Most of the memories I have of Gabriel involve, in some capacity, water. This is for two main reasons. One, because I live in a quite boring, rather small, very quiet city on Lake Huron, so the beach is any self-respecting young person’s main attraction. Two, because Gabriel loves water: the ocean, the lake, the pool, the rain and, of course, his fish tanks.

 

The first time I met him was beside the pool both our families were members of, both of us waiting for our swimming lessons to start. Gabriel was one of the first strangers I ever initiated a conversation with, on account of my being unbearably shy for the first dozen or so years. We never exchanged names, even though we kept seeing each other all summer, just by chance at the pool. He would have remained anonymous had we not been members of the same church, both attending confirmation classes at the same time. For him, confirmation was something he did because it was the next natural step in practicing his faith and religion. For me, confirmation was something I did because it was the next natural step in avoiding a fight with my parents about faith and religion.

 

On the day of our confirmation, I asked my mother permission to invite Gabriel (and Mary to avoid being teased about a boy) over sometime. For the next three years, Gabriel was my best friend, and I was his.

 

We didn’t go to the same school, but from what I gathered from his stories and stories my friends told me about him, Gabriel was a popular guy. I wasn’t unpopular, at my school, but I certainly wasn’t accustomed to being friends with someone who had so many people vying for his time. I was proud that he usually leant it to me.

Whenever we hung out, whatever we were doing, it was always fun. Even if we were just helping each other with the other’s paper route, the conversation was always energetic, original and funny.
We didn’t talk about serious things very often, in part because we were 14, and in part because I avoided broaching some subjects with Gabriel. He was a very active, very vocal member of the Catholic Church, bringing me along to his catechism classes for a few weeks. At these meetings, they would discuss all the things that I knew to never discuss with Gabriel - abortion, creationism, gay marriage, scripture – while I would smile politely and enjoy the provided snacks.

 

When we both got jobs, we saw each other less and less. But we would always bring each other stories and souvenirs from any travels we took. By the time my prom rolled around, we weren’t hanging out too often, but he was still the first person I wanted to bring as my date. He charmed, as he was wont to, everyone I introduced him to at both the dance and after-party. Seeing as it was my first time drinking, he made sure I had neither too little nor too much, and taught me the rules of various drinking games.

 

Prom jumpstarted our friendship back into its prime for that summer, but when I came away to school we didn’t talk much.

We see each other occasionally, when some mutual friends invite us to the same party. The last time I saw him, he was standing beside a pool; taller, thinner and only slightly less strange than when I saw him the first time.

 

I must have had good taste in friends, even by grade eight, because I still get along well with Gabriel when I do see him, but neither of us say “We never see each other anymore!” or “We should definitely hang out more soon.”

 

There’s nothing tragic about drifting out of old friendships and into new ones. Gabriel was the perfect friend for me when he was my friend. He was someone that I initiated friendship with, for the first time by my own volition and control, and it was empowering. He was someone that people teased me about when they saw how well we meshed, and it was interesting to have my identity positively linked with another’s. He was someone that made me realize I could be more charismatic, and it was a confidence boost. He was someone that guided me into new experiences, not gently, but safely, and it was exciting. He was not someone with whom I shared major worldviews or had serious conversations, but it was fun. He was not someone who would budge when confronted about his opinions, but I was learning to pick my battles.

 

That was I what did and didn’t need then.

 

I’ve grown. As have Gabriel and I, from best friends to effortless acquaintances.

Growth in relationships isn’t always about growing closer to someone. This is why I do not mourn for faded friendships. The person I was held them dear, and the person I am now holds memories and lessons.

 

Baobab trees, my favourite trees, require frequent watering and nurturing while they are germinating. You can even keep them indoors during that stage, out of direct sunlight. Once their trunks start expanding though, they require a lot of space for their root system.

 

But not much water.

Em Kwissa / The Silhouette

Sam Godfrey / Senior InsideOut Editor

 

How did we meet?

We met in Moral Issues. I don’t remember meeting you formally. You just came up to me and said, “Hey my housemate and I think you’re super cool, want to come over for dinner sometime?”

I didn’t know your name. But I knew your housemate’s and I found you in a picture on his Facebook wall. You were under a blanket and the caption said, “My demand for blankie is greater than the supply.” And I knew, “That’s her.”

And then I sent you a message promising to get you pregnant. I mean, there was more to it than that. But I remember thinking “That’s not a promise I can keep.”

OH also I initially thought you and your housemate were together, and after I agreed to come over I worried it was maybe an untoward situation. More promises I couldn’t keep.

 

What is your favourite bro activity that we participate in together?

The first bro based activity we did (and it’s sentimental for that reason) is we made a lot of layered food. By a lot I mean two. Like nacho lasagna.

I feel like we laid the foundation of our bromance as we laid every layer of that nacho lasagna.

I feel like a lot of our bromance is food-based. A lot of my bromances are food-based. I can’t think of a bromance that’s not food-based. (Unless… Can it be beer-based?)

Wait, we also pass each other notes in class. Do bros do that? That’s probably the romance part of the bromance.

 

Obviously we have got tons in common – like, hello – but what are some differences that are equally important to our friendship?

Other than puns. Let’s not speak of puns. Well, I feel like you’re a lot more in touch with your emotions.

 

Even though you cry more.

 

Even though I cry all the time. Happy cries.

You can also internet much better than I can.

 

WHAT? NO. I DISAGREE.

 

Okay, no, we internet similarly. I’m drunk more often than you are. You can draw pretty things. (I just tried to spell that p-r-I-t-t-y, but Word was like “no.”) You don’t look like you got dressed in the dark. Which is an indirect way of saying you look nice. I feel like I embarrass myself in public more than you do. No, wait, that’s similar.  You watch a lot more animal-slash-body fluid videos. Maybe we should word that differently. “Medical videos,” yeah. You know a lot of cool idioms. Sometimes I try to keep up. And you’re good at keeping me in line in public. But also accepting me. But also telling me when to reel it in. “That’s okay, but only in private. Not in the grocery.”

 

You always wear your hair up. You hate dresses. I love dresses. You know way more fabulous gay people than I do. You’re a better student than I am. You’re more activities-oriented.

 

You’re better at having good thinks. Like, your blog is great. It’s like, you use your life to illustrate things about other people’s lives. Even though your life is not like other people’s lives. I’m saying “life” a lot. And I’m not even playing Life. Your anecdotes are less family-friendly than mine – even though hashtag SHEC. You used to flail a lot less than I did, sorry. Sorry.

 

Pop quiz: Compare and contrast “bros” and “romance,” with “bromance.”

When I think “bros” I think about specific activities: sports bros, coffee house bros, work bros.

And “romance,” I was thinking about the difference between romance and friendship the other day, actually. The only thing I could come up with was the kissing. But even then, there are romances that don’t have kissing.

Well because you have Head Feels, Heart Feels and Pants Feels – and you’re looking for the trifecta.

Friendship is just Brain feels, like “I’m so into your brain.” With some Heart Feels. But no Pants Feels. Maybe that’s what friendship is.

That makes it sound like you’re less in the trifecta, when you’re just as much a part of it: you don’t even need them.

 

What’s it like being the coolest one in the relationship?

That’s a loaded question.

I think it’s very fortunate that we both think the other one is cooler.

Usually it’s not like that. Usually one person thinks they’re cooler than the other, all “Yeah, you’re lucky to have me.” And the other person feels like they don’t deserve them.

But here we both feel lucky, it’s just like “GUYS. GUYS. LOOK HOW COOL MY FRIEND IS,” for both of us.

I bet other people get sick of it. I know my mom does. “When do I get to meet Sam?” “How is Sam?” “Seen Sam lately?”

Pfft. What a ludicrous question.

 

What’s the best part of being in a bromance? And/or what is different between a bromance and a regular friendship?

I think the difference is that when you’re in a friendship you have all of the things that are going to satisfy your friendship needs. Things that don’t require the African Violet.

Bromance you are excited about the friendship itself.

I don’t just get excited about you, because let’s be honest you’re pretty great, I’m also crazy about the bromance itself.

So you’re great, and the friendship is great: Two levels of fan-fricken-tastic.

Our friendship is like this third awesome person that’s the best parts of us.

Don’t.

Cry.

 

How do you feel about people assuming we are lesbian for each other? (Yeah, like we are lesbian specifically for each other, give me a break.)

I’m always very flattered, and I also like to play that up because it’s hilarious. I feel like that’s a small way of being an ally. Is that offensive?

If you ask us if we’re lesbian for each other we’ll probably say yes.

 

Like that time Kate asked how we knew each other and I said we were sleeping together. And she was like, “I meant before that.” There is no before that. I don’t know when you count from, but there’s no before.

 

How do you feel when people think we’re sleeping together?

I think it’s hilarious.

It’s not insulting, because first of all, you’re hot, and second, being gay isn’t a bad thing.

It’s like when people think I’m a natural blond. Silly, but hey.

(At this point Em took a Yo-Yo off the coffee table and began using it. Obviously she is very affected by the homoerotic undertones of our relationship.)

 

Would you still love me if I were fat?

I would love you if… Okay:

I would call Guinness and report you as the fattest person on Earth and stand by you as they took your picture and I’d want to be reported as the person who was friends with this person. I don’t think that was even a sentence. What I’m trying to say is: yes.

Why, do you want some more nachos?

 

Sarah O’Connor / Silhouette Staff

It is only natural that we compare ourselves to other people. This need follows us up to the point when it’s career time, when we start making our way in the world and start comparing ourselves to others who have been in the same career paths as us. We start to doubt ourselves.

Using literary terms, this is called the anxiety of influence. This is when writers feel anxious and can’t help compare themselves to writers of the past and how great they are.

As a writer, I have experienced this. I dream of pursuing writing whether professionally or on the side but can’t help and compare myself to the writer’s that we are forced to read in high school, the ones worthy enough to be studied. When thinking from such a large spectrum, I can’t help but doubt myself.

But I’ve been trying hard to break out of my own personal anxiety of influence. I write here for The Silhouette and as much as I love doing it there is one thing I can’t do when writing for The Silhouette - I can’t write creatively. I can’t just submit a fictional story or poem to the opinions section; I have to write about real things. That’s what a paper’s for.

So when I spotted the chance to break out of my creative anxiety of influence, I jumped at the chance.

Word Nest is a new program aired on the McMaster Radio Station. It’s a segment where writers read and then critique one anothers’ works on air while also discussing areas of inspiration and different writing styles.

The idea intrigued me. Getting to read some of my work on air, actually getting it out there for people to hear and to possibly enjoy sounded amazing. I joined immediately, curious of who else would take the risk of reading his or her personal work on air for everyone to hear.

I was surprised by the outcome – there were only four of us including the production manager. But as we walked into the empty recording room, energy flowed between us. We were strangers, all of us, connected by the love of words and the need to share them. And it began.

We each read our work, three poems and a short story. A quiver in our voice, our eyes glued to our words that stared back at us. My heart pumped and shivered with excitement as I read these familiar words to strangers, anxious and curious at their response.

And I was surprised by the confidence and fear they had - the readiness and hesitation to read their work and how everyone smiled when they finished.

Each of us was awe-struck, amazed at the each other’s talents. We critiqued each other’s work asking our favourite lines to be read again, explaining the inspiration behind the words that had been private for so long.

And like everything good, it ended too soon. We said our goodbyes and left the room no longer strangers. Each of us had read something private, something we’d held close to our hearts, something that was a part of us.

True, our words weren’t published in a book or even a paper, but they were said, they were spoken.

I don’t think the anxiety of influence should be defined only for the writers. I believe everyone has his or her own personal anxiety of influence. How will we ever be as good as they are? How will we reach their level? Why did we do this?

But we are and we can. What we need to remember is others can inspire us but we can’t compare ourselves to them. We are our own person and are capable of anything we set our mind to.

I don’t know how many people turn on their radios to hear four girls reading and critiquing each other’s stories and poems. But I won’t be trapped in by the anxiety of influence. And I don’t think you should be trapped either.

Tarun Sanda / Silhouette Staff

“Hi, how are you?”

We hear this phrase countless times in our day. We could be delivering it, or be on the receiving end of it.

At times we have this interaction with acquaintances as we’re passing by one another, with barely enough time to stop and make eye contact and respond.

At times it seems like we’re all more focused on our phones than the people in front of us. This brings me to my question. When you come across someone and ask them how they are doing, or how their day went, do you really mean it?

When you’re on the receiving end of this question, are you answering truthfully?

The Super Bowl is less than two weeks away.

NFL fans across the globe are anticipating the conclusion to one of the most exciting post seasons in recent memory. However just a few months ago, the NFL and the sporting world was struck by tragedy.

Kansas City Chiefs linebacker Jovan Belcher shot his girlfriend, Kasandra Perkins, several times, drove to the team’s headquarters, ducked behind a car and put a bullet through his head. It was the seventh suicide of a current or former NFL player in the past two years.

“We’d just been together,” says Brady Quinn, now a Chiefs quarterback. “I’d just seen him and his girlfriend and his little girl, Zoey, at the stadium. We were talking about how she was doing, how cute she was.”

Many times we lose touch with our good friends. We are immersed in our own personal lives, and in turn make friends with the people who remain part of our busy day. Life goes on and friends change.

What if that’s only your side of the story?

What if your best friend in high school still has trouble replacing that close friend that was once you?

They could be dealing with something severe. Something they cannot share with someone they just met. They need a friend; they need you, but might not even reach out to you in the first place. They’d face every problem on their own. But it’s hard doing it alone.

Recently an old friend of mine had called me at 2 a.m. He was in tears. He told me his story. He told me how he tried to kill himself.

How he wanted the pain to stop.

I spoke to him till sunrise, and once I knew he was okay, I thanked him.

I could not imagine what might have happened had he not mustered the courage to pick up the phone and call me.

Nobody ever wants to be in a situation where you begin asking yourself: “Why didn’t he or she reach out to me?

Had I known I would have stopped everything and gone to them.”

You never know what’s going on with somebody. The look on their face can be deceiving. They may say they’re fine, but you may never know the truth.

What you can do is try to make a sincere effort to connect with people.

Take a minute out of your day to ask how someone’s day went.

The smallest things, be it a gentle smile while passing by or a simple wave across a lecture hall, can make someone feel noticed and respected.

Maybe that might keep them from doing something tragic, leaving you, and everyone else, filled with regret.