Friday, May 9, 2025

Reflections

How the Sun Rises

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By Corey D. Smith

The sun sets in beautiful rays of reds, blues and yellows. In the distance the cars pass on the highway. Tail lights bright red, the headlights showing white. It is evening and from atop the hill at my Cato manor homestay, peace abounds.

As the crickets begin to chirp, the other animals—the likes of dogs, monkeys, chickens and goats—retreat to their resting places, only to be heard again in the morning, making way for the moonlight. Rest arrives, starlight blankets the sky.

When the doors open and shut and conversations start , you know it is time for the daily hustle and bustle. Instantly the township bursts into life. I get up, take a bite of breakfast and relax with Abongile, my homestay niece, who enjoys cartoons. They envelop me as she practices her English.

Half past seven. I head to the bus stop: immediately the honking of minibus taxis alarms me. Confused, I look down the wrong side of the street.

“Sawubona.” “Howszit.” “Awe.” “Sharp.” All said as you walk by. It is a community of love you are introduced to, all as I leave for school. These interactions continue as I make my way to the main road. I can only imagine what the day will bring for the community of Blinkbonnie.

The afternoon brings new energy as we head back into Blinkbonnie. Men and women are returning from work as the children return from school. Everyone’s tired from a busy day and ready to unwind.

Laughter fills the air, mixed with music, the aroma of food—ujeqe kanye noshukela ubhontshisi, or maybe chicken and rice—and conversation. Kids play kickball to pass the time, mothers chat with friends, fathers recline in their favorite chair, Soon, everyone will be called for dinner.

“Dinner is ready,” my host moms says in Zulu. We wash our hands, plates are dished; it is time to chow and watch soapies. Everyone has their favourite; from Uzalo to Generations. This is family time. It is not a very social hour, as we each sit captivated by the latest drama between shows. Warmness is still very much present.

We sit like this for an hour or so, before we feel it’s time to wind down. Soon sleep will come barging in. The credits roll, we say goodnight and prepare for the day ahead of us.

The sun rises in beautiful rays of reds, blues and yellows, in the distance the cars pass on the highway. Tail lights bright red, the headlights showing white. It is morning and from atop the hill at my Cato manor homestay, the night’s peaceful energy is preparing to burst into a new day.

7 am in Cato Manor. Photo by Corey D. Smith

An American in London

By

Saam Niami Jalinous

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From left to right, my uncle Nariman, my brother Salar, and my mother Susan, in London, summer 2017.

 

Last summer my mother, my younger brother, and I went to London. We were visiting my uncle who was recovering from cancer.

This was a big trip for the three of us. My mother moved us to California when I was thirteen after she divorced my father and found herself bankrupt through his mistakes.

After six years of financial struggle and three years of success as a realtor, she had saved up enough for us to undertake the journey to London. After my uncle went into remission, my mother told us we had to visit him.

“I’ve spent the last six months preparing myself for his death,” she said.

They fled Iran together when he was nineteen and she was sixteen. She would have been alone with the stories of all they went through if he died.

I spent the mornings in London making fun of my uncle for the marijuana oils my mother had smuggled for him. He lost his taste buds and he was having trouble eating. His mealtimes consisted of shouts like, “Holy fucking shit I can taste,” and, “Cancer isn’t even that bad people bring me free drugs.” I love him and I did not want him to die. I was very happy when it didn’t happen.

We spent the afternoons exploring the city on the tube. I would watch my aging mother go into boutiques like they were candy shops, trying to pretend like she still had the money to afford what she wanted.

I read Patti Smith on the way home. I didn’t miss my America but I missed her America: the creaky floorboards in her Manhattan apartment, the struggle of the artist, and the life force of creativity. Going away makes you fill in the spaces you didn’t know were there before with romantic reflection on where you come from.

At nights I took my brother out for drinks as I transformed from “older brother” to “role model” in a matter of a few drunken conversations. And when the jetlag hit me too hard and I couldn’t fall asleep, I read Beat poets and knew that I had better “make it” or else I’d be out of anything to do at all.

We all felt a little lost in a way that made us a little scared to go home. But how else would you learn that all you want to do is get away over and over and over again?

Finding the Right Track

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By Natalie Elliott

The buses stop running before midnight in Como, Italy.

This I discovered when arrived at Como Camerlata station from Milan Garibaldi around 11:30 p.m one night.

It was very dark outside and I was in a country where I didn’t understand a word of the local language.

On this particular day, I had missed a flight, and a train, and had run the battery of my phone down to just one percent. Spanish subway drivers had gone on strike, leading to this precarious state of affairs, landing me on the last train of the night to Lake Como. And as I had found myself at the wrong Milan train station, a connection gap of 30 seconds gave me no choice but to trust the universe and jump on the first train I saw.

Milano Porta Genova was not the train station I was meant to be at, but it sure is beautiful.

This decision changed how I see life.

 

After plenty of confused tears and panicked pacing, I met Arianna Sogetti. I had been desperately scanning the train for a young person who looked like they might speak enough English to understand my question. Finally, I worked up the courage to talk to the Italian girl in the seat across from mine.

 

Arianna spoke no English, but she came to my rescue. Confusion on the faces of Arianna and her friend gradually turned into understanding nods and eventually laughter as I typed what I needed to say into Google translate, using the last little bit of my phone’s battery. Yes, she nodded. I was on the right train. And when the time came, she made sure I got off with her at the correct stop.

Once the next morning came, I felt lucky to have made it to Lake Como.

It was then I discovered that the taxis also stop running before midnight.

Thank goodness the very large and very loud Sogetti family did not.

Their kindness in driving a stranger they could not speak to to a hostel on the other side of town has stayed with me.

It is them I thank for my lust of travel and the reminder of what can come from being spontaneous.

I have learned not to ask why thing sometimes seem to conspire against me. Who knows what it might bring.

Learning how to disagree

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By Kelly Vinett

My grandfather went vegan the third time he got cancer. One of my last memories of him is picking at a tofu scramble wearing his “Make America Great Again” baseball hat. He was a life-long conservative Republican — and a devout Catholic. In the months before his death, he ate strictly whole foods and attended yoga classes.

Cancer either takes hold of you, or it doesn’t. You have time, or there’s little left. I can’t imagine the suffering my grandfather had to go through: three different diseases and three different treatments.

At one point Grandpa was my idol, being the first to teach me how to ski and how to sing. However, as I got older, I started thinking with more independence. Some cynicism crept in, and my grandpa’s virtues began to fade.

Our family tree on my grandfather’s side primarily consists of politically conservative jocks. Although I was on the taller side growing up, I never became a basketball star like many of my 23 other cousins. I suppose my affinity for playing classical piano didn’t receive the same reaction from my grandfather. He couldn’t say, “She scored 3 goals,” to his many listeners. Grandpa barely bragged about me. Luckily, I liked it that way, since I was never attracted to the spotlight. I loved to play the piano but hated to perform. Applause never felt like a true reward.

On one of Grandpa’s last days, we spent it fighting about politics. It began with my grandfather reminding me he grew up poor but found status in the white middle class after completing an engineering degree. Somehow, we got to where he was voicing his staunch opposition to Mexican immigrants “taking our jobs”, and arguing that “slavery wasn’t all that bad,” because, after all, India’s hierarchical caste system still exists. Before this moment, I’d never had the guts to express my personal views to my grandfather, although he knew they weighed liberal. Instead of remaining silent and uncomfortable as always, I finally told my grandfather, “I disagree.”

Whether to forgive and forget is a question I have grappled with following his funeral. How can I love someone with blatantly opposite views about the world, about humanity? My mother told me I didn’t have to like my grandfather but she found it unfathomable for me to say I couldn’t love him.

Do I have to make a choice?

Facing the dichotomy between my moral and emotional compasses hurts a little too much— and I haven’t yet found my way.  

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