#this is worse than the semester long project from last fall (regarded by everyone as the worst from a mental health pov-

[mihai-florescu]

*gripping the sink refusing to look in the mirror* no, like, it's ok, it's fine, i'm just in my war shu era in my war leo era in my kaname era in my-

[hopefullylovelyxx]

Ça te rend belle.

part one

Authors Note:

This is my first writing post so sorry if it’s not fantastic but I’m growing as a writer everyday so it’s only up from here. Also all the French in this story stems from me being in AP French and all the mentions of high school memories/actual events taking place at the high school are based on my high school experience in America so sorry if you’re from another place and it doesn’t make sense. Also I’m not sure if this high school name is an actual high school somewhere so if it is then oops. If you have ANY questions or comments regarding the story PLEASE send me an ask and I’ll happily answer. Huge thank you to @nips-and-tats for encouraging me to go through with this story and giving me the confidence to post my writing <3. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy. xx

. . . . . .

Wednesday August 15, 2018 6:52 am

Anxiety. Tests. Homework. Studying. Anxiety. Loneliness.Embarrassment. Insecurity. And more anxiety. The words that describe Y/N’s high school years best. As she walks up the steps to the high school her university assigned as her student teaching school she’s puzzled as to why she’s choosing to spend the rest of her life working in the exact same environment that she desired to break away from just 5 short years ago yet, for some odd nostalgic reason the environment is sort of comforting. She walks up to the front office door preparing herself by rehearsing what she planned on saying and running through the scenario she just practiced on the car ride over. Once she has everything on the tip of her tongue she pulls the door open and walks in with a smile she hopes they don’t look too closely at or else they might see right through her nerves and fear.

She approaches the desk and confidently begins to say “Hello I’m-“ but is cut short by the secretary holding her finger up for Y/N to take as a cue to hold her sentence. Y/N is taken aback as the scenarios she had thought up didn’t include one in which she’d be cut off by the secretary on the phone with a parent she presumes based on the answers being given. “Yes ma’am school started Monday....well I don’t know why your son would say the school burned down....okay...okay....no problem....thanks you too, bye.” She hangs up and looks up at Y/N with a warm smile, “How can I help you?”

Y/N smiles back and scraps whatever she’s practiced for the past 24 hours because now it’s all a bunch of jumbled up words that make no sense. “Um I’m Y/N, the new student teacher for French. My university said they sent over all the information.” She looks a bit confused then recalls the memory and says “Ahhh yes! Welcome to Meadow High School. I’m just gonna need to see your ID please.”

As she retrieves her drivers license from her bag Y/N recalls a brief memory of her mom getting her out of school early after calling her about fake stomach aches having to show the office secretary her ID. She shows the older woman and she gives Y/N a badge on a lanyard with her name and the schools name. She recalls all her years of schooling staring at her teachers badges yearning for one of her own.

She puts it on and has to keep her excitement contained as the secretary who she learns is named Kathy, gives her a map of the school and explains that the language buildings are just straight out of the office door leading into the school. “202. Can’t miss it. Mrs. Meyers is very...patriotic about the French culture.” Y/N just nods wondering what on earth that could mean.

As she walks out into her new but temporary life she immediately understands what Kathy was talking about. She walks the small distance between her and the French flag wrapped around a Eiffel Tower statue nearly as tall as her and knocks on the door before entering.

She’s met with a tall blonde, blue-eyed, woman perhaps in her mid to late 50’s rummaging through stacks of papers. She looks up at Y/N and says “ah you must be Y/N.” She stands up and shakes her hand. Y/N recalls the past couple days of emailing Mrs. Meyers. Just going over the basic classroom norms and requesting that 1 of the 2 class periods Y/N was required to teach be 6th period because she wanted to leave work early. Once Y/N informed her that the university has a policy of an actual teacher being present for each lesson a student teacher gives, Mrs. Meyers explained to Y/N that she had done this with multiple student teachers in the past. Not wanting to stir anything up Y/N just accepted it and although teaching seniors AP French wasn’t her first choice- as she felt she couldn’t connect with the older students as they might not take her seriously being only 5 or 6 years older than them- she requested first period as it was Beginners French aka French 1/2 meaning most if not all the students would be Freshman.

Most people would dread being stuck in a class in front of the youngest more immature of the school but Y/N felt the opposite. She felt that it was a privilege of some sort and great responsibility to teach the younger students not just French but also set them up for success in all aspects of life and prepare them for the next few years of school. It filled the maternal role Y/N always felt growing up wanting to take care of her baby dolls with extra care and now as a 23 year old wanting to care for students as her own children in a weird sense.

She knows that this student teaching job is only a semester long and that by the time winter break is over these students won’t be hers anymore but at least they were hers at all. Having only 4 months with them is good enough reason to make time with them even more precious she thinks. Or perhaps the school will allow her to stay another semester, perhaps she can be a teachers aid if they don’t allow her to keep her French teaching position.

Y/N is shaken out of her thoughts as Mrs. Meyers asks her to set the printed seating chart up under the document camera to be projected onto the white screen at the front of the classroom. Y/N recalls dreading those box representations of desks with names in them, she never liked change. School gave her enough anxiety, adding change to it made everything worse. The recollections of finding out she had to sit next to someone she didn’t know makes Y/N’s heart race for a second then quickly stops once she brings herself back to Earth remembering she’s 23 and not 17.

Once the bell rings Mrs. Meyers turns to her and says “Get ready for hell.” Y/N gives a little laugh but is quite confused as to why she would say that to someone who’s here to practice how to be a teacher.

She shakes the weird statement off and quickly brushes over the black silk of her plain romper and adjusts her jean jacket making sure the cuffs are folded perfectly. She looks down at her feet and wonders if she should’ve worn other shoes or if gold sandals will be fine for the tasks ahead. Now second guessing her entire outfit choice Y/N shakes herself out of it remembering it’s summer and 1000 degrees outside plus she’s a student teacher, who cares what she’s wearing.

When the first few kids come in they are noticeably confused by her presence but when they look up at the seating chart they’re too annoyed to even care. They all share glances and eye rolls as they go to their seats.

Y/N doesn’t know if she should want silence in the classroom being a teacher and all because the overwhelming sounds of the students talking are helping to make the negative thoughts in her head be muffled. By the time she knows it the second bell rings and the announcements go on continuing to stall for her. She can’t hear announcements over the students talking but is not bold enough to quiet them down and she’s not sure she wants to.

Finally the announcements fall silent and Y/N takes a deep breath. As she opens her mouth to speak Mrs. Meyers beats her to the punch. “Everyone be quiet!” The young faces notably aggravated turn away from their conversations and look at her. “This is Ms. Y/N and she’s a student at UCLA ( my university/location for the story but you can imagine any university or any location of your choice :) ) and she’s going to be your teacher this semester.” She looks at Y/N to take over and goes to sit at her desk in the back right corner of the room. She smiles and says “As Mrs. Meyers said, I’m Y/N. I go to UCLA. I’m studying to hopefully be a French teacher and I’m looking forward to teaching you all.”

A girl in the middle of the class raises her hand and Y/N smiles happy to have her first ever question from a student. “Yes?” The long blonde haired girl with foundation a few shades too tan but maybe that’s the style -who knows it’s been years since Y/N has been in high school- furrows her eyebrows and says “So like...you speak French fluently?” Y/N nods and says “I started learning French in 7th grade and continued all the way until college.”

A boy in the front row raises his hand and once Y/N gives him a nod he says “Say something in French.” Y/N thinks for a moment then settles on the basic introduction, after all this is just beginners. They probably don’t know a word of French. “Bonjour classe. Je m’appelle Y/N. J’ai vingt-trois et je suis très content d’être ici.”

They all stare at her in awe of her skill. All their hands fly up and Y/N says “I’d love to answer all your questions but I really want to get to know you.” There are some audible groans so Y/N says “You get a candy if you state your name and something about yourself.” Almost everyone’s hands go up and Y/N smiles to herself.

. . . . . .

*annoying iphone alarm that makes all our ears bleed*

“Fucking hell!” Harry groggily yells trying to stop his alarm. When he can’t seem to feel his way to his phone he groans and sits up grabbing it off his nightstand silencing it. 5:30 am. He throws his head back against his headboard reminiscing to just last week when he was able to sleep in. Which for harry meant sleeping until 7.

He’s always been an early bird ever since he moved to LA. Perhaps it was the time differences between here and England or maybe he’s just got the soul of an old man like all his ex’s have inquired for some odd reason.

He never quite understood that but assumes it’s because of his music taste and love for literature. It could be the fact that his closet is full of suits, nice button ups, trousers only your 70 year old Irish-uncle would find appealing, and his array of paper boy hats.

Whatever it is, Harry doesn’t mind. His confidence is thick like the copy of War and Peace he has on his bookshelf and will never deteriorate no matter how many shots anyone takes.

This confidence has also made Harry seem quite closed off to some. This mixed with his rather reserved nature has definitely made his social life quite dry. But he’s learned to become accustomed to it.

Harry rises out of bed in nothing but a grey tee shirt and black Calvin Klein underwear. He sleepily walks into his apartment bathroom and strips the few clothes he had on as he waits for the shower water to reach the perfect temperature. He gets in thinking about the past two days of school. It may only be his 3rd year teaching but he can tell his students this year are gonna be his favorite.

He thinks back to their discussion about the classes summer break reading assignment on the first day and chuckles a bit remembering what Kyle Patterson said about Romeo and Juliet, “The only reason I’d poison myself after knowing a girl for a few days is if she ghosted me.”

Harry knows he seems like a nightmare of a teacher to everyone on the outside but he enjoys the little curtain he has up. It makes it more fun when his own students to realize he’s not some pretentious boring British guy but actually a pretentious funny British guy.

Harry gets out of the shower and quickly dries himself before tying his towel around his waist. He brushes his teeth and shaves his face before going back into his bedroom and picking out a nice white button up and charcoal colored trousers with some nice black loafers. He lets his hair air dry as he packs his lunch and breakfast into a paper bag before putting it into his brown leather satchel making sure he has everything he needs for the day.

Upon arriving to the school he notices his usual parking spot is taken by a car he’s never seen before. “fucks sake.” He mumbles to himself driving around to the other aisle and parking in the first spot he sees.

Once Harry’s in his classroom he lets out a big sigh and immediately feels at home. He contemplates making a seating chart but decides against it considering they’re seniors and in an AP class, he doesn’t feel the need to control where they sit. It’s one of the things he likes about teaching seniors.

Their independence and self sufficiency. Yes, harry helps them when they don’t quite understand underlying symbolism or when they need something to be translated into “teen terms” rather than 19th century English, but more often than not they’re capable of figuring it out themselves. He’s always happy to guide them if they need and definitely loves to crack jokes throughout his lessons. His students past and present know how hilarious and lively he could be; but it’s day and night between his interactions with students and with the world around him. It’s why harry loves his job. He’s able to be his fun free spirited self then his tranquil reserved self all at the click of a button.

The bell rings and after a few seconds students funnel in taking seats. “Mr. Styles?” Harry looks up at the voice not knowing who it belongs to, after all it’s only the third day. “Yes?” He answers standing from his desk and closing the few inch gap between him and front of the classroom. “Are you married?” All the students look at him curiously. Harry is confused as to why they’d ask but simply says “No. Probably won’t ever get married f’I’m honest.” with a shrug he lets it go but it just leads to more questions being asked. Luckily for him the second bells rings and announcements start so the classroom is brought to a complete silence.

. . . . . .

Thank you for reading! Next part will be up soon so stick around. xx

[tylerbiard]

Still in Edmonton

So it’s Spring in Edmonton.  The weather is warmer, the snow is melting, and everything looks ugly.  You know, the melt is dislodging the garbage and gravel that was embedded into the snow, creating a muddy mess, and where it isn’t a muddy mess, everything is simply brown and dry.  The grass truly is not greener here until May.  Still, there’s something about this season that makes it synonymous with change, and with change comes reflection.

I had to do this assignment in one of my classes this semester on “material culture.”  Basically, I needed to figure out a material aspect that represented my culture and then present.  I was gonna be cliche and just pick my camera or something along those lines, but I decided to be innovative and pick something that literally both represents me and my background.  So I went with the perogy, an Eastern European dumpling. 

The reason I chose it was two-fold: it represents my ethnic background on one side and it also represents my home.  The Parkland region of the Canadian Prairies, roughly corresponding with the Yellowhead corridor, from Edmonton to Winnipeg, is home to a huge Ukrainian diaspora.  When the Canadian West opened up in the late 19th century, Ukrainians were among the earliest settlers to the untamed flatlands, and were pivotal in converting the land into arable farmland.  They were chosen due to the similar climate of Eastern Europe and the Canadian Prairies.  Most Ukrainian immigrants stayed in rural areas, like the Edna-Star Colony, and did not migrate into the cities until after World War II.  As a result of this diaspora, Edmonton has the nickname “Edmonchuk” (-chuk is a common suffix to Ukrainian last names) and as the diaspora integrated and mingled with wider Canadian society, certain aspects of Ukrainian culture were annexed into the wider culture here.  This was largely in the form of food, especially perogies, which is a popular dish here, regardless of ethnic background.  But even things like pysanka and the presence of Ukrainian Orthodox churches on the landscapes show the influence of Slavic culture in the Parkland.  So, in choosing perogies as my “material culture,” I wasn’t speaking merely about my heritage, I was also speaking directly to the place I inhabit and its own culture.  Someone born in Edmonton, but of an Belgian or Bengal or Brazilian background could’ve chosen perogies too and it would’ve been accurate.

I actually thought, knowing the strong Ukrainian slant here, that maybe someone else in my class was also going to use perogies as their “material culture” example.  But no one else did. The whole perogy thing kind of reaffirmed how embedded in this place I am, to an extent that few people seem to be.  Maybe that’s arrogant.  I mean, there are other tokens of Parkland culture out there, and Ukrainians weren’t even the only people settling the West in the 1890s and 1900s.  Hell, the other half of my family didn’t even arrive in Canada until after World War II!  To be fair, with regards to the “material culture” assignment, there were other people in my class that could’ve been just as embedded into the psyche of this place, but their examples were more broad.  Like coffee was a common example of “material culture” that a few people used, but that’s more of a wider Western thing, and someone doing the same assignment in Toulouse or Tuscaloosa could’ve said the same thing.

When I look at the people around me, I often find it hard to come across people who are as embedded in Edmonton and Alberta psychologically as I am.  I really feel like I am of Edmonton, for better or worse.  A lot of people, especially since the mid-2000s boom, are relatively recent to Edmonton.  People from across Canada have been coming in droves for the “Alberta Advantage” and cities like Edmonton have ramped up the intake of foreign immigrants.  It feels like everyone here is more tied to somewhere else. In a lot of ways, this demographic change-up is great.  Objectively, Edmonton is a far more progressive, vibrant, diverse, and all around simply a better place than it was in 2003. 

At the same time, though, it’s kind of alienating being surrounded by people who are out to make a quick buck off of oil, and funnel money back east or overseas, without a care for what this place actually is.  There’s a transiency to Alberta, which is felt most acutely during boomtimes.  It happened in the ‘80s, it happened in the mid-’00s, and again in the early ‘10s.  It’s tapered off somewhat over the past few years as oil prices dropped, but there is still a large amount of people here who aren’t really connected to this place the way that multi-generational Edmontonians are. To be totally fair, I know people who’ve come here from near and far and absolutely love Edmonton and are interested in knowing what it’s about, but they seem less common. I’m probably complaining about nothing; like I said Edmonton is objectively better off now and I objectively like the way things are improving. 

But feelings are never objective.  It’s weird how you can be nostalgic about eras that, when you look back critically, you can be like, “yeah, no, I’ve definitely got it better now.”  I feel that way with Edmonton a lot of times.  The sleepy, parochial, depressed Bill Smith-era city I grew up in was unequivocally a shitty one, riddled with a small town mentality that made anyone remotely progressive cringe.  And yet, I somehow miss it occasionally.  For years, I lamented how dead downtown was, and now that the stunning new arena is built, with spillover development well underway, I can’t help but think just how much of a scene downtown is now.  It’s, like, too popular now, or something.  I’ve been thinking of going to spots that remind me of the Edmonton of yore and photographing them.  I sorta already did one photo like that, here.

Yet on the flip side, I am routinely forced to contend with just how far behind Edmonton feels in terms of urban planning compared to every other major Canadian city, even smaller ones like Winnipeg, Quebec City, and Halifax.  I’m confronted with signs on Jasper Ave that, as a pedestrian, tell me to cross the street on the other side of the road.  Like, what the hell.  It’s Jasper Ave, not Saddleback Road.  Even when there’s progress, it’s half-assed.  New LRT?  Great!  Forgetting we dodged a bullet with underground LRT downtown and deciding to build above ground a la Calgary?  Dumb!  Deciding West Jasper Ave needs to stop being a stroad?  Fabulous!  Forgetting to bother with benches and trash cans and the like?  Fail!  Committing to more cycling infra but cheaping out with sharrows?  Why bother?  You’d think being the liberal bubble of the province, Edmonton would be open to more sustainable forms of planning.  Realistically, I think a large part of the issue stems from just how far Edmonton fell behind by circa 2006, after being stagnant for a generation, and so there’s still much catch up to do.

Basically, I am nostalgic about the stagnant Edmonton of yesteryear while still complaining about lack of progress.  Makes sense, right?  I want more people from a myriad of places to come here and expose this place to new ideas but dislike that they will never know the Bill Smith Edmonton I grew up with.  I’m basically an old man barking at the clouds and can’t be satisfied.

At least not here.  I feel stuck here.  I know Edmonton’s really not a bad place and there’s a lot of momentum here, but I’m just so disengaged with the place that the only thing holding me here is the people.  Perhaps that’s part of the issue.  I didn’t move around much in childhood, which further cements me in this Parkland metropolis.  While many of my friends have family scattered around the country, from where their families first settled in Canada (or the US), almost all of my family is here, in Central Alberta.  Both sides of the family came straight here from Europe.  So I don’t have some distant aunt in Montreal or a cousin in Moncton, which, again, entrenches me in this place.  Also, unlike first-gen friends of mine, who have some ties back to the old country, I don’t really have connections across the Atlantic.  What ties there were pretty much evaporated with the passing of my grandfather.  Thus, I am very much “Canadian” (not to say first-gens can’t also be unequivocally Canadian, but that I have no alternative), but also very Albertan and Edmontonian.  At least in some ways.  I suppose I’m more of an Albertan-by-birth than an Albertan-by-choice; a lot of the values here don’t align with my own.  I was thinking of this recently within the context of my Canada project, and maybe there’s something there about wider Canadian culture and values resonating with me in a way that Alberta doesn’t.

I probably just need to get out of here, even temporarily.  Being in university distracts me a bit from the limitations of Edmonton as a place for me, but it only goes so far.  It’s hard to leave, though.  I’m very embedded in this place and most of my connections are here.  It’s hard to give that up.  Maybe I’ll move to Toronto or Halifax eventually, or maybe I’ll do that term abroad in Holland.  I’m locked into Edmonton for another year, though.  I’ve heard on multiple occasions that moving away from Edmonton, after having grown up here, presents an opportunity to really appreciate Edmonton and it makes for a more enjoyable place upon returning.  Or I could just be like “bye bitch.”  Or maybe I’ll stay put, settle down, and come to terms with being of Edmonton.  But it hasn’t happened in the many years I’ve felt this longing to leave, so I’m skeptical. 

There’s also this other thing with Edmonton that is kind of special.  Because of how stagnant things were here through the ‘90s and into the 2000s, Edmonton did fall behind, as previously mentioned.  But from that, there is a lot of potential here to inflict change.  It’s in part the whole big fish in a small pond thing, but it also has to do with how much of the city feels like a blank canvas, and through those things, how much easier it is to have a positive impact on Edmonton’s future in a way you can’t in Toronto.  Edmonton is far less established as a place, so being here, especially now, not only can you put in the tokens that will churn out progress, you can also watch it happen before your eyes.  I’ve witnessed a lot of progressive change happen to Edmonton in my lifetime and it really makes you feel apart of the process and makes you appreciate all that has gone in to make Edmonton better.  You wouldn’t get that if you fucked off to Montreal or even Vancouver.  Still, the progress, although palpable, does take time.  It took 6 or 7 years before the City finally started upgrading the streetscape of the Quarters after the initial Area Structure Plan came out in ‘08 or ‘09.  Essentially, I don’t want to be 70 before Edmonton gets to the point where it’s the kind of place I am happy with.  Some days, I just wanna go somewhere where that stuff is already in place.  Sure, it’s the easy route (in a way), but it makes sense in a way to not waste your life hoping your hometown will finally change to fit your definition of better.

All I know is that I’m still here.  For now.  Actually those t-shirts are really resonating with me right now and I should probably get one.  They sum up my mood with this oil-drunk Parkland metropolis I call home.  So how’s that for Springtime reflection?