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drawn by Brianne Cheng An Ode to School, with Affection: A Personal Response to OSAby Kristina Drozdiak S.U. 2009-2010 Message by Stephanie Li2008-2009 AwardsAshes by Kristina DrozdiakWhat Comes Between by Stephanie LiFeaturesValentine Collage photoshopped by Angela Liu I Can’t Make You Love Me by Elizabeth RobertWinter Contest Winner: Cry of the Icemark by Yirong LlangWinter Contest Winner: First Winter by Mehreen Nadeem & Aqib Shirazi FictionThe Bench by Andrea AddoFind me Miles and Miles Nearer by Sally ChungTechnology’s Disadvantages by Meghan WooHis Azure Eyes by Shrida SahadevanRescued by Sunshine by Sally Chung Non-FictionI’m Me. Who Are You? by Tanja ZerullaThe Failings and Fortunes of Canada’s Economy by Eliza PanDesign Innovation in an Environmental Crisis by Keita HillHockey by Rishi NairComics: The Lighter Side of OSA

An Ode to School, with Affection: A Personal Response to OSA It’sanoldschool—butyoualreadyknewthat,fromthecreakyfloorboards,tothecrackedpaintthatresolutelyresistsrefurbishing,tothedisplaycabinetsfilledwithwhatcouldbeconsideredhistoricalartifacts. It’s an academic school— but then again, you wrote the entrance exam, are experiencing, have experienced,orwillexperiencetheprolifichomework,theconflictingtests,the“good,better,best”speech. When it comes down to it, what is OSA? “Home”isatermthatcomesupalot;however,it’ssubsequentlyshotdownbyloudvoicesthatdrown out the murmurs of endeared agreement. Maybe they have a point— maybe they both do. You do, too, having had at least one semester under your belt at this establishment, be it a home or a school or an old,creakingbuilding.Havingcompletedtwoandahalfyearshere,allthatIcanreallyofferisthis:myexperiences, my life, my thoughts surrounding OSA. One of the decisions that I have regretted not half so much as I have relished was the choice to applyatOSA,thechoicetobreathe,disbelieving,intothetelephone,“Yes.”Thevastmajorityofthepeople whom I cared about went to another school, and at times I am on the back of a gigantic sea turtle, calling to the distant mainland that they offer. Odd analogy though it may be, on my metaphorical sea turtle,thereisauniqueculturethatisOSA,thatistheeccentricspopulatingit,thatinnowayreplacesorevennecessarilycompensatesforwhatIusedtohave—andyetit’sgrownonme,filledmyheart,displacing ventricles and atria. OSA, in spite of its age, was a new frontier, and now a dear frontier— but new frontiers neverreplacewherewecomefrom;morerather,Ibelievethatthisplace,whereIhavemetsomanyindescribablepeople,issimplywhereI’matnow.ThepeoplethatI’vemetdon’treplacetheoldfriends,nor does the person I’ve grown into replace who I used to be. When it comes down to it, what I can say of OSA is really what one could say about any place: I’m here now, and there are many things to like and to dislike, but I’m making a go of it and am making the most of it. It’s not here to erase what came before, because that’s a very big part of who you are, but it does provide possibility and opportunity. OSA is a new playground, with hundreds of interesting minds teeming with ideas, and if you work for it, OSA can be a new place to build memories and further shape yourself. Wherever you go in life you will have a choice, will be part of a story, within which you hold the pen instead of some ominously omniscient author. Wherever you step, however you choose to view things,youareshapingyourselfandtheworld,too,andOSAisjustasettingforthenextfewchapters.Is it beautiful? Is it frustrating? Is it intimidating? Is it rewarding? You make your own answers. For me, OSA has allowed me to meet amazing people and has challenged me to get a grip on time management. It has been a place in which to work hard, to hit my head against the walls, to laugh, to learn. You can get those general experiences anywhere and everywherethatyougo,buttheonesthatyougetatOSAareuniquetoOSA,uniquetothepeopleandenvironmentthatproducethem.Fromhere,it’suptoyoutofindthemandtofigureoutjustwhatthey’reworth. May the Force be with you,

Kristina Drozdiak

The recipe above can taste like gourmet soup or bland gruel. Unless you’re the type of person who likes bland gruel (we’re not judg-ing you), spice up your school year by taking advantage of the various “student co-curricular activities which are sponsored by Old Scona Academic.” Did you recognize that quote? It’s from page 25 of your school agenda, Article III of the Students’ Union Constitution. (Anno-tate it, now.) Besides the solemn SU duty to “coordinate and adminis-ter,” our mandate is also “to sponsor a co-curricular program that will provide all students with an opportunity to develop desirable traits of personality, character, and to maintain a standard of physical well be-ing.” The meaning is clear, despite the dubious grammar: Participate and get involved in clubs and SU activities – it’s good for you, and fun. Students’ Union Council (though we never call it that because of the unfortunate initials) fundraises and holds events to strengthen your connection with fellow students and the community around us. Now that we’re halfway through the school year, you can judge for yourself whether we’ve helped enrich your student life. If so, give yourself a pat on the back! Only with your participation can we hold events and raise funds. Thank you for supporting your Students’ Union.

Stephanie LiVice President Finance ’09/’10

Highest Achievement:

Gr. 10 - Eliza Pan

Gr. 11 - Lucy Ma

Gr. 12 - Ryan Yeh

Talib RajwaniSpeech & Debate:

Marjun Parcasio

OSA Creative Writing

Kristina Drozdiak

Susan Green Memorial Award

1st - Stephanie Li

2nd - Andrew Qi

3rd - Eliza Pan

Read Kristina’s and Stephanie’s winning stories on pages 4-5 and

6-7 respectively

She stared ahead with unseeing eyes. She stood there for what seemed an eternity—the eternity marking the end of an age.

Finally she collapsed into a pile of rags and despair, weeping. She wept for all that was, wept for what should have been and, most of all, she wept for the ugly death of her dreams, finally quelled by the harshness of truth. The scalding tears blurred her too-clear sight, but not enough. She could never go back again.

When she dared look up, her face was hollow and her eyes were lifeless, taking in what was supposed to have been a glorious image. But now her third eye had been closed, and she could no longer see the magic of another world in which she may have found peace. She cursed him silently but fervently, hating him for his words, for showing her the truth. And in that moment, innocence had faded, long before its time had come.

-

“Your head is always up in those damn fool clouds, Gillian! It’s high time you were brought back down to Earth. There is no magic, y’hear? There are no damn fantastical creatures—never was, ain’t is, and won’t never be!”

All Gillian could do was stumble backward stupidly, eyes wide with denial. Reeling from the smell of his breath, reeling from that horrid inkling. She fell and turned about, crawling like an insect for her room. Maybe if she just moved faster, but no, no, the words—the words—!

There is no magic, y’hear?

She forced her way into her room, the door banging frantically against the wall. It was pressing in, but she didn’t want it to. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about it. But some part of her already knew and was full of dread, even as her eyes swept through the many piles of assorted junk, searching.

There are no damn fantastical beasts...

Ashesby Kristina Drozdiak

-OSA Creative Writing Award Winner

Forcing it to the back of her mind, Gillian grit her teeth as it continued to mockingly echo. With shaking hands she clutched the familiar pages even tighter, clutched tighter to her salvation.

She had found her page but instead of being transported to a mystical, magical realm, Gillian found that she could only see the small text and the outline of the pages that now barred the way. She held a bound volume with dusty, yellowed pages.

There is no magic.

The thought rumbled through her very core, through the essence of her being, and the tome fell from limp fingers. Nothing could ever be the same again. And then—nothing. The thoughts, the tremors from her epiphany—gone. No hurt, no joy. Just numb. She didn’t even feel it when she fell to her knees, or when a hundred different worlds simply dissipated into the ether. Gillian gazed into space where something wonderful used to lay.

Nothing would ever be the same again. After all, how could she return to a world that hadn't existed in the first place? She couldn't. No matter how right, how beautiful it had been.

A breeze picked up outside, and it carried away the ashes of dreams.

There! She groped for her book, fingers clinging desperately to the soft cover, but fumbling with it as she brought it near.

…never was…By the time Gillian had it opened,

serenity had fled. She could hardly see: the thoughts were pressing in, merciless and quick.

…ain’t is…She needed to find her page, be-

fore—…and won’t never be!

What comes betweenby Stephanie Li

Susan Green Memorial Award Winner

Robert Capa (1913-1954) was a combat photographer during the First Indochina War. His final picture (shown below) was taken immediately before he stepped on a landmine.

The dawn did not come peacefully this morning. Grey light spilled over the horizon and settled into the rice paddies like the stench of rot. The light is creeping towards camp when I awaken. The regi-ment is slower to rise now than a few months ago. Some combination of sadness and disbelief has caked over our skin, sapping our energy during the night, when no comfort can be found in an adrenaline rush. “Levez-vous!” Thewake-upcallcontinuesasIfinishmyCrationsandgathermycamera.NamĐịnhCityisvis-ible in the distance on this clear day, so I want a few photographs before the troop marches south again. We’re heading down from Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam, to join the French Union Forces in Thái Bình. I’mobservingtheviewthrougharectangleI’vemadewithmyfingersandthumbs,whenJean-LucMartinwalksover.He’stheonlyoneintheregimentwhocanspeakfluentEnglish. “You’re in the jeep today, Robert.” He still pronounces my name the French way. I suppose his tonguecan’tgetaround‘RobertCapa’.“IwishIcouldrideinhighstyletoo,likeyouwarphotographers.Instead,I’llbemuckingaround,lookingforthoseViệtMinhdogs.” I nod and hold the camera up to snap a photo of him. It’s hard to imagine that this smiling, joking facebelongstoaveteransoldier.IsupposeJean-Luchasalreadyacceptedhemightdienextweek,tomor-row,oreveninhisnextheartbeat.He’snotgoingtobeparanoidaboutit.Eightyearsofwarwilldothatto a person. “I’ll send this to your wife once it’s developed,” I tell him. He seems reassured. The one thing Jean-Lucfearsisbeingforgotten–Ithinkhe’sabitjealousofmebecauseeverypictureItakecarriesabitof me with it. Like some of the other soldiers, he has written a farewell letter to his wife, to be delivered post-mortem. Blood and sweat stain the paper as he keeps it in his pocket and clutches it during tense mo-ments. He wants me to deliver it. I tell him he’s not going to die.

This dirty war, la sale guerre, may be over soon. Our troop has received word that the Geneva Conferencebackhomeiscomingtoanagreement.Itwon’tbetoosoon.Halfoftheregiment’ssoldiersdon’tevenknowwhythey’refightingtheVietnamesenationalistmovement.Surprisingly–ornotsosurprisingly–thathalfconsistsofthefiercestfighters,thechildren,freshlyweanedoffofactionfiguresand good-guy-bad-guy stories. I bet the history books will portray the French as the good guys, and the Vietnamese as the bad guys. I’m neither. I’m on neither side. Do I pray for the French to win so I don’t end up a prisoner of war?Ofcourse.DoIthinktheFrenchbelonginIndochina?No. My only real desire is for the armies to go home. Therewon’tbeawinnerinthiswar.TheFrenchwillfighttokeeptheircolonies,andtheVietnamesewillfighttoliberatethem,andeithersidewillhopethattheotherwillgiveup.I’veseenfivewars,though,andI’vewitnessedthingsthattellmethatwarisnoplaceforafragilebirdlikeHope. Those memories are especially vivid because of the stench of death: gunpowder, smoke, rot, and excrement.Mostpeoplearen’tawarethatwhensomeonedies,theirrectalmusclesrelax.Thebattlefieldis not a glorious place. Onthebattlefield,hopeislikeareedbeforetheflood.HopeiswhatIhadforthefriendliest,bravest soldiers; I hoped that they would die quickly and painlessly, not with their insides hanging out, covered in their own waste, and screaming for their mothers. I’vetriedtostopmyselffromchasinghopes,butIcan’thelpit.Notnow,astheendofthewardrawsnear.IallowmyselftohopethatthenexttimeIseethesesoldierswillbewiththeirbacksturnedaway from me, headed home.

- Several hours have passed, and I’m all kinds of sore from the jeep ride. The driver stops for a moment so I can stretch my legs. I squint through the afternoon sun at the soldiers making their way throughafieldbesidetheroad,outofformation,gunsslungovertheirbacks.It’stheperfectopportunityto take a photograph to anticipate the future, a photo of these men on their way home. I leave the jeep and jog up to the regiment, heedless of the jeep driver’s warnings. The men are well used to my presence. Once I reach a suitable distance behind their backs, I hold the camera to my eye, and take the photograph. It turns out well enough, but I want to capture both the soldiers and the long road they must walk. To my left, the road to Thái Bình stretches for untold miles. I keep walking, keep searching for that perfect vantage point to take that iconic photo, an image that represents both a departure and a return, andmyownwillingnesstoHope– –butthesunlightissuddenlysobright,toobright,andmyearsareringingbutIhearsomeonescreamforamedicandIwonderwhowashurtandifitwasJean-LucIshouldkeepaneyeonhisletterbut it’s too hard to keep my eyes open and the sunlight is just too bright, painfully bright.

Tabula Rasa Special Issue

Artwork contributers: Bethel Alemu, Brianne Cheng, Ella Lin, Emily Wu, Nancy Liang, Sloane Geddes

Photoshopped by: Angela Liu

I Can’t Make you Love Me by Elizabeth Robert The single red rose I held dropped as my own words stung my consciousness. Her face attempted to convey sympathy, yet her eyes were screaming relief. She stared at me and I stared at my Chuck Taylors. With nothing left to say but some things that would stay better unsaid, I turned around and strode to where my bike lay in the grass. As I rode away from the window of the girl of my dreams, I thought I heard a voice sigh, “Thank God.” The cookie cutter houses and the per-fectly manicured lawns blurred into one image as I pedaled, head down, as fast as my bike could take me. Each turn of the gears was another of my efforts blowing away on the wind. All these efforts to make the most amazing girl in the world look my way. I had stalked Emma for nearly three years and where had it gotten me? WhenIfirstsawEmma,itfeltlikeallofa sudden my world had slowed down. The lights went out and only she was there, with one of those wind machines blowing her curly hair back across her shoulders. As she made her way towards me, I felt my heart stop and black spots appeared at the edges of my vision. She didn’t even notice that I stood right in front of her. Though this goddess didn’t seem to notice my presence, I knew a healthy amount of dedication and regular conversation would soon bring Emma to see I was the perfect man. I was a dedi-catedadmirer,onewholeftherflowers,wrotepoems,andserenadedherwithmyrenditionof“Imagine”accompanied by my harmonica. Every little action I directed at her was a piece of my effort to show her how much I liked her. No matter how sincere, I just couldn’t convince Emma of how I felt. It seemed to me like I was making her mad, not charming her. In the movies, no matter how lame the guy was, he always got the girl. Even Anthony Michael Hall ended up with the girl in “Sixteen Candles”. What was I missing? I thought that all I needed to make a girl fall in love with me was sincerity and a harmonica solo. I learned the hard way that girls hate the harmonica. They also hate when you stand outside their bedroom window all night, singing “Killing Me Softly” or reciting an ode to their eyes. You can’t make someone love you. All Emma saw every time I rode my bike past her house was a creepy loser with horn rimmed glasses and greasy hair. Sincerity can’t win over everyone, I suppose.

My destination was in sight so I slowed my pedaling and lifted my face to feel the wind. A harsh gust hit my face straight on. Tears welled in my eyes at the force of the gale, and I allowed only one drop of saltwater to race down my cheek before I swiped all the evidence away. I stopped pedal-ling altogether, applied the brake, and descended from the seat of my bicy-cle. I had reached the place where it had all started, the sidewalk in front of the movie theatre. The theatre was old now; its red panelled siding was worn down and cracking. This was the placewhereIfirstsawher,whereIfirstsaw“TheNotebook”,andwhereI was taught how to become worthy of the title of leading man. Sitting on the sidewalk, I pulled my harmonica from my pocket. Taking one deep breath, I brought the instrument to my lips. Softly, tentatively I began to play a new tune, one I had wanted to play for Emma. Yet, no matter how loudly or persistently I play, Emma will never hear my song. So here in this silent hour, I let the music escape and I played only for myself.

As I rode away from the win-dow of the girl of my dreams, I thought I heard a voice sigh, “Thank God.”

Cry of the Icemark by Yirong Llang

The snow gently fell, creating a delicate icy blanket on the ground. The slight fog created a misty atmosphere around the flat plain. Deceptively, the sky shone pearly white. A man, one lonely traveller, trudged slowly through the snow. His frozen eyelashes blocked the view of what was in front of him. With every step he took his numbed body felt nothing. The man knew that with every step he took his life was slowly seeping out of him. However, at least he would last longer by walking than just by staying put for eternal sleep. Wait—there was a shadow quivering in front of him. The man squinted as a grey misty figure slowly appeared in front of him, and he gasped at the sight. It was human, yet not. There in front of him stood the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on. He found himself staring at snowy white skin, her cold ice blue eyes, and creamy white hair. She had no mouth. Her blue kimono fluttered in an unknown breeze. She stared at him, seeing into his soul, taking control of everything there. He stared at her in reply, but mistakenly blinked. With that, the woman disappeared. A frantic notion rushed through him: he wanted to see this unearthly woman again, even if it meant certain death. The man started running in the now deep snow. He tripped and fell face first into the snow. However, the man did not wake up from the trance. He tried standing up only to realize that his left foot was twisted. It stuck out at an irregular angle from his body. There was no pain and the man now continued crawling forward in hopes of glimpsing the woman. His eye caught a fluttering of hair. There was no mistake: it was her hair, the white creamy hair that he had found so glistening and beautiful. It was fluttering in front of him. He couldn’t see anything else, but the man was positive that it was her. He crawled forward, his steps getting faster and faster. He didn’t notice he was entering a cave, a deadly trap. The man panted, even the sounds of his pants echoing across the hollow walls of the cave. There was no snow and everything was clear. There was no her either. He looked around, hoping to find some clue. Maybe he shouldn’t have entered this cave. The man turned around, the snow outside had gotten stronger, nearing a blizzard as the once delicate snow now pelted down. The sky had also begun to darken, now a shady grey.

The man realized that he had been trapped. But it was too late. A huge stalactite snapped off right above the man. It plunged downwards, piercing him and following gravity straight into the earth. He lunged forward in coughing spasms as his own blood splattered out, creating beautiful bloody roses on the pure white snow. He collapsed knowing that death was near. As the world dimmed around the man, he could make out a figure in front of him: the woman. She had been so emotionless before but now, the hidden mouth turned into a smirk that evolved into a smile. Finally her mouth opened to reveal huge white jagged teeth. The face slowly leaned in towards him. Closer, closer, she was upon him. Then, all was red.

First Winterby Mehreen Nadeem and Aqib Shirazi

A single flake tickling your noseSending a tingle right down to your toes

Exhilarating possibilities, memories turn goldSuch a wondrous tale- to be told

Walking through the cold winter breezeThe path I leave in the snow,

A permanent freezeFailing tufts of cotton blend into my perception

Under layers of clothing, It’s all a part of the cold winter reception

A myriad of towers and palaces constructedMen of snow, bravely standing guard

Falling to the siege of spring, slowly instructedSlowly melting away, in the back of my yard

Although winter has melted away In the form of puddles it peacefully layCreativity in hearts nobody can shun

Joining with Mother Nature we had truly won

The Benchby Andrea Addo

The old park bench had become accustomed to the woman. It patiently awaited her arrival each morning and stood in her company until the sky threatened to change colour. When the quiet banter of married couples replaced the sounds of childish play, she rose. Her distant eyes bore an unmistakable sadness as reluctant steps separated her from the bench. She would disappear, unseen for hours, until daybreak shed light upon her frail figure returning to the park. Her daily ventures caught the attention of a girl, and she soon took to watching the woman. Her dedicated eye could catch detail missed in the quick sympathetic glances cast by others. The woman’s stunning blue eyes were hidden behind untamed strands of dirty hair; filthy skin and ragged clothing stole attention from her doll-like features. She could see the rare smile that flickered at her lips for a newborn baby or cheerful toddler. She noticed when her faraway eyes would gain focus to watch a young, smitten couple strolling hand-in-hand. The girl could spend hours watching, creating stories to explain the woman’s behaviour. Her curiosity persisted, and she continued to watch, despite the lack of change in the woman’s routine. At times, she contemplated approaching the woman, and once came close before she turned and fled. She knew some part of her relished the mystery of the woman’s character and could not bear to see it solved so simply. So she watched. The woman’s visits grew shorter, sometimes not beginning until late afternoon. She would struggle up the path, grasping at branches and vines for support. The woman would sit coughing violently as she tried to regain her composure. Day after day, the girl watched as her pretty face grew old under the strain of her movements. Even her blue eyes had lost their brilliance. When she lingered on the bench longer than usual, the girl assumed her aged body was troubling

her. With her dull blue eyes glistening in the moonlight, the woman finally struggled to her feet. A single tear streamed down her wrinkled cheek as she disappeared into the night. She did not return. People came and went regardless, for her absence was as insignificant as her presence had been. Summer changed into autumn, and harsh winds beat at the trees until they surrendered their leaves. Winter’s white blanket cloaked the bare trees and ground, concealing every trace of the old woman. Days turned into years, and the girl grew older. Her memories of the woman faded, forgotten in the struggles of everyday life.

She had not seen the park in years. Distant memories flooded her mind as she lingered in the shade of the trees. Her wandering eyes found the old wooden bench, but only after several minutes did she remember the woman. After a moment’s thought, she lowered herself onto it and took in her surroundings. Children ran to and fro with endless energy. She was touched by their innocence, realizing that they would soon experience life for both its hardships and pleasures. Sitting there, she came to wonder when she had lost the same enthusiasm for life - and finally, she saw the world through dull blue eyes.

~-~-~-~-~

Past the hilly parks and scraping buildingsPast the playing childrenPast the passing peoplePast the inked clouds.He saw The Unseen.

Past the deathDemise and

Empty breaths, He saw happinessAnd nothing less.

And as I stood there watching,I could feel the heavy tears

Near my cheeksAnd corners of my mouth

And I wondered about my doubts.I wondered

And wanderedAnd wondered moreAnd wandered less

Past the deathDemise and

Empty breathsAnd sought happiness.

The sun towered the skyOn a park’s dark bench

When an old man sat down,To spare his thoughts and frowns

To the world and little towns.For anyone who would listen,Would see his aged eye glisten

As he remembered what he had seen.His sight was miraculousAs this old man was blind

But was never intent on leaving any details behind.

And if a passerby were to grace him a glanceThey would only see a old man in a tranceBut I saw through this man’s shining eyes

As he saw past Time’sBittersweet chimes

LiesDeath

Demise andEmpty breaths,

A beauty that made him smile.His tired grin stretched miles far

by Sally ChungFind Me Miles and Miles Nearer

Dierdre woke up Thursday morning at ten o’clock. The sun was filtering in through the blinds and cast rays of light into her eyes. Turning her gaze from the window, she stared at the alarm clock and was shocked to see the time. Realizing that the alarm hadn’t awakened her on time, she decided that it was too late to go to school.

With a yawn and a stretch, Dierdre sat up and called for her android. “Marta! Will you bring me my clothes?” She waited a minute. Wondering what had happened, Dierdre walked into the next room and saw Marta perched motionless in her docking sta-tion.

Discouraged, she stumbled into the bathroom because she was too lazy to turn on the android. Dierdre pressed the button on the automatic toothbrush machine. Expecting the device to squeeze a drop of toothpaste onto her tooth-brush, Dierdre stared in confusion at the machine that refused to operate. Yet all these problems did not dis-courage Dierdre. Although adamant, she had felt that these occurrences were not coincidental. She grabbed the toothbrush and toothpaste and opted for brushing her teeth manually.

Frustrated and confused because of all the malfunctioning machinery, Dierdre had little hope that her meal maker in the kitchen was going to work. As she stared at the bare table, she was determined to find out who or what was behind all of this.

As Dierdre looked closely at the meal maker, she was alarmed to see that it wasn’t plugged in. She never unplugged the meal maker. “I wonder who’s responsible for all of this,” Dierdre pondered out loud.

“Me,” said a voice from the next room.

Dierdre opened the door and saw her brother working at his desk. “Why did you disconnect all of my machines?” She stared at her brother in disbelief.

“I wanted to teach you a lesson,” he explained. “You have become too de-pendent on your weird devices, on other people, and on your android, Marta. No-body has really lived until they have ex-perienced the hardships of living.”

by Meghan Woo

His Azure EyesShrida Sahadevan

There they were: his azure eyes, the very azure eyes that were haunting me in my dreams, haunting me as though they were waiting for me to take action in this ordeal. I closed my eyes to elude any emotions present in his own; yet, those eyes were unavoidable. They followed me everywhere, melancholic and desperate, lingering in my memory. I knew he wanted an answer to his question, but I just couldn’t respond. It wasn’t possible for me to form a coherent response to the unspoken question. There was an uncomfortable silence between us. “Whatdoyouwant?”Ifinallymanagedtoasktheowneroftheazureeyes.Raisinghiseyebrow, he knew that I understood why he was here. His eyes – those azure eyes – were no longer desperate. Were they…angry? Why would they be angry at me? His red lips formed the seven words that would forever haunt me. “Why did you do this to me?” Therewasnolongeraperfectlydefinedfaceofaman,butadeformed,mangledfacewith warped arms and legs. He was no longer a man, but a disturbing image, a corpse now lying inmyarms.IstruggledtofindthecouragetolookatitandinstantlyregretteditwhenIdid.Igasped, “Carter?” As his eyes pierced right through me, I could only hear, “Why did you do this to me?” I cried out in desperation, “I don’t know! I don’t know!” What was happening to me? To him? How? Carter? Where are you? All I wanted to do was yell -- “I DON’T KNOW!” I gasped, choking slightly. Sweating profusely, I managed to keep my breathingundercontrol.Consequently,Iwasfinallyawareofthesurroundings–andtherewasno longer a mangled corpse in my hands. I was no longer in the dream-like world in which I had suffocated. I was confused. Why did I have this reoccurring dream about my brother? He wasn’t dead, nowhere close to being dead. Iwassurethathewasfine,servinghisnationintheseasofwarfare.Mybrotherisinthenavalbase.. His dedication to this nation is inspiring, even though it is at the risk of his own life. I had attempted to dissuade my brother from serving, but could not stop that man of passion. I lay down once more, pulling the satin sheets over my body, wishing for sleep to smile down upon me. For some odd reason, I had a gut-wrenching feeling that this would not be the last sleepless night. -:- This is absolutely wonderful. What type of tea did you say it was, dear?” The woman sipped at her tea, expecting an answer. Smiling,Ireplied,“Chamomile.”Mymother had hosted a weekly tea party where all of the women of the town would come and sip tea while they gossiped about the hottest topics. Who was dating who? Who broke up with who? And, “Oh my God, did you see her hair?” I giggled, knowing that my motherdefinitelybelongedtothiscrowd.

Mymotherwasnotintownthisweek,butIhadtohostthepartyanyway,orIwouldbethe target of gossip for this town’s women. There were many people in my lovely home right now, and it was tiring to constantly tend to all of the guests. There were people in the salon, foyer, dining room, and even upstairs where the bedrooms were located. I looked down at the woman in front of me, the queen of gossip in our town. “Be cautious around her,” my mother would always tell me. She pursed her lips, a tight line. “I must have a pot of this tea for my dear husband when he returns from the bank,” she decided.

Taking a great effort, I smiled awkwardly and then diverted my attention to the other women. “Would anyone else like some more tea?” “Of course. I would!” Glancing in the direction of the voice, I grinned at one of my dearest friends, Annabel, who was adorned in a gorgeous yellow frilly dress. “Here you are, my friend,” I smiled faintly at her, pouring tea into her cup. After thanking me, she set aside her cup onto the saucer, motioning for me to sit beside her. Grabbing the ends of my dress, I sat down comfortably beside her. “How have you been?” I asked her. “I’mfine,whythankyou.You,honey?”she

replied. “Tired.” Annabel frowned, dampening her cheery attitude. “Whatever is the matter, Cordelia?” Considering whether or not to reply, I inhaled deeply, letting out a whirl of breath. “I have been having these …intense dreams where Carter dies.” Not knowing what to say, Annabel gasped. “I’m rather certain that it is only a dream and is not true.” “I’m not so certain, Annabel. I’ve been having these dreams forever and -- ”I looked up andtriedtofindthesourceofthe–oh,itwasthedoor!Swiftlysittingup,Iponderedwhocouldbe knocking right now. I excused myself to attend the door. AssoonasIpassedbytheMisswhohadcommentedon the tea, I heard her whisper, “I wonder when and where she willfindamanifsheisalwayslookingthistired.Iwonderwhatkeeps her up at night.” There was a hint of suggestion in her voice, and the women around her giggled. I shook my head at their immaturity, and ignored their words:Ihadbetterthingstoworryandfretover—definitelynot over what some old gossips thought of me. Opening the mahogany door, there was a messenger on the porch with an envelope. Desperately hoping it was a letter from my brother, I grabbed it from the man’s hand. The short, brown-haired messenger’s eyes were wide, scared of my actions. Looking down at him, I shrugged sheepishly. “Thank you.” I opened the letter hurriedly, not caring about the women’s inevitable snide comments. I was much too excited to hear from my brother. MyeyesfinallysetonthewordsbeforeIrealizedthatmyvisionwasblurring.Ilookedup, my head directed at Annabel as I choked on the words that I never thought would escape mylips.“Mybrotherisdead.”

I’m Me. Who Are You?Tanja Zerulla

Ugly. Geek. Psycho. These words sound familiar? They’ve passed through our lips about other people as much as they have through their mouths about us. Uncomfortable? You should be. The end result: a generation of teenagers underestimating themselves.I’ve been called every name in the book and more (anorexic and NAZI come to mind). And it’s still happening; I’m sure of that. Why am I so happy, even when I know just around the corner people could be calling me “cocky” or “annoying”? The answer is very simple. I know who I am. But how do people know who they are? People think finding themselves involves many trials and tribulations, most of which are experienced throughout a lifetime. Some people believe I experienced the entire process within a year: hit by a car, cheated on by people I trust, death in the family, and knowledge of a long-dead twin. Some of you may ask: how can you be so cheerful after that? Didn’t it drive you into depression? Of course. Wouldn’t it have for you? Your world

is tipped upside down; people you trusted are ripped away from you, and there is nothing on which to fall back. Who wants to live in a world where people call each other harsh names to better their own egos? Who wants to live in a world built on secrets and lies? I didn’t. I cried myself to sleep about what was happening. I wrote pages and pages in my diary about how much I hate myself. Looking at it, do you see how terribly pitiful that is? I put all my faith in myself into what other people think of me. Yet, look at yourselves. There’s always that moment where someone insults you and you can’t help but wonder if they’re right. It’s hard to get past that, to lift yourself from such a deep well of despair. How can anyone free themselves from the black, sticky claws of self-loathing? For me, it was religion. If it wasn’t for my parents, I probably wouldn’t have looked there at all. Maybe God saved me, maybe I saved myself. All I know is I’m thankful I found Him. The church is a community that cares for you regardless of your looks, regardless of your past, and in spite of your flaws. But it’s not religion that’ll change how you feel. It’s the fact that there are people who care about you, who love you the way you are, and wouldn’t change a thing about you. Think about it: all around you there are people who like you for you. They liked me, so why couldn’t I like me?

Because what people said meant something to me. It was the only source I had to who I am. Which made me wonder, why am I letting other people decide who I am? Shouldn’t I decide who I am? Don’t I know myself best? Which led to the most fundamental question I have ever asked myself: who am I? So I sat at a window and stared for hours. Who am I? The answer is not as simple as a name. Or is it? As I stared out of the window, I knew who I was. I was stronger, braver, kinder, and the better from what happened. It shaped me into the person I am. I’m Tanja. There can be no other one. With this knowledge, I find utmost peace. I know who I am. One of my eyebrows is white, the other blonde. One of my ears is larg-er than the other. I like singing to myself and dancing in the street. I love Asian actors and chocolate. Spiders and heights scare me. I’m a keener and a smart aleck. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the flaws. I see an imperfect perfection. So maybe, if everyone looked in the mirror and saw that what makes he or she weird or different was actually a good thing; our world wouldn’t be the way it is. We’d stand up against trends that force everyone to look the same, we’d stand up against people bullying, and we’d stand up against everything cruel in this world. I know not everyone can have the life-changing experience I had. Or have you? Looking back, you should find that little things shaped who you are now. If you changed one thing, you’d change you. There goes your name. Maybe, you just need to look into a mirror. If everyone accepted themselves, wouldn’t the world be a better place?

I’m me. Who are You?

~-~-~-~-~-~

I tapped my feet nervously. I could feel my breakfast stir in my stomach and my limbs going numb. It was my first day of high school and I felt peculiar, not knowing what to expect. I thought tensely, while staring out the windshield. The sunrise was just beginning to ink the white sky with its unique colours. A sunrise is the symbol for a new life, new beginning. Throughout my whole life I’ve seen so many sunrises; yet this morning, the sunrise seemed to have more significance. It was as if I only really understood its magic for the first time. I still couldn’t believe it. Everything felt surreal! It was as if this was all a dream that I had forgot-ten to wake up. Any second now, as I held my breath, I would wake up in the classroom of my junior high, to find that I had just fallen asleep during one of my teacher’s lectures. Sure enough though, this wasn’t a dream, for I was really on my way to high school. The car was awfully quiet. My dad and I were both nervous and tired, slowly absorbing reality. As the car neared the school, I felt the sharp weight of my thoughts and the stiffness of my body. As I watched the school’s front lawn teem with students, exultant in embraces and laughter, I knew that somehow I could do it too. I slid out of the car with a quick goodbye, and while I climbed the school’s dusty stone steps, I remembered the sunrise. “A new beginning,” I whispered. Then, wrapping my shaky fingers around the worn brass door knobs, I opened the door.

Rescued by Sunshineby Sally Chung

Failings and Fortunes: The Future of Alberta’s Economyby Eliza Pan

Traditionally, Alberta has been touted as the land of opportunity. Appropriately enough, our motto is “strong and free,” expressing what we strive to be as a province. Unfortunately, our recent economic volatility has led to a poor reputation. To progress as a province, we must examine the context of our current situation and improve our economic policy through diversified investment in public services and sustainable industries.

The global recession has been a rude awak-ening, reminding Albertans that our economy is unsustainable, not invincible. A main weak-ness is our economy’s lack of diversification. In particular, Alberta’s economy relies too heavily on fossil fuels. According to the Gov-ernment of Alberta’s budget report, 30.8% of Alberta’s GDP came directly from oil and natural gas in 2008. As a result of this depend-ence on fossil fuels, our economy’s success is at the mercy of fluctuating energy prices. Yet, our province has never prepared for the times when oil and gas are in low demand. As a re-sult, future generations will not have any other strong industries on which they can rely. Although Alberta realistically cannot stop producing oil, we must invest in our future by diversifying. We should invest in the public sector to build a stronger eco-

nomic foundation. Recently, the government pledged to contribute an additional $5 billion to the oil industry to try to create jobs, even though the oil industry creates fewer jobs per dollar than health care, education, and transportation – all areas that are integral to sustaining a strong population. In fact, in the 1990s, health care lay-offs resulted in huge cost increases. The government must keep the cost of public services down and employment up in order to produce the healthy population necessary to create a strong economy; there-fore, it should invest more in public services to create jobs and sustain a healthy workforce. Furthermore, we must support innovation to advance the knowledge base of our economy, because the supply of and demand for creativity are unlimited. In particular, Alberta should invest in green energy, such as ethanol made from sawmill waste products. The concrete potential of this type of investment would make our main industries—agriculture, forestry and energy—more productive, competitive, and sustainable. By diversifying our economy, Alberta can expand its sources of revenue and become a global leader in multiple sectors. Despite the obstacles we face, Alberta re-mains the land of opportunity. If we wisely reform our economic policy, we can turn our potential into long-term prosperity and build a province of which we can be proud.

Design Innovation in an Environmental Crisisby Keita Hill

Apple’s newest handheld device, the iPad, starts shipping this spring. Just the size of a school agenda, the iPad features a web browser, email client, video player and eBook reader – all in a device only a half inch thick. The iPad is more eco-friendly than its predecessors, built for high energy efficiency from recyclable parts that (Apple assures us) are free of arsenic, PVR, mercury and PVC. Yet what’s truly astonishing about the iPad is not thedevice itself, but what the iPaddevice demonstrates: the remarkableinnovation that can take place in a short period of time. The iPad epitomizes the technological progress of the last twenty years. Back in the cutting-edge i486 Intel processor cost $950. Today, the iPad features a processor that is forty times as powerful, and the entire device costs only $499 . This same kind of exponential innovation will have to take place in the realm of sustainable development. In order to accommodate more people with fewer resources, we will have to redesign our global systems drastically in a short period of time. Competitive environmental technologies will play an important role in the shift to sustainability. However, exponential decreases in cost – like those seen in the computer industry – will be needed before environmental technology can become economically competitive. The Falling Cost of Solar Power

One area that is striving to reduce costs is the solar panel industry. Analysts predict that unsubsidized solar energy will become competitive with conventional energy sources when the cost of panels drops to somewhere between $1.50 and $2.00 per watt. Just last January, the price was $4.84 per watt. As of this January, technological improvements have already brought this cost down to $4.30 per watt. High-purity silicon crystals remain the most expensive part of a solar panel, accounting for nearly three-quarters of the total cost. Recent improvements have reduced the amount of silicon used, while improving the efficiency of the cells. As well, the expected lifetime of panels has increased from 25 to 30 years, raising the overall return on investment. Some markets will see solar power hit parity with conventional sources sooner than others, either because of their sunny climates or the high cost of conventional electricity. In Italy, for instance, analysts predict that solar power will reach grid parity by the end of this year. In Alberta, solar power still remains out of reach for most consumers. Gordon Howell of Howell-Mayhew Engineering of Edmonton estimates that retrofitting the average Edmonton household with solar panels would cost just under $40,000 – a price tag too high for the average homeowner. Nevertheless, solar power is not the only option for clean energy; improvements in areas such as biofuels and geothermal heating will likely provide alternative solutions.

Moving Forward

Solar energy is just one of many expanding environmental fields that will play an exciting role in coming decades. As research in these areas takes off, we can expect to have increasingly attractive green choices at ever decreasing costs. There is no doubt that we are entering a climatic and environmental crisis. But the Chinese symbol for crisis is comprised of two characters: one indicating “danger”, and the other, “opportunity”. To quote architect Matthew Frederick, “the design problem we face today is not just something to overcome, but an opportunity to be embraced.”

The question is, how will you choose to embrace this design opportunity?

Canada’s Game, Canada’s Eventby Rishi Nair

Between studying for exams and…well, studying for exams, many OSA students take time out of their busy schedules to check up on sports. Whether it is cheering on our many school teams, which con-tinue to excel, or cheering for a big league team, sports can be an escape from the daily grind. Unfortunately, cheering for the home team has become a woeful prospect of late. After a hot start, the Edmonton Oilers quickly came back to earth (and then some) and now are at the bottom of the league. Hopes were high when long-tenured Pat Quinn was first brought in to replace the seemingly shameful coaching of Craig MacTavish. At the beginning of the season, it did look like something had clicked: Dus-tin Penner, who started trying to score, became third in league scoring; Gilbert Brule appeared to be living up to his potential, and Nikolai Khabibulin was putting up a show in the net. Then it happened: the flu and drastic injuries hit the Oilers. Souray, one of the game’s premier offen-sive defensemen, left in game four after a hit from Iginla. Sam Gagner was the only player in the Edmonton locker-room who was not affected by the flu. Almost every Oilers roster player – plus two call-ups from the farm team – was out at one point or another with an injury. To make matters worse, Mike Comrie, the “forgiven son”, got mononucleosis; and Ales Hemsky, our go-to scorer, is out for the season with shoulder surgery. Khabibulin was missing in action for many months with an undisclosed injury, and will be out for the rest of the season. His successors, Devan Dubnyk and Jeff Deslauriers, have not shown much care in their play, often making bad decisions that led to losses. Our goaltending leaves something to be desired, and the once scoring-dynamo Penner has cooled down. Bright spots in this blight include Sam Gagner’s resurgence, Alex Plante’s mature handling of the puck, and the fact that we have a great shot at Taylor Hall, an All-World talent and the expected first-overall pick.

TheTorontoMapleLeafsfindthemselvesinasimilarsituationtotheOilers.Aftersomestartlingsign-ingsintheoff-season,hopeswerehighforanewgenerationofLeafs.Unfortunately,thesameincompetencethathasplaguedthemfor48yearsstillstickstotheteam.Takingoveramonthtowintheirfirstgame,theywillnotbemakingtheplayoffsthisseason.ThispositionwouldhavegiventhemachanceatTaylorHall,buttheytradedawaytheirrightstothepick.Despitethishardship,theacquisitionsofKesselandPhaneufsuggestthatTorontohasthepotentialtochangeitslosingways. ThefourotherCanadianteamsarestilldeepinthehuntfortheplay-offs.WhileVancouverandOt-tawaarewellaheadintheirconferences,MontrealandCalgarysit“onthebubble”.Vancouverhasbenefit-tedimmenselyfromtheplayofHenrikSedin,withandwithouthisbrotherDanielalongsidehim.Defensivechangesintheoffseasonandacoreoftalentedplayershaveleadtooverallsuccess.Theonlyproblemthatliesaheadisthe14-gameOlympicroadtripthatcouldmakeorbreakthissquad. Ottawa,ateampeggedtomisstheplayoffs,hassucceededatplayingasimpletypeofhockeywheretheydonotscorealot,butdonotgiveuptoomanychanceseither.ThegoaltendingofMikeBrodeurandBryanElliot,aswellastheresurgenceofMikeFisherandDanielAlfredsson,ishelpingthecityscornedbyDanyHeatleytogetafootholdintheEast. Ontheotherhand,MontrealandCalgaryseemtobeslippingintheirconferences.AfterMontrealdecidedtooverhaultheirteamintheoff-season,nobodyknewwhattoexpectfromthem.Currently,theyfindthem-selvestheaverageofhighandlowexpectations,battlingforaplay-offspotrightinthemiddleoftheconference.Ateamexpectedtobeintheplay-offpicture,Calgary,hassufferedfrommediocreplay.Thecoreoftheteamimproved,butalackofdiligenceanddirectionmeantthatCalgarysliddowntheconferencestandings.TheadditionofMattStajanandAlesKotalikcannothurttheteam’schances.Olympics Canadaremainstheonlyhostcountrynottowingoldonhomesoil.ThisFebruary,Canadahopestoridthemselvesofthatdubioushonour.AthleteslikeJen-niferHeil(moguls),CindyKlassen(short-trackspeedskating),ChristinaNesbitt(long-trackspeedskating)andKevinMartin(curling)arefavouritesgoingintothe

Games,whileotherslikePierreLueders(bobsled),PatrickChan(figureskating),andManuelOsbourne-Paradis(alpineskiing)areallexpectedtothreatenforthegoldmedal.Althoughtheseasonmaybelost,OilersfanscanlookforwardtotheOlympics,whichincludesthemostanticipatedhockey-relatedtourna-mentoftheyear,thisFebruary.WithRussia,theUnitedStates,Slovakia,Sweden,Finland,andtheCzechRepublicsportingsomeoftheirbestsquadsever,Canadawillhaveatoughroadtogold.WewillneedtorelyonexplosivescoringfromCrosby,Iginla,Nash,Heatley,Thornton,andMarleau;sounddefensiveplaysfromDuncanKeith,DrewDoughtyandBrentSeabrook;and“casual”goaltendingfromtheextraordinaryLuongoandBrodeurtocomeoutontop.

Comics: The Lighter Side of OSA

Editors

Dianne SemeniukEliza PanElizabeth RobertKristina DrozdiakTanja Zerulla

Creative Layout

Ayesha SohailChelsey GuoGary Shum

Kim HoLiang Kang

Marian KalayilNancy Liang

Roujin BuSamantha Cheung

Sophie Quan

Contributers

Alvin YuDiana Bark

Lydia AlemuMaria Milanowski

Credits

Writers

Andrea Addo Aqib Shirazi

Eliza PanElizabeth Robert

Keita HillKristina Drozdiak

Meghan WooMehreen Nadeem

Rishi NairSally Chung

Shrida SahadevanStephanie LiTanja ZerullaYirong Llang

Photographers

Mehreen NadeemTina Wang

Artists

Alison LauAngus DerocherBethel AlemuBrianne ChengElla LinEmily WuKira DlusskayaNancy LiangSloane GeddesStefano Jun

Computer Layout

Angela LiuChristopher TsuiJeremy ChiuMehreen NadeemTony DingZak Turchansky