By Finch Strub
Edited by Ashley Yeung and Alloe Mak

I think moving to Toronto has made me superstitious, or maybe it’s just that this city and the people in it have made me more aware of these beliefs than ever before. I carry pieces of everyone I’ve ever known with me everywhere, though I’ve haphazardly stitched several of their customs together in a kind of odd patchwork of actions. These small movements, sounds, and avoidances are manifestations of my affection for those closest to me. Perhaps it’s a way of honouring my friends, or perhaps it’s simply that these days, I have more to lose than ever before and want to safeguard whatever I can.

The convergence of cultures, beliefs, and ideas is easily one of the most interesting things about attending both a large university and living in a city. I have heard more languages and learned more in the past 9 months than I have in last 18 years. Naturally, this extends from things of substance like art or history, but also to the superstitions those close to me have inherited over generations. I feel as if I’ve joined a line of people, decades long, who fear the unknown and who find comfort in rituals that disobey reason. Though I’ve always favoured logic over almost everything else, there is something to be said about the small feeling of safety that comes with these small practices.

Knocking on wood is one I do most often and has slowly spread to my friends. Three raps on a surface (or your head, if nothing suitable can be found,) has always been something I’ve done, even when I didn’t believe it made an impact. If the chance of a chaotic shift or subway delays can even be partially mitigated by an action as simple as that, I might as well take those odds.

The second tradition is one I owe to my Greek friends, who mimic the sound of spitting whenever I mention something bad happening. Even though I never express it, hearing that sound in person or out loud always makes me feel like someone is looking out for me and my well-being. Even now, that sound plays in my head, giving me a feeling of peace that I’ve done all I can to stop something negative.

Finally, the most indirect superstition. Everyone in a city is familiar with the constant soundtrack of sirens from all sides; it reminds us of how much is always happening. The idea that you never say a shift has been quiet in an ambulance lest several calls start to come in extends to all professions. These days, I dread when someone mentions that work is slow, or that the day has been calm. It makes me feel as if something horrific is looming. Most of the time, this kind of statement is followed by frantic knocking or spitting sounds. Though this is purely a coincidence, nothing too bad has happened yet.

I have always been irrationally anxious and these small actions bring some misguided but vital sense of peace to my life. Regardless, though I know that these customs I’ve adapted protect me from harm in no real way, there is endless comfort in the routine of doing them just in case. I think of those closest to me when my knuckles touch wood, grounding me in both their continued concern for my well-being and the way that these customs have reached me. Despite our differences, we are linked by our superstitions, and the deep desire to keep each other safe.