Incite Magazine - February 2008

incite

10 | 04 february 2 0 0 8

Kissing or Biting?

Strange Brews Mad Medicine

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EDITORIAL

think if a man had them, they’d say he was trying to compensate for something.

But for her, on her, they were just right: poetic, works of art.

Thumbs—stretching up, uP, UP from her metacarpals, bigger than grapefruit, natural swatters that could take on any massive Muskoka black fly. Watch out! Here they come—swooping, swishing, soaring—ready for a passing backstreet Beetle, lonely highway truck driver, or family minivan, flagging down rides as though programmed to do only that.

Tom Robbins’s Sissy Hankshaw, the star of Even Cowgirls Get The Blues, Thunder Thumbs, the most prolific hitchhiker to set foot on American highways, took her giant thumbs right out of small–town Virginia, took them all the way to the Big Apple, to an all–cowgirl Dakota ranch, where they were gawked at, objectified, then glorified. But she did not buckle under their weight—and what a weight, those digits!— didn’t wallow and hardly wobbled. Oh no.

A wise “Whatever!” she cried in the face of fate—in the face of her author, too. He traced her, wanted her, needed to nibble at her ear, nuzzle her graceful back–dimples, suck those finger–phalluses (oh, if he could manage just one!)—ecstasy, ecstasy, ecstasy. But enough of that—can there ever be enough?—because there she goes, just a–hitchhiking down the street, singing “do

wah diddy diddy dum diddy do.” Wave a thumbs up as she goes by: once here, now gone—mostly moving, resting only sometimes. She looks good, she looks fine, and I nearly lost my mind.

Careless passion, that’s what I admire in people—characters, too (I don’t like to discriminate). There’s a beautiful nonchalance that lingers about Tom Robbins’s Sissy Hankshaw; she’s purposeful but flexible, driven but willing to roll with anything, whether it’s in the sack with a Manhattan artist—or, for that matter, in a marsh with Bonanza Jellybean, cowgirl revolutionary—or along Route 66, next to some haywire, horny truck driver.

You don’t find very many people like Sissy: they are the Waldos among the hordes of the rest of us, in the corner on one page, then behind the lamppost on the next—rarely in the same place, hidden and hard to find. Finding a unique exodus from the poles of stubbornly in–control and wholly indifferent, wildly passionate and forever jaded seems impossible: where’s the fire escape? And if you’re consciously trying to claw your way into a free, organic, no–strings–attached existence, then are your attempts naturally invalidated?

A few months ago, a fan posted a ravenous video response about the mistreatment of his beloved, Miss– American–Dream–since–I–was–17 Britney Spears. Now immortalized as the “LEAVE

Editing and Production Co–ordinator

Rob Lederer Editors

Muneeb Ansari Chris Evans

Zsuzsi Fodor Ben Freeman

Katie Huth Kate Mackeracher Layout Co–ordinator

Ana Nikolic Graphics Co–ordinator

Erin Giroux Graphics and Layout

Danielle Giroux Boram Ham

Christa Hirsch Yang Lei

Ishani Nath Michelle Tian

Brianne Tulk Lisa Xu Contributors

Justina Chong Nick Davies

Chris Hilbrecht Jordan Mackenzie

Raman Nijjar Andrew Prine

Jessica Schuler Will van Engen

Siva Vijenthira Hannah Webb

Catherine M.A. Wiebe

Ariel Wilson Assistant Editors

Manisha Phadnis

BRITNEY ALONE!” guy, Chris Crocker bewails our insensitivity to his favourite pop star’s needs, turbulently sobbing, all the while citing the hardships Britney has recently gone through: her failed marriage, the realization that her husband was “a user, a cheater,” and a chaotic custody battle. I find this video particularly unsettling, but not because I think this kid’s nuts; sure he’s wildly over the top, but I too have, on occasion, positioned myself as a Britney– sympathizer. No, it is his uncontrollable, “is he speaking in tongues?” fervor that shivers my timbers: there are, quite simply, very few things that would occasion such an eruption in my veins. But what does that say about me?

It’s funny when seemingly laughable events and stories provoke fundamental self–examination, like when American Gladiators forces a critical assessment of your bullying tendencies or the Backstreet Boys show you the real meaning of being lonely. Well, that’s exactly what happened to me after watching “Leave Britney Alone”.

Clothed in rocket–ship pajamas and ready for a much–needed night of sleep, I lay my head down in preparation for sugarplum dreams; what came instead was the realization that, unlike Chris Crocker, who can surrender to ecstatic Maenad ravings for the price of MTV on cable, very little can fundamentally “rock my world.”

And that’s sort of sad. Not that I want

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INSIDE FEATURES

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Printing

Hamilton Web Printing Impact Youth Publications 119 South Oval Hamilton, ON L8S 1R2 incite@mcmaster.ca http://www.incitemagazine.ca Incite is published six times per academic year by Impact Youth Publications. 10,000 copies are distributed in the McMaster University–Westdale area. Entire contents copyright 2007–2008 Impact Youth Publications. Letters up to 300 words may be sent to the above address; they may be edited for length and clarity and will not be printed unless a name, address, and daytime phone are provided.

Opinions expressed are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Incite’s staff or Impact Youth Publications.

to have a techno remix of my adolescent whinings posted on YouTube or to be a prime topic of ridicule on Jimmy Kimmel Live, as has happened to Crocker; I just think that letting go, losing it, typing a grand “whatevs” to the global Facebook network, signals an openness to change that Sissy Hankshaw would approve of. It’s the kind of triumph that no talk show would dare comment on, nor one they would be remotely interested in—an action in no need of remix.

Unfortunately for my creative conscious, I recently wrote the Myers– Briggs personality test and was deemed INTP: introverted, intuitive, thinking, and perceiving. I am classified as a rationalist, a stat I find a little insulting. I think that’s because I like to believe, or at least will myself to pretend, that more than some of my actions are spontaneous, reactive, creative, and organic—somewhat original.

And my “rationalist” tag just scrapes all of that potential away; it strips the layers of paint I’ve sloshed about, manipulated, stroked, dripped blue here, splattered mustard there, blotted into a vaguely unique shape and style.

So where’s the middle ground, that cherry–pie slice between adolescent raving and systematic boredom? Just like Tom Robbins yearns for Sissy, I want a piece, if only a sliver: but as Britney would put it, “Gimme more. Gimme gimme more.”

Mouths 7 On Kissing versus biting Land of Giants 10 InOnthe being short urn the Taxi to the Lounge to Boogie–Woogie 11 TFiction

by Catherine M.A. Wiebe From Tanzania 12 Letter Volunteering in Morogoro Our Tracks 14 Covering On drugs and literature 15 Comic Rare Lenience of a Medical School Applicant 18 Confessions From a disgruntled applicant Doomsday 20 Dreading Apocalypse Now? Morning 22 Rainy Original Poetry by Jessica Schular Market 24 Kensington Photography by Danielle Giroux

DEPARTMENTS

Cover by Anne van Koeverden

4 Happenings: News from Near and Far 6 Column: Trappings 8 Review: Potent Potables 16 In Search Of: People–watching 23 Column: Myths incite 3

Happenings

MINUTES FROM LAST MONTH selected news from near and far

Your Next Vacation

Finger Lickin’ Good?

Tell your friends you made the honour roll!

There’s a way that’s free, easy, and even fun, although you’ll have to be a little vague on the details. Attend the Honours Performance Series, featuring the work of the McMaster Theatre and Film Department’s top graduating students. The six plays—four yet to come—are a combination of new work and preexisting plays, all of which engage with relevant modern debates.

Consumed, which runs on 7 and 8 February, is one man’s comedic and surreal journey through the world of advertising. Lion in the Streets, featured on 14 and 15 February, revisits Judith Thompson’s exploration of the darker corners of urban life and the human soul. Sixteen Stunning Storeys from the City Streets (Bring Your Spare Change) offers a compassionate look at the city streets and the lives we live on them. It runs on 28 and 29 February. Jude, I Am, a fantastical tale of one man’s journey from birth to adulthood, finishes the series off on 6 and 7 March. Admission is free. Performances run at 12:30 p.m. and 8:00 p.m.

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Make McMaster your pitch!

Want to be an entrepreneur, or at least start a pyramid scheme? If so, consider the inaugural McMaster Nicol Entrepreneurship Challenge.

Entrants will have four minutes to pitch a business concept to a panel of judges. The top three teams will share 6000 dollars in prizes and qualify for the LaunchPad 50 000– dollar competition—a similar event with a bigger purse. The competition rewards brevity and impact, encouraging you to condense the important points of your idea into one snappy mouthful. If you get in an elevator with an investor, can you tell her about your idea before she gets off on the tenth floor? That is, without pulling the emergency stop? The competition runs on 8 February in MUSC 311.

A new brand of dirty laundry For the organizers of Revolution Wear, yesterday’s trash isn’t just today’s treasure: it’s tomorrow’s salvation—or, at least a step towards it. By constructing clothing out of used materials such as old

inside the bubble clothing, plastic bags, and edible products, these designers are trying to promote an eco–friendly lifestyle and use fashion to inspire political and social change.

Founded in 2004 as a small show staged in the Student Centre, this year’s designs will grace catwalks in downtown Hamilton and Toronto. The MUSC show will take place on 7 February, with performances at The Pearl Company in Hamilton and U of T’s Innis Theatre on 9 February and 1 March respectively. The show isn’t just about fashion; a variety of artists, including dance troupes and drum circles, will also be featured throughout the show.

Animal collective Are the winter blues stuck on repeat? Do you yearn for the early– morning melodies of springtime songbirds (and not that pesky alarm clock)? The McMaster Institute for Music and the Mind’s got just the ticket. Titled “Music Across the Species: Birds, Crickets, Frogs and Babies”, their third annual Integrated Concert and Lecture features McMaster’s Dr.

Laurel Trainor, who studies musical processing in infants, alongside animal communications specialist Dr. Ron Hoy from Cornell University. The lecturers will be accompanied by five musicians: a pianist, a cellist, a world percussionist, and two flutists. The event takes place on 9 February at Central Presbyterian Church; tickets can be purchased through the School of the Arts. If the sounds of nature tend to lull you to sleep rather than entertain you on a night out, SOTA is featuring several other concerts in the coming weeks. On 12 February, you can catch piano duo Elaine Lau and Joseph Ferretti, and budding vocalist Rosanna Riverso will be performing on 29 February. Whether you prefer animal sounds or classical tunes, SOTA is offering several opportunities to make a jaunty remix of the winter blues.

Compiled by Chris Evans and Rob Lederer

Cheap drunks rejoice WHITEHORSE—A Canadian man mounted a successful challenge to a police breathalyser test that showed his blood alcohol to be well above the legal limit at 0.13 percent. The basis of his appeal: frugality. As an aircraft mechanic, Thomas Wood doesn’t consume alcohol while on the job, and even off duty he describes himself as only a light drinker. Wood’s defence relies heavily on his stingy reputation, saying that the cost of buying enough beers at a Whitehorse bar to put him over the legal limit would be too great. The judge has not accepted Wood’s purported miserliness as proof of his innocence, but acknowledges that it is enough to create reasonable doubt.

Cheap drunks shouldn’t celebrate just yet though: the judge encouraged the Crown lawyers to appeal the decision.

Never gonna be the same EDMONTON—A woman has undergone brain surgery to cure a case of musicogenic epilepsy—a condition characterized by musically–induced seizures. Stacey

From anywhere to anyone... eventually WARSAW—Don’t be surprised if that Christmas card you sent cousin Suzy still hasn’t arrived yet. A recent calculation by a Polish IT worker proved that snail mail actually deserves its sluggish moniker. After a priority mail letter sent on 20 December took 14 days to reach him, an outraged Michal Szybalski worked out that a snail moving at 0.048 km/h could have gotten the letter to his house almost three days earlier than the Polish postal service.

Bitch please!

LONDON—The British transit company Arriva recently apologized for refusing to carry a girl being led around on a dog leash by her fiancé. The “human pet” in question, 19–year–old Miss Tasha Maltby, usually goes out chained around the neck to a lead held by her master and lover, Dani Graves. Upon boarding the bus, the driver allegedly told the couple that “we don’t let freaks and dogs like you on.” Arriva defended the actions of the bus driver citing safety concerns, but apologized if the Goth couple

Gayle, a 25–year–old bank employee, suffered from severe seizures after listening to a popular Sean Paul song while at a barbecue.

Surgeons used newly–developed techniques to pinpoint and remove the parts of her brain responsible for the problem. No comment was made on whether it was the quality of Sean Paul’s music that triggered the convulsions.

Not his cup of tea PAINESVILLE,OHIO—A man guilty of stealing 250 dollars from a Salvation Army kettle fundraiser has been sentenced to one night of homelessness. Nathen Smith, a 28–year–old bell–ringer for the Salvation Army, pleaded guilty to theft, earning him a night on the street along with three more in jail. The money earned from these kettle drives usually goes to pay for food, shelter, and clothing for local homeless people. Smith was arrested at his mother’s house after a co–worker reported a donation kettle missing.

He is still awaiting a ruling on how many hours of community service he must perform to avoid paying an additional fine.

in north america...

Kids say the darndest things

KINGSTREE, SOUTH CAROLINA— Former American President Bill Clinton, no stranger to questions about his personal life, was hard put to answer one from a five–year–old at a recent press conference. After a day of fielding questions from reporters searching for a story, the young boy asked Clinton, to uproarious laughter, “What do you do when you get married?” Ever the smooth talker, he responded with a joke and a sentimental account of life with his best friend, his daughter’s birth, and fatherhood.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away…the pounds!

USA—The question “What would Jesus do?” does not frequently come up when in the queue at Commons (although prayer sometimes does). A fad diet from south of the border is picking up steam—and criticism—with a radical new premise: let God tell you when you’re hungry and when to stop eating. Gwen Shamblin, a dietician from Memphis, Tennessee, is touting this Bible–based weight–loss program, which has been featured on The Today Show and in People Magazine.

“It’s definitely all about praying and

focusing on God and not on the food,” said Andy Sorrells, who together with his wife weighed 1000 pounds before they invented their diet. Critics argue that it is similar to starvation diets and is not based on any hard science.

MapQuest USA—In the 1800s, the Cannon–Shot Rule, an arbitrary distance of three miles, defined a country’s coastal territory. At the time it was thought that there was little of value in the murky deeps. Later on, of course, a demand for oil emerged and politicians decided to change the rules. In 1945, Harry Truman declared that the US boundary would be expanded to include its continental shelf, an extension of the mainland jutting out into the ocean.

For six years now, American scientists have been using sound waves to determine just where the continental shelf ends on their coasts. Estimates based on recently acquired data suggest that the US borders could extend 386 000 square miles, covering oil and gas reserves valued at 1.3 trillion dollars.

Compiled by Andrew Prine and Will van Engen

...and around the world

felt as though the action was discriminatory. Maltby explained her pastime saying, “I am a pet, I generally act animal–like, and I lead a really easy life.”

Offal news LONDON—The Scottish government is poised to form a lobby group pressuring the United States to lift a ban on importing Scottish haggis. The Scots think that the ban—which was put in place to stop the spread of Mad Cow Disease—is unnecessary, as they continue to consume their haggis without any ill effects. A recent surge in tartan, kilt, and scotch sales shows a growing appreciation for Scottish culture in the US, and haggis manufacturers feel this is a golden opportunity to expand into the markets. Haggis, a dish made by inserting oatmeal and the internal organs of a sheep into its stomach, is a prime example of traditional Scottish cuisine, and an oft–forgotten way of using up unwanted packets of Quaker Oats.

YourSpace If you thought your MySpace account was

private secure,

think again. A hacker by the name of DMaul recently posted a 17–gigabyte torrent on ThePirateBay.org containing thousands of photos taken from private user accounts. This hole in security, which has been exploited before, is disconcerting for obvious reasons. Children below 16 are required to have a private account; if security is compromised, their photos could be used for nefarious purposes. What is just as appalling is MySpace’s response to the problem—an issue that has persisted since October. Not until the day after Wired Magazine ran an article on DMaul’s feat was the hole fixed. Either MySpace didn’t know about it, which is unlikely, or it was aware of the problem but did nothing to fix it.

Just one more reason to stick to Facebook.

Fidler on the turret UK—A British farmer recently revealed a castle he had been building behind a wall of hay bales.

In order to evade the county’s construction laws, Robert Fidler hid the mock–Tudor structure for four years, living in it all the while. He had hoped to take advantage of a provision stating that

if no complaint is made about a particular building project in the first four years, it is allowed to remain standing. Fidler’s castle, built with two grain silos, is complete with conservatory, wooden bridge, tarmac racecourse, and even a cannon.

Oh sucka!

JAPAN—How many Osaka police officers does it take to screw in a light bulb? Probably just one.

How many Osaka police officers does it take to bring a high–speed car chase to a halt? About 2240.

Hirofumi Fukada, wanted by the authorities for assaulting an officer, evaded police for two hours before crashing his Toyota into a bridge column. Over 2000 officers, 460 patrol cars, and a helicopter were needed to bring this escapade to a halt. While Fukada left with light injuries, the police force’s pride was pronounced dead at the scene.

Compiled by Andrew Prine and Will van Engen

incite 5

COLUMN

Trappings

By Siva Vijenthira

The World Wide Web of Lies

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n 30 December, 19–year–old Oxford University student Bilawal Bhutto Zardari was appointed chairman of the Pakistan Peoples Party. By that afternoon, a prankster named Tonay had created a fake Facebook profile for him on the Oxford network, listing Buffy as one of his favourite television shows and plagiarising a West Wing rant about Islam in his “About Me” section.

Between then and the time the account was shut down 71 hours later, Tonay received thousands of friend invites and hundreds of messages, and Bilawal’s phoney “interests” had been featured in London’s Daily Telegraph, Agence France Presse, Australia’s ABC News, and Canada’s own Globe & Mail, among others.

In the aftermath of this speedy and truly monumental punking, the Internet was awash in yet another round of smug warnings from online news commentators about how untrustworthy their own medium is. The Internet, so goes the cliché, is full of lies and misinformation, perpetrated by stupid or malevolent amateurs. A prank like Tonay’s and the rampant, petty vandalism on Wikipedia seem to support the rhetoric that only print is prime. But pranks were conducted for hundreds of years before the advent of the interwebs. In August 1835, The New York Sun wrote a series of articles claiming the Moon was covered in verdant forests and quartz mountains, where bison and blue unicorns roamed free, and bat– winged humans lived in peace near a golden temple.

There were some sceptics, but one reporter said that “Yale College [for example] was alive with staunch supporters [...] with unexampled avidity and implicit faith.” When any kind of information is made publicly available by anyone, there is ample opportunity for lies and half–truths to be released instead of the real facts, and certain people will always believe the fiction without suspicion. There is no reason to vilify an entire medium, though, for the actions of a few entertainers (or jerks).

Wikipedia in particular has borne the brunt of the collective assault against online knowledge, because even the articles that haven’t been vandalized were usually written by non–professionals. These reservations have underscored a long–standing but slowly crumbling hierarchy among purveyors of information. We will believe and respect the words of a titled, laurelled institution but not those of the people and organizations below them in our knowledge caste system—even if they are just as well–informed and experienced. Numerous past musings about Wikipedia have referenced a (now controversial) 2005 Nature study that favourably compared the accuracy of Wikipedia’s scientific articles with those

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of Encyclopedia Britannica. But even Wikipedia, herald of a new and more democratic knowledge– sharing age, demands that its contributors cite only published sources. By no means do I want to draw comparisons with Stephen Colbert’s infamous 2006 call for “Wikiality,” the supposedly democratic idea that the agreed–upon “truth” can actually be altered through Wikipedia edits, but I do question the monopoly that print media has on respectability and trustworthiness, and I wonder how long it will last.

This gradually weakening monopoly extends beyond non–fiction sources into the world of literature and art. The music world is leading the move online, as both emerging and established artists sell or freely share their work through iTunes, MySpace, and personal websites. That move was mostly forced by the pervasiveness of peer–to–peer file sharing, but artists in other media have been more proactive in sharing their work online. But because the latter are reacting not to an overwhelming push from pirates but to an underwhelming pull from print publishers, they have received much less esteem for what they do. Webcomic creators are easy examples. Most of them do their work for personal satisfaction, or to improve their artistic or writing ability, the way many amateur musicians do. But some generate enough income from advertisement revenues, t–shirt sales, and occasional hard–copy collections that they no longer have day jobs. They have no way of knowing how many shirts they will sell, and the majority of their readers will never buy their products, but the webcomic artists are comfortable with these facts and live in relative financial security. Such a business strategy would have been unheard of a few years ago, and is still cause for open–mouthed disbelief among those who are new to the concept, but it works and the idea is spreading.

But there’s more. The newest Internet artists, the ones who elicit the most disbelief, are fiction writers. Using the old Dickensian method of serial chapters, these authors post full books online at the rate of one chapter per week, or even per day, and live entirely on their online revenues. This method has been the topic of surprisingly intense debates in blogs and forums as supporters of print media angrily question the viability of the new form. Nobody could possibly prefer to read text online! But serial webnovels have allowed a small but growing number of writers to become financially independent and have also created, as a by–product, a new kind of relationship between author and reader. Anyone can comment almost instantly after the “publication” of a chapter, through a forum or by email, about their pleasure, their displeasure, their analyses, and their

predictions—and the author can reply. The Internet as a medium for webnovelists, webcomic creators, and musicians has also allowed these artists to examine controversial or niche topics not currently considered viable for print media, even though the widespread success of these online sites is certainly evidence that there is an audience, somewhere, for anything.

To bring the topic back to our fictitious Facebook Bhutto, I know now that what most intrigued me about the story was not the reporters’ gullibility, but where they chose to put their focus. Every article about the profile was giggliest over the list of “Favorite TV Shows,” ignoring the much more explicitly controversial statements such as “All wars are crimes.”

How, wondered the bloggers, could a Buffy fan, of all people, lead a major political party in such a volatile part of the world? (“What, Kevin Federline wasn’t available?” snarked one.) It seems that Facebook, MySpace, and online dating profiles have introduced a new kind of identity formation. As Tonay was very well aware, we are no longer judged by our opinions or personality but by what the books we’ve read or the bands we like say about our opinions or personality.

These online lists form an odd abstraction of our entire character, and any minor change we make in our profile is representative of a change in our character. That, in itself, is highly disturbing and may be the reason why many people, myself included, usually leave blank that part of the profile. But in any case, for me, a list of favourite websites, blogs, and webcomics would be a better indicator of my specific interests than a list of television shows, since Internet productions cater to a much less widespread audience. Why, come to think of it, would an online company like Facebook not include a space on their user profile list for “Favorite Websites”?

As it turns out, Bilawal already had a Facebook profile before Tonay came along. It was a closed one with his first name cleverly spelled backwards, but it was discovered anyway, and a picture of him in a Hallowe’en devil costume was published in the UK’s Sun, to the consternation of conservative Pakistani political elites. Bilawal, like many future politicians and celebrities no doubt, was later forced by his handlers to delete his profile. Incredibly, before this saga had even begun, an old friend of Bilawal’s did more harm than any Facebook profile could. She reminisced in the UK’s Times about how she and his late mother “drove around London buying Buffy the Vampire Slayer comic books” and how he, “shy and bespectacled,” would play in the park, and— wait, wait, he really was a Buffy fan? This changes everything!

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PERSPECTIVE

hen you say, “I love you,” the words tumble out of your mouth like chewing gum. “I love you.” What does that even mean? Like the mechanical regurgitation of an automaton. Shut up!

Don’t tell me. I want you to SHOW me!

ShowmeshowmeSHOW me, don’t tell me, because if you can sum up the way you feel about me in eight letters and three words—hell, if you can sum up the way you feel about me at ALL, then maybe it isn’t enough. Because I want you to feel so strongly about me that it steals the words out of you. Sucks them right out of your consciousness. I want it to make you speechless, so you couldn’t even dare to dare to put it into words, or even contort your mouth into the shapes of vowels. I want it to make you want to burst. And I really, really want you to show me.

Smile so sincerely that your cheeks swell up and I can predict where time will etch wrinkles into your face, even if we’ll be strangers by then. Smile even if you think you look goofy, and damn it, stop feeling so self–conscious. Smile so that your eyes are half–moons. Let me memorize the crowds of your teeth, the yellow of your enamel, the subtleness of your overbite.

Smile so that the only thing that feels right is for me to smile too, like I can’t help it. Smile so that the warmth in your breath sets my cheek on fire. Smile so that all I want to do is kiss you and I can’t help it.

So kiss me, please. Please, kiss me! I mean, kissing sometimes feels really weird when you think about it. I mean, what drives people to put their lips together in the first place? The mouth is actually really weird! Because it’s the same mouth as the mouth you suckled at your mom’s boob with, the mouth you drool out of in your sleep sometimes, the mouth you shovel cereal into every morning, the mouth you puked out of when you had too many shots that night, the mouth you suck on your cigarette with, the mouth you spit onto the pavement with like a trucker—yuck! Who knows what’s ever been in your mouth, or out of it? But you know what? I DON’T CARE! Kiss me anyway. I’ll take all of you—the milk, drool, crumbs, vomit, tar and nicotine, the phlegm! And in my spit you’ll have all of me. A fair exchange! So close the space between our faces, pour yourself into me and I’ll pour myself into you. Just don’t inhale too hard.

Because once I had this boyfriend who liked the Foo Fighters so much that he decided to enact one of their lines with me. “Breathe out so I can breathe you in,” he instructed. Then he took my face in his hands, closed his mouth over mine, and sucked the life force out of me. He vacuumed my soul out of my ribcage, so I dumped him.

Anyway, I want you to kiss me! Kiss me like you mean it, not to rip off some stupid song lyric! Kiss me like we’ll never see each other again, like tomorrow the earth will fracture in two, and we’ll be clinging to different land masses, hurtling towards opposite ends of the universe. Kiss me like you believe this is going to happen, even if it never will, because gravity’s holding the world together. And gravity’s keeping you from bursting.

n O

B

y

But let’s be honest. There is only so much that kissing can convey. Because there is that point when kissing just isn’t enough anymore, when we need to go BEYOND. That’s why we stopped smiling and joined mouths, right? We wanted more! We still want more! Because smiling leads to kissing leads to heavy breathing leads to heavy petting leads to shedding clothing leads to, leads to…leads to…sex? It’s a slippery slope!

Saying “I love you” doesn’t cut it. Smiling doesn’t suffice, either, so kissing takes its place…but if kissing isn’t enough, is sex the ultimate way of showing how you feel for me? No! It can’t be!

It would imprison us in this horrible mortal way of being, mechanical like “I love you,” only more physically demanding. I don’t want that, because what I really want is for you to burst, because you can’t contain how you feel for me, because your body can’t encase the infinite!

So I invite you to take a bite of the flesh above my collarbone. Please. Go ahead.

This is the only way. There is no other way for you to truly express how you feel for me.

And if you like my flavour— which I KNOW you do, I mean, you can’t not, because the way you’ve kissed me in the past, it was like you were completely ravenous—then work your way down the rest of my body, and don’t let ANY part of me go to waste. I need to be inside you! ALL of me! Not just the flesh parts! Put my bones in a blender, and my skull, oh, and my organs too, because I realize my heart and brain and the rest of my insides might make you a little queasy, so it might be easier to just drink it all in a stew.

Close your eyes, plug your nose, and drink me up. Resist your gag reflex and swallow! I know it might be hard for you, but we have to

h t s u o M

Ju g st ina Chon Graphic by

Lisa Xu

Kissing—biting— Where is the difference? When we truly love It’s easy to do one when we mean the other.

— Heinrich von Kleist’s Penthesilea

do this! We have to!

Eat me whole! Finish me! Hurry! I want to be under your skin! I want to course through your veins, to conquer every cubic inch of your heart! I want to experience everything with you, and I mean EVERYTHING. I want to feel it when you get your finger caught in the door. I want to know everything you know, to know the ridges of your brain, to know exactly how you’re reading that story for class, what you think of the queen who cannibalized her lover. I want to know your dreams, to see just how similar they are to mine.

And if our dreams aren’t similar, well, then I’ll manipulate them so that they are! I want to understand every facet of your identity, to remember every detail of every memory you have, like the time your uncle taught you how to ride a bike, and how proud you felt pedalling down the street. I want to know so much! But, above all, I want to know how you feel for me. I want to know what it feels like to almost burst.

So eat me. It’s the only way I’ll be able to gauge anything. This is the closest two people can get to each other. Eat me, stop kissing me, stop smiling at me like that, and leave “I love you” for amateurs.

incite 7

REVIEW

potent potables Incite investigates neglected spirits of the LCBO

Compiled by Kate MacKeracher

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hile a Screwdriver may suffice for a Friday night’s grind among the sweaty hordes of Quarters, and Budweiser may be the obligatory partner of pretzels and the Super Bowl, some occasions in life demand a touch of class from one’s inebriant of choice—or at least a little creativity. Your faithful Incite reviewers have delved into the dustiest corners and darkest crannies of our local LCBO to unearth rare treasures for your appraisal. We sorted through beverages of every material that can be distilled, brewed, or fermented—including rice, cherry, plum, blackcurrant, and honey—and from all nations whose cultural and religious views permit the export of ethanol in potable form. Inspire your friends, or impress a significant other, by transcending the usual North American barley–or–grape defaults. (Disclaimer: Incite takes no responsibility for break–ups due to alcoholic experiments gone horribly, horribly wrong.)

BitterS? SoJu

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The Verdicts: Royal Oak Traditional Bitter (Beer) Taste: 3/5 $3.65 for 500 mL with 5 percent alcohol Who could resist a drink with such a compelling backstory, replete with religious slurs, daring princes, and hundred–year–old, “time–honoured� recipes, as recounted by the label of this shapely dark bottle? The powerful flavour of this beer reaped both praise—“Tastes like a real beer!�—and censure—“The taste won’t go away!�—from our reviewers. Such an ale, hand–crafted “deep in England’s countryside,� Friar Tuck and Robin Hood might have imbibed with their venison–and–Norman–knight pie. Yet it is perhaps a little too serious for the typical North American palate—unless you are enjoying a pipe in your dark, wood–paneled den, tucking into a greasy plate of bangers and mash in a seedy British pub, or seeking a “truly royal partner to your cheeseboard.�

Best served after a long day of fox hunting with the Queen.

Charmsoju Taste: 1/5 $6.15 for 360 ml with 20 percent alcohol Colourless, odourless, and nearly tasteless, this drink is the carbon monoxide of alcohol. It’s perfect for stealthily spiking the punch, although one reviewer claimed such a spike would be more likely to induce illness than intoxication. Charmsoju reminded reviewers of heavily diluted vodka or rubbing alcohol, and the drink’s uninformative bottle prompted fears that we had inadvertently purchased a supply of vaccination disinfectant left behind by a phlebotomist patron of our fine LCBO. (The label does depict a number of puck–shaped blobs vaguely reminiscent of red blood cells.) Sadly we conclude that the only charm to Charmsoju is its name—and of course its potential to promote sterile blood–removal.

Best served to wean your friend off his pesky rubbing alcohol addiction.

Hakutsuru Excellent Junmai Sake Taste: 2/5 $8.90 for 720 mL with 15.5 percent alcohol Arrange this warm brown bottle, with its starkly elegant black, white, and gold label, in a prominent location and transform your student hovel into an abode of grace and refinement. Reviewers fawned over this rice wine’s distinctive taste and smell, although one dissenter claimed its aroma was redolent of buttered popcorn. Tasters enjoyed the sophistication of sipping this sake, but ultimately couldn’t recommend it for bulk consumption; like so much in life, the excellence of Hakutsuru Excellent Junmai Sake appears greatest when admired from a distance. We have a sinking feeling this less–than–stunning taste experience may be connected to our rash decision to invest in the cheapest sake on the market.

Best served to one up your Jackson–Triggs– drinking housemates.

Old Krupnik Polish Honey Liqueur Taste: 2/5 $19.30 for 750 mL with 40 percent alcohol Old Krupnik Polish Honey Liqueur: the genius of the faceless advertiser behind this name is positively terrifying. Our reviewers forgot the sudden departure of sensation from their tongues, the pressing desire to wipe off the insides of their

“Arrange this warm brown bottle, with its starkly elegant black, white, and gold label, in a prominent location and transform your student hovel into an abode of grace and refinement.� mouths, and the lingering aftertaste occasioned by this fairly awful beverage, in a rush of enthusiasm for its name. Some toyed with Krupnik’s potential as a new verb (“Stop Krupniking me!�). Others preferred to personify this spirit as Old Man Krupnik, a grumpy and crass fellow. Perhaps Master Krupnik, maliciously mutating honey into a source of gustatory pain, may best be pictured as the arch– nemesis of Winnie the Pooh.

Best served after a plate of raw onions or a handful of garlic.

LabbÊ François Cassis Taste: 3.5/5 $18.65 for 750 mL with 15 percent alcohol.

We imagine the woodland animals of Redwall drinking this thick blackcurrant liqueur around the convivial abbey table—or perhaps we should say, les animaux de Rougemuraille. With its elegant stained–glass label design and français flair, this cassis is in many ways the antithesis of Old Man Krupnik (okay, we admit we just wanted to say “Krupnikâ€? again). One reviewer pronounced the liqueur “very classy,â€? adding “I would be proud to have this on my shelf, if a date were to come over.â€? Mixing is mandatory for this excessively syrupy spirit, but its subtle flavour is easily overwhelmed by other ingredients. We particularly recommend Cassis mixed with red wine and club soda, although we may just like the taste of red wine and club soda. The exquisite label proclaims this stirring message: “Our Crème de Cassis is produced by macerating the highest quality cassis fruit in delicious spirits. It is made in our three hundred year old cellars in the heart of Dauphine.â€? We would have bought it for the word “maceratingâ€? alone.

Best served while feasting with Martin the Warrior.

Liefmans Kriekbier (Cherry Beer) Taste: 5/5 $4.85 for 330 mL with 6 percent alcohol What other beer comes corked and enfolded in a cherry–adorned wrapper? Liefmans Kriekbier has all the grandeur of an individual portion of champagne. Although it possesses minor defects, such as an essence of gym bag aroma and a tendency to induce mouth–puckering, this Belgian beer easily trumped the other beverages reviewed in taste. Variously described as “like cherry Pop Rocks,� and “like a cooler, only cooler,� the satisfying flavour prompted one taster to passionately declare: “I will serve this at my wedding and at my wake.�

Best served everywhere, from the bowels of Absinthe to your cousin’s bris, from your aunt’s divorce settlement to your great–uncle’s knighting ceremony.

Gekkeikan Japanese Plum Wine Taste: 3.5/5 $14.10 for 750 mL with 13 percent alcohol Undeterred by the Hello–Kitty–esque label, our reviewers battled through sobriety–testing packaging to plumb the depths of this “truly delightful� wine. Many praised the Gekkeikan plum wine for its mixed–drink potential, unusual colour, and vaguely fruitcake–like taste, but there were a few dissenters. Opinions appeared to clash due to a stark divide in priorities; said one admiring reviewer, “Japanese plum wine tastes like something that should be good for regularity, or maybe just like my grandmother. For either reason, I like it.� But a dissatisfied taster countered, “I can’t see anyone picking up with this drink in hand.�

Best served at Sunshine Meadows retirement community.

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obody will ever ask me what the weather is like up there, my legs don’t “go on for days,” and I rarely find pants that don’t need to be hemmed. Canada’s Next Top Model won’t call me back, the cookie jar will forever be out of reach, and I find myself yelling “down in front!” at concerts. I am, to use the most politically correct term, vertically challenged.

It’s not easy being short in a tall person’s world. When I can’t get a seat on the subway, I’m forced to grasp pitifully at the bar above my head. I can’t get a complete load of groceries without accosting other shoppers, as the items I need are always on the top shelf. And at the movies, I invariably end up sitting behind the tallest person in the theatre, forced to lurch back and forth in my seat just to catch a glimpse of the screen. I have spent a significant portion of my life on tiptoe straining to reach something that’s just a little too high up.

Nicknames seem to cling to short people like a stubborn fungus: Shorty, Munchkin, Mighty Mouse, Smurf—I’ve heard them all. Worse still are nicknames like Stretch and Beanpole, assigned by balding middle–age uncles who think that they have a great sense of humour. Even our day–to–day language picks on short people. Someone who is stubborn, for example, might also be called “short–sighted.” Instead of being “ripped–off,” we can say we’ve been “short–changed.”

In contrast, to respect someone is to “look up to them” and to be ambitious is to “strive for great heights.”

The height bias is also reflected in the construction of houses. Case in point: my kitchen, where the pantry shelves seem unnaturally high. I must confine all of my cooking stuffs to the bottom two levels lest I be perpetually scrambling for a step–stool while making dinner. The kitchen counters were also designed by someone who never had to sit at the front of her class picture. Simple actions like cutting vegetables or doing the dishes take extra work, and are rarely comfortable.

Worse still are the cupboards above the stove. I have yet to open them. They seem to mock me from above, a perpetual reminder of my vertical inadequacy.

In the business world, the vertically challenged once again get the short end of the stick. A 2004 study by Timothy Judge and Daniel Cable found that for every extra inch of a person’s height, they earn an additional 789 dollars per year. By this calculation, a six–foot–tall person will enjoy an annual income that is on average 5525 dollars more than someone who is only 5’6”. Judge suggests that this might be an evolutionary survival tactic. “Perhaps when humans were in the early stages of organization,” Judge suggests, “they used height as an index for power in making fight–or–flight decisions. They ascribed leader–like qualities to tall people because they thought they would be better able to protect them.”

Princeton economists Anne Case and Christina Paxson, who have also studied the correlation between height and salary, offer a different explanation. Their 2006 study suggests that taller people perform better on cognitive tests and are more likely to enter into fields that “require more advanced verbal and numerical skills, and greater intelligence, for which they earn handsome rewards.” So, according to this study, not only do tall people have longer legs, but they also have bigger brains.

In addition to being evolutionary weaklings and half–wits, short people are also reported to be social pariahs. A study conducted by Nicola Persico, Andrew Postlewait, and Dan Silverman from the University of

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PERSPECTIVE

In the Land of the Giants Jordan Mackenzie on being short

Pennsylvania asserts that, as children, short people are less likely to engage in social activities and are resultantly more likely to suffer from low self–esteem. This combination of poor social skills and low confidence could negatively affect a short person’s chances in the job market and result in lower per annum earning levels. With all this in mind, I can’t help but wonder whether a pair of four–inch stilettos, or perhaps some stilts, would be a better investment than my four–year B.A. In China, a country with a surplus of labour and a dearth of good jobs, height restrictions are often imposed in the workforce. Short people are routinely barred from government positions. Since China joined the World Trade Organization in 2001, the government has done its best to project a positive global image. Tall, beautiful people are thus preferred for government employment.

Some Chinese people are now going to great lengths to reach great heights. Hundreds of young Chinese professionals, mostly women, have undergone a painful and protracted leg lengthening process. The risky surgery, originally developed in Russia to treat cases of dwarfism and leg deformities, involves cutting the shinbones in two and allowing bone to slowly grow between them.

If done improperly, it may result in permanent malformation. Bones that separate too quickly will not heal, legs may end up different lengths, and nerves may be damaged. The surgery also comes with a hefty price tag.

Dr. Xia Hetao, a doctor who routinely performs the procedure, charges between 6000 and 7000 dollars for his services.

You don’t have to go to China to gain a few inches.

Leg lengthening surgeries, although less common, are legally practiced in North America. For those short– statured souls who don’t want to go under the knife, growth hormone injections are a popular choice. Of course, women will always have the option of strapping themselves into a pair of punishing heels.

There are, however, some advantages to being small.

Several World Health Organization studies have found that short people live longer. Studies also show that short people are less likely to develop cancer and have a lower likelihood of suffering from a cardiovascular disorder. We also have a lot of role models to look up to: Mother Theresa, Queen Victoria, and Harriet Tubman were all only five feet tall. Classical music, too, owes a lot to men of diminutive stature: Mozart, Beethoven, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Wagner, and Schubert were all below average height.

Being short has its perks. I never feel bad about pushing myself to the front of the crowd to get a better view, I’ve never lost at limbo, and airplane seats are always comfortable. And even though my kitchen is not made for someone of my stature, all of my doorframes are.

To date, I have never had to duck while stepping over a threshold.

More often than not, I am not proud to be short. I’m not, however, ashamed of it either. I try not to let height factor into my life decisions. And although I will probably never captain a basketball team, I could very well be a good jockey or wrestler, both short–person–friendly professions. And to the next person who dares call me “vertically challenged” or tries to use me as a leaning post, bear in mind that, although little, my legs can still kick you in the shins.

FICTION

This is my favourite time, the time when the year is dying.

The days are getting shorter and shorter, and we light the candles earlier, and still earlier, to welcome or ward off the darkness, I am not sure which.

I did not notice it getting darker today until I looked up from the book I was reading—I thought I heard you at the window— and looked back, and could see only grey stripes where the words used to be.

It was silly to look up—I couldn’t have heard you at the window. You are here, beside me, tearing yesterday’s paper into thinner and thinner strips, reading—or imagining you are reading—the words down each strip: turn the taxi/to the lounge/to boogie–woogie./ 13 more times/his albums sold/numbers with/Benny/Ella/Lester/DeFranco./ was the trio/famous threesome/work written/later wrote./ four times and had/his first and third/with his fourth./ continued/because, as he/I think I/over the years./ having/more playing/he told/sit down/i want it to./ I should turn the lamp on for you.

You were not at the window. If I heard anyone, it was the boy who comes to deliver flyers, though he usually comes before dark. Or it was the robin you fed too late, tricked into thinking he has found his home for the winter. Or it was nothing, the wind in the trees we have yet to trim, their branches banging to be let in.

Today was sunny twice: once from the sky, and again reflected from the snow.

The days are short but brilliant, and we get up early in the dark so that we do not miss any part of the day. What will you have on your toast for breakfast, I ask, eggs, or jam and peanut butter?

Toast, toast; I will make the toast, you say, and pull out the drawer with the bread in it.

You remind me of the man who came up from Quebec when my mother was small, who boarded with you on the farm and worked from dark ‘til dark again. He couldn’t speak a lick of English, you would say, when telling a story about him. Well, that’s not entirely true dear, says my grandfather, he knew a few words. And none of them fit for company!, you reply.

And they would laugh—oh, how they would laugh!—when he heard a word that they had taught him and he tried to understand. He grabbed the words he knew from their conversations, repeating and repeating and repeating, trying to find a whole sentence within that single word, smiling when they laughed.

You remind me of this man; toast, toast, pulling out the drawer.

You are angry to discover that I have thrown away the stale crusts you put in a bag at the back. What if I need those? you ask, what if I need those for something? And then you forget, first what you needed them for and then what it was that you needed.

Eggs it is! I say, and start the eggs. I start the toast, too, once you have burned through your anger and gone to sit in the chair by the fire, nodding off beside the flames just awakened for the new day.

It is my favourite time of year, I tell you, though I doubt you are listening. It is the time when the year is dying. The nights are getting colder and colder, and spring is too far ahead to see and too long past to remember. But by the time the coldest days arrive, the year is already being born again; the chills are shudders of awakening, an engine turning over in the dark.

We get up early and eat our breakfast in the kitchen, watching the streetlamp patterns on the wall disappear as the sun rises. You pile scrambled eggs onto your toast, simultaneously fastidious and unaware you have dropped half of them onto the floor.

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He was a good worker, a good man, he didn’t know a lick of English though. The children would try to teach him, they would point and say the words—bread, knife, butter, plate, jam—each time waiting for him to say them back. Bread, breed.

Knife, neuf. Butter, butteh. Plate, pleut. Jam, gem. Oh, it was funny to hear him talk! He was tasting the words, almost, rolling them up inside his tongue like tobacco in his cigarette papers, sealing them against falling out, against forgetting.

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By Catherine M.A. Wiebe

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LETTER FROM

Letter From

Tanzania Karibu Morogoro!

Welcome to Morogoro, Tanzania. Located at the foot of the Uluguru mountains some 190 kilometres west of Dar es Salaam, this dusty town is often overlooked by the tourist circuit. I am volunteering here with Youth Challenge International—a non–profit organization—along with three other Canadians. We all fundraised substantial amounts of money to get here, and after months of preparation and anticipation we’ve finally arrived. We live with two local Tanzanian youth, Makoti and Oliva. Makoti, who is 24–years –old and HIV–positive, recently came back from the World AIDS conference in Toronto. He’s open about his status, which is a rarity in Tanzania, especially among the youth, and is actively involved in endeavours aiming to reduce the stigma of living with HIV/AIDS. Prior to departing, our tiny group of volunteers received intense training in Toronto, but once we arrived in Dar es Salaam I realized no amount of preparation could ready me for Tanzania. The intense heat, lack of running water, and frequent power cuts took some getting used to; the novelty of bucket showers and sleeping under mosquito nets wore off quickly. Although this destination required some adjustments, I immediately felt at home in Morogoro. Tanzanians are incredibly welcoming. The minute we step outside, calls of “MZUNGU!” (an interjection specific to white people, literally “European”) come from all over. Our neighbours peer out of doorways and windows, and we greet them accordingly. An elderly person is addressed with a respectful “shikamoo” (“I hold your feet”), to which they reply “marahaba.”

But greetings don’t stop there. One asks the other how their day has been, “Habari za leo?”, their family, “Za familia?”, their home, “Za nyumbani?”, their children, “Za watoto?”: it would be deemed incredibly rude not to inquire.

And one would never walk past anyone without extending a greeting.

I’m thrilled with the projects I’m working on here, all of which are linked to a local NGO: Faraja (“peace” in Swahili). I give ESL lessons, assist the Drama group at Faraja’s Youth Center, and teach a health class at a local school for former street kids. I’m also working on a case study on People Living With HIV/AIDS (PLWHAs) through Faraja’s Legal Aid department.

I teach ESL along with a fellow YCI volunteer on a daily basis. Every day, as two o’clock nears, we ready ourselves for the hour–long hike to the Youth Centre. We walk past our neighbourhood dukas (cornerstores) and chipsi mayai stands (delicious local food: omelettes with fries in them). We brace ourselves for the nipe tano hot–spot. Nipe tano means “give me five.” Children will run out from all over, fists in the air, yelling these two words. In turn, you extend your fist and tap theirs. Most will run back giggling from where they came, others linger to hold your hand and walk with you for a bit. There’s an incredible sense of collective upbringing in Tanzania. Children are raised by the community at large; there isn’t a sense of paranoia that someone would harm one’s child if left outside unsupervised. Their hands in ours, we walk through hedges, behind houses, past women washing clothes, cooking food, and bathing their children in buckets of water. There is very little privacy; in Morogoro, your business is everyone’s business.

Life is good in the dustbowl known as Moro. It’s impossible to get used to the heat; my energy level plummets as the sun rises. And to think that it’s not even summer yet… I don’t think I’d make it through the day if it weren’t for the afternoon nap. But the evenings are delightfully cool around here. There’s something incredible about the way the darkness engulfs you completely, and the speed with which the light disappears with the setting sun is startling.

The heat is exhausting, so it isn’t surprising that no one is in a rush to get anywhere. And of course everything runs on Tanzanian time, which means that for every planned activity, meeting, or appointment one can expect an hour delay. The pace at which everything moves is so much slower than what we’re accustomed to; it’s a miracle anything gets accomplished!

Patience is also required when dealing with computers, especially when

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the Internet is involved. It’s so slow I sometimes wonder if people hang out in the internet cafes just to get their fix of Celine Dion, Boyz II Men, Bryan Adams, and Shania Twain (these four artists are in perpetual rotation). But for all the frustrations, there are some delightful aspects of life here. I’ll never forget the first time I watched a televised football match at the local duka (the English Premiership no less!). Although there were four power cuts during the match, and we were sitting on top of sewers, it was such a great experience.

Tanzanians love Chelsea (it’s the team with the highest number of African players), but this particular duka owner loves Arsenal, luckily for me.

One sport I never expected to be reminded of in Africa is hockey. Hockey jerseys were almost a daily sighting in Morogoro! The vast majority of them were old Maple Leafs jerseys, but I did see a Habs t–shirt, a Red Wings sweater, a couple Panthers jerseys, and even a Flames “C of red” shirt. Apparently a great deal of Salvation Army donations wind up in Morogoro!

As there were also some YCI volunteers posted in Zanzibar, we had the chance to spend a few days with them to celebrate Eid al–Fitr. If you’re going to be in Tanzania for the end of Ramadan, the place to celebrate is Zanzibar.

This stunningly beautiful island off the coast of Tanzania is predominantly Muslim (unlike the mainland, where there are similar proportions of Christians, Muslims, and people of other religions).

Zanzibari food is wonderfully spicy, which is quite the contrast from the milder, coconut–infused food of Morogoro. As the sun sets and the day–long fast is broken, people swarm the numerous food stalls brimming with dates, coconuts, fresh sugar cane juice, and oranges. But as Zanzibar is frequented by so many tourists, I found there was quite a difference between locals in Zanzibar and Morogoro. There were no kids running up to

hold our hands, or calling out “Nipe Tano!”; the language is the same as on the mainland (Swahili) but the Zanzibari people’s demeanour is very different. I suppose they’ve seen their fair share of tourists so they keep their distance, but they seemed cold compared to what I was used to. Regardless, visiting Zanzibar was well worth it, for the breathtaking scenery and cartwheel–inducing food.

I also had the opportunity to travel to Kilombero, a small town on the edge of some sugar cane plantations. While I was helping out with the Youth Centre Drama Group, we went on a rural outreach trip there. Kilombero, with only two streets, is like a miniature version of Morogoro sitting at the foot of a tiny mountain. As the only white person around, I amazed the kids; they kept running up to me to get a closer look. The brave ones would come all the way up and touch my skin, surprised to find it felt just as theirs did.

We were invited to Kilombero to participate in a seminar on children’s rights, and we used the opportunity to engage with people on women’s rights, HIV/AIDS, domestic violence, and other important issues through theatre performances. We chose public areas such as the market to attract as many people as possible. We presented short plays with these themes in mind, and encouraged audience participation, giving people the chance to offer their feedback and voice their opinions.

I also helped organize a rural outreach to Mikese with the Drama Group. I was particularly drawn to a beautiful Mikese girl carrying a baby doll on her back in a traditional cloth called Kenga, just as her mother had carried her. It occurred to me that even if she survives countless waterborne illnesses such as diarrhoea (due to the lack of clean water in Mikese), malaria (the number one killer of children in Africa), and pneumonia, to name a few, womanhood only brings a new set of hardships. Mikese is an area with one of the highest HIV/AIDS infection rates in Tanzania. It’s a town on a busy stretch of highway that goes from the coast (Dar es Salaam) to the heart of the country. Countless truckers passing through will offer the young local women money in exchange for sex. And since that means they will be able to feed their families, many women accept these offers; this is, after all, one of the poorest areas in the country.

Being a woman in Tanzania is a different reality altogether. The law doesn’t discriminate, but tradition does. And, due to a lack of education, rarely does a woman know her rights. Girls aren’t prevented from going to school, but they are expected to help out at home, giving them less time to study.

When she starts a family of her own, she will rise before the sun to start cooking breakfast. She will fetch the water, the coals, boil the water, cook everything from scratch; she will clean (sweeping the ground, washing clothes), go to the market, or to the fields to tend to the crops, prepare the next meal…her day doesn’t end until her husband is lying in bed next to her, satisfied. And a Tanzanian woman does not think of this as work. To work is to generate income, and there’s no monetary value attached to raising a family.

Should her husband fall ill and die, the widow will watch his relatives fight over the assets. She will be homeless with children to feed, and is often passed on as a second wife to her brother– in–law. Legally she is entitled to one–third of his assets, but you’d be hard pressed to find a woman aware of this. A woman is also allowed to own land, but that isn’t well regarded in the community.

The strength of these women is remarkable. They struggle in silence; they speak up only to be beaten down. But they keep going, their resilience unbroken…I am in awe of them.

The end of our program activities coincided with World AIDS Day (1 December), which couldn’t have been a better way to wrap up our work in Morogoro. We organized a major event centred around our campaign of “Ushujaa kwa uhai!”: courage for life (courage to get tested). We offered free HIV testing and condom demonstrations on bananas; we held dancing contests, invited motivational speakers and rappers to perform; we were up at 6 a.m. and didn’t go to sleep until 5 a.m. the next day.

Countless hours were spent afterwards reporting on that event and all the other activities we were responsible for in Morogoro—painful, but necessary for future funding, which we hope will keep coming. There are a few other NGOs working in Morogoro, but due to the lack of finances we were the only ones organizing an event on World AIDS Day—the most important day for any group focusing on HIV/AIDS (as are most NGOs in the area)! In any case, it was a great day; I only wish more could be done. There is always more to be done and never enough time. Just as we were getting into the swing of things, it was already time to leave our projects for the next group of volunteers.

Saying goodbye to everyone was so hard; I met the most extraordinary people in Morogoro, truly some of the most amazing characters I’ve ever encountered, and it breaks my heart to think I might never see them again. I keep thinking how lucky I am for having had the chance to experience this. I only hope I’ll get a chance to go back some day.

Ariel Wilson

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MUSINGS

Covering our Tracks Rob Lederer scrutinizes the history of drugs and literature

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G RAPHIC BY M ichelle Tian

couple of months ago while speaking before a public audience, Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama admitted to having used drugs and alcohol during his school years; no less, he made these comments in front of a group of high school students. His honesty created somewhat of a stir in opposing political camps, which claimed that—although Obama tempered his confession by saying, “It was a mistake, as a young man”— speaking about our own indiscretions will only push children towards drugs.

Owning up to drug use is risky, particularly in the political sphere. When Bill Clinton’s marijuana use came to light, he attempted to offset its ramifications with the much–mocked claim, “I didn’t inhale.” Still, drug use is a volatile political and social issue. When the Liberals held federal power in 2003, they attempted to draft a bill to decriminalize the possession of small amounts of marijuana; since being elected, however, the Conservative Party has responded by instigating harsher punishment for drug users and peddlers.

According to conventional wisdom, drugs seem to be intrinsically linked to a progressive (sometimes fringe) political stance: who would be surprised if Jack Layton showed up to a house party smelling suspiciously herbal? Yet, the very nature of drugs—what is considered a drug—is somewhat vague: caffeine abuse is expected among hard–working businesspeople and night–hungry university students, whereas marijuana and, in particular, “hard” drugs are considered to be more in the realm of violent revolutionaries and doped–out rock stars. All of these substances have been mythologized in different ways, rendering some sub– or countercultural and others mainstream. These histories are the result of more than a century of interplay between drug users, politicians, artists, and other cultural and scientific agents.

People haven’t always considered drug users to be forever strung–out Ozzie Osbournes, club kids, or vegan, hemp–wearing, Ani–loving environmentalists. The countercultural user is a pretty modern invention: in the days of the Romantics—think Mary Shelley, not Danielle Steele—dropping opium was often medical, not recreational. Thomas De Quincey, whose Confessions of an English Opium Eater (1822) is the first literary text explicitly focused on the drug user, claimed to have been introduced to “the dread agent of unimaginable pleasure and pain” by a college friend who recommended it as a pain killer. According to Marcus Boon, De Quincey’s Confessions represents a seminal place in the history of narcotics: drugs were certainly present in pre–Romantic society and writing, from The Odyssey’s lotus–eaters to the divine tree of knowledge as described in John Milton’s Paradise Lost. With De Quincey, however, he asserts that something changed, and with it came society’s “drug problem.”

When De Quincey was cashing in on his Confessions, narcotics use was still simply an action: the addict did not yet exist as an identity nor was dabbling in drugs associated with a set of (shady) personal attributes. As the Romantics continued to explore drugs and regularly feature them in their writing, our modern notion of the drug world began to materialize. Boon notes that Samuel Taylor Coleridge, for instance, initiated the notion of artistic inspiration through drug use—that the thoughts and words of a mind on drugs come from an unknown source. We might think of this in terms of divine inspiration. Or we might recall our last visit to Hess Village, when a couple of drinks stirred in our limbs a repertoire of dance moves, the likes of which had never before graced the Funky Munky dancefloor.

The Romantic influence on drugs is everywhere, when you begin to look for it. Most of us think of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as a case of split personality—and it is typically associated with that condition. It also functions as an allegory for addiction and the horrors of drug use, with Dr. Jekyll transforming himself into the dastardly Hyde by ingesting a homemade narcotic. Substance dependency eventually takes hold of Jekyll, forcing him to double and triple his doses and seek solitude from the outside world. The isolating nature of drugs is a commonly articulated criticism, one that holds resonance not only for the Romantics but with later writers like Charles Baudelaire and William S. Burroughs.

With Baudelaire, we can see the association of drug use with subversive and progressive art and politics. Credited as one of the first modern writers, Baudelaire, both in his writing and his political perspective, markedly positioned himself against the social order. His political stance—though it evolved during his lifetime—remained firmly against France’s classicist bourgeois state, and this perspective comes through in his drug–related writing. His essay “On Wine and Hashish” constructs wine as a necessary social agent, a hard–working substance “comparable to a man of action,” while it condemns hashish as “made for wretched idlers.” For Baudelaire, wine represented the marginalized lower class, which was responsible for its production, yet could not afford to indulge in its pleasures; through hashish, he articulated a criticism of the lazy bourgeoisie, who remained “essentially idle” and did not contribute to society in any meaningful way. Although Baudelaire’s logic has long since been dismissed, his acceptance of wine and denunciation of hashish have been entrenched in Western drug laws.

For Baudelaire, drugs represent a chance to combat modern ennui and es-

cape spiritual angst—they’re an “artificial paradise.” He tells us to “Get drunk!

Stay drunk! On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever.” (And if you’ve ever gotten really into a concert, to the point that your body is just reacting to the sounds, your mind intoxicated by every strum and beat, I think you know what he’s talking about.) Drugs, music, and “artificial paradises” should be immersed in; they should be a source of freedom from the hardships of modern society.

William S. Burroughs, a hippie god (although he did not believe in many of their practices), also sought freedom in drug use. Burroughs saw control as the greatest ill—it was, for him, the government’s attempt to manage and profit from the drug trade that made it seedy—and he identified language as the strongest, most fundamental source of restriction. Drugs are, according to Burroughs, at once a source of control and a means to escape power structures. Through addiction, users yield their autonomy to narcotics, but drugs themselves can allow people to synthesize a new state of being. In Junky, he writes, “Kick is seeing things from a special angle. Kick is momentary freedom from the claims of the aging, cautious, nagging, frightened flesh.” Escaping control means dynamic, novel approaches to life, unusual means of escaping the body and its limitations.

Here, as with Baudelaire, we see an intersection between drug use, politics, and aesthetics: all are means of control, according to Burroughs, with the government wielding power over the people, drugs over the addicted user, and words over every speaker—yet, through drugs, people might be able to undermine linguistic restraints, the most basic and pervasive social ill. These associations are still present today: the stoned tree hugger, the pill–popping social rebel—politics and drugs, art and drugs, combined.

While the reasoning behind most of these beliefs has faded, many of the proposals put forth by these seminal writers are commonly articulated today.

But the popular understanding of drugs could be changing. When I began my study of “drug literature,” I wanted to understand where we draw the line between medical and recreational drugs. It’s an important inquiry, I think: we’re constantly defining new medical treatments to new diseases and disorders, so it should be expected that we reassess the medicinal properties of what we now consider non–remedial narcotics. Barack Obama’s November confession is some evidence that the perception of drugs is evolving: being able to admit to a history of drug use and remain in the running for political office shows a marked change in popular discourse. Taking note of why we think the way we do about drugs is necessary, then, as we continue to figure out where they should fit in society.

COMIC

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incite 15

IN SEARCH OF

By Katie Huth and Raman Nijjar

You know you’ve done it—at the local café, at the movie theatre, at the chaotic mall food court; we’ve all found pleasure in taking a peek at the people around us. It’s hard to explain what’s so riveting about the girl at the next table in the Student Centre, calmly drinking her coffee with a novel in hand. But most of us have caught ourselves idly staring at a peer, wondering what she’s reading and how she possibly could have thought that jacket matched her shirt...at least until she gets freaked out by your deer–in–headlights look and rushes off.

Why is it so transfixing, watching fellow members of the McMaster community engaging in everyday activities? There is something comforting about knowing that while your life is on pause, others continue about their day—and, let’s face it, some people are just deliciously fun to observe. If you catch someone picking his nose or sporting toilet paper stuck to one shoe, the entertainment can rival award–winning television. Knowing that people–watching can be the most rewarding and convenient study break, Incite felt compelled to identify the locations on campus most conducive to its practice. With laptops in tow and feeling somewhat like 007 (but more like Harriet the Spy), we toured McMaster in search of the ideal place to people–watch.

in everything around us: people at booths promoting upcoming events, bake sales in support of a cause or club, and students wolfing down food between classes. We wandered to the second floor and were greeted by a group of students singing and playing the guitar in the hallway. After bopping our heads for a few minutes, we made our way to the lounge (next to Clubspace), where a group of guys speaking excitedly in Italian immediately caught our attention.

As we tried to figure out what they were saying, we realized our stares were freaking them out, at which point we quickly returned to the main floor.

(In afterthought, they were probably commenting, “That girl is totally checking you out!”)

We scanned the occupied seats and pounced as soon a table became free—a necessary maneuver in the mid–afternoon mob scene. Raman began observing a group of guys who were chatting it up; one of them, his eyes marked with disgust, glanced away from his friends and fixated on a boy who, recklessly chowing down on his lunch, remained unaware he was under the eye of scrutiny. A shiver

Learning Commons

We assumed that the constant hum of group work in the Learning Commons would provide a rich source of diversion. Students converge on this social study haven on the second floor of Mills Library to take advantage of the large desks and many computers: in short, to procrastinate in company.

The relaxed atmosphere in the Learning Commons encourages students to engage in not–so–hushed conversation, which the nosey social scientist inside of us was eager to analyze. The distance between tables, however, was too great for us to discern any juicy details.

The majority of students were on their laptops or library computers, staring intently at their screens.

(Upon close inspection, we noted that the tally of computer screens displaying Facebook profiles and academic web pages was an effective tie.) We also observed a couple of tutoring sessions, some conversations between study–partners whose open notebooks lay neglected before them, and reunions between friends who hadn’t connected since last night’s Facebook message.

The advantage of Learning Commons is that it is a large open space that never empties; so, if you are inclined to just lift a lazy eye from your essay–writing, you can be sure it will meet the view of other restless students—infinitely more interesting than the paper on the mechanics of paint–drying slowly taking shape on your laptop screen.

Student Centre

We entered the Student Centre thinking that the constant hustle and bustle—an annoyance at any other time—would satisfy all of our people– watching needs. It took us a few minutes to soak

16 incite

G RAPHIC BY Ishani Nath

Campus Creepers

“Most importantly, it didn’t hurt our eyes to watch sweaty jocks pass us by every few seconds. We love our job” accompanied Raman’s feeling of doing something deliciously taboo, namely observing others without their knowledge. Doing so can be as rewarding as catching a rare glimpse of a mother–daughter doe tableau in Cootes—although in the Student Centre, watching food dribble down someone’s chin is not nearly as serene.

If you are lucky enough to snag a seat at the tables on the first floor, it’s nice to sit back and

watch the rush of students channeling through the building between classes. Watching hurried students navigate the crowd is amusing when you’re not personally caught in the mix. Katie monitored the unique fashions of the people steadily flowing past, and picked out her favorite winter coat—a long, brown, belted number. As an added bonus, the sound of the guitar–accompanied singers traveled over the balcony down to our seats on the first floor. This is probably one of our favorite features of the Student Centre as a people–watching location—the diversity of patrons and activity that it accommodates ensures that you can never predict what you will see or hear.

Commons

Come mealtime, many inhabitants of the North side of campus tend to venture to Commons—and, thanks to its forgiving location and hours of operation, it can become an in–residence student’s only source of food over the bitterly cold winter months.

Raman ventured to Commons on a Saturday morning, as the waffles were wafting their tantalizing aroma through the air and students were slowing rising after their Friday night shenanigans. Standing in line for a waffle, she noticed that there was a diversity of students worthy of a Benetton campaign: some seemed as though they had been awake for hours, while others’ frizzy bed–head matched with cow–jumps–over–the–moon pajamas indicated a recent return to consciousness.

Commons is an open space that allows people– watchers to sit back and relax, ostensibly viewing the six o’clock newscast on one of the many televisions, while actually watching the human dramas unfolding all around. Amateur people–watchers take note: the television sets scattered across the room provide an excellent excuse for wandering eyes. The room’s open concept allows someone from one end to see very clearly those on the other side of the room. And you can see some very odd things at Commons. You might, for instance, spot someone having yogurt and cereal with no milk and think to yourself, how odd—or, you might be clued into the new taste sensation of mixing cheerios and fruit–flavoured yeast byproduct.

The primetime for people–watching at Commons comes about in September, when first–years are anxiously trying to make new friends; it’s a haven of awkward social networking. During this time of year, new students shyly ask if they can join a table: it’s like a scene from an after–school special. Their struggle to find topics that everyone can participate in is a mix of floundering and long periods of silence. Even more awkward is when a new student asks to join a table of already–established

upper years, and then timidly inquires about their program and year.

MDCL 1305/7

Students who opt to sit at the back of the classroom know that when the professor starts to sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher, they can amuse themselves by idly watching their peers try desperately to stay awake. To test this theory, we sat in the back row, at opposite ends of the largest lecture hall on campus, MDCL 1305/7.

The combination of a darkened room, far–from– fascinating ECON 1BB3 PowerPoint slides, and Friday morning timeslot made it a great place to observe restless students. The boy beside Katie was playing online chess (and losing), and the glow of other laptop screens revealed MSN, Facebook, Mac email accounts, and WebCT slideshows. On the other side of the classroom, Raman caught the hushed sound of whispers from a group of nearby students but was unable to decipher what they were saying. This is one of the main concerns for the classroom people– watcher: during a lecture, people tend to keep their personal discussions to a minimal volume, and straining your ears risks giving away your creeper status. Raman noticed that many of the students were desperately bored as they took notes and stared mindlessly at the clock waiting for class to end. So, if you do not wish to learn about opportunity costs and the incredible benefits of comparative advantage theory (which we don’t), staring at the backs of hundreds of student heads is not the greatest alternative, but it can be interesting to see which profiles the person in front of you is creeping on Facebook, or to silently cheer a classmate on in her game of Tetris.

David Braley Athletic Centre

lobby

After struggling through the relatively new card–swipe turnstiles in the DBAC, we settled onto the benches across from the squash courts, evading the funny looks directed at Katie’s laptop and Raman’s notepad. It can be very enjoyable to watch the squash games when waiting for your partner to show, or when relaxing after a strenuous workout at the Pulse. It was amusing to see the players glance periodically into the gym lobby to see if anyone noticed an embarrassing miss or triumphant service ace. It was also a source of idle amusement to watch people traverse the turnstiles (once we were successfully on the other side), and to hear the DBAC employees wearily repeating the instructions for how to properly orient your student card. In general, there aren’t a ton of students for the eager people–watcher to observe, but it is easy to become mesmerized by a two–person squash game. Most importantly, it didn’t hurt our eyes to watch sweaty jocks pass us by every few seconds. We love our job.

page of your book in a hurry. The comfort and panoramic view of campus justify a favorable ranking for this location; however, the quiet atmosphere of the library doesn’t facilitate as much chatter as some watchers prefer.

Verdict

Our opinions were divided on the matter of the “best” place to people–watch on campus. Is it the chill atmosphere of the Learning Commons, the scents of Commons breakfast, or the activity of the DBAC that makes people–watching most enjoyable? Raman preferred the scene from the tables in the Student Centre, where she could eat her chips to the tune of bits of overheard conversation. Katie was partial to the view from the comfortable couches in the Health Sciences

Library.

People–watching is the best kind of reality show: it is raw and real. We are presented with everyday people in authentic life situations, some of which we can relate to while others we find amusing or odd. But, no matter why we do it, this real life reality show is addictive, and we all play a part in it. So, next time you’re fixing a fledgling wedgie in the centre of campus or wolfing down a Willy dog, remember, life can be a spectator sport.

Overheard at Mac In Mills Learning Commons: Random guy: Yo, how would you say my name in Spanish?

In the Student Center lounge, 3:20pm: First Male: You’ve got a sparkle in your hair. How did you get a sparkle in your hair? What were you doing?

Second Male: I don’t know.

First Male: Sparkle, sparkle. (laughter) In the Student Center 2nd floor lobby: “Holy, holy, holy...” A group of students singing and playing praise music on guitar in the second floor hallway.

In the DBAC lobby: A guy making a sandwich filled with sausages Friend: What’s that?

Sandwich Boy: Sausages. And barbeque sauce.

Friend: Yo, that’s a weird sandwich.

Reading Pavilion in the Health Sciences Library

G RAPHIC BY Ishani Nath

Your intrepid Inciters next traveled to the lower level of the Health Sciences library. While the study carrels are intended to block your view of surrounding students—making an attempt to people– watch painfully obvious and a source of irritation for your neighbours—the Reading Pavilion is wonderfully conducive to distraction. The two–storey– high windows facing University Avenue provide a grand scope for watching the comings–and–goings of Mac students. Some of the cushioned chairs face the window, and all who sit there are foolish if they think they are going to get any reading done. You are far more likely to watch every single HSR bus go by and to gawk at the bustling campus laid out before you as if on a movie screen. After observing the diligently working students at Health Sci, however, you’ll probably guiltily return to the first

incite 17

PERSPECTIVE

Confessions of a Medical School Applicant

I

have a confession to make: I applied to medical school. I have never considered myself a keener, and over the past four years, I eschewed the neurosurgeon–shadowing, prep–course–taking, Nigerian–baby–saving antics of this over–eager species in favour of activities I actually enjoy. I still thought that being a doctor seemed interesting enough, so I applied. But the past few months of my life have been terrible, and I blame the medical school application process.

The absurdity of medical school tryouts begins with the MCAT, a four–hour test of basic science knowledge and verbal reasoning. Many schools give it as much weight as your cumulative grades. I remember the two weeks before I wrote the MCAT. More specifically, I remember the stomach pains.

They were so bad that I thought I might have an ulcer, but vanished mysteriously the moment that I left the testing room. It’s that stressful. If you’re into schadenfreude, I recommend hanging around the testing centre’s lobby and watching people as they leave. Many come out sobbing, tears streaming down their faces, their hopes dashed (well, at least until the next time they write it). I also had the pleasure of writing the UKCAT, Britain’s answer to the MCAT. It makes the

G RAPHIC BY Boram HAM

18 incite

MCAT seem reasonable by comparison: for example, it dedicates an entire section to matching borderline nonsensical patterns of circles and squares.

The best part by far is the last section, a 100–plus question personality test, featuring questions such as “Stealing is always wrong. Always agree, agree, disagree, always disagree.” Genius.

But the MCAT was only the beginning. Then I actually had to fill out the application forms. To fully understand the application process, you need to think back to high school. Imagine that you have a crush on the captain of the swimming team. (Incidentally, from student council treasurer to class clown, so does just about everybody else.) You are so infatuated with this person—let’s call him Jesse—that you decide to write him a letter confessing your feelings. You include everything about yourself: your favourite bands, colour, and Backstreet Boy; how much you like the smell of his cologne; and how you think that you two would be a perfect match and should get together and start dating and get married and have a bazillion kids.

These things are thorough: one of my applications clocked in at roughly 13 pages (and they rejected me too, the bastards). Five thousand words about why I want to be a doctor. Besides the obvious and unspeakable “I want to make lots of money” and “I like helping people,” there really isn’t very much to say that won’t leave you with a mean case of verbal diarrhoea.

As if that ridiculously long confession wasn’t enough, you get three or four of your best buddies to start subversively dropping hints to the boy about how awesome you are, and how he should totally date you. Yes, I am referring to letters of reference. Asking for them always makes me feel terrible: it makes me feel like I am using these people, and therefore invalidates all the enthusiasm I ever felt for a particular class or activity. And after what feels like an eternity of pleading and writing, it is done.

So you bite the bullet and put the confession into his locker. If the team captain were a medical school admission committee, he would proceed to ignore you for at least a month, probably two or three. Just like 16–year–old boys, medical school admissions committees can be fickle, immature, difficult to please, and may sometimes act in inexplicable ways. In high school, I would consider a guy like that a complete tool. For medical schools, however, such behaviour is normal. While waiting for a response, I dissect every word in every sentence of every essay that I spent weeks writing. I panic that my application is “late” because it wasn’t submitted four months in advance. Everything I have spent the past four years doing—not because of this process, but because that’s just who I am—suddenly seems like crap, and leaves me feeling insufficiently “pre–medical”: not enough experience volunteering in Africa or presenting groundbreaking Nobel– Prize–worthy biomedical research at international conferences. The next thing I know, I am staying up all night waiting for that email, waiting for that interview invite, because this process has effectively

begun to consume my life.

When you get sick of waiting—tired of his endless game of hard to get—the elusive boy might call you up and ask you to the dance. Along with another five girls. (And one of them might even be on the cheerleading squad!) If you’re lucky, you might even end up dating! Or he could make you his back–up girlfriend, in case his first choice dumps him. More scenarios that would make a person look like a complete tool in high school and yet seem perfectly rational in the world of medical school admissions.

But he probably won’t ask you to the dance, and instead you will get the medical school equivalent of the text–message break–up—the snail mail rejection. These should be abolished. Interview invites are almost always sent through email, and, after a certain point, you know that if you haven’t received one yet, you are probably going to get rejected. What kind of twisted person makes you wait for the thin envelope of doom by sending it through snail mail? I guess it adds to the finality of the decision and helps you accept the harsh reality that he is just not that into you. But really, why leave me hanging in the first place? My level of aggression towards these little envelopes is getting worse. My first one ended up in a drawer, the next found itself in the garbage, and the one after that got ripped into shreds almost immediately (it was rather satisfying). At the rate I’m going, I figure I’ll probably rip up the next one, soak it in lighter fluid, set it on fire, and dance around it in a Bacchic frenzy. I think that would make me feel better.

This seems like a cliché, but being rejected hurts—a lot. It’s difficult not to take it personally, because, once you get beyond a certain point, you know that your rejection cannot be based on your grades or your scores. It’s based on some random person’s opinion of your activities, how spiffy your references are, and how much you “want” to be a doctor. You are rejected because of who you are, what you believe in, and whether some stranger thinks that makes you right for the job. It is definitely personal.

Really, this makes the process a lot like America’s Next Top Model. After a certain point, Tyra doesn’t care if a girl takes good pictures, even great pictures. She begins to look for things like “inner beauty,” characteristics that are subject to individual opinion at best, and have no connection to a person’s success in the modeling world. Even though she is a model, her subjectivity leads her to make some questionable decisions: we all remember CariDee’s win. At the end of the day, though, you can succeed in modeling without Top Model, but you can’t become a doctor without getting into medical school.

In many countries, including the Netherlands, they solve this problem by literally turning the process into a lottery. Yes, they accept people into medical school by drawing names out of a hat (well…it’s probably not an actual hat). Applicants with higher grades have more tickets—more chances to get in—but everyone has a shot; it’s actually the luck of the draw. And I don’t think that’s so different from the current North American system. So, dear medical school admissions committees, thanks for everything. You have truly changed my life. And to Jesse…you know who you are: Call me.

Sincerely,

Disgruntled Medical School Applicant

incite 19

Dreading Doomsday Incite asks the burning question, “Are you prepared?”

Cross–Cultural Apocalypse A ncient F orecasts

Views of the

of

the

E nd

While astronomers have calculated that Earth’s distant fate is sealed—it seems inevitable that over the next few billion years a giant asteroid will hit the planet or that the Sun will roast all life away as it becomes a Red Giant—many cultures and religions have concluded that our planet’s time will be up much sooner. Inspired by these mythological accounts of total annihilation, and with the help and credibility of the Internet, we present a brief all–you–can–be–destroyed–by buffet of cross–cultural apocalyptic beliefs.

C hristianity

The word “apocalypse” comes from Greek, meaning “the lifting of the veil.” Christians have long thought that God’s true design will

eventually be revealed to believers, leading to the end of our current world. The Book of Revelation provides a zany romp through this final unveiling, complete with a one–thousand–year reign of the Messiah, Satan running free to test humanity’s sinful nature, fire raining down from heaven, the destruction of heaven and earth, and the creation of a “New Heaven and New Earth.”

There are a number of signs that this end might be coming our way. Catch them early enough and you just might have time to repent and secure an eternal spot in the Kingdom of Heaven. First, be on the lookout for angels. These heavenly messengers are likely to be the early deliverers of God’s final decisions, and paying attention to their communications should alert you to book Judgment Day off work. Take note of the arrival of prospective end–time rulers, i.e. Antichrists, who look like they might end up as the main focus of God’s wrath. A doomsday prince, known

in scripture as “the Beast,” would be best to avoid, making us think that Kelsey Grammer may not want to make an X–Men IV. A few other indicators of this version of our demise include the sight of white, red, black, and pale horses riding together and delivering an unusual amount of strife, war, famine, and death, as well as a sharp increase in earthquakes, killer locusts, bodies of water that turn into blood, and leviathan sightings.

A ncient M aya

A lot of noise is being made about 21 December, 2012, the day that the ancient Mayan long–count calendar brings our era to an end.

This abrupt conclusion has led many a zealous doom and gloom theorist to peg this as the date of our impending destruction. So why is this date taken so seriously? We tend to give our classical Mesoamerican friends a lot of credit, thanks to their highly advanced mathematics and astronomy (perhaps they know something we don’t about giant asteroids). Archaeologists are still unravelling the complexities of this calendar, and in the meantime popular imagination can run wild. Since 2012 is right around the corner, this destruction tale has become associated with current apocalyptic fears of ecological or nuclear disaster. Although the little time the Mayan calendar gives us may be upsetting, those who are depressed by predictions of an apocalyptic winter solstice may take comfort in the fact that they can probably skip Christmas shopping that year.

N orse

G RAPHIC BY B rianne Tulk

20 incite

Not surprisingly, the Viking apocalypse is a particularly bad–ass one. Their version, known as Ragnarök, or “fate of the gods,” follows Odin, Frigg, Thor, Baldr, Tyr, and all our other favourite Norse gods as they battle to the death with giants, wolves, and assorted bad guys known as the Jötnar. Being well–informed, as gods tend to be, the Norse pantheon is well–aware that they are doomed to die in this final fight. They accept their fate and head off with their axes, swords, and hammers to meet the serpents and dragons that will undo them. Ultimately, Odin is devoured by the wolf Fenrir, Freyr is killed (having forgotten his good sword at home), and Thor is poisoned while slaying a grotesque serpent.

Only two humans survive this divine battle, and end up repopulating Earth à la Adam and Eve. Thankfully, this new world is much more righteous and everyone lives happily ever after.

Telltale signs of the coming Ragnarök include the Fimbulvetr or “great winter,” where Earth is hit with a bitter three–year winter as a prelude to the coming battle. Some Canadians may have trouble noticing this sign, so they can also look for the heightened violence and anarchy that will result from global cabin–fever. After this, events become a little more apocalyptic, with monstrous hounds howling, giants bursting from Earth’s crust, armies of the dead roaming Scandinavia, and a great flood as the serpent emerges from the sea.

Overall, though it seems conclusive that the end result won’t be pretty, at least none of these cultures’ apocalyptic hypotheses lack excitement.

Race To the Finish Line

How to Prepare

So where does one go to share tidbits about pickling preserves and fireproofing bomb shelters? Advice on how to prepare is as abundant as the doomsday scenarios themselves and its

G RAPHIC BY B rianne Tulk

This cross–cultural obsession with the end of the world suggests to us that the apocalypse is inevitable, and modern postulations of how the end will come are just as abundant—and no less dramatic (although none of them involve duels with giant serpents). There is diversity even among the contemporary theories as to who or what will be the perpetrator and when it’s going to happen. It might be a slow, destructive process, or it could happen faster than you can say “I knew I should have gone to church last Sunday!”

Earth might experience another Ice Age, there could be a global pandemic or nuclear war that wipes out the entire population, or perhaps a super–volcano will erupt, obscuring the Sun by covering the globe in volcanic ash. There could be a reorientation of Earth’s rotational axis, resulting in massive flooding when the Arctic becomes the equator and the ice caps melt. Climate change could eventually have the same effect, raising temperatures and the sea level along with it. Plant life will die out, and eventually humans will suffocate from the altered atmosphere, starve from lack of food, or simply fry to death.

The apocalypse could be a societal collapse, a degeneration of some sort resulting in deaths, rioting, famine, and maybe cannibalism. Overpopulation and scarcity of resources, particularly oil, could lead to a global battle for the remaining resources. Maybe dysgenics will do us in, a kind of inverted natural selection involving genetic deterioration of the human population. Or humans will discover the secret to immortality, get bored, and opt for mass suicide.

How about cybernetic revolt? What if computers take over? Robots with artificial intelligence and the power to make independent decisions could outsmart humans and decide to seize control. Or, in a scenario termed “grey goo,” molecular nanotechnologists could develop robots that uncontrollably self–replicate and consume all of Earth in the process.

If none of the above gets us first, the Andromeda galaxy will eventually crash into our own Milky Way, as it is currently hurtling towards us at 300 kilometres per second. But you needn’t be too worried, since its ETA is three billion years from now. If the Andromeda galaxy doesn’t work out, in about five billion years the sun will exhaust its hydrogen core and become a Red Giant, which means that things are going to get really hot. All our water will evaporate and the planet will be uninhabitable. There is also the possibility of a comet or asteroid collision, similar to the one theorized to have wiped out the dinosaurs.

Other popular apocalypse theories include Earth suddenly falling into a black hole or being invaded by extraterrestrials. Alternatively, our planet could enter a giant molecular cloud that blocks out the Sun. If the destruction of our planet or galaxy isn’t bad enough, physicists have other theories that would spell the end for the whole universe. The Big Rip hypothesis suggests that all matter will be torn apart due to the expansion of the universe. Alternately, the Big Crunch theory proposes that the expansion of the universe could reverse and space collapse in on itself. In the Big Expansion, galaxies, stars, planets, and everything else floating around in space will get further and further away from Earth. The universe would be dark and empty,

and Earth would be too cold for life. Yet another hypothesis involves the changing of fundamental constants of the universe, numbers such as the mass of a proton, the gravitational constant, or the speed of light in a vacuum.

It’s hard to predict the exact consequences of this, but planets, the Sun, and all matter could explode, liquefy, or crumble to dust.

But who really knows? It is possible that flesh–eating zombies will be the cause of humankind’s decline, or maybe one day everything will just suddenly cease to exist. There is no guarantee the end of the world will be logical, and it might be the result of something we haven’t even considered. That being said, it never hurts to be prepared...

purveyors range from websites to traveling lecturers. Most recommendations are, however, disappointingly meagre, considering the typical grandiosity of forecasts for our destruction. We’re no experts, but a lifetime supply of pickled beets and AA batteries is probably not going to deter the Andromeda galaxy from crashing into us. Despite these deficiencies, we provide you with a sampling of preparatory tips.

The Internet is indisputably the largest source of pre–apocalypse advice. Tales of impending doom and gloom have spawned a community of fear–mongers with MacBooks, who are reaching out to one another in this era of apocalyptic preamble. It seems as if everyone who sat through An Inconvenient Truth or felt ripped off by the Y2K bust has a blog on how best to prepare, despite not knowing which scenario will triumph.

These “how to save one’s butt” blogs are amusing at best and irrelevant at worst. One site, parading under the slogan “How To Do

Just About Everything,” essentially recapitulates the premise of The Bucket List as the chosen method of preparation. The writer suggests making a list of things you’d like to accomplish before the crash. “Travelling the world” is likely to top a few billion lists but won’t be accomplishable if the end of cheap oil spells the end for air travel. And just in case the Norse got it right with Ragnarök, we recommend avoiding Scandanavia.

The cyber freeway, however, will only be effective for communication before the crash, as it’s doubtful we’ll still be online when “it” hits the fan (whatever “it” may be). Makes you wonder whether anyone’s really thought our game plan through. One foreseer who has made a career (and a bestseller) out of thinking about “the crash” and its consequences is Derrick Jensen. Like many, he is concerned about human activity that is expediting the end of civilization and the destruction of the natural world. In his recent talk at McMaster, he noted that those living a lifestyle that precipitates the crash will fight hardest to maintain it until the very end. This rhetoric is captivating but, as Confucius has taught us, theoretical babble is irrelevant without a plan of action. Jensen did provide two seemingly feasible—though arguably unpalatable—items to add to our “Pre–apocalypse To–do List”: mass vasectomies and training in edible native species identification.

A mantra that’s become as commonplace as the anti–consumerism movement is the idea that there are too many people on this planet and that we’re too poorly organized and greedy to sustain them all. This is why Jensen suggests vasectomies. Note that in the spirit of still having fun in our final days, he’s not condoning abstinence. And whereas those trusty bloggers say it’s time to stock up on Spam and condensed milk (keeping kosher is evidently not a priority), Jensen recommends training in identifying native edible species. That way, we will be apt at scavenging our backyards for sustenance when the international food trade proves to be an unsustainable frivolity.

By this logic, we should probably pack up now, stop paying for our exorbitant student rentals, and make a new life for ourselves in Cootes Paradise foraging for berries and nuts.

The Mac Outdoor Club even runs a Wilderness Survival Series about how to make fires in the bush, and Students for a Renegade Society have also begun hosting a monthly “Civilization Support Group” at the SkyDragon Centre downtown so we can come to grips with our pre–apocalypse blues.

There lies a fine line between the entertainment value and tangibility of the postulations.

As soon as we’re convinced by one theory, the next one seems just as, if not more, plausible.

So do we just give up and sit idly dreading our doomsday? Certainly not. It’s safe to say that if a giant asteroid comes for us or if the Earth goes up in flames, we can call it a day. But if Jensen and others have got it right and we are the ultimate deliverers of Earth’s doom, let’s stop pretending we’re just waiting for the Antichrists to show up. But—on an unrelated note—we ordered a bunch of “I survived Satan’s wrath and all I got was this crappy t– shirt” samples if anyone wants one. Who ever said anything against hedging our bets?

By Zsuzsi Fodor, Chris Hilbrecht, Hannah Webb

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Photography by Christa Hirsch

POETRY

COLUMN

MYTHS

A Statistical Anomaly

Dear Readers of the Yukon Journal of Metaphysical Study, It is my woeful duty to announce the death of Professor Maynard Peterson, a statistician at Algonquin College, a one–time contributor to this journal, and my dear friend and colleague.

He passed away on 12 December at the age of 80, due to complications from pneumonia. I call it my woeful duty because Professor Peterson has entrusted me with a remarkable secret from his life, which he requested me to make public here after his death.

He himself introduced this secret to you, the readers of this journal—though he couched it in abstract terms—in his aforementioned contribution, a brief paper published 24 years ago entitled “On the ontology of dreams”. He published another paper two years later in the Annals of Philosophy (Leeds) entitled “The metaphysics of coincidence”. These two works comprise his published oeuvre.

To the average reader, these articles seem like disparate oddities, unlikely outputs from a professor of statistics at a small college. In truth, this is how I initially regarded them.

Professor Peterson never spoke of these papers to me; I found them accidentally, a decade ago, while testing a new journal–searching interface.

After reading the two idiosyncratic essays, I was struck with curiosity. At our next weekly pub night, I pulled him aside and asked him what had motivated him to write them. Asking that question was like pulling a cork from a wine–cask; his story came all at once, and he did not pause until he was finished. I will relate the most salient details here.

ity of every detail in the dream was a wonder to me. He recounted the play of the light breeze on the oak and maple leaves, the smell of the lake as he walked towards the dock, the lightly scented flowers that felt like delicate velvet, and the berries that left scarlet stains on his fingers.

The next night, he continued, he had another dream that seemed to pick up where the previous one had left off. The woman at the end of the dock introduced herself as Patricia, and he introduced himself as Maynard, but did not give his surname (the significance of this detail will be addressed later). They had a pleasant conversation, and again the dream seemed to last about ninety minutes.

My dear friend went on to tell me that the same thing had happened to him every night for the past 34 years. It was always the same lakeside setting, where it was always daytime, and it always began where the last dream had ended. Over the years, he related, he had developed a very deep and intimate relationship with Patricia.

He ended by telling me that, after his fifth such dream, he awoke suddenly with three ideas having simultaneously coalesced in his mind. He was unsure of their provenance, but he assured me that somehow he knew them to be absolutely true. The first truth was that Patricia existed somewhere in the physical world. The second, that she was having the same dreams about him. The third, that it was entirely a coincidence.

Professor Peterson began his story by relating to me a particularly striking dream he had dreamt some 34 years prior. In this dream, he was walking through a forest reminiscent of a lakeside wood he had often visited in his youth.

The dirt path he was slowly following led him to a wooden dock, at the end of which sat a woman. The woman started to turn, but the dream ended before he saw her face. He estimated that the dream lasted about 90 minutes.

Sensing my incredulity at such a set of improbable assertions, Maynard explained to me that he did not believe in the supernatural. It was simply impossible, he had concluded, that some kind of psychical link connected him to his beloved Patricia. As a statistician, he knew very well that the odds of two strangers having a dream about each other every night for so many years were staggeringly slim. But he also knew that the odds were not zero; and, he concluded, when one considered the nearly infinite number of staggeringly improbable situations over all of human history—why, it was not at all unreasonable to expect a fantastic coincidence now and then.

What especially captured my attention was the vivid recollection Maynard seemed to have of this dream from so many years ago. The singular clar-

As I pressed him further, he said that in any event, the odds were not as tiny as it may seem; for after perhaps a year of two people sharing the same dreams, it was not improbable that, given how little we know of human cognition, the possible occurrences in the remaining 33 years’ worth of dreams would be highly constrained.

recounted it to anyone else for fear of being regarded as insane or desperate. Though I admit I was initially sceptical, the conviction with which my colleague held his beliefs convinced me that his dreams were not the product of an insane or desperate mind.

As far as I know, Maynard never tried to find Patricia in the real world.

Perhaps he did not want to undergo any life changes that might have brought an end to his dreams. Maybe he preferred not to engage in a potentially fruitless search that could make his beliefs seem even less probable. Regardless, the search would not be as easy as it seemed, for he had no control over the content of his dreams, and, as alluded to earlier, neither he nor Patricia ever gave the other any identifiable details beyond their given names.

I was at Maynard’s bedside the day that he died. As we said goodbye to each other, he instructed me to relate his story in a letter to this journal, and he told me that he hoped to be able to see Patricia one last time before his passing. With that, he fell asleep. A little over ninety minutes later, he stopped breathing.

As I left the hospital that day, I noticed a family in grief in the room across from Professor Peterson’s, mourning the recent passing of their Aunt Patricia.

Thomas Hladicki Department of Mathematics and Statistics Algonquin College

By Nick Davies

Once he had revealed this to me, we continued to discuss it at length over the course of our friendship, but to my knowledge, he never

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Kensington

Market

Photography By Danielle Giroux

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