another example of minority racism is a Black person making snide comments about Asians not knowing how to drive. Imagine a family on a highway and there is a driver in front of them going below the speed limit and not using their turn signal. “They must be Asian” they say. The forms of racism here range from lightly used stereotypes to deeply ingrained perceptions of worth. In both circumstances, whether the other party takes offense or not, these are forms of racism. *** I scurried across the field like a mouse trying not to be seen. The creatures feasted off fear so I tried to remain as calm as possible, but the hammering in my chest could not be ignored. My ears filled with sounds of Thump, thump Thump, thump Thump, thump. I was only one foot away from the stalks and once again I would be concealed by a protective covering amid the crops. I tiptoed across the field, trying not to make a sound. I stopped mid-motion. I’d heard a rustling behind me. I froze, the hairs at the back of my neck standing straight up. My arms were poised as if ready for an attack. And then I heard it again. A crunch of leaves from a spot even closer to me. Without another look, I took off sprinting, out of the clearing and towards the stalks of corn. My feet slapped against the damp grass as I ran, the wetness trying to drag me in and hold me in my place. I only stopped running once I was within the tall growth. I looked around trying to find who – or what – had made that noise, but I could see nothing, and I could hear nothing except for my heavy panting. My throat felt raw and I longed for water, but I knew that the priority at this moment was leaving the city in which I fell victim to otherness. It wasn’t safe here. When I talk about racism, I will be using Banton's definition of racism, such that one's behaviour is thought to be determined by ascribed characteristics, such as race, ethnicity, caste, or overall appearance. Certain attributes are unconsciously linked with these characteristics; in turn, some traits and persons alike will be seen as superior to others. In this context, assigning statuses of superiority or inferiority is a very controversial topic. Indian- Pakistani Canadians are not seen to be inherently inferior to Chinese- Canadians, but in a setting where the dominant culture is dictated and controlled by the Chinese, an argument can be made for the former. That is not to say that this is the case in other communities where the population make-up is altered; one might find the opposite to be true growing up in Mississauga or Brampton, Ontario. However, in our city, there are certain studies that help to understand why individuals like myself may have perceived inferiority to be the case at one point or another. From a Statistics Canada survey in 2002, respondents were asked about their general comfort level around certain immigrant ethnic groups, as well as Canadian-born ethnic groups. The results showed that 69% of respondents were comfortable around Chinese immigrants, and 77% were comfortable around Canadian-born Chinese individuals. This was in sharp contrast to only 48% of respondents feeling comfortable around Indo- Pakistani immigrants, and 59% around Canadian-born Indo-Pakistani people. There is no doubt that that feeling uncomfortable around certain groups coincides with poor treatment, exclusion, marginalization, as well as practices of racism. As I mentioned above, this does not just extend to White or European people. Social solidarity is when people conform to a collective consciousness based on their perceived similarities, including but not limited to skin colour, race, ethnicity, or culture. Forming a collective consciousness means they may infer commonalities with other members of the same race. For example, perceiving similarities in morals and values. This leads people in the in-group to prefer their "own kind" and form boundaries between who is a part of the in-group and who is not, and through practices of inclusion and exclusion. Language was just one of the ways that I felt excluded in Markham, Ontario. By excluded, I define this as being denied certain privileges that come with in-group membership. In elementary school, I would be sitting at lunch, not being able to participate in the conversations that were being had in Cantonese and Mandarin. It was not as if I was denied access to the classroom, or that I was not allowed to sit with the others, but rather it was a feeling of exclusion and isolation. It also felt like I was being purposefully excluded because, as one of the only nonChinese students in the class, we were the only ones who were not able to understand and engage. In an attempt to fit in with my classmates, I increasingly found myself put into positions where I could either tell the truth and be shunned, or lie and be accepted. I remember buying a pair of Yu-Gi-Oh! shoes in grade four when I hadn’t seen the show. I claimed excitedly that it was my favourite TV show of all time, when I really only branded myself with the clothing. I also remember dragging my South Asian parents to the grocery store to buy roasted seaweed snacks that were immensely popular among my friends in grade five. Whatever I did to try to gain acceptance only worked to a certain degree. One of my most poignant memories from elementary school was when we were colouring with pencil crayons – having since moved on from crayons the year prior – and when I asked for the ‘skin colour’ pencil-crayon, a boy rolled his eyes at me and handed me the ‘brown’ colour. “Didn’t you mean this shade? The peach is obviously not your skin tone” he had said. As I coloured in my face and peered at the others around me, I was very clearly the outlier, and I had longed to never feel that way again. As elementary school progressed, I increasingly found myself feeling anxious when the teacher said that it was time to get into partners or groups. I never understood why this simple request made me so uncomfortable in the past, but I realize now that this was due to my feeling excluded. Due to a shared collective consciousness among others that they were all hard-working and intelligent, my worth could not be accounted for within this framework. No one ever wanted to work with me; they didn’t come right out and say that they thought I was dense or boring, but I had been able to read between the lines. After elementary school ended and I entered into middle school and then high school, I still felt rejected in the larger society in Markham. I mentioned earlier about Markham arguably being a Chinese diaspora, with the variety of churches, restaurants, and malls throughout the city catering to the group. In an analysis of outsider experiences, Li argues that "ethnic malls" are representative of the class dynamics in a society. Similarly, the Markham mayoral elect of 1995 claimed that Asian malls only catered to the Chinese community, and the successes of these businesses created a resentment on the part of other groups in Markham, as their businesses were not able to thrive to the same degree. The mayor also wanted to decrease the number of nonEnglish language signs around the city, to possibly counteract these effects. I do not at all agree with Mayor’s stance on Chinese-run businesses in Markham. However, it is important to note that the study suggests others feeling excluded from the larger diaspora or subculture. In addition, out-group members did not feel the same levels of institutional completeness from the building of these stores. Institutional completeness is when an ethnic group forms institutions and organizations for its members, to retain their culture. Coinciding with emotional exclusion was physical exclusion. As I started trying to find my first job in high school, I was not hired or able to work at these malls, due to the language barrier. To work there, it was expected that you would be fluent in Cantonese and/ or Mandarin, whereas I did not speak either. Even outside of these malls or restaurants, I have also felt ignored trying to find employment at other establishments in Markham. Oftentimes, employers preferred individuals that were fluent in English, as well as one of the two Chinese languages. When I conceptualize feeling like an outsider, I draw on Han's findings of in-group and out-group members using key words such as "foreigners", "we/us", and "they/them." Feeling as though you are a part of larger society is not as simple as whether or not you are able to find a partner for a school project. The question at hand here is, what factors determine whether you categorize yourself as being a part of the "we" or the "them"? Why is it that I separated myself from the dominant subculture in Markham, and felt that I was an outsider? In a research study by Banting and Soroka, it was found that immigrants and other minorities may feel that they "belong" as a Canadian, or as a citizen of Ontario, but that the sense of belonging in a city or town is the lowest of them all, decreasing throughout the generations. My experiences are in-line with this. While I have a strong sense of nationalism and pride for my country, I still feel like an outsider in Markham, even more so than my parents. As the subculture and/ or diaspora in Markham grows, I feel increasingly out of place. My eyes grew wide as I approached the city limits. I was finally at the border of the city in which I had longed to leave. The sun had begun to rise in the sky, and I realized that I had been walking all night, aside from the four-hour nap that I had taken amongst the corn. Nestled in the dirt, inching closer to the familiar scents of rich floral and the warmth it provided, I had slept soundlessly. Things had finally been looking up for me – I no longer felt like I was being watched as I looked out at the grey skies, growing lighter by the minute. The grey was beginning to change into yellowish blue, and with it, I settled into a sense of safety. I looked out at the border in front of me. It did not look any different than the land that I had been standing upon. All that signaled the change was a small sign indicating that I was leaving the city of Markham. I had pictured this moment so differently all these years, imagining that I would run across the line with an air of triumphant joy, finally safe from the Windigos that hunted our land. But now I stand here thinking, what creature must inhabit the other side of the border? Could my idealized version of life outside of this city live up to my expectations, or would something else push me down after I had finally picked myself off the floor? Taking a deep breath, I closed the space between myself and the next city, bracing myself for the newness that I would face. My foot was halfway between the two sides when I sensed movement to my left; behind me. I turned and saw the hideousness of the creature in my midst. Dark brown tufts of fur spread along a bony, looming frame; standing on its hind legs with its arms spread out – beckoning to me. I could see the glint of evil in its bright yellow eyes, its mouth open to reveal rotted teeth and flesh. Blood dribbled down its teeth onto its chin. It did nothing; it only stared. *** Having received an education in Markham, I noticed that the teachers paid closer attention to and expected greater things from the Chinese students in my class. I was never given the opportunity to excel in school because the teachers were providing all of their extra help to the in-group students. In elementary school, my grades were very poor, and contrary to belief, this was not because I was unintelligent. I recall this one test that I had gotten a very poor grade on; one of my Chinese friends had done poorly too, and was beaming that the teacher was letting her redo the test. I asked the teacher if I too could redo the test, and she said that she felt that I did not try as hard on the assessment, and that therefore I should not be allowed to rewrite. This is just one example of how I was disadvantaged in that setting. What I have so far described touched on one of the of three forms of institutional racism; when supposedly racially neutral policies disadvantage minorities, inadvertently. This includes the zero-tolerance policy at schools, as well as suspensions. Just as I was not given a second chance on that test, other racialized youth are not given an opportunity to fix their mistakes and are suspended, while non-racialized youth may not have been disciplined for a similar offense. The racism in schooling is based on a skin colour hierarchy, where Chinese or East Asians are arguably higher than Indian-Pakistanis and other South Asians, due to East Asians generally having a lighter skin complexion. In such case, they are given preferential treatment in matters pertaining to education and learning. Blaut argues that most academics are under the assumption that all races, even those that are supposedly seen as inferior in society, have the same capability for excellence and intelligence, but that only certain groups are able to realize this potential. This here is a cultural problem, and not a biological problem. *** I stared into the yellow eyes of the threat looming in front of me, cowering at the thought of it reaching for me with its large hairy claws. I pictured it pulling me back towards a place that I had been so keen to leave, ravenous for my flesh and blood. Instead, it just watched me. I couldn’t understand why it was not attacking me – it was letting me leave. I looked deep into its eyes and recognized a softness – a fondness. I clenched my jaw and looked out at the greenery on the other side of the border. After years of being trapped, I finally had my chance to change my fate and move into a new surrounding – but I didn’t want to. I thought back to my parents sitting at home wondering where I had gone for the past 24 hours. My friends living nearby that I would see less often. My trips to Main Street Unionville and Toogood pond, the breathtaking nature surrounding me. The kindness with which my neighbours had always treated me with. For the first time in my life, I realized that the creature would not attack me because I was not an outsider. This was my home. *** There are a lot of things that need to be changed regarding how we as a city view and talk about race. While it is often considered a taboo topic, we need to recognize the struggles that people in our community are going through, so that we can come to the other side as a cohesive unit. As our own little sub-division of the Greater Toronto Area, we need to recognize that even though we are a community of hardworking immigrants that have built a better life for ourselves and our children, power imbalances and feelings of unease do still exist and must be brought to light in order for things to change. The Windigo is a well-known Canadian creature, originating from Native American mythology. It is famous for hunting people on the brink of isolation. I leave you with this final thought; do not let the Windigo come to Markham.
6 months ago
Scout - Corrado Ferrara
scout i would scout the backroads out to the eastern reaches of the town trying to find my muse on 19th avenue the ‘79 malibu humming rattling over potholes the late spring green unraveling all around where would the next song be? would i find it in a ditch where the runoff had now slowed to a trickle? i looked to the trees as i passed 9th line who was speaking to me? where was i being drawn to? the tank was full and i was in no hurry i turned off the radio to hear the evening insects in the fields there were no other cars but still plenty of light to see the words dancing in the dust, in the gravel there was a bridge i favoured i was young then, romantic about water following these roads, stopping for a scribble when the words reached for me i would feel them brush the skin raising the hair on my arm that rested on the car door window open to the markham night i am forever grateful to those disappeared fields they brought a spirit out in me and i expect the haunting to stay
5 months ago
Say Something - Meilun Yu
Say Something Poem by: Meilun Yu dedicated to Mrs. Toszegi When a seed gets planted, The soil it is in, provides for it, nurtures it But when the land becomes infertile, and the garden full of weeds The plant can’t grow So we moved The day was as hazy as a dream Blindfolded by the memories of a child not full grown The decision was not mine, but I went along with it What could I say? My ignorance as a child clouded my mind But as I grew in this new soil, So did my mind The blindfold of ignorance and youth was just replaced by another one A tongue that my tongue could not curve around The language was mountains and rivers and fields My mouth could not go over the peaks of those mountains The river ran too fast for my lips Those field too flat for my throat to pronounce But what could I say? Then came kindergarten When I tried to speak, my tongue was lead To heavy to lift, just like my eyes Because my ears were blocked Nothing went through Just like my mind Then came first grade The girls who sat behind me sang a song The melody familiar but the lyrics strange I thought that if we all added something to the song It would sound so much better But mute I sat, Like a caged canary The bars made of their ignorance and mockery And the only way to find the key is to find their key To sing the tune of their song To march to the beat of their drums But what could I say? Then came fifth grade Now that I have grown, from a seed to a sapling The language of my past forgotten That page torn from my book I have learned to be clay To twist, and turn and shift into the shape of this mold And I thought that it was natural Like how plants grow to accommodate their changing habitats and seasons Like how their roots find different routes And how their leaves change colours, like how I changed my colours Still, there is something unearthly about this earth To have the ability to change somoene like that And make it feel natural But what could I say? Then came eight grade, A new girl arrived today She sat behind me, as quiet as the night and maybe the night sky is the only thing she sees Does that blindfold also block her view? That blindfold that was actually eyes And I wonder if her heart marches to her own beat still and if she’s listening to our song and trying to join, trapped because she can’t find our key But, what can she say? What can I say? Markham, what can we say? Artists Statement: Writing has always been a way for me to speak. It has always been a platform on which I can deliver my feelings, my opinions, and my view on the world in an artistic way. Because as a young teen about to enter high school, my voice and opinions are not normally heard, as I am young and seem ignorant. Poetry is a way for me to get my thoughts across, and hopefully, people would listen. It is also a way for me to inspire other teens like me to share their thoughts, or to inspire others to not be held back by their age. I want my pieces to convey the creativity of youth, and to show people that we are the future.
6 months ago
Once Upon a Victoria Day - Adam Keung
Every Victoria Day, without fail, my dad goes out to buy a houseplant. I wondered about that this year. He woke up earlier in the morning than usual—almost like he was going out for a secret mission. “Don’t forget your mask!” Mom shouted, loud enough to pull me away from the depths of my slumber. “I won’t,” Dad replied faithfully, which was not always the case. Now that I was awake, I considered accompanying my dad to the farmer’s market. The pandemic lockdown had dragged on for months now and I could use some fresh air and change of scenery. I was supposed to attend classes online while school was closed, but I was too busy “saving the world” with Fortnite. But could you blame me? I’m pretty sure Mr. Walkerford was ahead of me in the game even before the lockdown. What else do teachers do while on strike? Torn between doing something healthier and more meaningful on Victoria Day and the promises of Fortnite, my computer was on and my game running before I let myself struggle too much over the question. Before my game finished loading, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Alex, asking if I wanted to take my bike out today. I hesitated. I knew I would get an earful if I asked my mom. I could already hear her lecturing me in my head—it’s too dangerous to bike on the road, it isn’t safe to go out right now, and are you going to wear a mask? Alex likely sensed my hesitation when I didn’t reply right away. My phone vibrated a second time: Megan will be there too. Well, I didn’t need any further convincing. I was pleasantly surprised, however, when my mom readily agreed. She had been locked down with dad and me for too long and wanted a few hours to herself in the house. She probably also thought that video games would kill me faster than anything else. “I’ll bring back some takeout for lunch when I come back.” My mom looked visibly pleased. She had been cooking three meals a day since the lockdown started and was running out of ideas and energy. “Get some wanton soup noodles from that place on Highway 7. And the shrimp dumplings.” “Actually, I was thinking of picking up some spaghetti from Main Street.” “Your dad likes noodles. There will be tons of people out on Main Street today. It won’t be safe.” I rolled my eyes. “Noodles and spaghetti are pretty much the same anyway.” The actual reason was that Megan lived closer to Main Street and I wanted to spend more time with her. My mom raised an eyebrow. “Do we really want to have this discussion again, Pete? If your dad was here, we might have to go back a couple of thousand years before we can eat.” “Alright, alright. But I’m just going to grab spaghetti on the way, okay? Don’t mention anything to Dad.” “I’m not a picky eater like you and dad,” she shrugged. “As long as I don’t have to cook.” On my way out the door, my mom added, “Oh, skip the cheese on the spaghetti.” “Mom, they always put cheese on spaghetti,” I said while pulling on my shoes. I didn’t want to belabour this point further as it was getting late and I didn’t want Alex to be alone with Megan before me. “No cheese!” I love cheese myself, so I just nodded noncommittally as I left and went to grab my bike from the garage. I understood her insistence but wasn’t convinced it was a big deal. I didn’t like tofu, but she put it in almost every dish she made. I biked out to Main Street, passing by more pedestrians and other bikers than I had seen over the last few months. There were fewer people than the number that holidays typically attracted to Main Street and Toogood Pond, but it was far from empty. Looking at the people standing in line for ice cream or walking their dogs. They all wore lovely smiles, just that none of them were protected by masks. You wouldn’t believe that the world was in the middle of pandemic and on the brink of a recession. I noticed a family of geese walking across the street without a care in the world, minding their ducklings, taking no notice of people or vehicles. I was supposed to meet Alex and Megan at the Quarry, which was a small public art display area at Toogood Pond. I waved to Alex I approached. His hair had grown out and it looked entirely disproportionate with his angular features and small face. He said he didn’t want his mother to touch his hair after what had happened with his father’s hair. I met his mother a couple of times. She was a “tiger mother” and I was sure Alex’s day would come soon. I looked forward to seeing what new hairstyle he would be sporting in a few weeks. I had lucked out—my dad did my hair and I did his. The result was always better when equality was in place. The display area had seating made of stone arranged artistically. The story there was about three dogs watching a squirrel intensively. The plaque read, “A quiet tension exists between predator and prey, the force of nature and the form of culture.” “Here comes your squirrel,” Alex said as Megan’s bike approached. I barely heard him as I shaded my eyes against the sun so that I could see her more clearly. It had been two months since I last saw her in class. Megan pulled her bike next to us. “Megan, what happened?” I let Alex make the mistake. “What do you mean?” Megan frowned. I was sure Megan knew what he was asking. Megan looked different. Her sharp, pretty features had softened and were more rounded around the edges. It seems like nobody could escape from “quarantine 15”. “Megan, you look better with long hair,” I lied. Thankfully, my lie worked and Megan cheerfully complimented my hair in return. “Let’s ride,” I said, after handing a mask over to Megan. “This is cute!” Megan exclaimed. The mask had an image of Mulan on it. With the mask on, it hid any trace of additional weight gain and highlighted her beautiful brown eyes and long lashes. I was suddenly grateful to my mom for all the hours she asked me to help her with the handmade masks she made for the local senior homes. “What about me?” Alex complained. “I only have one extra. Looks like you’ll have to stay further behind us.” I led the way with Megan, without giving Alex a chance to protest. My mask had an image of Batman on it and I idly wondered if Mulan, a girl who impersonated a male soldier on behalf of her father, could love a guy like Batman, who also had a secret identity he was hiding. While my mom made the masks, she took special requests from dad and me. She made a Pikachu mask for herself, as she was still addicted to Pokemon Go. Dad picked Bruce Lee and I chose Batman. There were a few eyebrows raised when I asked for a Mulan mask and I doubt they believed my story about the “friend at school”, but the temporary embarrassment was worth the look on Megan’s face. The mask suited her. I lifted my face to the warm spring sunshine. The sky was a warm cerulean blue with white scudded clouds. It had been months since I had felt the sun on my skin or the wind blowing through my hair. It surprised me how much I missed these little things. We rode out from the Varley Art Gallery, which I noticed was still closed, and passed by Unionville Library. The library was closed too. They weren’t places that I usually went to, but at that moment, I felt a communal sense of loss. We rode east along Carlton Road towards a neighbourhood where many of our friends lived. Megan remarked that this area used to be farmlands and it was a shame that the area had turned into subdivisions for houses. I nodded in agreement but wasn’t sure if I actually agreed that this was a shame. We passed Kennedy Road. On the North side of the road was a Baptist church where Alex’s family went on Sundays. We stopped in front of the church in the middle of the empty lot. No one had been here in months. At that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of disconnect from the world around me, as if everything had narrowed down to just the three of us and nobody, nothing, could reach us. In the last few weeks and months, the world seemed to have folded within itself, as people retreated into their homes and businesses were forced to shut down. It was like watching the lights around me turn off, one by one. But right here, right now, there was a sense of presence that I couldn’t quite explain. Perhaps Megan and Alex felt the same way too. We stayed there for much longer than we realized. At the intersection where we stopped, there used to be an Italian grocery store. It had moved to 16th Avenue, where there was more space. As we passed by, I thought of Saturday afternoons when I was young, where my parents and I would make a mission out of trying out new foods and new places. We would shop at the Italian grocery store for their baked pastries and smoked meat--but ignoring the cheese selection, of course. Other weekends we would go to New Kennedy Square for tofu, Sherwood Plaza for samosas, Centre Street for bagels, First Markham Place for kimchi, Downtown Markham for falafel, and J Town for sushi. What I wouldn’t give for one hour at any of those places right now! We passed by the York Police Station by McCowan Road. From some distance away, I spotted a police officer that was scrutinizing us as we passed by. Instinctively, I looked down to check I was wearing a seat belt, before realizing I was on my bike. His scrutiny turned into a smile and he waved as we passed by. It must have been my Batman mask. Carlton Road became Raymerville Drive after McCowan Road. We biked past cars and pedestrians—less traffic than usual, I noticed—as the road became Bullock Drive and Parkway Avenue. We came to the other Main Street at Markham Road. All the shops were closed, but we could still ride past the historic buildings. Without focusing so much on the stores and restaurants, like I normally would, I took a closer look at the historical buildings. I never noticed that each building was shaped differently, like they all had their own personalities. Some were quaint, picturesque, and inviting. Others were more gothic, with conical spires and exaggerated arches. Each building seemed full of secret histories and hidden treasures. Like the book store tucked by the end of the street, that one looked like it could house a treasure map to a gold mine, or an astronomy map to all the stars since the dawn of time. This was further from where we lived so we didn’t come here often. I used to beg my mom to bring me with her when she came to visit her dermatologist here. There was a pastry and chocolate shop next to the clinic and she would usually indulge me with a sweet treat if I was successful in making her bring me along. We parked our bikes in a side lot and spent some time walking down the street. I spotted my pastry and chocolate shop. We window shopped, talking and laughing, feeling exhilaration from the very act of being outside and being alive. There was an LCBO store on Main Street as well, but it was closed for Victoria Day. Alex remarked that he wouldn’t believe LCBO was considered an “essential service”, as if it were the same as police stations and hospitals. Megan laughed and said many people would probably consider LCBO more essential than a police station and it would likely be the last business standing, even if the government shut down every other business. We stopped to let a fire truck pull out from the Main Street Fire Station. Instinctively, I made a sign of the cross and said a quick prayer. It was what my parents did whenever they heard a siren in the distance. Megan noticed the gesture and respectfully clasped her hands together. I wasn’t sure what her religious affiliations were, but I appreciated the gesture. The fireman paid us no heed as he sped down the street. I noticed Megan staring a little too long at the fireman, and wished that she would look at me like that one day too. There were no cars parked at the GO train station. I wondered how many people were still taking the GO downtown for work, or whether the trains were still running at all. Having lived my entire life in Markham, I couldn’t remember the last time I rode the GO train. Probably never. There were a number of parks and trails on our way, but we mostly stayed on the streets, except for cutting through Cedar Valley. Alex insisted on this route, as he wanted to see as many faces and evidence of social interaction as possible before being subjected to lockdown again. Megan and I could hardly object to that. We went all the way to Markham Stouffville Hospital. “My aunt works here,” Megan said. Her eyes had grown sad. “Is she alright?” I asked. “Oh, she’s fine.” Megan cleared her voice. “It’s just that whenever she goes home, she has to quarantine herself in the basement. She can’t even hug her daughter and Queenie is only seven. The best I can do is go to their house and read books to her.” We watched as an ambulance pulled into the emergency wing. “I want to be a doctor,” Megan said suddenly. “Even now?” Alex asked. Megan didn’t reply. “Me too,” I said quietly, although I wasn’t sure if Megan heard. “When you see so many people not wearing masks, it’s not hard to believe that more people will get sick. We’ll need more doctors,” I said. “By the time C-19 is over, we’ll need to be ready for a C-29 or a C-39.” My parents debated these issues every day—who started the virus, who caused it to spread, who failed to stop it in time, who helped and failed to help, who was suffering, who should be treated, who would be the first to develop the vaccine. Without any audience but me to disapprove of them, they talked like they knew the answers to everything. Sometimes, they would pause in the middle of their discussion and look to me for an opinion. The only one I offered was, “Do you expect me to pretend to have an answer like the world leaders do?” But at that moment, watching Megan’s thoughtful gaze at the hospital, I was convinced that I wanted to become a doctor. I checked my watch. Much as I didn’t want to break Megan’s train of thought or to leave her, I knew my mom would be waiting for me. “It’s getting late, I need to be home for lunch.” I needed to go back to Main Street to grab spaghetti takeout too. I was thinking about my grades at school and how it might be a bit of a stretch right now if I wanted to become a doctor. Maybe Megan was thinking of the same. Even though there was no school after June, I was determined to use the summer productively and to stay ahead in my courses. If I cut down on the video games, I would have time to hit the books. I would propose studying with Megan too. I was good at math and she was good at English and biology. By the time I got home, it was around one in the afternoon. Dad had bought a pot of garden herbs from the Farm Market on 19th Avenue. The table was prepared for lunch and my mom had bought tea on the table as well. They were waiting for my takeout. I took out the wanton soup noodles, with shrimp dumplings on the side. My mom opened the takeout box that dad had brought back. A steaming heap of spaghetti, with a lot of cheese. Once Upon a Victoria Day - Artist's Statement For people that don't know Markham, it is perhaps one of the most interesting cities in the world. The people, the scenery, and, most importantly, the cultural diversity are all elements of a wonderful story that I would like to write about and share with others, especially during this unprecedented time. I am very glad there is an opportunity to share the joys I have from living and working in Markham. Thank you! Adam Keung
