As the self-proclaimed secret editor of Arthur who seemingly crawled out of nowhere, it’s high time that I properly introduce myself to my dear Arthurians. For anyone somewhat familiar with this rag, you may be asking yourself, who the f*ck is this Abbigale chick and why is her name spelled like that?

To take things one question at a time, I will refer you to the spelling of my first name to a certain Nightingale bird to prove that I am in fact, not like other girls—despite 2003 being the year every other daughter was named a variation of ‘Abby’, therefore directly making me exactly like other girls.

At any given moment, you can find me at office 104 in Sadleir House hunched over my bestickered laptop sipping on Peppermint Tea and distracting my very focused colleagues with the latest picture of my overweight orange cat, Gator* (yes, I am that kind of person).

To be fully transparent, I accidentally walked into the Arthur office one day following the faint trail of cigarettes and boygenius and have since refused to leave—hence, a three-party editorial team. 

I feel it’s vital for readers to know that I grew up in Peterborough and for some reason, decided to stick around for my undergrad. As I’m sure is a universal experience, there came a time in my youth when I fundamentally denounced my hometown with a particular angst that came in the form of accidentally induced tinnitus and Pierce The Veil dominating my Spotify wrapped for the duration of my elementary education.

Growing up, I spent countless hours on the patio of The Only Cafe with my father, mourned the loss of The Patch thrift store, became an Island Cream regular—single handedly draining their pholourie supply, I’ve lived in practically every ward, the scars on my legs are leftover from catching crayfish in Jackson’s Park, and I spent many summers mindlessly wandering the abysmal Peterborough Square when it was slightly less haunting than its current state. This is all to say that Peterborough has shaped who I am and despite my teenage affliction for it, I’ve recently undergone a change of heart. 

Though I initially stuck around this city kicking and screaming, Arthur has fundamentally changed the way I view my hometown. Don’t get me wrong, Peterborough is still a dingy little city that continues to crumble more and more every year and had it not been for my recent change of employment, you would not catch me dead with any sort of glimmer of affection for it. But if there is one thing I have learned above everything else during my tenure at this beloved paper, it’s that Peterborough is famously the worst city with the best people you’ll ever meet. 

Having spent the past few months immersing myself in the vibrant community that comes with the nature of running a rag like Arthur, I’ve undergone a certain level of whiplash realizing that there is an entirely different world living under the oatmeal smog of Peterborough. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and working with people whose vibrancy without a doubt keeps this city alive. Truly, Peterborough is nothing without its notoriously underfunded and underappreciated arts community.

Though to love Peterborough is to walk on a knife's edge. There is beauty and solidarity in community, and continuous frustration in failing institutions. From befriending inspirational artists to covering deeply disappointing city hall meetings, finding an appreciation for this city is a continuous battle. 

I’ve learned during my walk back from our summer sabbatical that in this industry, if people are mad, chances are you’re doing something right. I know there is no power in a student union when students are not at the forefront of the conversation, accountability comes with pushback, and corruption feeds on complacency. 

Arthur, in all her glamour, has given me the opportunity to see my hometown as something more than a place to run from. In all sincerity, to work alongside Evan and Sebastian at a job I can’t even begin to express my appreciation for has been one of the many, many highlights of this three-party editorship.

‍*For all Gator inquiries, please email me at editors@trentarthur.ca with the subject line “Fat Orange Little Guy” to receive an annoying amount of pictures.