The "Home" Issue 1.2

St. Thomas More College’s literary magazine since 1995
The “Home” Issue
Vol. 26, No. 1.2
December 2021

in medias res is a student-led literary magazine at St. Thomas More College that aims to
publish content to reflect the identities of the campus community, its complexities and
diversities. Our mission is to be a forum for community expression that showcases the
high-quality work of artists in the University of Saskatchewan community.
Our title describes the experience of university life, in which we are always caught “in
the middle of things.”
What are you thinking about? What worries you? What moves you? We want to hear the
artistic voices that make up our community and help put their work out into the world.
EDITORIAL BOARD
Editor-in-Chief
Hannah Tran
Fiction Editor
Annie Liu
Nonfiction Editor
Olivia Kerslake
Poetry Editor
Douglas Barclay
Visual Art Editor
Aeydan Yee
Associate Editor
Jenna Roesch
Brand Manager
Kyungsoo Ryo
Visual Art Team
Breena Hebron
Namya Jain
Staff Advisor
Linda Huard
Our office is located in room 158 of St. Thomas More
College in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. We acknowledge
that we are on Treaty 6 Territory and the Homeland
of the Métis. We pay our respect to the First Nations
and Métis ancestors of this place and reaffirm our
relationship with one another.
As part of their mission statement, St. Thomas More
College says that “the work of our college is not an
end in itself, but must find application for the good
of humanity.” We ask all readers to consider how they
benefit from settler institutions such as the university
and how they can apply their learning not towards
maintaining the status quo but instead towards change
and meaningful reconciliation.
Illustrations by
Breena Hebron
Namya Jain
Olivia Kerslake
Cover Art | Renewed
by Narges Porsandekhial
Photo collage
36 x 60 cm
Visit us online at stmcollege.ca/imr
Visit us on social media @inmediasresstm
Contact us at inmediasres@stmcollege.ca
The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily represent those of the in medias res editorial board.
Individual copyrights belong to the contributors.

Dear readers,
EDITOR’S NOTE
This fall, we asked contributors: What does home mean to you? As we navigate our educations on Treaty 6
Territory and the Homeland of the Métis, questions of home become important as we learn to respectfully
situate ourselves and understand the positionalities we occupy.
In the pages ahead, members of our university campus — undergraduate students, graduate students, staff
and alumni — explore these positionalities. The fiction, nonfiction, poetry and visual art in this issue
certainly demonstrate the diversity of these positions. Amongst the myriad of voices, backgrounds and places
coming from our campus, two distinct themes emerged that lent themselves to two distinct issues: “Home
1.1” and “Home 1.2.”
In issue 1.1, our contributors engage the idea of home as family, lovers, houses, travel, searching and
connections to the land both here and far away. The intimacy constructed in these pages shows home as a
comfort, or, as one piece astutely puts: “Home is where the heart is.” These interpretations remind us of the
importance of our homes, asking us to hold dear to our hearts our own.
In issue 1.2, contributors engage with the woes of constructing a home. Themes of colonialism, longing,
diaspora, racism, struggle and a lack of roots haunt these pages, juxtaposing the comforting intimacy of 1.1.
These interpretations of home remind us of the relationship between home and resilience, recalling that
these contributors are, as one piece states, “still here” despite the adversities they have faced.
No matter where our writers and artists find their homes, we are immensely grateful for their contributions
to in medias res and appreciate their willingness to share their vulnerabilities.
I am thrilled to write that this issue of in medias res marks a new horizon for the magazine. After receiving a
record-breaking number of submissions of incredibly quality, we decided to publish our first-ever double
issue — I urge you to read both for a holistic experience of home and its endless possibilities.
I am immensely excited for in medias res to continue growing and cannot wait to continue using this platform
to elevate the incredible voices and talents at this university. As we move into thriving as an online
publication, I want to thank some important figures — Without the hardworking members of our editorial
board, talented contributors, those who have helped advertise our magazine, St. Thomas More College, and
you, dear reader, in medias res would not be possible.
I hope you can find a little piece of home in the pages to come.
Hannah Tran
Editor-in-Chief | 2021-2022

INDEX
Fiction
Colonization Earth.........................................................................................................................................3-5
by Devynn Boyer
Foster...........................................................................................................................................................10-14
by Eunice-Grace Domingo
Conversation with a Wood Ear Mushroom...........................................................................................27-28
by Thu Hạnh
Nonfiction
Familiar Strangers Saying Goodbye.........................................................................................................17-18
by Sarah Haugen
A Stained Birth Certificate.........................................................................................................................21-24
by hoiyan
Poetry
Steward................................................................................................................................................................1
by Joel Dash Reimer
My Home............................................................................................................................................................6
by Emily Lischynski
Storm on the Homestead..................................................................................................................................8
by Kristine Scarrow
Heart..................................................................................................................................................................15
by Oh
Estrangement...................................................................................................................................................20
by Kristine Scarrow
Fool’s Errand....................................................................................................................................................26
by Tania Alazawi
Willow................................................................................................................................................................29
by Joel Dash Reimer
Visual Art
Renewed.....................................................................................................................................................Cover
by Narges Porsandekhial
YOU WERE HERE.........................................................................................................................................2
by Chelsea Brant
Can’t Go Home Again.......................................................................................................................................7
by Jasmine Redford
In Touch With Nature........................................................................................................................................9
by MEERAH
White Restaurant – Jáau Bouh, Saskatchewan.............................................................................................16
by Aeydan Yee
Another Getaway.............................................................................................................................................19
by Narges Porsandekhial
Pillow Talk........................................................................................................................................................25
by Chelsea Brant
To learn more about the featured authors and artists, hear their thoughts on their pieces and learn
where to find them online, check out their bios at the end of this issue.

POETRY
REIMER
Steward
BY JOEL DASH REIMER
Surely my people should understand the meaning of ‘steward’
after tilling the land on farm after farm, burnt out by Russians
Driven out of the soil they had baptized their hands in
my relatives took to new ground, not knowing how to root
Trains across Turtle Island, built on Asian backs
Bringing refugee Mennonites to take land from Indigenous stewards
Hold the tension as oppressed so easily becomes oppressor
As stewarded plains are torn into empty fields,
fallow for the farmland, building homes over buffalo bones
It is not hard for a settler’s eyes to see emptiness
where life has been growing, guided,
Long grass counselled and counsellor
becomes nothing more than good soil for a hard harvest
My family still owns land, still recreates home
We still feel the pull to inflict our story
I still look around my neighbourhood
at all the empty, boarded-up houses,
longing to plant a family
in their walls
“Home” | 1

VISUAL ART
BRANT
YOU WERE HERE
By Chelsea Brant
Concrete letters in landscape
(Photo documentation of temporary land installation)
61 x 91.5 cm
YOU WERE HERE is a temporary land-based installation documented between season changes in rural Saskatchewan.
The work comments on the passing of time and the colonized landscape. Using concrete, this twist
on a common phrase reflects on the generations of Indigenous peoples here before colonization and how our
ancestors’ resistance and resilience through forced assimilation have brought us to the moment we are in now.
To place oneself into this familiar landscape is to also place oneself in a past moment. The past has created
today’s present and in today’s present, there is opportunity to continue change.
WE ARE HERE. Still.
2 | “Home”

FICTION
BOYER
Colonization Earth
BY DEVYNN BOYER
The first ships that came were small. The
aliens cut through the skies, leaving a thick scar of
smoke that was heavy enough to dim the sun and humanity’s
sense of hope. They settled in America, Canada,
England, France, Spain, and many more places.
Each place they landed was diverse, unique in geography,
culture, people, and beliefs, but all became united
by their mutual curiosity and fear of the aliens. Every
news station erupted with spectators who anticipated
what was to come while balancing their feelings of
wonder and despair. Families held each other close in
a false sense of hope around their TVs or radios, and
friends called and texted one another for reassurance
on what was to come. The diligent workers in packed
buildings, warehouses, and job sites cowered with
co-workers and, often, complete strangers. The ones
without electricity and the non-believers of the news
ran to their cars, rooftops, empty parking lots, abandoned
roads, backyards, open fields, anywhere they
could in hopes of catching a glimpse of the ships. At
first glance, their shiny ships seemed strange, made of
elements nonexistent on the periodic table. They were
big too, almost the size of two football fields. As they
traveled overhead, their coverage seemed boundless.
Landing in our commodious fields, capacious mountains,
and vast terrain, they did so with a weight that
shook the earth, echoing the consequence of their
arrival.
Some expected grey humanoids with exaggerated
features, that had large heads, eyes, and three
long fingers. Others anticipated something more
sinister and beastly like a creature from Hollywood
films or comic illustrations, but when their ship
doors opened, we saw that they were no more
intricate than us humans. Their complexion was
unfamiliar, but their features were indistinguishably
human. This calmed some people, but it petrified
others because it felt like a painful memory, like a
nightmare you wake up from only to relive in it.
They stepped from their ships, blabbered away in a
mysterious language. Leaders, scientists, and linguists
of all nations worked tirelessly to find a way
to communicate sufficiently, but even with the language
barrier, we saw and heard what they wanted.
They wanted our land. Precisely, they told us that
earth was their home now; it was a colony for their
people.
The curse spread across the earth as rapidly
as fire in a dry forest and nearly as destructive.
With each ship came more healers.The ones who
were meant to save us, from us. But these healers
brought a sickness that not even they could heal,
and we had never seen it, so we couldn’t fight it.
The curse infected entire towns, cities, and nations.
The curse bloodied our skin as our bodies flooded
the streets and leftover hospitals. The skeletons
and skulls were towering. They looked like white
mountains on the fields outside. Everywhere we
looked outside, we saw death. We could smell it
inside our old homes even with the windows and
“Home” | 9
“Home” | 3

FICTION
BOYER
curtains shut, we heard it at night through our walls
in the wails of the sick and saw it long after when
we looked at the scars it left behind. The curse
killed over half the victims it infected, both from its
strange uniqueness and the conditions they caused
with their arrivals. At first, it spread by accident, like
black mold does from a leaky ceiling, but as time
went on, the aliens would spread it on purpose. We
should have known.
If this sickness didn’t take our body, then
the disease caused by their beliefs would take our
minds. It started with all of us, but soon they
focused on our young. The aliens told us this was
to improve our people, to assimilate us into their
strange way of life. They took our children, almost
all of them, from ages four to at least 16, sometimes
older, to these prisons called Lunar Schools.
They justified the atrocities by telling us the
prisons were for our own good. To rid the earth of
the human problem. The ones who can bear the
weight of remembering talked of the hell they experienced,
but words failed to capture the pictures
that filled their nightmares. They remembered how
they were ripped from their mothers’ arms as mere
children. How they were stripped of their clothing,
hair, name, language, uniqueness, and childhood.
How the food was foreign to their bodies and diets
and made them sick. How homesick they were and
how often they cried themselves to sleep, hoping
their parents would hear the sound of their cries
and come to comfort them but instead of their
parents coming to them, it was the healers who
would come to comfort them. How so many of their
friends and relatives disappeared with no answer,
but they always knew. The aliens laughed at our
customs, systems, beliefs, identities, and any unique
characteristic of humans. They talked down on our
religions, saying these were but stories. We had merely
seen the world, and they had seen the galaxy; how
could we argue?
Some chose to fight back in those early days,
but each step we took forward pushed us several feet
back. Our society was on the verge of suffocation,
and each time we managed to breathe, our throats
would constrict even more.We tried to claw our
way up, fighting furiously. Our nations and people
cheered when we finally managed to take down one
of their ships. It happened before Christmas, making
it the perfect present. At that moment, it felt
like all the smoke in our atmosphere cleared. It was
almost as if they had never arrived, and nothing had
happened, it was all in our imaginations. Everyone
cheered, and I remember seeing the smiles on the
faces of our warriors as they danced. We were finally
able to take a breath. But this breath of fresh air was
poisoned. It choked us worse than the smoke ever
did before, bringing us to the knees as our lungs
began to deteriorate and we gasped for breath. The
aliens wiped entire towns, cities, states, provinces,
and nations off the map in retaliation. All our history,
memories, and stories were being destroyed, and
each time we fought back, they killed and took more.
We called it the December Massacre. The
largest area destroyed was the size of South Dakota.
Old, young, infants, men, women, non-conforming,
Christians, Muslims, Atheists, Black, White, Brown,
everyone and anyone in those city centres died the
day they were hit. The lucky few survived the blast
because they were on the outskirts, but they were
hunted as if they were animals. Some were brought
back by force, but most disappeared. After the
December Massacre, they resorted to relocating our
4 | “Home”

FICTION
BOYER
remaining major cities and populations. They
moved entire nations from their homes and
told them of a better, smaller, distant plot of
land they would have. When we argued or protested,
they sent out the bounties on our faces.
That’s when the reapers came and grew rich
off our bodies. We wanted to stay, but to live,
we had to go.
Our population has now shrunk to
under a billion, a fraction to what it used to be.
They eradicated entire societies, languages, and
cultures as quickly as an eraser removes a pencil
mark on a piece of paper. That’s all we were
to them: an error, a mistake. They said they
would fix us with more Lunar Schools, and so
they expanded and became mandatory. More
children lost their parents, and more parents
lost their children. For years, we watched them
take more children away. And each year, less
returned. The ones who survived these schools
came home with a skeleton of who they once
were. Parents struggled to recognize the children,
seeing that they could no longer speak
their language. The children were like a stranger
to these people more than a family member.
Rather than blaming the alien system that took
them away, the children and parents blamed
themselves and their people, and their hate and
anger grew. To alleviate their pain, they turned
to the powder brought by the aliens. But their
anger grew instead. It grew until it was too
big for them to carry, and then they passed
the weight to their children, and their children
passed it onto the next generation, until the
entire population had carried the weight.
Not all our history is dark. Like the sky
at night, some stories contain stars that shine
through the darkness. The stars shine bigger and
brighter because of the darkness and showed the
perseverance of our people, of humans. They are
the ones we can always look up to and think of
when nights are cold or lonely. Others were like
shooting stars, who came in flying and burnt out
so quickly but gave hope, a wish, to all that saw
them. Then there were a few meteorites. They were
beautifully destructive and crashed with a force that
created a ripple for miles and generations. They left
their marks on the earth and, more importantly, in
the people who were lucky enough to be in their
blast radius. The radiation of these events filled our
blood, and just like the burdens, we passed this too
onto our children. Through each generation, it gave
us the last bit of strength that we lacked before.
The aliens are still here, but so are we. Humans
make up less than four percent of the population
in these new megacities, but we are growing
and still fighting. Since the old days, we’ve had small
victories, but they find new ways to make life difficult.
The Lunar Schools are closed, but more human
children are in the aliens’ care today than ever
before. Since the aliens can no longer steal our faces,
they take our bodies and minds from us at any
chance they get and lock them away in prisons. We
now make up at least 30 percent of inmates. The
others seal themselves away with the powder. As
they breathe out the feelings and memories made
by the aliens, the powder fills the voids created by
them, even if only for a moment. But as the aliens
sit and judge us, they too take the powder, and they
too struggle to keep a firm grip on it. They made it,
brought it, and grew rich from it, from all of it. Yet,
we are the ones who are blamed and judged. The
homes we knew and lands we held are gone. The
mold always finds its way back to us.
“Home” | 9
“Home” | 5

POETRY
LISCHYNSKI
My Home
BY EMILY LISCHYNSKI
My home was once dirt
And when it crumbled from the wind it came back as stone
On a cliff and then the shore
Where the tide came in, sweeping my home away
In the sea with the sand and the fish in my hand
Until the wheat and the hunger and the highlands of wonder
And then it was the steel of the bow of the great dense ship
That returned it to where it began
Where then it was water, salt, earth and ice
And for a brief time glass, tears and fears
And then finally wood
Where there it stood
And still stands today
With a name and a face
And a hand full of grace
Upon which the first elements look down
From their home made of clouds
6 | “Home”

VISUAL ART
REDFORD
Can’t Go Home Again
by Jasmine Redford
Ink, inkwash and coffee on artist trading card
6.5 x 9 cm
“Home” | 7

POETRY
SCARROW
Storm on the Homestead
BY KRISTINE SCARROW
Her flaxen braid blown east like a weathervane,
Washboard blisters on her raw fingers,
Fecund swell beneath her dress, eight months along.
Grit nips at her cheeks, then a musky drizzle.
She braves the fierce gale, rescues stiff,
white cotton from the clothesline gallows.
Silver sheets of rain absorbed by cracked soil.
Earth, an empty cup, pulls selfish gulps.
A piercing pain and swift belly clutch,
blood a river down her leg.
She fumbles into her prairie soddie.
Carved from earth, all daub and turf, soil drips from gables.
Inside, black-dotted grime, sludge-sunk toes.
She twists from the door to taste drops on her tongue.
The rain, a baptism.
Muddied linens stain grey and drip.
8 | “Home”

VISUAL ART
MEERAH
In Touch With Nature
by MEERAH
Charcoal, conté and pastel on paper ground
45.5 x 61 cm
“Home” | 9

FICTION
DOMINGO
Foster
BY EUNICE-GRACE DOMINGO
My adopted brother Benji brought a dog
back home with him on the last day of summer.
He just walked right into the kitchen, chin up
and carrying this gigantic dog in his arms. His
white shorts were blistered with mud. One of
his sneakers was missing. He had a few scrapes
on his knees. A thread of blood oozed down
his leg. The dog was no doubt a mutt. Nobody
could tell if it was supposed to be black or white
since it was so dirty. Grass stains, weeds, dirt,
flower petals, and dead bugs were caught in its
grimy fur. Its pathetic eyes scanned our kitchen
falteringly, like a soldier who had just stepped on
an uncharted battlefield.
I was sitting on the dining table, bowl of
sticky oatmeal in front of me. Our father was in
the middle of pouring his freshly-brewed coffee
into a mug. He had the graveyard shifts in the
hospital, and he would go to his job soon after
our mother returned from work. When Benji
slammed the kitchen door open and paraded
himself inside, I stood still. As the youngest,
I was always sitting in the sidelines whenever
something dramatic happened: When my parents
argued, when Benji came home with a bad
report card, when our aunts and uncles visited
-- I am quiet. My house becomes a performance,
with me as its sole spectator.
I could immediately tell that our father
was not happy. “What the hell is that?” he said
hoarsely, waving his mug towards the animal in
our kitchen. Underneath my brother, a small pile
of wet mud had started to collect. This extra
mess made my father’s temper worse.
But Benji was almost twelve. And he was
starting to not care what our parents said. He
was getting to be selfish, as everyone grew to be
at some point.
“I found him in the park,” he said slowly,
as if he was explaining it to a child. My eyes
darted to my father. His face was growing red
with impatience. “He just ran to me. His name is
Foster. I wanna keep him.”
“Young man —”
“He’s real nice. He has no collar, so that
means he’s a stray.”
“Benji — ”
“I wanna keep him!” My brother
snapped. His grip on the dog tightened. The
dog began to whine because of the sudden
outburst, crying amidst their arguing. Everything
was still for a moment. I was too afraid to look
at my father and I didn’t want to look at Benji. I
focused my eyes on the dog. Foster.
I blinked at it. It tilted its head towards
me, giving me its full attention. Its ears perked
up and it inhaled sharply.
I felt as if I was being introduced to
10 | “Home”

FICTION
someone I already knew.
My father’s words sliced through the air.
“We are not harboring that animal in our home.
What will your mother say?”
“She’ll say we’ll keep him because we’re
keeping him!” Before my father could object,
my brother quickly set the dog down and raced
to his room. Foster followed him loyally, as if
taking part in Benji’s ridiculous tantrum. His
bedroom door slammed — a slap to the face —
and the kitchen was still once more. There was
nothing my father could do. Benji had locked his
door. There was no key. No amount of coaxing
or string of threatening punishments would ever
make him come out and listen to reason. Father
took a seat across from me, gawking down at his
coffee and saying nothing.
My oatmeal remained untouched. It
seemed as though I held my breath for an eternity
until I heard footsteps clopping up the front
gate. Our mother entered the house, exhaling
sharply and shutting the door. Her dark hair
wisped past her forehead as she took off her
shoes, framing her bone-tight cheeks and casting
a shadow across her brow.
Every time my mother returned home,
it was as if she collected the past few hours’
events in her arms and hid them away from us.
We’ve long stopped asking her how work was.
She was tired and unhappy, so what did it matter?
“Elise,” my father said her name, standing
up and touching her arm. Husband and wife
exchanged looks, and, without a shred of notice
for me, they migrated to the living room and
DOMINGO
spoke in frantic whispers. I didn’t need details to
know the skeleton of a conversation.
I stayed in the kitchen, waiting. Eventually,
my father took the car and left for the hospital.
He did this without elucidation or acknowledgement
to me. My mother came then, kissed
my head absentmindedly, and told me to go to
bed. I walked the small hallway that led to my
bedroom. I fell asleep expecting hell by morning.
To my surprise, Benji and Foster were
both in the kitchen when I awoke. The dog had
been given a bath —he was gray — and his fur
had been brushed. His jaw was hankering on a
piece of meat in between his teeth, and he was
lying contentedly on the floor underneath Benji’s
seat at the table. My brother’s foot caressed
his fur adoringly while he sipped on some juice,
purposefully avoiding my gaze.
My mother breezed in, looking as if she
had not gotten any sleep, and patted my head in
greeting. I opened my mouth with a compulsory
question that addressed the situation, but she
looked at me intensely and hardened her shoulders.
I understood.
The dog was decided to stay. My mother
gave it a bath last night. It was, indeed, to
be called Foster. He will be trained to relieve
himself outside. Dog food was expensive, so
we would have to feed him leftovers. Benji will
walk, clean after, and play with him.
I do not know why this was decided.
It was clear my father detested it all. He never
learned to love the dog. A bitterness had been
implanted in him like a tumour, metastasizing
“Home” | 11

FICTION
further every time he so much as looked at
the creature. However, unlike him, my mother
and I grew to care for Foster. I would see her
scratching his ears on the couch after coming
home from work. I would go with Benji when
he took him out for walks to the park. Foster
became family. An apparition on four legs who
would ogle you as you ate dinner, as if praying
to an altar for an oncoming meal; a bellboy who
careened to the door whenever someone would
come home, always excited to see you as if your
arrival was a long-awaited prophecy come true.
Over time, my father’s bitterness grew
into a silent tolerance. He accepted Foster in a
way a minority accepts that their vote is overridden.
However, Benji retaliated against my
father’s resentment with his own hatred. We all
thought it was natural. All teenage boys hated
their fathers. He will grow out of it, just as an
old snake would shed its abused skin once it
decided to metamorphose into something else.
But Benji and my father remained resolute.
And my family contracted an incurable
schism that would not be remedied by anything.
Every communication — if you could call it
that — between father and son was scorched
with poison. Any time Benji disagreed with any
of us, the blame was automatically directed to
my father. And to my father, the cause of all
conflict was always “that damn dog.”
When it was time for Benji to go to
community college, my parents bought him a
suitcase and a new suit for graduation. Mother
helped him dissect his room. She folded his
clothes in neatly pressed rows. By the end of
DOMINGO
July after his senior year, his room was barren
and his suitcase swollen with the contents of his
last eighteen years. Every time words like “professors”
or “acceptance letter” were muttered,
it seemed like Foster’s ears would perk up. In
his face, one saw anxiety and confusion. He’d
become an old dog now, yet he still had that agelessness
to him that betrayed his years.
My brother left home that August. The
suitcase wasn’t for college. He just vanished one
night. I came downstairs, my adolescence already
fading. The performance was beginning to
falter. My parents were gravestones — silent and
immovable. My mother scraped a fork across
her plate, her face gray and sullen. I couldn’t tell
if Father was sick or livid, but I deduced it was
a polymerization of both. They both possessed
the symptoms of victims or abandoned children.
I could hear Foster snoring on the couch,
but it was a distant bellowing. The kitchen door
was splayed open, the morning air pooling in
and giving a languid breeze. Outside, the anatomy
of the road was littered with the start of the
oncoming rush hour. Vehicles sped through the
12 | “Home”

FICTION
neighbourhood. The city was alive.
“Benji’s not in his room,” I diagnosed.
My father inhaled sharply, opened his
mouth as if to say something, but quickly decided
against it. He crossed his arms and glared out
the kitchen window. Anger makes one so traitorous.
Mother, the Messiah, saved him from an
explanation, quietly stating, “Your brother has
gone to find his biological parents.”
With the truth spilled all over the floor,
my father’s jaw clenched. The veins in his neck
jutted out like ugly weeds, throbbing with each
breath he took. His composure was a dam. I
wondered then how painful it must be to have
so much hatred: He never kissed us good night.
He never read us stories anymore. He would
only sit in the house after work, crackling at the
anger that consumed him.
“When will he come back home?” I said
slowly, my small voice growing dimmer with
each sharp breath my father took. My question
seemed to detonate something in him. Turning
to me, he honed all his anger. There was no
love.
“Your brother never thought of this as
his home. Despite what your mother and I have
done for him. We’ve paid for his education.
We’ve clothed him. We’ve fed his ungrateful
mouth. I will never understand that boy. All my
life, I’ve only ever asked him to obey and respect
me. Elise,” My mother shut her eyes, his voice
filling the room and she was still making space
for it. “I told you that we should never have
taken in a child that wasn’t ours. I know that we
DOMINGO
were having trouble conceiving, but was this
the loving baby boy we brought home eighteen
years ago? I told you, damnit, I told you that
we’d regret it. But you signed the papers! You
made me buy this house! You defended him
when he brought in that disgusting mutt and
you even helped him pack for this insane mission
to find his parents! This was never going to
be his home. Kids like him will always go back
to where they come from. Blood is blood, didn’t
I tell you that? My God!” He was shaking now.
My mother stayed quiet. “He isn’t going to come
back, do you know that? He took our money
and he’s gone. Like a fucking magician! And the
hilarious irony of it all — oh dear God — the
hilarious irony of it all is that he left us with that
stupid animal!”
It was only after he’d finished screaming
did we all hear the excitement outside. An
orchestra of panicked murmuring, cars honking,
and sirens blasted through our house. The
morning breeze was gone, and with it, an autumn
chill sank its fangs into our skin. A child
screamed somewhere down our street, and that
was the cue for my mother to spring from her
seat and rush out. I was behind her, tripping
over my pyjamas and only realizing I had been
crying. My father was hyperventilating, but he
managed to follow us to the crowd of onlookers
that surrounded the road.
A grand scene was before us all. I
wedged myself in between two women wearing
jogging sweaters. A car had crashed. There was
blood on the sidewalk. I could see the driver. He
“Home” | 13

FICTION
was rubbing the back of his neck. Guilt littered
his face, matching the looks of horror and
astonishment that was plastered on every bystander.
He’d run over Foster.
While my father was yelling, the dog
must have slipped out of the kitchen door and
wandered out. Maybe he got scared of the outburst.
Or maybe he was looking for Benji.
We had no choice but to return to our
house after that. The police and animal control
cleaned up the mess.
Eventually, everyone who’d witnessed
my brother’s best friend die moved on. For me,
I found it strangely easy. I loved Foster, but it
was a love that was not possessive or unkind. If
anything, my father was devastated. I thought
he would be overjoyed that Foster was dead —
not in a cruel way. My father was not cruel. But
a part of me always believed that once Foster
was gone, the anger he caused would gather its
things and walk out of our door forever.
When we came back after the accident,
my father had fallen on his knees in the middle
of the kitchen, his tears coming in torrents. He
muttered words in our homeland’s language,
but I couldn’t catch what he was saying. He was
convulsing, grabbing at his shirt sleeves and
emitting moans that terrified me. He began to
pull at his graying hair. For a second time within
that hour, I saw blood pooling on the floor.
He’d scratched his skin raw. My Mother rushed
to him and, without a word, enveloped him in
her arms and began to rock him back and forth.
“Go upstairs,” she ordered me. I obeyed and sat
DOMINGO
inside my bedroom listening to my father wailing
for hours.
Benji never did come back. Mother told
me he’d written her a few letters. She said he
was safe. Maybe she was even proud of him for
leaving. I didn’t ask if he found his biological
parents. I didn’t ask if he was happy. I didn’t ask
if he knew what happened to Foster. The curtains
have collapsed, and the show is over, but it
all goes on.
14 | “Home”

POETRY
OH
Heart
BY OH
Home is where the heart is
but my heart seems to have
skipped town.
It broke out of my ribcage,
clawed through my soft chest,
hit the ground running.
And I understand.
I am my heart.
But these walls are stronger
than bone.
This house is stronger
than a chest.
A ribcage protects but it also confines,
always torn between safety
and freedom.
So I’m sorry, heart, but
home is the only place you can’t run from.
“Home” | 15

VISUAL ART
YEE
White Restaurant – Jáau Bouh, Saskatchewan
by Aeydan Yee
Translations by Jason Liu
Print on paper
96.5 x 40.5 cm
The quintessential Chinese restaurants run by the token Chinese families of small-town Saskatchewan are often
thought of affectionately, and as an integral part of their communities. However, when my late great-aunt shared
stories of her childhood in Elbow, Saskatchewan — stories like how the white townspeople found it amusing to
stage weddings between her (Chinese) siblings who were children — no one seemed to notice how screwed up such
events were.
This piece is meant to play with the theme “Home” by depicting a scene of a quintessential “white” restaurant run
by the token white family in Jáau Bouh (romanized Cantonese for “Elbow”), a fictional small Cantonese-majority
town in rural Saskatchewan, prompting viewers to consider the struggle of fitting in amidst the othering and
exoticism faced by these families.
2816 | | “Home” “Home”

NONFICTION
HAUGEN
Familiar Strangers Saying Goodbye
BY SARAH HAUGEN
The sky seemed to dress for the somber occasion.
My parents, sisters, and I drove the oddly
strange road back to Esterhazy. We knew the
landscape and could name each family with each
roadside farm. The highway had been repaved
since we left, blinding us with the yellow of the
new lines. This was the road I learned to drive
on; it was the road to and from church, piano
lessons, confirmation classes and choir rehearsals.
We ate Fruit to Gos, carefully cut apple slices
and the odd cookie on this road. Highway 80
used to be mundane and routine. Now, the road
seemed short.
Dad parked in the neighbouring apartment
parking lot. Not since the winter of 2000 had we
felt like strangers walking onto this property, but
here we were, newly-minted strangers. However,
strangeness did not come from the unfamiliarity,
but from its absence. So many elements of
this front yard were made by our living here.
The wooden step Dad had built was holding up
the new stain I applied upon my return from
boarding school. The L-shaped sidewalk snaked
through the overgrown grass, preserving Mom’s
footprint at its bend. The two-car garage was
added as our family grew and now looked normal
with the new houses on our block. The
stucco looked regal in the grey light of autumn,
hiding the skeleton that once bore hideous vinyl
siding. It looked as it did when I would be walking
home from school. I wanted this place to
feel foreign, but it felt normal. We walked inside.
The living room looked the cleanest it had
ever been. Our brand-new space-age couch was
not taking up any real estate, which made the
sunken room feel large. The carpet was absent
of our dog Eli and the annoying squeaky toys
that he refused to fetch. The piano, which was
once covered with stacks of lesson books and
notebooks filled with our teacher’s weekly instructions,
was gone. The carpet still held the
marks where the shorter and longer legs of the
household moved the piano bench. You could
almost hear Mom playing her favourite hymns
and hesitating on each key change. No DVD cases,
Wii controllers, blankets strewn about while
playing make-believe or childhood toys filled the
gaps. The living room was empty, yet full.
The kitchen bore all the markings of Mom.
For most of my life the kitchen remained untouched;
cupboards from the 1980s, warped linoleum,
chipped countertops and dying appliances.
My favourite part was the tiny pantry where,
when I was small enough and thin enough, I
could close myself between the stocked shelves
and the door, perfectly hiding for hide-and-seek.
But, after nearly sixteen years in the house, Mom
and Dad decided to design her perfect kitchen.
The cupboards were now cherry wood with a
stain that darkened over time. The floor was a
foam-backed imitation rock. My beloved hiding
place was replaced by soft-closing drawers; it was
no longer good for hide-and-seek, but it made
for a better pantry. Every hue, material, measure-
“Home” “Home” | 17 | 17

NONFICTION
ment and size had been created to Mom’s taste.
All she wanted and more was poured into that
space. The kitchen was Mom.
My domain was the basement. The first
twelve years of my life were spent in a pink,
Barbie-themed room with my older sister sharing
a bunk bed. Those years quickly faded in
my mind’s eye when I got my own basement
room. Originally, the room was wood-panelled
and contained my grandparents’ old waterbed,
lit only by a single square window up the wall.
When it was time to move down there, Dad
remodelled the entire basement and drywalled
the space. Mom took me to Benjamin Moore to
look at paint swatches. When I could not decide,
the store owner mixed the custom colours
“Kiwi Kissed” and “Soft Sunshine” just for me.
I filled my softly kissed walls with projects and
art from every point in my life; Corduroy Bear
from kindergarten, mountains from grade six art
class, princess stickers on construction paper and
anything else my sister would not let me put up
in the Barbie room. My matching Sears bedroom
set complimented my polka-dot bedding and fit
within the chaos of colourful art expression. It
was my space to be free.
I spent hours in my room. At twelve, I had
“alone time,” excusing myself to play make-believe
in costumes and construct romantic tragedies
that would have made my parents blush.
At fourteen, I painted logos and shapes in
monotone colours to achieve the most accurate
result within my limited abilities. At sixteen,
I said goodbye to this sanctuary and went to
boarding school. With me, I took my belongings
but left the bedroom set, chaotic art décor and
my polka-dots. For two years, I constructed my
HAUGEN
home away from home, adding photographs
to my room design. When I returned, the place
where I had felt such freedom felt constraining.
For one year, I endured the obnoxious walls and
too-comfortable mattress, crying about where I
wanted to go in life. Finally, the university acceptance
letter came in and I began coming to
terms with leaving my room for a more extended
absence. However, I was not prepared to let it go
entirely.
Now it was completely empty. The once vibrant
“Kiwi Kissed” was now muted to my eyes.
The remnants of sticky tack and tape hid in the
corners of the room, holding on for dear life.
The carpet had been vacuumed, erasing all the
memories of the matching Sears set. I stood in
the doorway, a stranger. The memories flooded
back, drowning me in the currents of emotion. I
was twelve in costume, fourteen and elbow-deep
in acrylic paint, sixteen and packing up for
school and nineteen saying goodbye all at once. I
sobbed with every part of my being. Mom came
from her kitchen and held me close, weeping
alongside me. Dad overheard and took us both
into his tight embrace. They too felt the empty
room.
We did one last look over the entire house before
locking up. We didn’t want to leave evidence
of our eighteen years. We retrieved a bouncy
ball and a homemade garden ornament from the
backyard. An optimist would say “But you always
have your memories” while a realist would say
“It was going to happen sometime.” The sky
was neither the optimist nor the realist. We slid
into the Suburban and took one last look at the
overly familiar face of someone else’s home.
Through our tears, we whispered our goodbyes.
18 | “Home”

VISUAL ART
PORSANDEKHIAL
Another Getaway
by Narges Porsandekhial
Wood, clay, metal
11 x 21 x 37 cm
Like every prison, like every
home, ours is left with our
wounds and scars. All we had seen
was a cage. It took us ages to look
behind our backs, see the getaway,
take off our shoes, leave a
trace, and run without saying any
goodbye.
“Home” | 19

POETRY
SCARROW
Estrangement
BY KRISTINE SCARROW
Childhood home spent from stowed secrets.
Wood rot, cracked foundation, tired sag.
Dust-cloaked walls disrobed without consent,
pockmarks like bullet holes where anchors used to be.
Nicks like knives from the edge of framed photos.
Proof a family once lived here.
Brother and sister – roles we never got right,
your brain on fire,
me to fan the flames.
Pissing matches like a squatter marking territory,
in a basement you would not leave.
Countertops buckle from the strain of a thousand meals.
Our jaws could tear each other apart,
lions feasting on prey,
flies in our mouths,
lies about being only children.
We could not stop the bleed from sharp-tongued slashes.
No cure for terminal wounds.
No tiptoes today through vacant rooms.
Phantom whispers,
Goosebump-pricks.
Final tour of our humble hearth,
I close the door one last time.
Bronze handle twist,
concluding click,
ghosts left for new owners.
20 | “Home”

NONFICTION
HOIYAN
A Stained Birth Certificate
BY HOIYAN
“Mom, why do we have different last names? And
why is it in Vietnamese instead of Cantonese? Kids
made fun of me today for not knowing how to speak
Vietnamese even though my last name is Truong,” I
said, bright innocence twinkling in my youthful eyes.
“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” my mother replied
dismissively, and stroked my long silky hair, turning her
attention away from me with a grim look on her face.
I first asked that question at the age of 5.
I was naive, curious and obviously too young
to hear whatever the truth might be. Being the
youngest of five children, I wasn’t exactly the
first person you’d go to for any family issues or
conflict. After all, you wouldn’t normally vent to
a 10-year-old about your divorce, or a terminal
illness.
I lived my entire life of 18 years knowing very
little about my family members, including my
grandparents and my own mother. I was never
told anything, and no one wanted to talk about
it, which was a silent warning to not bring it
up. The path in front was long, the air thin and
dark... so incredibly dark. I ran towards the dimness
in search of my past, my breathing already
laboured.
I’ve always wondered about the silence, of
course. I’ve asked my sister about it, and she told
me parts of what she thought were appropriate
for me to understand, but it was never the full
story. I knew people were hiding stories and
truths from me because of my age. Over the
past few years, I’ve become old enough to ask
in small parts and piece together everything we
have left of our family history.
One piece I’ve always known is that our
family history is undocumented. Or a better way
of putting it is that our family history was documented,
then stolen from us.
My great-grandmother and grandmother lived
under the corrupt communist Chinese government.
Those who had no money, status and connections
to the government regularly had their
belongings taken from them. This included basic
items like chopsticks and tissue boxes, to highly
personal items like photo albums and family
heirlooms. The government would patrol around
poor neighbourhoods and take their belongings.
My grandmother had memorized this statement
that they yelled while marching along the streets,
“All citizens under Mao’s rule are equal, and we
will distribute resources accordingly.”
I don’t know much about my great-grandmother.
In fact, I don’t know anything about her.
I was told that she used to keep documents and
any important papers relating to our history,
however, she lived in poverty and didn’t have the
resources to keep any personal belongings safe.
Those documents were stolen from her. Corrupt
communism destroyed any evidence of my family’s
past. My ancestor’s stories ended the moment
“Home” | | 15 21

NONFICTION
HOIYAN
they touched those strangers’ hands.
Through the little bits that slipped through
my grandmother’s lips during her episodes of
panic from dementia, and with any missing
details answered by my sister, I pieced together
a part of the history that has been kept from me.
With this, I’m hoping to create what my
great-grandmother once had in her possession.
I will carry on this documentation because I am
her future and her memories; I will keep these
stories safe. We’re of the same blood, the same
hair, but in a different generation and lifetime.
We have never existed in the same space, but we
will both have held the stories of our ancestors.
And with that: the hidden story of my family’s
past, as told by several people over the
course of a few years of information-gathering.
* * *
My great-grandmother and grandmother
lived in Guangdong, China near the ports of the
South China Sea. The government had specified
that obstruction to their rule of communism
would result in imprisonment, but if they never
found out, they couldn’t arrest a seemingly
innocent citizen. I was told that my great-grandfather
had been arrested before, but I’m not sure
if it was for this reason. I’ve heard nothing more
about him besides this one comment. He’s an
accidental stranger to me.
When my grandmother was around 13, my
great-grandmother took them to the ports of
the province. There were waves of citizens escaping
China’s corrupt communism to find a life
elsewhere. They had to rush and leave everything
behind.
This practice dates back to the 19th century
under the rule of Tang Dynasty; the first Chinese
citizens to migrate by boat were called the
Người Hoa—or in Cantonese, Tong Jan, which
directly translates to Tang person, referring to
Emperor Tang.
On a boat filled to the brim with fear and
anxiety, my great-grandmother and grandmother
were set to sail to South Vietnam. My grandmother
has never spoken about this specific part
of her journey and has told no one. I don’t know
what happened during her time at sea, but her
silence speaks volumes.
My grandmother’s name was Ha Luong, but
she was born a Leung. Leung ( 梁 ) is a Cantonese
surname, Luong (Lương) is the Vietnamese
equivalent. Her new birth certificate homed a
not-yet-prominent stain for her future descendents.
In order to survive as an illegal immigrant,
she needed to erase her Chinese identity
on paper. Since all documents of her birth and
existence were wiped, she was able to smoothly
transition to a life as an imposter.
My great-grandmother started a new life in
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. She owned a motorcycle
renting business, and was able to live
somewhat comfortably, away from the grips of
China’s government.
The stories of my great-grandmother come to
an end here. Not much else is known about her,
and all the stories lie with my late grandmother.
22 16 | “Home”

NONFICTION
HOIYAN
My grandmother was 15 when she met my
grandfather, Nguu Mach, who was also another
Người Hoa. He was another impostor. His
name was changed from Mak ( 麥 ), to Mach
(Mạch). They found comfort in each other’s
struggle and shared trauma, but my grandfather
was 22.
She had her first child at 16. My grandfather
was 23. I was never told of their age gap, I had
to look at the dates engraved on their shared
tombstone to find out. My grandmother was a
pregnant teenager living in poverty in Vietnam.
My grandfather was a predator.
1955 was the start of the Vietnam War and
my grandfather, 25 at the time, was drafted into
the Vietnamese army. He wore a blood-red flag
with a yellow star in the centre on his chest; all
the same components of the Chinese flag. Prior
to leaving, he visited a Buddhist temple to pray
for his safety and return. He has never spoken
of his time in the middle of conflict and bloodshed,
however he came back home with a gambling
addiction and a newfound faith in God.
My grandmother took so much knowledge
with her to the grave; my grandfather is now
deaf and repressing his emotions of the past by
spending money at casinos and either sleeping
for three days in a row, or not sleeping at all for
three days straight.
My mother had her first child at 20. She was
a pregnant young woman in Vietnam living in
poverty, just like her mother. The details of this
were never disclosed to me, but her first partner
was Vietnamese. She had two children with him.
He left, and his name was never spoken from
then on.
My older half-siblings share a surname with
my mother, Mach. They are of Vietnamese-Chinese
blood, so it was fitting; I was so envious of
them.
My mother met my father in Vietnam. He
was also a descendant of a Người Hoa. His
name was changed from Cheung ( 張 ) to Truong
(Trương) — another impostor. They too shared
a feeling not many could relate to. Together,
they immigrated to Canada and got married. My
mother left her first two children behind with a
family friend. She couldn’t afford to bring them
to Canada with her. She abandoned them to
start a new life without them in it. Shortly after,
my siblings and I were born. Our Canadian
birth certificates were stained with the name
“Truong.”
Over the years, my father progressively grew
more and more emotionally distant, he found
himself in alcohol and cigarettes. He regularly
visited casinos and gambled away the money
he needed to raise my siblings and I. He hurled
damaging words and phrases at us, and reminded
us of the sacrifices he made for us to exist.
My parents divorced, and we left him.
* * *
As I sit here writing this, I look at this stain
everytime I sign my name — Truong. I wonder:
what’s in a name? Why is it so important? Why
“Home” | 23

NONFICTION
HOIYAN
does it mean so much yet nothing at the same
time?
I was told the Chinese character of Cheung
(Truong) meant to spread or to stretch. I was
told our ancestors from long ago were bowmakers
and archers. They were respected craftsmen.
I was also told the Chinese character of Mak
(Mach) directly translated to wheat or rye. I was
told our ancestors were farmers. They were at
the near bottom of the social hierarchy and were
paid just enough to keep their farms running.
Regardless, they were respected for providing
food to the nation.
One would be named according to their expertise
and craft, as well as status. Your name in
ancient China held power and status.
With the stain I hold on my name, I feel no
pride or relief; it hurts me to have to look at
those specific six letters arranged in that way. It
carries so much shame—shame in my impostor
identity, shame in my roots, shame in the people
who were supposed to raise me. With this name,
I hold so much pain in knowing my family’s history,
my family’s issues and my true identity.
Who am I to walk around with the wrong
flag pinned to my birth certificate? I couldn’t
fit in with the Vietnamese kids, I couldn’t fit in
with the Chinese kids and I couldn’t fit in with
the white kids. Curses and blame were thrown
into the air towards my ancestors. Nearly two
decades of confusion and shame piled into a ball
of hatred towards myself and my family. I was
suffocating in my own conjured conflict.
Very recently, I discovered that I could change
my name on my own now that I’m a legal adult.
I took one last step forward, and light suddenly
shone in front of my feet. There was suddenly
more than enough oxygen to breathe in.
“Finally,” I said, gasping for air.
Today, I still hold the name given to me from
birth. With time, I will reclaim the part of me
that is in my blood; the Mak that is inside me. I
will scrub this permanent stain on my birth certificate.
I will honour my ancestors and reclaim
my true identity. I will start and end this generation
with what represents me and the truth, not
the past happenings that resulted in a future of
internal conflict and shame.
“Mom, why couldn’t you have given me your last name
instead? Why did you give me an English first name
and Vietnamese last name when I’m neither of those?”
I asked, a hint of hurt behind the words as my voice
trembled.
“I knew that was what was best for you here in order
to survive,” my mother replied with a glint in her eyes as
she patted my short hair that had once been so long and
silky.
24 | “Home”

VISUAL ART
BRANT
Caption: “but your head” (left pillowcase) / “was just lying next to mine (right pillowcase)
Pillow Talk
by Chelsea Brant
Embroidery on cotton pillowcases
(2) 51 x 66 cm
Pillow Talk is a reflection on the quiet, intimate moments spent with another person, and how the absence of
physical presence in these spaces can leave a longing for close connection and comfort.
“Home” | 25

POETRY
ALAZAWI
Fool’s Errand
BY TANIA ALAZAWI
I tried to rub off the dust
that covered me.
Worked to scrub away whatever of myself
was left of
myself.
Tried to exfoliate
my ancestry
so that it matched yours.
Blinded—I even scratched at my eyes
because you told me once
that you liked them a paler shade.
I tried to rip at my own skin
and plaster on a new pair
because I worried
that this melanin
was what was stopping you
from touching me.
Alone now,
I pick myself apart
To find solace at your borders.
I pick myself apart
Through dirt and dignity
To be allowed past your doormat.
To be a homebody
in a home
That does not want me.
I beg,
merely for the shame of calling this hateful home
mine.
God—
On both tender knees, I beg,
To not want this home at all.
26 | “Home”

FICTION
HẠNH
Conversation with a Wood Ear Mushroom
BY THU HẠNH
I cradle the Wood Ear Mushroom and it asks
me how I’m doing. I see it trembling — fungal,
feasting, fearing for its life — so I put down the
knife. It has other places to be, but for now, I tell
it a story.
“Legend has it,” I say, “that an ancient king
once grew so tired of the food he ate from day
to day that he demanded his chef invent him a
new dish. The chef brought him a plate of thirty-six
ingredients — that’s a lucky number, you
know—”
(The Wood Ear Mushroom nods a spore.)
“Well, the king was satisfied. For years thereafter,
wood ear mushrooms were assassinated for
the richness of their flavour and the deep colour
of their flesh.”
“Did you know,” the Wood Ear Mushroom
asks me, calmly, “that the oldest Vietnamese martial
art has thirty-six moves? Did you know that
the thirty-sixth move is to run for your life?”
I almost laugh; I cradle the Wood Ear Mushroom
and it has the gall to threaten me with
violence.
I am chopping a taro root, my fingers trembling.
“Do you know,” I ask, “the story of the
harbour?”
“Which one?” The mushroom responds.
“You know there were too many to count.”
And I think: “This is the story about a man
who flees a darkened harbour with nothing
but the shirt on his back and an oar to his
name. Or rather, this is the story that sells.”
But the Wood Ear Mushroom knows.
“No,” it says. “This is the story about the
riverboat that made it out onto the ocean. I
should know. I was there.”
So, this is the story about a man who
needed to take a piss. Or rather, a boy. Or
rather, this is the story about the policeman
who was too stupid to open his eyes and well
— thank God.
Thank God for that.
So, a boy stumbles out into a harbour in
the dead of night, and there’s nothing but a
riverboat (where? where? where is it?) and
veiled darkness, until — a burst of blinding
light, and a policeman approaches.
“What are you doing out here at night?”
he asks. A boy does not know what to say,
but braces to run until a man appears, rising
from the cliffside. “Hello, officer,” he smiles.
“My nephew is just drunk and needed to take
a piss in the ocean. We’ll be right in, sir.”
So, this is a story about how lucky it was
that the riverboat had a quiet engine and how
a boy was lucky that all the supplies had been
loaded, but it’s mostly about how the stupidity
of cops transcends all borders and well —
“Home” | 27

FICTION
HẠNH
thank God.
“Ah,” the Mushroom nods. “I remember this
story. The thirty-sixth move. Run for your life.”
“Yes,” I say. I have moved onto peeling
garlic, its veiny skin getting stuck under my nails.
“But do you know the part about the dead bird?”
“The bird?” The Mushroom asks. “No, just
the human.”
“The human?” I ask.
Spice permeates the air, ground pepper
growing stagnant; I stare at the mushroom until
it becomes clear that it won’t look back.
“No,” I say. “I don’t know about the human
— he’d never tell me. I guess I don’t know the
whole story.”
“Another day,” the mushroom says. “For
now, tell me about the bird.”
“Well,” I sigh, “On the fourteenth day, there
was a bird. And a boy, moments from dying,
leapt up and caught it with his bare hands — ate
it right then and there. It isn’t much, but that’s
the story of how a bird died.”
The Mushroom pauses. “No,” it says. “It’s
more than much. That’s the story of how a boy
lived.”
We fall silent, as I begin slicing shallots. “Did
you know my father has been here for 36 years
already?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” the mushroom replies. “You know
how it goes. 36 — run for your life and never
look back.”
I’m preparing the rice paper now, thin and
wavering in my hands; it’s crumbling like my
resolve.
“Did you know that my father never had a
spring roll until he left the country?” I ask.
“How is it, I wonder, that you can miss
something so much when you can’t even remember
it? 36 years on the run and yet it is the
time before that which seems a millennium —
36 years of desperately trying to recreate everything
that came before the harbour.”
Deft hands shred a gingering carrot into
a bowl of ground, as I remember I am being
watched.
“What are you trying to make?” asks the
Wood Ear Mushroom.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“I’m just trying 36 ways that might take a
boy home again.”
28 | “Home”

POETRY
REIMER
Willow
BY JOEL DASH REIMER
Every time I leave my house
my neighbour’s dog Willow attempts
to break down the fence to get to me
I’m assuming in order to rip my throat out
Somehow, even after 6 months
she knows that I do not belong
that I am a transplant
that I always will be
I do not believe in roots
the same way that Willow
does not believe in familiarity
I can look out my basement window
at the same tree every day
until I can name its hollows
and still know that it will never
hold vigil for me
This land is not my own
Never will be
Home still feels like a garden
of hopeful seeds planted
in April, dug up in May
I want to make a bed of all this
but I only know how to build a fence
between Willow and me
“Home” | 29

CONTRIBUTORS
“Colonization Earth”
Devynn Boyer (he/him) is a Métis SUNTEP student working towards being an Indigenous studies
educator. Devynn wrote this piece to provide people with a new lens and way of viewing colonization
and its outcomes. The piece’s purpose is for non-Indigenous individuals to connect with the
sense of loss far too common for Indigenous culture and peoples.
YOU WERE HERE; Pillow Talk
Chelsea Brant (she/her) is a Mohawk/German multidisciplinary emerging artist and curator,
currently completing her second year of a Master of Fine Arts Degree Program at the University
of Saskatchewan. Chelsea graduated with a BA Honours degree in Studio Art from the University
of Guelph and has since exhibited her work locally, nationally and internationally, as well as curated
and co-curated exhibitions within Ontario. Her artistic practices reflect on and engage with lived
experiences, vicarious recounters, familial ties and memory gaps, often revolving around themes
of absence and the passing of time. She is currently serving as a board member for Nuit Blanche
Saskatoon. | Website: www.chelseabrant.com | Instagram: @chelseabrant.art | Email: chelseabrant.
art@gmail.com
Can’t Go Home Again
Jasmine Redford (she/her) is an illustrator, copy editor, teacher’s assistant, full-time single parent,
and a USask PhD graduate student with a field focus on graphic narratives and Canadian Literature.
She obtained her BFA from the Emily Carr University of Art Design and her BA and MA in
English from the University of Saskatchewan. She’s the artist of Siegfried: Dragon Slayer (2022), signs
her work as Minjaz, and is team Oxford Comma. Her piece was inspired by her cautious pandemic
return to a place that feels like home: the USask campus grounds.
“My Home”
Emily Lischynski is a first-year crop science student in the College of Agriculture and Bioresources
at USask. She writes poetry in her spare time, using it as a form of self-expression and as a way
to process current events. Aside from writing, she enjoys gardening, reading and learning all sorts of
new things. Emily is new to sharing what she writes with an audience and feels very fortunate to be
able to do so.
“Estrangement”; “Storm on the Homestead”
Kristine Scarrow (she/her) is the author of four young adult novels and spent the last five years
as a hospital writer-in-residence. She is in her final year of the MFA in Writing program at the University
of Saskatchewan. She is currently working on a short story collection and lives in Saskatoon.
In Touch With Nature
MEERAH is a second-year student at USask pursuing a Bachelor of Arts and Science in Interactive
Systems Design. In Touch With Nature explores one’s mundane interaction with plants and seeds.
MEERAH currently serves as the Branding Director for YHYSaskatchewan and sits on the Board
of Directors at PAVED Arts. She is also the President of USask’s Visual Arts Students’ Union. Her
Instagram is @meerah_official.
“Foster”
Eunice-Grace Domingo (she/her) is in fourth-year honours English at the University of Saskatchewan
with a plan to go to graduate school in fall 2022. She loves coffee, dogs, and would die
for the Oxford comma. She also mostly writes short fiction, poetry, and analysis studies on modern
media. You can find her on Instagram @ladymacbeth.egd.
“Heart”
Oh is a first-year student who is planning on majoring in English. In her spare time, she writes
poetry and short stories, taking inspiration from all of the different emotions and feelings that come
with being alive.

White Restaurant – Jáau Bouh, Saskatchewan
Aeydan Yee (he/him) is a USask student in his final year of a BA in Music (Honours). He is
also the current Visual Art Editor for in medias res and has been involved in several other university
groups and ensembles. An aspiring visual artist, musician and composer, Aeydan is interested in
the arts as an interdisciplinary field. White Restaurant – Jáau Bouh, Saskatchewan examines the conditions
of Chinese families in rural Saskatchewan and has its roots in Aeydan’s family history — his
great-grandparents once ran the Chinese restaurant in Elbow, Saskatchewan.
“Familiar Strangers Saying Goodbye”
Sarah Haugen (she/her) is a fourth-year undergraduate student at USask completing a Double
Honours degree in English and History. Having lived in Esterhazy, S.K. for eighteen years, Sarah’s
family moved to Regina the same weekend that she moved to Saskatoon for university. The emotional
toll of this event had laid dormant until two years later when Sarah had to write an autobiographical
story for a life writing course. Upon beginning the assignment, Sarah realized that the last time
she saw her childhood home seemed to haunt her memories. In an effort for closure, Sarah wrote
her piece “Familiar Strangers Saying Goodbye.”
Renewed; Another Getaway
Narges Porsandekhial (she/her) is a first-year student at USask pursuing a master’s degree in
Fine Arts. As an interdisciplinary artist who combines mediums of visual art and literary forms, she
deals with a variety of emotional/psychological concepts and develops her medium based on the
idea itself. Playing with the concept of reality, in Renewed she has captured the surrounding reality,
torn it apart and rebuilt another version of the home she’s hoping to live in. In Another Getaway,
she has illustrated how it feels to know home as a prison, or prison as a home. Her other works can
be found on Instagram: @narrporr
“A Stained Birth Certificate”
hoiyan (she/they) is currently a first-year student at USask in Arts and Science, but plans to switch
to Education next fall. “A Stained Birth Certificate” was inspired by hoiyan turning 18 and discovering
that they were now legally allowed to change their name on their own. This piece touches on
what they know of their family history, as well as the story behind the multiple versions of their
surname. hoiyan can be found on Instagram @wheathoiyan.
“Fool’s Errand”
Tania Alazawi (she/her) previously attended the College of Kinesiology, and is now in her second
year of dentistry at the University of Saskatchewan. Alongside her research and science background,
she has loved reading and writing poetry since she was a child. She has published her work before in
a previous issue of in medias res. Originally, she is from Iraq, and has lived in Saskatoon her entire life.
“Conversation with a Wood Ear Mushroom”
Thu Hạnh (she/they) is an upper-year English student at USask with connections to various student-led
publications. Their piece was inspired by the diaspora their family experienced fleeing Việt
Nam after the “American War,” and imagines how conversations and stories can engage culturally
significant healing processes. Through a food-centric exploration of trauma, “Conversation with a
Wood Ear Mushroom” evokes images of war, the boat people and ancient Vietnamese history, asking
readers to contemplate the difficulties associated with constructing homes across cultures, oceans
and generations.
“Steward”; “Willow”
Joel Dash Reimer (he/him) is USask alumni, and a spoken word and page poet. He has a decade
of experience performing on stages across Canada, Africa and Turkey. Joel Dash is passionate about
community building and collaboration, having been a co-director of Write Out Loud, a youth poetry
group, for many years, as well as an avid collaborator in playwriting, jazz combos, improv troupes,
rap groups and everything in between. He has recently been taking steps into the world of page poetry.
He loves baking, biking and making you feel some type of way.

Cover Art | Renewed
by Narges Porsandekhial
Photo collage
36 x 60 cm
This photo-collage is a
reconfigured picture of the
USask campus. Taking photos
of different spots of the
campus, where the artist is
spending most of her days,
this image is an attempt to
combine the reality of her
current home with a desired
home that she has in mind.
Tearing apart each reality
and shaping them once
again together in a way they
look nothing as their origin.
The result is a desired home,
a combination of known
and unknown, where she
can peacefully reside.
in medias res is a student-led literary magazine at St. Thomas More College that aims to publish
content to reflect the identities of the campus community, its complexities and diversities. Our
mission is to be a forum for community expression that showcases the high-quality work of
artists in the University of Saskatchewan community.
The work of 15 writers and artists is included in this anthology, part two of double issue of
“Home” that explores the woes of home. These pages contain fiction, nonfiction, poetry and
visual art from the University of Saskatchewan community — undergraduate students, graduate
students, staff and alumni — that exhibit home as colonialism, longing, diaspora, racism, struggle
and a lack of roots.
Find us at stmcollege.ca/imr
@inmediasresstm