From the Editors
Greetings denizens of Grebel! We, the editors, are proud to present the inaugural issue of Grebelspeaks for fall 2009. Inside these pages you will find the very best work from your fellow Grebelites, including insightful musings, questions asked and answers given, and a whole host of artistic endeavours.
On the subject of content, we would like to thank all of those who fulfilled the terms of the delicious binding contracts they made with us. For those who did not, rest assured – our memories are long, and we know where you live.
Within this issue, you will find everything interesting and amusing. If it is not present in these pages, then you can be sure it is neither. This is a promise!
Honestly, this is the second time we’ve had to write this introduction, and we are running out of things to say. Did you know that computers are vindictive beasts and should not be allowed near anything you hold dear? We certainly have learned our lesson. The next issue will be created from scratch on a typewriter. Actually, we’re going to go retro and use a Gutenberg printing press. That is how serious we are about Grebelspeaks around here.
So go to! Dive in, enjoy. As Miss Frizzle says, “Take chances! Make mistakes! Get messy!” You will have a wild time reading these pages, guaranteed. If you don’t, you should write us a letter about it so we can put it in the next issue.
- Josh Matthews & Tannis Schilk
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A War of Words
“We have things in common like breathing and... eyes.” That’s easily the most-used line people have used in talking to me since the frosh rep elections, and frankly, I’m not sure how to look at it. Was that really a good speech, or was it just a cheap laugh to win votes? I have no answer. But it has intrigued me to look at the power of words in many elections relevant to myself, a journey which you will suffer through too if you continue to read this article.
My favourite student council election was in Grade 9, when nobody had known each other long enough for the “popular girl” to win, leading to a battle of the best speech to win. The way it should be. Popularity contests ensued for the remainder of high school, but there was one glorious election of unbiased voting. When I was elected as a junior member to band council in Grade 11, my speech consisted of, “I don’t want to stand before you and say that I am the smartest, or the best musician, or the most organized, or the best looking in band... even though I am the best looking in band.” I’m sure nobody paid attention to the rest of my speech, but that one line had people laughing enough to vote for me. Did that use a speech as an unfair advantage? Did people truly value my qualities? Would it have been better for honest democracy if everyone had voted without hearing the speeches?
From what I understand, the point of student council is to prepare students for “real-world democracy”, but if this is true, then our Canadian system of voting based on speeches in grade school is wrong. On the big stage, also called Canadian politics, the debates take the role of speech-giving. And what happened at the last debates? Elizabeth May dressed sloppily, and Jack Layton took a shot at Harper’s sweater vest. Nothing noteworthy said there. Sam Roberts once said “You don’t need bullets for a war of words,” but I think that some bullets could liven up the Canadian electoral debates to make up for the lack of choice words. Who Canadians elect seems to be based primarily on tradition. Is this really a better tool than words? I gave up arguing politics with most of my high school friends long ago, since most of them would vote Liberal until they died, even if they disagreed with the entire Liberal platform.
Some say that ignorance is bliss. Perhaps avoiding the political lectures leads to an open mind, since one is not verbally manipulated. However, this manipulation can only work if there is an audience willing to pay attention to the whole rant. An audience such as newspaper readers, for example.
-Ross Arnold
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Can Abortion Learn Something From War?
As a global community, we realize that war is far less than ideal. Yes, scattered conflicts still pop up and several conflicts actively rage around the globe. Overall, though, our consciousness as a human race has shifted to a place where wars are unfortunate, intrinsically bad, and must be strongly justified before they can be launched.
In debates about the merits of war, the two central arguments are fairly simple. First, there is a strong movement to protect and defend “security,” “stability” and “freedom”; a movement that could be classed as “pro-security.” On the flip side, there is a well established movement to promote peace and
non-violence; the “pro-peace” contingent.
When it comes to war, the staunchest conservative would not often describe themselves as being against peace. Nor would a pacifist (or Mennonite) go out of their way to be against safety, security and the freedoms that follow. In fact, we tend to realize that we are both “pro-peace” and “pro-security,” and search out non-warring ways to achieve both these objectives. While there is certainly division over whether war is acceptable in select circumstances, it's tough to be a well-liked warmonger these days.
What's striking to me is our inability to get to the same point in the abortion conversation. For a minute, why not put aside whether abortions are acceptable in select circumstances and discuss the bigger picture. If we were to realize that we are virtually all “pro-choice” (including right-wing Christians, blessed with their choice of religion) and “pro-life” (including left-wing advocates who defend the lives of so many oppressed people and species) we might be able to take this conversation somewhere. By moving beyond endless circles of debate, we can spend our time addressing systematic, deeper factors. Just like we are figuring out with war, in realizing that no one wants to oppose choice or life, we can create and innovate ways of avoiding the need for abortions entirely. Reducing poverty, increasing educational levels and fostering a world of respect moves us towards a place where war doesn't even need to enter the picture. Let's quit these empty debates and move towards a solution that doesn't require the abortion option.
~ Eric Kennedy
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Broken Things
Applause is an interesting thing. Audiences will clap for a performance, or a particularly funny joke, or to encourage somebody to stand on their chair and be sung to. Crowds will raucously congratulate a well-aimed ball in soccer, or politely acknowledge a precision putt in golf. Players limping off of a field may receive encouragement from the hands of spectators, and the impetus for a concert encore lies in the palms of the audience. All of these actions are congratulatory - applause is used to signify the watcher's appreciation and approval of the action being applauded. With that in mind, why do we at Grebel applaud when the distinctive sound of a glass shattering is heard?
I have broken glassware in the caf. It is a natural, if regrettable occurrence; one which follows a fairly predictable order of ceremonies:
T+0.0 seconds: The glass falls. The victim's eyes widen in surprise.
T+1.0 seconds: The glass hits and shatters. All movement ceases.
T+1.5 seconds: Heads swivel.
T+2.0 seconds: Applause begins. Victim is still frozen in shock.
T+3.0 seconds: Victim begins to blush. Applause increases.
T+7.0 seconds: Victim looks around for some way to clean up the mess. Applause begins to die down.
T+8.0 seconds: Applause ends. First offer of assistance from a don.
That, my friends, is eight seconds of acute embarrassment that could be avoided with one simple change. There is nothing to congratulate, and no encore is possible. Why not get up and offer assistance? Do you know where the broom is stored? Consider a situation involving the same mortified victim, but instead of applause there is a mad dash by onlookers to see who can retrieve the broom and dustpan most quickly. Personally, as a Grebel glass breaker, there is nothing I would love more in the midst of my tragedy than too many offers of assistance. Certainly, I can't imagine anything worse than being applauded for it.
- Josh Matthews
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Producers and Consumers
When I was a child, I thought that editors were very privileged people. After all, they got to read all sorts of things before the general public did. I remember asking my parents how one went about being a book editor and being told that most editors were failed authors. I have no idea how true this may be, but it certainly made me realise that a career in editing novels was not for me. I am reminded of that revelation as I sit before my laptop, as an editor (albeit a small one), and try to think of something to write for Grebel Speaks. I want to create something fabulously artistic and creative, but there is a problem...I’m just not “artsy”.
This leads me to what I shall call, for lack of a better name, “Tannis’ Theory of Artistic Producers and Consumers”. I propose that, when it comes to being artistic, people may be divided into two categories: Producers and Consumers. Producers are people who paint paintings, dance dances, act in plays, compose music, write novels, poems et cetera, take photographs, and generally express their creativity through the arts. Consumers, like myself, visit art galleries, attend ballets, plays and concerts, and devour most forms of literature. We enjoy others’ artistic output but do not produce our own.
I would never be so bold as to suggest that these two categories are mutually exclusive. Producers still like to visit galleries and theatres, and consumers still like to play the violin or doodle on a piece of paper every now and then. I’ve tried to be “artsy” on occasion. I took piano lessons for years and distinctly recall making an abstract, green-grey finger painting around age five. I was very proud of that finger painting. I even have another abstract, albeit not finger-painted, painting in a similar shade of green-grey which I made in my Theory of Knowledge (aka rudimentary philosophy) class in Grade 12. It is sitting in a place of honour on a shelf in my room at home. However, my instances of consumption are far greater than my instances of production. (In other words, I paint about every 1.25 decades, but attend at least one concert per month and own far to many books)
I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I once thought that everyone was a Producer and that I should try to “produce” some art as well. The problem is that I rarely have the urge to be artistic and I almost never have a marvelous, brilliant, fill-in-the-positive-adjective idea. I could never be a failed creative writer. I don’t want to be a creative writer (failed or otherwise). Therefore I cannot make a career of book editing. (If you are shedding tears at the thought of my failed ambition, weep no more. I have not wanted a career in editing in many a year.) I am perfectly content to write a non-arsty but still (hopefully) somewhat creative piece for all of you to read, and to take great joy in getting to read all of the excellent “stuff” in this issue before all of you.
-Tannis Schilk
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Blast from the past
[In this section we will reprint an article that catches our fancy from Grebel Speaks issues of years past. -Ed.]
Muppet Gender Issues
Why do I think that Grover is a male?
I mean, Grover is a blue creature with hair all over and a pink nose. Why don’t I picture Grover as a female? Is it because Grover has no definite protruding breasts that I think Grover is not a female? Is it because of the name “Grover” itself, because no woman could ever have a name as masculine as that ?
Is it that Grover’s voice is squeaky and not very soft or sexy?
Is it that Grover has such a prominent position on Sesame Street that there’s no way Grover could ever be female?
Or is it that Grover looks more like my dad than my mom?
Why do I think Grover is a male?
-Ken Craig
December 1991
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Dear Conrad Grebel
Dear Conrad Grebel: My friend won't stop giving me syphilis, what should I do? Revenge of the Syph.
Dear Revenge of the Syph: The discovery of penicillin and other antibiotics can cure syphilis in early cases. I suggest that you get these treatments, and then infect this friend with Herpes, the gift that keeps on giving. That'll show 'em!
Dear Conrad Grebel: I am in engineering, what should I do? Greg Burns.
Dear Greg: There are more girls enrolled in Arts. This fact would be enough to make up my mind.
Dear Conrad Grebel: What is God's favourite movie? Michael Miaolo.
Dear Michael: God and I just watched Up! last evening. He cried on three different occasions. An all-time favourite of His is Godspell, as he likes the portrayal of Jesus in a Superman T-Shirt. He's also got a soft spot in His heart for the 70's as a decade.
Dear Conrad Grebel: It has come to my attention that your namesake college is lacking in one fundamental area. I don't know who to approach about this sensitive topic. The toilet paper is one-ply. Brownhanded.
Dear Brownhanded: Please remember that in my day, we would have been lucky to have one ply. My namesake college is probably just holding onto the idea of simplicity that has remained important to the Anabaptist tradition all these years. If the toilet paper bothers you that badly, you could keep a two-ply roll in your bathroom tray, or pray to God that there is soon another shipping error and we are sent two-ply, like we were in the summer term this year. Alternatively, you could sneakily switch the napkins from the caf with the toilet paper in the bathrooms. Good luck!
Dear Conrad Grebel: I have syphilis, what should I do? It Burns Down There.
Dear It Burns: Syphilis is a curable virus these days. In my day, it would drive you mad and eventually kill you, causing much grief for many famous figures including King Henry VIII and violinist Niccolo Paganini. Paganini's treatment, according to Wikipedia, (a most reliable source) included the consumption of mercury and opium. You could self medicate using this method or you could go to a more modern clinic, as I'm sure some improvements have been made since the 1800's when Niccolo was diagnosed. In any case, I suggest you cut back on the wild partying until the burning subsides. Syphilis is not a good method of picking up girls. Trust me.
Dear Conrad Grebel: I was severely disappointed by the ending of Battlestar Galactica (BSG). What do I do now? Eric Postma.
Dear Eric: First off, pretend that the last 45 minutes of BSG never happened. Next, go watch some Firefly. It wasn't on TV long enough epically fail at the end. Lastly, I suggest watching Joss Whedon's newest show, Dollhouse. He hired a whole frakload of BSG actors, and I have more faith in him than in the BSG guys.
Dear Conrad Grebel: I have attended the same church for my whole life, and now I am faced with the task of finding a new church family here at Waterloo. I am not too picky about the denomination. I would just like to find a place where I feel at home and connected, where I can benefit from the message, and the worship, and where I can give back by serving.
I have attended one new church so far, and found it very strange to be the "newcomer". I realize sometimes, church circles can be the hardest to break into. How do I get over the initial awkward stage? How do I make a fair decision on a church if I may only be attending it for one Sunday? Church Hopper
Dear Church Hopper: Have you thought of trying the 'Church Safari' offered by chapel? I know that it is often easier to jump from church to church with at least one or two others. Sign up for this group is found in the lobby on the chapel board. There is also a large group of people who attend church at Glencarin Mennonite Brethren in Kitchener every week, and I am sure they wouldn't mind finding you some transportation there and back. Hope that helps.
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[Some anonymous contributors wish to share an example of making the best of yourself, just in time for co-op resumé season. - Ed.]
SKILLS SUMMARY
- Confident, self motivated, independent worker
- Skilled in social engineering, construction and deconstruction of mechanical systems
- Experience working with the Canadian penal system
EDUCATION
Level A Swimmer, YMCA of Greater Toronto
Toronto, Ontario, September 2009
WORK EXPERIENCE
Professional Pan Handler
Toronto, Ontario, January 2009 - Present
- Exercised effective financial negotiation skills
- Excelled in a highly competitive market
- Demonstrated persistence in the face of adversity
- Experience in creation and design of professional advertisements
Freelance Security Consultant
Oakville, Ontario, April - May 2008
- Demonstrated initiative in assessment of home security systems
- Displayed creative negotiation skills when dealing reluctant customers
- Worked long hours in a challenging work environment
VOLUNTEER EXPERIENCE
Community Surgeon
Toronto, Ontario, August 2009
- Demonstrated creative problem solving skills when dealing with new situations
- Proven ability to improvise and work with materials on hand
- Developed learning skills and ability to preform unfamiliar tasks in a short period of time
- Expertly resolved situations with unsatisfied customers
Independent Religious Leader
Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, May - October 2008
- Accomplished creative writer and persuasive public speaker
- Demonstrated financial management skills and dealing with large accounts
- Developed strong interpersonal skills
ACTIVITIES & INTERESTS
- Recreational human observer
- Amateur photographer
- Patron of body art and human decorations
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they
they're like the wind whispering
through the trees
coming and going
appearing and disappearing
want them to last
like the stars,
strong and
never fading,
but
they all just
drift away until
they're lost
-Anonymous
---------------
Phone numbers:
Call me. 204 661 0834
Too late.
Call my childhood 727 0834.
I’m sometimes there.
Oops I didn’t get to the phone in time
Call me. 509 725 0016
You might get the future.
Call me God and you’ll get nothing
Call me Joshua and I’ll answer in person
- Josh Enns
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September 21, 9:28. My mind races against my nerves to intelligently produce words. Symbols that can be so full of meaning come out in a rush, barely coherent. It sounded so much better in my head...before the nerves...but that is trivial. I am doing something. Taking an idea and creating ripples with it in the cushy and somewhat disconnected atmosphere of the university pond. “It is international Peace Day.” Stating my purpose for standing at the front of my physics class, I elaborate. “It is a day backed by all countries that are members of the UN. A day dedicated to ceasefire and peace.”
(Tomas talked to his prof. – but his prof. had too much to fit into the class so Tomas sat down)
10:30. The voice bounces off the white walls over the heads of students. It cuts through the pre-class chatter like a soft tug on the reigns. “Before we get started, Joshua has an announcement.” I stand up. “Don’t you know, it’s international Peace Day...” I sit down.
(Tomas talked to his prof. – we are to busy learning to take time and stop killing. Tomas sat down and took notes)
12:30 Stairs are so much easier to climb down than to go up, that is to say, I arrive rather quickly at the front of EIT 1015. Mr. West quiets the class and graciously gives me the 30 seconds before the large hand becomes perpendicular to the 12. I, standing before the 200 or so humans, try to make people stop. Stop to Think. Stop to think and Be. Be with the world at peace. Be nonviolent. The 30 seconds are crammed into the before time. Apparently, Peace is great but not worth 30 seconds of the time before the time we have scheduled to learn.
(Tomas, thank-you for trying. It's to bad your profs would not give the time for you to share peace with them.)
The day seems to reflect our society. The First Time we stop and interrupt our lives to create peace. Or at least half of us do. However, by the third time, Peace is less important than knowledge. Our time is too precious for peace. So we hear about wars on the news the first time but not the second or third. We stay current and currency is determined by our ever-shortening attention span.
Peace be with you.
- Josh Enns
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It's ten before nine
And I'm still on JobMine,
On the last day to submit applications.
The server slows to a crawl
And I feel myself bawl,
Watching the page load like it's on a vacation.
I'm at my wits end,
Looking for a pencil to bend;
Hoping the screen will display some good news.
I'm gonna implode --
just watch the building explode --
when a knock on the door brings Josh Matthews.
With Steph Chandler in tow,
And cookies to go,
They convince me to write this silly rhyme.
My sad mind goes blank
(Got this pink cookie to thank)
And that's when I look at the time…
It's an hour before twelve
And I've hardly even delved,
Into the abyss for my 2010 term!
Quickly, I send,
The final applications to them,
Oh when will I ever do learn?
Procrastination's not the best
If you ever want rest
For that terrible day up ahead.
But fie on deadlines and stuff!
Forget all that fluff,
When you can watch Youtube instead!
- Christina Shum
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The Dance
A warm wind sighs across the silent hills as the sun retreats behind the veil of distant mountains. The evening shimmers for a moment as the last rays of light catch the facets of the air. All life pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath as one. Then, as it moves apart again, a dance begins in the dusk while the web of life expands and changes. Nothing can be more wonderful than that which exists now in the fading light while the mystery of the unknown rests somewhere on the edge of sight, in the smallest shadow.
The night comes alive as the pulse of the earth gives this stirring dance fresh life. Above the hills the sky swirls majestically, and a million tiny dancers prepare themselves. Mere specks of light, these stars weave their way through the heavens. Theirs is an eternal dance of joy for the universe. Now, as life dances above and below, a rhythm emerges that is so powerful, so intoxicating; it moves the dance into ecstasy. It feels like nothing can go wrong here under the protection of the twilight.
Now the music begins. The chorus, a million strong, sings out joy and hope for the future, while an ancient melody drives the dancers onwards. It rises and falls like the swells of the ocean, carrying everything along in its inexorable current of notes. There is no slowing down and certainly no stopping. But then why would you ever want to? This is the dance of life. This is the dance of creation, of freedom. This is the dance of time, and it will never stop.
~
The world is cold now, and people are dark. Not a dark like the twilight or the night though, this darkness comes from their souls and destroys the life inside of them. What is left of life hides out of sight, for fear of being raped. The sky is no longer clear during the night. The millions of dancers that used to be so joyous in the expanses of heaven have shed their sparkle for new cloaks of shadow. The earth’s pulse is dead. Death is the only one who dances now, which it does with light and nimble feet. Through the mix of haze and fear it moves because there is no one who will stop it. No one tries to fight when they feel Death move, unseen, through their homes… through their minds. The joy once felt has been silenced. It is shut away in large boxes, stacked high upon larger shelves just waiting to be bought.
Remember the glorious dances of days long ago? No one can. They have all forgotten it in the face of the things that “must” be done. The lines painted on the ground lead people where they think they need to go, and no one has the mind to step off them. Each person has been reduced to a part of the bigger machine in which every part must be exactly where it ought, lest the machine break. Oh, but wouldn’t that be glorious? To see each piece explode into colour and life again! Yet, it does not.
The heavens are silent still, apart from the sad drizzle of the rain falling on this hard world. Each drop that falls is a tear from a far distant star. As they bounce off roofs, sidewalks, pavement and windows, some people look up in drowsy awe, trying to remember something long forgotten. After a moment they look down again though; the lines on the ground pull them onward. This is what they are reduced to - what life is reduced to. When will there ever be happiness again?
~
As I move away from this accursed city, the feel of the air does not change, nor do the colours of what used to be those beautiful rolling hills. I do not know how I remember these things as they used to be, or why I am the only one who is not spellbound by darkness. What can I do to save this place? Someone help me to slice into the shadows that surround everything! Isn’t there anyone that will help me?
Cresting the hill I have been climbing, I see the land stretched out before me, and a sudden gust of wind lifts my hair hungrily. A haunting shiver fills my body and I look around. The wind blows again and my body strains for some sign of life. Then, carried by the air, I hear an eerie cry that makes me feel terribly alone. It is a lamenting, sorrowful strain, borne by the wind for those who would listen. It takes root in me, and I can feel it fill my veins with longing. Speaking to my soul, it tells me that there is hope. That in me, and in every person who so chooses, there is a way to spread life once again. All we need to do is try. Yes, I say to myself, I will try. With that the wind rises, and the cry lifts high into the air where I can almost see it swirling. I know what I must do. I will dance.
The music rises and I can feel the pulse of the earth moving through my body. The rain falls around me on the top of the hill, but all of my dread is gone and I do not care. I reach up to the sky, and filling my lungs with air, I shout up to the heavens. Come out again dancers, come and take up your places! You are no longer forgotten! Life is no longer forgotten! Do not hide in shadow for there is much work to be done. We will dance again, you and I!
Tip, tap tap, tip, tap tap, tip, tap tap… the rhythm begins. I spin round in circles: faster and faster to the booomm… booomm of the earth’s heart. With a roar the earth tears open and out explodes the life that had been hidden for so long. Billions of souls soar powerfully into the disappearing clouds and up into the newly cleared sky. I can feel myself soaring with them while the gaze of the stars tickles my skin. All the while the music grows to become tenfold stronger than it ever was in the past. Like a wild animal it dances with me and inside of me until I am released from my prison of skin and bones and rocket towards the skies. My soul dances again in ecstasy as I know it did in distant days. I am life. I am hope. I am freedom. I am the dance.
- Alina Rehkopf
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