Incite Magazine - December 2008

incite 11 | 03 December 2 0 0 8

w

ing

Int

e i v er

ta n a

S

t e n er

t n I he t Is ? r e mb u D

s u g n i k a M

s r e c

a r G

g n di

o r G

L I M P

S A M O A

A R H A A G U L A E L O O T

R O B O T I T A L I C I Z E

A S R O G R E B A S I C S

N E E

T E E S A L

S E O G L R A E R T S O A E R S E S E H S O

S N I P E A P T F R E S H

E S O H S A A P R E A T U D O R S

A M A S S

2 incite B A J A I T A L Y T H Y M E W A S S E A O L L O D Y K E S S E N T E R O S K E E P A L N E T A T B E A T E R R S C S I

Solution to crossword on page 18

T

EDITORIAL

he past couple of years have been the scene of a profound transformation for me. While not quite on par with the disconcerting changes that struck—much too quickly, I might add—during my early adolescence, they have still changed the way I live my daily life. The difference is that this revolution has taken place in the kitchen sink. No longer do I leave last night’s stir-fry remains in the pan, hoping they will get cleaned through some combination of divine intervention and housemate generosity. Pots and pans are scrubbed until glistening with barely a chance to cool from the task of cooking my meals. I have found my domestic calling-dishwasher, a name as clean and pure as the water that flows through the tap in my basement apartment.

This change could be chalked up to my broader transformation into an adult and more socially responsible individual.

After all, washing dishes promptly may be a part of that grown-up moral code we all try to uphold, like holding doors for strangers and making room for the last passenger on the GO Bus. My budding responsibility toward dishwashing could simply be a social growth spurt, driven by the realization that I might soon be leaving university life and have to enter the real world.

While this is certainly a plausible explanation, it’s not one I really find very compelling. There has to be something worth inferring about my cleaning habits, even if its effects are not truly as all-encompassing as I might desire. I’m not the only one, for instance, to have pointed out that dishwashing can mean something more than typical chores.

Last month, Barack Obama said in his first post-election interview that he found dishwashing soothing because its characteristics—manual work providing immediate results—were so different from his life on the campaign trail. If the months leading up to 4 November were an artificial, forced existence for Obama, then dishwashing represented his return, albeit a partial one, to a family life.

Without stretching the point too much, I think a similar situation applies to university students, especially during exam time. Studying and writing papers are exclusively cerebral activities, fraught with uncertainties and lacking a clear path to success; they require work now for payoff later and have a mysterious, intangible quality to them, which persists even after having been turned in. They are everything that dishwashing is not.

When I go to clean my cutlery, I know I can do it quickly, easily, and effectively. I am confident that the cleared countertop I leave behind represents immediate proof

Editing and Production Co–ordinator

Ben Freeman Editors

Muneeb Ansari Nick Davies

Chris Evans Zsuzsi Fodor

Siva Vijenthira Layout Co–ordinator

Yang Lei Graphics Co–ordinators

Chris HIlbrecht Ishani Nath Graphics and Layout

Pouyan Ahangar Kari Beddall

Tings Chak Ava Dideban

Jaclyn Gugelyk Joyce Li

Chiara Meneguzzi

Danielle Pierre Tajana Ristic

McMaster Photography Association Contributors

Daniel Carens-Nedelsky

Melissa Charenko

Jeanette Eby Katherine Georgious

Garnet Johnson-Koehn

Anna Kulikov Teanna Lobo

Kate Logan Raman Nijjar

Hilary Noad Andrew Prine

Will van Engen Hannah Webb

Adira Winegust Mary Yang

Catherine Zagar

Printing

Hamilton Web Printing

of dishwashing’s productive results. Most of all though, dishwashing is the simplest household equation: things were dirty, but with a little effort they have become clean again. It’s this lack of complexity that draws me to dishwashing in the first place.

It’s comforting and soothing because its undergirding transaction always stays the same.

If only the rest of our lives could be so straightforward. The choices we face, as individuals and as a society, rarely present clear paths between right and wrong, good and bad. Even when they do, the eventual results can be so unpredictable that it might have been wiser to simply dispense with a reasoned approach altogether. The current economic crisis, which has spread around the world at a breakneck pace, is just the latest tangible example of this complexity. I still find it hard to fathom that a succession of poor investment decisions in the US nearly bankrupted the whole Icelandic government.

When we look at climate change, arguably the transcendent issue facing our generation, solutions can be complicated or even non-existent. It’s disconcerting to learn that good intentions can be so difficult to translate into action. This last point was driven home to me recently while reading an article about the most environmentally-friendly way to drink coffee. It’s conventional wisdom that

incite

INSIDE FEATURES

Purine Riboswitch - RNA for life

With Me 8 Dance Original Fiction by Daniel Carens-Nedelsky Democracy 10 Renewing Reflections on the American Presidential Election Photos 12 McMaster By the McMaster Photography Association Invasion of the Google Mind-Snatchers 16 Debate: Is the Internet making us stupider?

18 Crossword Know What You’re Doing 22 We Original Fiction by Garnet Johnson-Koehn Dream of Winter 24 First Original Poetry by Catherine Zagar

DEPARTMENTS

4 6 11 14 19 21

Impact Youth Publications 1105 King Street West Hamilton, ON L8S 1L8 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 2008–2009 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.

reusable mugs are better than polystyrene (Styrofoam) or paper alternatives, since the latter will take eons to decompose in landfills, if they do disintegrate at all. But if we look at emissions, which we should if we are concerned about global warming, then the gains for ceramic mugs are almost nil. It takes about the same energy to clean the mug as to create a new polystyrene cup from raw materials. Factoring in the production, this means that a reusable mug could conceivably have a net negative impact on the environment.

Now, I’m not pushing for everyone to re-embrace Styrofoam as the material of the future. But it is a helpful example of how even the simplest of desires—doing what’s best for the environment—can lead us into a quagmire of conflicting yet equally valid proposals. The conundrum suggests, to me, the importance of investigating issues more fully and trying to immunize ourselves from the idealized intonations of corp-speak and greenwashing, which often promise a solution through consumption.

I’ll admit, it’s not a particularly inspiring realization, but inspiration isn’t always what’s needed when trying to make real, durable improvements to the world around us. It certainly isn’t required for dishwashing. All you need to do good there is a sponge, soap, and some running water. Just try not to get me started on the greenest way to clean up after dinner.

Happenings: News from Near and Far Review: Hamilton Grocers Column: Reframing Hamilton Interview: Mall Santas Column: Mac in Time Column: Eat

Cover Art by Kari Beddall

incite 3

Happenings

MINUTES FROM LAST MONTH selected news from near and far

Hatas gettin’ mad cuz i got me some bathin’ apes ukrainian tanks?

inside the bubble Improving education, mega-project at a time

one nanza, don’t worry! There’s a new

The economic downturn might be wreaking havoc around the globe, but you wouldn’t know it from McMaster’s latest Project Status Report, delivered at the December meeting of the University Planning Committee. New Engineering Technology Building set to open a year late at a cost of $48 million?

Check. Sprucing up McMaster’s front entrance for a cool $5 million?

Why not. Granted, those projects were probably planned long before the economy started heading south, but there are even grander projects still in the works. They include the oft-discussed Burlington campus, which comes in at a relatively cheap $28 million—at least compared to the proposed “Centre for Biosciences and Health” and its associated $150 million price tag.

And if you humanities kids are feeling left out of the construction bo-

4 incite

liberal arts building planned, too, which will house the L.R. Wilson Centre for Canadian History and the best overhead projectors and desks $120 million can buy. Will it be enough to reclaim our rightful title as Maclean’s Research University of the Year? Only time will tell. But if the award doesn’t bring students flocking, McMaster can always pull out its big guns—new tennis courts. They’re listed under the “for future consideration” category, an ironic placement considering McMaster paved over its old tennis courts to create additional parking just a few years ago. No word yet on what the price tag for this “new” project will be.

Portraits of the city Hamilton is a city of students, workers, volunteers, families, artists, and countless other human specimens. Photographer Larry

Strung has embarked on a journey to discover 365 of these unique faces. Each day, Strung takes a portrait of a Hamiltonian and publishes it on his website, Hamilton365 (at www.hamilton365.com). With his goal of celebrating Hamilton’s unique population, Strung cycles around the city each day with his camera, searching for those matchless faces on street corners, inside cafes, aboard the HSR, and sometimes even on the McMaster campus. With the year coming to a close, the online album is a great collection to check out, and also a beautiful celebration of Hamilton’s diversity.

McMaster University Press, 2008 Friedrich Nietzsche, never too popular in his own time, had to pay to have his books published through the so-called “vanity press.” Would he be proud of Titles bookstore,

which has just purchased a printon-demand machine? Probably not.

The machine is impressive nonetheless, printing off a 250-page paperback in only five minutes in a test run. It will allow Titles to print material from the public domain, or proprietary material with explicit permission from the copyright owner. At present, that gives it access to a database of over one million titles. The production costs will be comparable to other publishers, allowing Titles to elbow them out in a cutthroat entrepreneurial coup. Students will benefit from faster sourcing times, and the trickling-down of Titles revenue into scholarships and bursaries. What is the first title set to be printed? Brace yourself for the long-awaited 1853 Hamilton city directory, one of the first books printed in the city!

Compiled by Chris Evans, Ben Freeman, and Teanna Lobo.

Ssstrange sssituation Saskatoon, SK—A snake has been found alive and unharmed after being stolen four months ago from the Saskatoon Zoo. The 1.5metre-long royal ball python, affectionately known as “Tickles,” was found recently in one of the zoo’s barns, presumably left there by its captor. Tickles was stolen from his glass cage in August, and was reportedly loaded into a car that simply sped away from the scene. We can only assume that, knowing that a snake the length of a child can get kidnapped so easily from the Saskatoon Zoo, parents will be encouraged to bring their entirely family there during the holidays.

founder Mike Lazaridis, received a boost recently when eminent theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking accepted a position as research chair of the centre.

Beginning this summer, Professor Hawking, will make several visits to Southwestern Ontario.

Hawking is currently the Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge, a position once held

by Isaac Newton, and is most famous for his book A Brief History of Time. Neil Turok, the institute’s director, hopes that this star addition will not only increase the university’s visibility and viability as a major physics research centre, but also promote the growth of Canada’s contributions to physics in the world today.

An intellectual superstar arrives at Waterloo Squeegee square-off Waterloo, ON—The University of Waterloo’s Perimeter Institute for Theoretical Physics, created in 1998 by Research-in-Motion

Edmonton, AB—Gas stations are usually simply places to fill up the tank and gripe about the cost of fuel, but on one particu-

in Canada...

lar night an Edmonton gas station became the scene of a duel, squeegee style. A 38-year-old man was threatened with a knife and ordered to hand over his money, but fled across the street to the gas station and picked up a squeegee for protection. Not to be outdone, his assailant grabbed two other squeegees and began chasing him around the gas station, hitting him at least once. Luckily, the man did not suffer any serious injures and the criminal took off once a bystander intervened.

Police arrived on the scene shortly thereafter and apprehended the assailant a few blocks away.

Facebook fiasco Oshawa, ON—When all else fails, Facebook is a sure way to get in touch with someone. An Oshawa woman and her fiancé who had recently leased a Pontiac Grand Prix learned that the hard way.

Struggling to make ends meet, the couple agreed to a high-inter-

est lease on the car as a way to get to work. After both were laid off and unable to make payments, the company started calling their references and issuing warnings that their family was being watched. This was not enough for the couple, though, who hoped to renegotiate their deal while working new jobs to pay off the outstanding bills. But the leasing company didn’t agree, and instead created two Facebook aliases who become friends with the couple. Those accounts sent out messages to all of their friends, offering cash rewards for any tips that led to the whereabouts of the couple and their vehicle. After much embarrassment, the car was returned and Facebook account deleted. Facebook lurking just reached a whole new level.

Compiled by Katherine Georgious, Teanna Lobo, Raman Nijjar, and Adira Winegust.

...and around the world Aspiring teenage rock stars be- judge’s robes. After refusing to apolo- are perhaps justified and deserving chitect Giorgio Vasari. Surprisingly ware gize for the stunt, each man was fined of their pricey fines, but others, like enough, more than 20 copies have alFort Lupton, CO—In this small town 25 miles north of Denver, police have started cracking down on noise violations committed by teenagers, while also sentencing them to a new creative punishment. The most recent convicts were members of garage band Revolving Reverence, charged with disturbing the peace while performing a concert for the birthday of the lead singer’s father. Instead of letting them pay the usual fine, Judge Paul Sacco, instituted a new punishment: listening to the saccharine tunes of old pop stars. Violators of the noise law must sit in a room for an hour listening to Barry Manilow, Joni Mitchell, and even Barney the Dinosaur songs. Judge Sacco reports that this new punishment has been extremely effective in cutting down the number of repeat offenders, whose fines were usually paid off by their parents.

When asked about the punishment, the members of Revolving Reverence shrugged and hoped they never had to sit through that again.

Crime of fashion SINGAPORE—Three Singaporeans have been jailed and found guilty of contempt of court after arriving at Singapore’s Supreme Court wearing t-shirts depicting a kangaroo in a

$5000 and given between 7 and 15 days in prison. While they have now paid their dues to society, the fashion police have not yet laid any charges.

Kids do the darndest things Cape Coral, FL—A father was charged with child abuse after allowing his nine-year-old son to drive him to the liquor store for his beer run. It was arguably a prudent decision, however, as the father claimed he was too drunk to drive himself. A police officer cut the ride short after witnessing the man’s truck cross over its lane and into the median. The father, Joshua Fagan, claimed he “didn’t do anything wrong.” He had been going through a tough time recently, having lost his job, been divorced by his wife, and forced to take care of their two sons.

It’s unlikely that such an excuse will hold up in court, however.

Sand, surf, and xenophobia Benidorm, SPAIN—In a desperate attempt to reclaim beaches here from an invasion of boisterous British tourists, town hall has enacted new by-laws that prohibit “detrimental” behaviour such as playing ball games, building sand castles, and peeing in the sea.

Some of the regulations, which prohibit fishing and red flag swimming,

charging €150 for in-sea urination or €750 for sex on the beach (only about $1200 at the current exchange rate!) are hardly fair. Although predictably European, these absurdities are really just a sad indicator of unchecked expansion of the tourist sector in Benidorm and the rest of the Mediterranean. But How do they plan to enforce these rules? With the help of the sex/sand-castle Special Forces and the pee-police, of course!

Doubles as a nice paperweight New York, NY—Maybe books at Titles are slightly overpriced, but the tome that arrived in November via business class from Italy was billed at more than 200 times the average McMaster student’s book list. Now the most expensive book available for purchase in the world, Una Dotta Mano (The Learned Hand), is valued at well over US$100 000. The 62pound tome depicts the life and work of Michelangelo and is, for the most part, hand crafted by Italian artisans.

The extravagant work is made of marble and bound in handmade red silk, made by the same shop that created the main stage curtains at the Metropolitan Opera. The book is filled with photographs of Michelangelo’s drawings and sculptures and the text is written by Italian painter and ar-

ready been sold, while the copy that arrived in New York was a library donation.

Ahoy! Dangers on the Somalian coast SOMALIA—Pirates have taken up their pillaging on the eastern coast of Africa near Yemen and Somalia, directing their attacks at oil tankers and other merchant ships. These Somali buccaneers are not harming passengers or the ship’s cargo, except by holding both ransom until they receive adequate payment. Heavily armed, they launch high-speed boats from larger ships in order to ambush unsuspecting vessels. The UN believes that pirates in the area have earned US$25-30 million in ransom in the past year and has placed four warships as deterrence for future attacks. Many ships are now undergoing expensive rerouting costs in order to avoid these random assaults. Insurance costs are rising as a result, and even cruise ships have been letting off passengers to avoid these troubled waters.

Compiled by Katherine Georgious, Anna Kulikov, Teanna Lobo, Raman Nijjar, and Adira Winegust.

incite 5

REVIEW

I

Shelf Life

Hilary Noad and Hannah Webb Review Hamilton Grocers, On and Off the Beaten Path

t is not often that people from all different walks of life can come together in one place.

In our early schooling, our peer groups were composed of all sorts of people, but by the time we reached university there had been a selection process, and only those with the necessary motivation, as well as financial and intellectual reserves, were able to continue. Now, it is rare to have an experience involving an accurate cross section of the population. Food, however, is something everyone has in common. We need food to survive, and we are all driven to obtain nourishment.

While some people grow their own food, the large majority of us go to the grocery store, regardless of our lifestyle or socio-economic class. In some ways, grocery stores as an institution are a social equalizer – an experience everyone has and a place where everyone goes.

But not all grocery stores are created equal. They carry different products and cater to different people, allowing them to stick to their own social class and identity, if they so choose. Hamilton offers a lot of variety in grocery store and lifestyle choice, many within reach for McMaster’s student population.

has a European tinge, particularly in the drink section. You can tell it’s going for the “gourmet” grocery store label – the dead giveaway is the many weird combinations of sweet and savoury for sale.

While noting down such unusual ingredients as sea asparagus, fennel pollen, and cuttlefish ink, we were approached by a small old woman who first demanded to know what we were writing, and then proceeded to tell us the history of the store. It was started 94 years ago by the Picone family, and four generations later is still the family business. She is the wife of a second generation Picone (although never told us her name), and said their whole family is very food oriented – her son is apparently a chef who used to be on television. Meeting her made only made us like the store more. Picone’s may seem pretentious, with its emphasis on fancy packaging and esoteric foodstuffs, but it is, at its heart, a store run by people who love food and want to caringly provide items unavailable elsewhere. The woman described Picone’s as a “destination store,” and she is exactly right. A person doesn’t go to Picone’s

Horn of Plenty is a little messier, a little more relaxed, and much more family-oriented. It has a different target market: more organic, less gourmet, and somewhat less upscale. The words “vegan,” “gluten-free,” and “flax” seem to come up a lot, appearing on packages and signs. There is an abundance of juice. Brown paper packaging somehow makes products feel more organic and natural. Even the pre-packaged foods seem organic and healthy. This store is exciting, too, but in a different way. There are so many types of crackers, so many types of oils, so many exciting things neither of us have tried. We admit to each other that we both really enjoy this: walking around a grocery store and not actually shopping, just looking and lapping up what is available.

The Horn of Plenty is a lifestyle store. They sell more than food; they sell an environmentally-conscious attitude through all-natural shoes, EarthSafe paper plates, and compostable bags.

They are even capitalizing on the “new age” crowd with their sale of “chakra bars”. The store’s message is that their customers respect themselves and the world they inhabit by eating natural or-

Picone’s

for their regular groceries. It is a special occasion and hard-to-find-ingredient store. We may not be able to afford its products, but it is exciting nonetheless.

ganic foods and decreasing their impact on the environment.

$5 gets you: Well, nothing we could find, but $8.99 gets you an on-sale bottle of Vilux Vinaigre à la Figue (Fig Vinegar), Product of France.

Fortinos

34 King Street West (in Dundas) Picone’s is a beautiful grocery store. Everything is carefully and deliberately selected for the displays, which are lovingly and thoughtfully organized. They don’t offer a lot, which makes the items they do offer seem somehow more special.

The packaging is always classy and we get the feeling we can’t afford to do more than look. But at least looking is pleasing. “Further reason to get a high-paying job and gun to check out of society early so I can just eat,” as Hilary said. The store

6 incite

The Horn of Plenty

24 King Street West (in Dundas) While everything is “just so” at Picone’s, The

$5 gets you: A package of sushi nori.

50 Dundurn Street South, 1579 Main Street West, and other locations Simply stepping into Fortinos is an intense experience. We both pause and linger in the entryway, overwhelmed by the colours, displays, and abundance of food. We have been to Fortinos

many times before of course, but never with such a focus on the experience and feelings the store provoked. It is clean, shiny, and bright. The attention to marketing in Fortinos is strong: customers are welcomed by a barrage of advertisements, signs, and recommendations, telling you to buy this or buy that, and see over here, such a good deal! They really try to get you when you first arrive – the entrance is packed with novelty items, encouraging you to make an impulse buy.

What distinguishes Fortinos is quantity—piles and piles of things to buy, innumerable signs, and coloured packages. It feels almost self-indulgent to walk around and look at all the stuff in Fortinos.

Compared to the careful placement and display of Picone’s, the shelves are completely stocked and filled to overflowing. It feels, to us, luxurious and abundant. Fortinos has a totally different marketing strategy too; the store displays overwhelm you and encourage you to buy something, anything. And not because that item is unique or special, like at Picone’s, but because there is just so much here to be purchased.

Fortinos offers its clientele choice. A Fortinos customer can purchase food that it as healthy as what is available at The Horn of Plenty, but they can also buy all the junk food and candy they can afford (or stomach). It tries to appeal to everyone with a wider variety of products, which venture beyond typical foodstuffs; there are cleaning supplies, toiletries, kitchen appliances, tools, home entertainment systems, wine, and even a café. Everything you could want, all in one place.

tic, ice-packed display of whole fish (no sneeze guard), self-serve tanks of shellfish, and dim, slightly green tanks inhabited by huge crabs and several species of fish, including some extremely morose tilapia. The meat experience here is upfront and visceral, and we are reminded, much more than at other grocery stores, that meat is meat and it comes from animals. There is a lot that we find intriguing and unrecognizable including multiple vacuum-packed products, and a few bags of chicken feet.

In terms of value, selection, and general appeal, the tea section is the best we’ve found so far, while the flavouring section carries products that we have not seen before, such as dried orange rind and many varieties of dried mushrooms. The fresh produce at S&S is not as abundant as at a big supermarket, and a lot of it is rather limp, but it includes such exotica as purple yams, fresh galangal, daikon, and more. There is a different aesthetic to this store—the colours are different, the packaging has a different style—but the only things we weren’t willing to try were the unappetizing baked goods. We could easily buy a week’s worth of groceries here without picking anything we have eaten before. Perhaps best of all, the prices are among the lowest of all the grocery stores we visited.

$5 gets you: Thirty-six quail eggs.

Metro (formerly known as The Barn)

845 King Street West Next we come to a store with a bit of an identity crisis. Over the entryway hangs a temporary “The Barn” sign. The store is currently undergoing a rebranding, and the new colour scheme, predominantly based in shades of brown, is a bit of a shock for anyone used to the fresh, bright green of The Barn. Has the store begun to decay? Actually, through the strategic use of lighting and decorative tiles, the inside of the store manages to suggest “big urban boutique grocery store” at first. Unfortunately, the upscale atmosphere is lost when we remind ourselves that the products on offer are basically the same as at Fortinos, (Minus President’s Choice, of course). The display cases are fancier, though.

S & S Supermarket

103 Locke Street South Upon entering S&S Supermarket, we are hit by a strong odour. Strongly fishy, backed up by ammonia and notes of exotic spices and other things we can’t identify, the smell is almost overwhelming, but soon fades as we get used to it. It’s worth enduring— S&S is a fantastic hybrid of a “regular” supermarket and, for want of a better description, Chinatown.

While Fortinos and the Barn have sneezeguarded seafood displays of neatly trimmed fillets and tidy piles of crustaceans, alongside small, well-lit tanks of perky trout, S&S has a gigan-

$5 gets you: 5 x five bagels for one dollar!

The pickles… We chose pickles as the basis for a price comparison – firstly, because pickles are delicious and secondly, we figured they are pretty ubiquitous. We found that not only did the prices vary from place to place, but so did the variety, abundance, and packaging. There was a small selection of tiny, beautifully packaged jars at Picone’s, while Fortinos characteristically contained bountiful rows of brands, types, and sizes.

S & S Supermarket only had one type of pickles, but all kinds of other pickled items, including lotus root.

Picone’s: Cornichons Extra Fins Au Vinaigre $6.49 Horn of Plenty: Bubbie’s Pure Kosher Dill Pickes $5.99 (and twice the size of the jar at Picone’s) Fortinos: 1L Bick’s Pickles Yum Yum $3.67 (bigger again, so an even better deal) The Barn/Metro: 1L Bick’s Yum Yum, $3.99 on special (the same jar as at Fortinos, but more expensive despite being on sale); 375mL Equality brand gherkins, $1.49 on special S & S Supermarket: 375mL Pickled Gherkins, $1.29 Hamilton Farmer’s Market: 1.5L German baby dill pickles, $4.25 (Multinational Bakery).

$5 gets you: A single-serving size of President’s Choice Southwest Chicken & Corn Chowder

$5 gets you: Four tins of flavoured tuna, or a Muskoka Fireplace DVD featuring “15 Jazz & 10 Acoustic classic holiday songs”!

purchase some Jona Gold apples as a result of asking the lady at Fleetwood Farms for advice on finding a crisp variety of apple. In addition to the many stalls selling fruits and vegetables, we find vendors hawking products ranging from British baked goods to Mennonite sausages, seafood to locally-raised beef, organic soup chickens to extra-jumbo double-yolk eggs. There are several bakeries, too, and at least two places that sell prepared Indian food. It would take several visits to fully appreciate all that the Hamilton Farmers’ Market has to offer. This was probably our favourite place. The Market is exciting to us – the fresh fruits and vegetables promise many a delicious meal and gathering to come.

G RAPHIC BY TINGS CHAK

Hamilton Farmers’ Market

55 York Boulevard Finally we arrive at the Hamilton Farmers’ Market. What a contrast to the other places we visited! The produce at The Horn of Plenty may be organic, but its sources are unknown to the shopper. At the Market, though, we find all sorts of seasonal produce grown and sold by local farmers. Winter vegetables, such as squash, turnips, carrots, and other roots are especially good right now. (Not all veggie stalls sell local, however. When in doubt, ask). At Fortinos, we avoided human contact by using a self-checkout system, but it is practically impossible, not to mention a wasted opportunity, to try to avoid interacting with salespeople at the Market. We

We’re lucky, and we know it.

We can go to the grocery store and pick out our food with ease. We have the freedom of choice to buy almost anything we want. The problem, as pointed out by environmental activist Derrick Jensen, is that we easily forget about the connection between the environment and our grocery stores.

On some level, we know that our food is grown and raised, but in our day-to-day lives, all we see is that our food comes from the grocery store. When we hear about the destruction of the environment, it seems far away and we often aren’t motivated to act for real change. If we were to hear about the destruction of our grocery stores though, we would be up in arms. We are short sighted in that we see grocery stores as the source of our food, when what we should be concerned about is the state of our shared environment. We must search for sustainability, so that the earth can continue to provide the food to fill our grocery stores.

incite 7

FICTION

Dance with Me A

s my feet move in time to the warm sound of the violins, I bemusedly wonder about the events that led to this moment. Everyone, myself included, is dressed to kill in outfits that would not be out of place in 18th-century England. I am at a cotillion, where my cousin Amy is being formally presented to society. I fought my parents on the matter of my appearance, but they trumped me with the “Family Gathering” card and I could not refuse. I find the whole scene sickening, from the outdated table manners to arcane etiquette, but who am I to judge California’s ruling upper class?

A middle-class American with a B. A. in English, unsure of who he is, much less what he wants to do with his life. Here I am in a room with some of the richest, best-connected and most powerful people in all of America, and I have the audacity to judge them and their stupid ball. Clearly they know something I don’t, as many of these people have more money at this very moment than I am likely to accumulate over the course of my entire life.

Perhaps I should explain properly how I ended up here. Having recently obtained my B. A. from Berkeley College (thanks to a large scholarship), I found myself with a sickeningly large amount of free time on my hands, and a shocking lack of direction in my life.

Should I go back to graduate school and become a professor? Perhaps try my hand as a journalist? Maybe even switch careers altogether and go to law school? There to rescue me from an immediate decision was my mom Alison. Her niece is making her entrance into society at a debutante ball, causing the whole of her family to gather for the momentous occasion.

Why is my aunt part of the upper class, while I’m from Middle America? The obvious answer would be that my aunt married into wealth, but actually it’s the other way around.

Mom fell for Dad in college and escaped from the clutches of the California elite she was born into. She made her way into the middle class married to an English teacher, while working as a history teacher herself. She had been in medical school, but realized that it was not for her once she met Dad. She had me and my younger brother Eric (who is at

8 incite

the moment whirling about enthusiastically with a rather attractive girl in a green dress, who is perhaps a shade too young for him).

Unable to deny my mom the chance to show off her Berkeley graduate, I put up only a minor fight about the matter of my appearance, borrowed a tuxedo, and prepared to have a glance at the life Mom gave up for Dad. After being properly groomed by Mom, our family arrived at the ball and took part in the bizarre ritual that supposedly prepares the next generation for life in the upper echelon. After a delicious, but depressingly scant, supper—during which I’m sure I drew more then a few scandalized looks for mixing up my salad and desert forks—the ball began.

Each new debutante was presented to society while I clapped at their flawless, though somewhat heartless, dancing. My cousin’s turn came and went, and I found my attention wandering. All the girls being presented to society were too young to be of any interest to me, and I found myself looking around for someone, anyone, who was close enough to my age to have a mature discussion and perhaps a dance with. When I found her I knew I was doomed. Long blonde hair cascaded down her pale face and ended in elegant curls. Her dress, a deep ocean blue, was simple and yet had more character than any of the other confections of sequins and ruffles.

I was so awestruck I didn’t even catch myself describing her hair as cascading, something which my English professor would surely have murdered me for.

She, too, was glancing around, clearly as bored with the proceedings as I was.

Our eyes caught for a brief moment and she gave me a small, ironic smile, and then let her gaze sweep past me. I looked away shyly and thoughts of her danced through my head while the rest of the debutantes were being presented. When the presentations were finished and the general dancing began, I stayed in my seat, daydreaming about her. I did know how to dance, having been sent to lessons by my mom. It was one upper class ritual that she felt actually had some value, and I rather enjoyed it. I longed to get up and walk over to the beautiful girl to ask her for dance, but I knew I never would. After an opening foxtrot, a lively waltz started. To

my astonishment, she was there before me, in all her stunning radiance. She simply said, “Dance with me.” I was swept off my seat and slowly rotating with her in my arms before I knew what had happened.

So, that’s how I arrived at this moment.

My mood however, has changed, and I am beginning to rethink my earlier opinion of cotillions. After all, where else but at a cotillion would I end up in such close contact with the angel who is my partner? We have not shared any words since her undeniably seductive invitation to dance, but subtle exchanges have been made through our body language. I am pleased to find her a good dancer, fully able to keep up with me as we twirl about the large, brightly lit dance floor. The beauty of the waltz is not in its basic steps, which anyone can master in minutes, but in the variations that you make on them. It turns the simplest of movements into the glorious spinning motion that draws the eye and makes the dancers look as if they are walking on air. I can tell she is as pleased by my proficiency as I am with hers, and we soon gain the attention of many as we practically fly around.

I feel each downbeat of the music, as the unceasing one two three, one two three, carry our feet forward and back. Without conversation, my mind is free to flow from one subject to the next as easily as our feet slide about the floor. At first I begin to take in everything I can about my partner. Her blue dress is rather simple as I said before, but it is brought to life as we spin around. The edges fly up at times, revealing part of her legs, and encourage me dance all the more exuberantly in the hope of revealing more.

Like her dress, everything about her is understated. Only the faintest hint of blush can be seen, her lips appear to be their natural delicate pink, and her vivid green eyes have the barest application of eyeliner. I see myself reflected in those bright, forest green eyes, and realize I have never felt such a strong rush of emotions. At the moment I am torn between giddiness, nausea, intense attraction, mortal fear, and utter amazement that I am actually dancing with this beauty.

Looking deeper into her eyes I begin to fantasize about what a life with her would be like. I imagine I would try to make it as a pro-

By Daniel Carens-Nedelsky fessor for the job security, starting graduate school immediately and perhaps financing myself with some freelance journalism. She would hardly be a stay-at-home mom, probably a high-powered lawyer. Our relationship would be fiery and passionate at first, the kind where one can barely stand to part from the other in the morning. As time went on the flames would die down, but a more durable love would rise from the ashes. We would both be very engaged with our careers and find it hard to make time for each other, but every Sunday night would be movie night: we would watch a movie, just the two of us, and fall asleep in each other’s arms. A hopeless romantic, I would always want to watch romantic comedies, while she would insist that we watch the latest Die Hard.

After a year and half, I would casually mention the idea of marriage. I would pretend to be nonchalant, but really I would know that the rest of my life depended on her response.

She would see right through my feigned indifference, and we would be married in a few months. Three and half years later our first child, David, would be born. His conception would be the result of a night of a little too much gin and not quite enough tonic, but he would be the best thing that ever happened to us. I would be close to finishing my Ph.D at that time and she would be starting in a law office—our finances would be strained for a few years. Life would be difficult but rewarding, and watching David grow would bring a smile of amazement to my face with every new thing that he learned.

Three and half years after David would come Patrick. He would be planned and our financial situation would be more stable at this point, I being an assistant professor, and she being more established in her firm. At times I would be bothered that she made more money than me, but I would get over it.

David would at first be jealous of the attention that Patrick would get, but in time they would become very close.

Claire, the daughter my wife always wanted, would be our final child, coming four years after Patrick and two months before we decided to move to a bigger house. Time would fly and soon David would hit his teens, I would become a full professor, and my wife

would burn out at her job and start teaching at Claire’s elementary school. Watching our children grow would always bring a smile to my face, and the years would pass in a happy daze until one by one our children left the house to find their own way in life. Finally

G RAPHIC BY JaCLYN G UGELYK

after 62 years of sometimes strained, often difficult, yet always rewarding marriage, I would die peacefully in my sleep two years after a near fatal heart attack. She would outlive me by a few years, but people would say she had lost half of herself when I died.

I imagine this beautiful vision for the future, all the while whirling around the dance

floor. What thoughts passed through her mind I will never know, but I do know that I wish the dance will never end. As the music reaches a crescendo I spin her around in an improvised move and watch as she gracefully pirouettes and returns to my arms. I want the life that I have just seen. I want it even more than I want to take this girl home and undress her. Never, never, have I felt an emotion as strong as my need to make that wonderful vision a reality. I know that all I must do to take the first steps on that path is to ask for her number when the dance ends. Hell, I could just ask for her name and find out who she is from one of my relatives.

The music comes to a beautiful conclusion while the war inside me continues in full swing. All I need to do is say a few simple words. Nothing suave, nothing clever, just, “That was amazing. Can I ask you your name?” Words are supposed to be my specialty; I spent the last fours years of my life dissecting them. Why have they abandoned me at this crucial moment? Why can’t I get myself to say a single syllable? As the last chord fades from the air, I let go of her, too much of a coward to say anything. She whispers a simple “thank you” and pauses for moment, as if waiting for me to say something. I stare again into those perfect eyes and my throat closes, unable to pass air much less words. With a slightly crestfallen look she turns and walks away, bright hair bobbing with each step, to quickly disappear into the crowd.

I stand there frozen for few seconds, until the lively pulse of a tango wakes me from my reverie. I rush between the moving bodies to reach my seat, where I collapse in relief. I begin to search frantically for the mysterious woman who has captured my heart, but I cannot find her. Even as my head jerks at every flash of blue I see, I know that even if I find her, it won’t matter. The wonderful vision of my future with her collapsed at the moment I failed to say something. A split second, and an entire lifetime of possibilities disappeared in the blink of an eye. I missed my chance and I know it. I try to tell myself that it was just a daydream, that even if I had gotten her number nothing would have come from it, but I know that for the rest of my life I will be tormented by that tantalizing what if.

incite 9

PERSPECTIVE

Renewing Democracy:

Reflections on the American Election

by Nick Davies

J

ust over a month ago at our home in Westdale, my housemates and I hosted a small party on the night of the American presidential election.

Gathering around the television, we equipped ourselves with an authentic Obama-Biden sign (stolen from an Ohio lawn), a magnum of the finest champagne 10 dollars could buy, and a case of aptly-selected President’s Choice lager. Obama backers all, our spirits were buoyed by the Democrats’ recent swell in support. We watched anxiously as the earliest ballot counts trickled in, but before long, it was obvious that Barack Obama would win the election.

When CNN called the election, everyone let out cheers. The champagne cork popped, and we raised our glasses to the health of a new America. We watched the victory speech at Grant Park with real hope for renewal on the global political scene. And when we saw the imposing plates of bulletproof glass on either side of the President-elect, we got a little nervous.

Thankfully, the barriers proved to be unnecessary.

But the possibility of one deranged lunatic halting an entire social movement just by squeezing a trigger distressed me. It got me thinking about what would happen without Barack Obama—or what would have happened had he never run for president at all. I wondered how the hopes of so many people could be invested in one man.

At first, I became sceptical. No individual really has the power to set the course of the whole planet, I thought.

There are too many vested interests, pockets of resistance, and complexities for one person to matter that much.

And if the Democrats hadn’t found Barack Obama, someone else would have taken his place. Then I remembered how the last president drastically changed the global political discourse with a little misguided intelligence and some smooth manoeuvring in Congress. Bush may have had his retinue of master architects helping him make the decisions he did, but ultimately that devastatingly wasteful war came from one authority.

And I can’t honestly say that it was only Barack Obama’s platform, rather than his personality, that was responsible for winning the presidency for the Democrats. The US election really was one man winning the keys to a very powerful office.

Obama may have a harder time establishing his policies than Bush did, given that he’s inheriting an America quite different from that of eight years

10 incite

ago, with an economy in ruins and an evaporating mandate as the world’s foremost economic and military power. But the fact stands that this one man has both ultimate authority and very strong support in the two houses of Congress.

I don’t want to imply that the situation is much different here in the north. Of course, the election of our leaders comes with less serious global repercussions.

G RAPHIC BY CHrIS H ILBRECHT

And the Canadian election wasn’t nearly interesting enough to justify throwing a party. This is hardly surprising when one considers this year’s crop of serious candidates, which I believe is best described by two words: slim pickings.

Stephen Harper can get anyone’s pulse racing, but more from unease than excitement. Jack Layton’s best feature is his well-groomed moustache. And the only fresh face in the bunch, Stéphane Dion, doesn’t exactly have the eloquence of Barack Obama. This lack of options would be less of a problem if we didn’t have to rely on our Prime Minister so much. But even in Canada, power is vested in a ridiculously small number of people, making choosing between a handful of politicians who have been wheeling and dealing on the political scene their whole lives seem like not much of a choice at all.

Across North America, there is very little real democracy in governance. It’s been said time and time again: electing one person every few years to represent the will of all citizens, often without even the support of the majority, and then standing back

and giving him total control until the next election, is hardly rule “by the people, for the people.”

Obama’s election has convinced me that a workable alternative is on the horizon, but not because of his political agenda, nor because I expect the Democrats to sweep into Washington and cleanse the streets of Republican decadence.

To me, Obama’s victory was a sign of a nascent shift in democracy, one in which a new generation of voters are ready to take matters into their own hands. My initial fear was that once Obama was elected, his con- stituency would decide that they had done their part for the next four years and go on expecting someone else to change the world for them. But I don’t think this is likely anymore. And I thank the Internet for it.

The widespread use and decentralized nature of Web publishing has made it much easier for a meaningful political discourse to emerge from young people. Unlike when dealing with the corporate-controlled media, you needn’t have earned your keep through years of ambitious power-seeking to get your voice heard. Our generation has become accustomed to global connectivity. And we are increasingly demanding that this connectivity extend just as readily to 24 Sussex Drive and 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

I sit on the Student Representative Assembly, the governing body of the McMaster Students Union. I’m sorry to report that even on this much smaller scale, we still have a lot of work to do when it comes to addressing the real concerns of our constituents. Luckily, the decisions the SRA makes aren’t quite as world-altering as those made by the American president, but you might be surprised at how little of what we discuss at the Assembly is readily identifiable as a primary concern for students. It’s not that we don’t try, but when you have a model of government that has little space allocated for addressing the needs of its constituents, it’s easy to get caught up in pettier issues. Still, perhaps the shortcomings of our less-than-perfect Students Union can be regarded as an opportunity for a new kind of democracy. Better governance has to start somewhere.

In my opinion, change is coming, and it’s much broader than the refreshing political goals of one American man who just happens to have been elected to the most powerful office in the world.

But it isn’t going to come from the top down; it’s going to emerge from the changing expectations of a more engaged electorate. By its very nature, this transformation must be the shared responsibility of voters. And this generation of voters is better equipped to engender such a change than any other generation has been. But can we pull through and demand to be heard? The answer isn’t “only time will tell,” because we have no one to rely on but ourselves. The answer is something both more optimistic and more challenging: “Yes we can.”

COLUMN

Reframing Hamilton

By Jeanette Eby

On Listening “Patience means to enter actively into the thick of life and to fully bear the suffering within and around us... To enter our lives with open eyes, ears and hands so that we really know what is happening. Patience is a willingness to be influenced even when this requires giving up control and entering into unknown territory.” – Henri Nouwen

O

n a rainy Saturday in November, I attended a conference at the Freeway Coffee House made up of 20 or so people of diverse ages and backgrounds, but who had gathered to learn from each other about what it means to cultivate community. The first session was called “Listening.” The first thing we did, after listening to a passage, was to reflect on it and share our insights and questions with a partner. My partner had to actively listen to me for two minutes while I spoke, without saying anything and I had to do the same for her. We then had to relay what our partners said back to the larger group.

Such a simple exercise proved to be challenging. I wanted to jump in and offer my own thoughts while my partner was speaking, almost as if I wanted her to recognize and believe in what I had to say.

It is hard to listen without an agenda and be with another person on their terms. It is challenging but ever-important. Each day, my experiences and interactions reinforce the fact that everyone wants to be listened to. We may be good at asking questions, but often we are not so good at waiting for the answer and being truly open to whatever comes our way.

Authentic listening is an act of the heart. It involves patience because when you listen, you give up control over a person or situation and you allow yourself to be taken into a story you are unfamiliar with. Listening is not something you schedule into your day or add to your checklist, as something you can accomplish. Listening is never accomplished; it is ongoing, which makes it so wonderful and yet so difficult. It involves reciprocity and care, and most importantly, it involves openness to the “other.”

Openness to people who we think are quite different than us, whom we may not normally consider, but who indeed have a lot to offer.

Over the summer, I was a part of Photovoice Hamilton, a project initiated through the Community Centre for Media Arts that engaged 38 young artists with Hamilton to find their own voice and share it with the community through photography.

Photovoice was one opportunity for these youth to expose and discuss issues they face, and to show people what inspires and motivates them. They could highlight both the joy and the pain of what it means to be a young person in the city, as individuals who may be misunderstood or disregarded by the mainstream population.

The Photovoice launch, which was when the photos and reflections of the youth were displayed for the community to see, was an intense, overwhelming, and inspiring event. There were images of friends and families, images of hope and loss, images of favourite natural and urban spaces in Hamilton. Through the program, three young men created a rap music video, using Hamilton’s graffitied walls, alleyways, and Bayfront as their backdrop. The song was about what it was like for them to grow up facing all kinds of violence and injustice. It was raw and honest and moved everyone in that room, regardless of their background or preconceptions. The event reminded me how listening is of the utmost importance if we want to challenge ourselves to live compassionately and in a way that lets people discover their own worth. It takes a lot of courage to speak the truth, to resist injustice and to say the things that the dominant culture does not want to hear. It also takes courage to listen, to challenge your own assumptions and see places and people with new eyes.

The day after handing in my final essay for this term, I had the privilege of attending a rousing and provocative lecture by Canada’s own John Raulston Saul. He described Hamilton as the “quintessential Canadian city,” a place of contradictions, complexities, and with unsettled questions. We are dealing with a unique geography, an injured landscape, and a vibrant but unfortunate history. We are one of the most culturally diverse cities in the country; we also have one of the highest poverty rates in the province. We are in the midst of negotiating our history,

restoring our relationship with each other and the land, and living comfortably with our differences.

Mr. Saul talked about the Aboriginal circle as a model for Canadian citizenship and history, like a circle that continuously flows and that can always expand to include different people. As he explained, “citizenship has no beginning and no end.” It does not mean we have “settled” our differences, or that we completely understand each other, but nonetheless represents a willingness to live with that dynamic of difference and allow it to impact who we are as people. I cannot help but draw a parallel between listening and this circular model of citizenship. Listening implies an endless call to hear and be heard, to be influenced by the unfamiliar, and perhaps find your own voice in the process.

I do not know if this is a student mentality, a North American mentality, or a universal mentality, but I know that there is this widespread desire and perceived need to be “useful.” We want to do important things, we want to “help,” and we want to solve problems. But sometimes, the most appropriate thing to do is to simply be with people and listen.

Listening always matters. And here, what matters most is the act, not the outcome. So much of Photovoice was about the process: the youth sharing their stories with each other, with adults, with the community; learning to listen to themselves, each other, and their home place; and relaying that message through photography. Photovoice is about listening to the youth who are here, right now, and who have something to share with us. It is about expanding our circle to include their voices–or maybe, entering into their circle and being involved in what they have to offer.

Listening will not “solve” the many issues that diverse youth in Hamilton face. It will not save the world. Listening is not easy. But to truly live for and with others, deep listening must be a part of our lives. It cannot be something we only occasionally have time for. It must be ongoing. We not only listen to people; we can listen to ideas, to cities, to art, and to nature. It is not limited to our ears, but also involves our eyes and our hearts.

incite 11

12 incite

PHOTOGRAPHY

McMaster Photography Association

incite 13

INTERVIEW

Checkin’ Him Twice Chris Hilbrecht and Andrew Prine revisit Santa Claus(es) across Hamilton

I

t had been years since either of us had communicated with him, our last cherished Canada Post form-letter having arrived from the North Pole back when Pogs and Pokémon were still must-haves, but when the editors of Incite put out the call for writers willing to interview Santa Clauses at malls around the city, we jumped at the chance to revisit our old childhood friend.

After discussing how to best approach this piece, it became evident that we would have to tread lightly around Kris Kringle. If we lampooned him or were too ridiculous (“Are any of your elves named Legolas?”) we ran the risk of an eternity of relegation to the naughty list, but if we were too uptight and academic (“Santa, how would you respond to accusations that the patriarchal motifs inherent to the notion of ‘Father Christmas’ simply enforce the phallogocentric, heteronormative dominant culture that is currently in place?”) we might miss out on the magic of speaking with such a beloved childhood figure. A fine balance was required. We didn’t really know what to do, so in fine Incite fashion we boldly set out unprepared. Pen and paper in hand, we hitched a ride aboard the HSR and headed off in search of Santa.

Lime Ridge The first Santa we visited answered questions with the artful ambiguity of a seasoned holiday figure. Jolly, wise, and a little bit mysterious, we thought he’d make a great psychotherapist, considering the feelings of warmth and contentment we experienced after just a few moments of his time.

Knowing that Santa’s busy schedule would allow us only a few minutes to work our journalistic magic, we wanted to prepare for the interview well in advance. Unfortunately, the bus ride out to Lime Ridge proved too brief for this kind of mental preparation, so we decided to check out his digs. Stalling and taking notes about his thoroughly pimped-out set-up—a rich red sleigh-shaped throne surrounded by 10 Christmas trees, a large mechanically rotating snowman, glittering lights, several model reindeer, and a parliament of elves (both bearded and cleanshaven), the whole of which was fortified using three rows of crowd-controlling fence (Santa would be quite comfortable in a riot) —we were noticed by some of his helpers.

As two of Incite’s sketchier-looking reporters, we were used to the displeased glares of retail staff whenever we go shopping, but we weren’t expecting this kind of suspicion from Santa. Thankfully, after a short explanation of why we were lurking near the display and a quick phone call up to Santa’s manager (God, presumably), we were given

14 incite

the go-ahead, just so long as we didn’t take any pictures. Seated facing the plump bearded elf with a helper by his side, our reintroduction to Santa Claus began.

Incite: Santa, it’s good to see you again; it’s been a while. We want to ask you a few questions just to get to know you a bit better and to find out your opinion on a few issues.

Santa: By all means.

Incite: First, the big one, the most critical of all questions: are you the real Santa?

Santa: In the heart and eyes of every child in the world.

Incite: Nice. We’ll take that as a yes. Now on to a few quick, get-to-know you questions.

Are all your socks Christmas stockings?

Santa: Yes. Incite: Which colour, red or green?

Santa: (Happily showing off his luxurious crimson suit) Red, of course.

Incite: Is it really the most wonderful time of the year?

Santa: What do you think?

Incite: I guess I’d have to go with yes. Now for a tougher one. As a resident of the North yourself, I’d assume you are aware of the current political drama that’s unfolding here in Canada. We’d like to know, Stephen Harper: naughty or nice?

Santa: If they all get together, sit down, and talk it out, then maybe the politicians can make it onto the nice list.

Incite: That’s fair. We’re also quite curious about your relationships with the other holiday characters. What do you think of the Easter Bunny?

Santa: Oh, the Easter Bunny is a good friend of mine. You know why?

Incite: Why? Santa (With a hungry look worthy of a man who can eat a whole world’s worth of milk and cookies in one night): Because he brings me CHOCOLATE. Incite: (Nervous laugh) ... Okay, so we also wanted to know: who does your favourite movie portrayal of Santa?

Santa: Nobody.

Incite: Nothing beats the real thing, eh?

Santa: That’s right.

Incite: So Santa, what is the strangest request you’ve ever had?

Santa: The strangest request I’ve ever had came from one child who asked me to take him to the North Pole. I could not; it’s a secret place where no one can go.

Incite: You must get a lot of people telling you what they want, but we’d like to know: what would you like for Christmas?

Santa: What do I want? I just want for you to be happy.

After a brief inquiry about our own wish lists (sorry folks, we’re keeping them private), Santa wished us a merry Christmas and offered the high-five with his spotless white gloved hands. We left, content with our first interview—though Chris did admit to being a little terrified by this reintroduction to Santa Claus, a relic of a childhood spent fearing lumps of coal. We were looking forward to another satisfying interview back down the Mountain. The kindly and ambiguous words of this mall Santa were a pleasant throwback to our childhood passion for Christmas.

Eastgate Mall A few days later, we hopped on the B-Line Express to Eastgate Mall in Stoney Creek.

Santa’s digs this time around were a bit less imposing, if still well fortified. Here, the display was coloured with deep, luxurious burgundies and forest greens. Rather than snowflakes, the many Christmas trees were topped with stars and accompanied by escorts of clowns and toys. The overall power of the display was diminished, though, by its lack of elves, the reason for which we were soon to discover. Despite our best attempts at investigative journalism, Santa’s PR machine wouldn’t allow us to interview him.

Still, we did manage to sneak a few tidbits, including a shocking piece of news from the mouth of one of his assistants. Santa’s helper, after asking what sort of questions we had in mind for Santa Claus, responded to our query of “does he condition his beard?” by exclaiming that of course he didn’t condition his beard, it being fake and all, and that was why no visitors were allowed to pull on it. Since he wasn’t the real Kris Kringle, being unable to interview Eastgate’s man in

red turned out to be no great loss.

As an interesting aside, on our way out of the mall, we were accosted by an elderly woman in a winter parka with a story to tell.

Her tragic tale of a poor man being taken advantage of by his unscrupulous employer and being forced to carry a huge bag around that was too heavy for him reminded us of Santa’s annual journey. Sobered by her tale of woe, we boarded the bus and headed west once more.

Jackson Square Our final stop was at Jackson Square, where we encountered a gentle Saint Nick housed in what was formerly a student employment office. This seemed to make sense; with jobs rapidly disappearing thanks to the global economic crisis, students may have to hope instead for handouts from the North Pole.

Santa’s Jackson set-up was inviting and by far the least garish and commercial. This was the first place where Santa sat directly through an open door, instead of across from the gigantic camera/computer/debit machine/cash register/printer that had graced both previous displays. His open door and simple decorations of twinkling lights and model reindeer beckoned us in. We sat down in front of the full-figured Christmas character and set about the interview.

Incite: Santa, it’s good to see you again; I hope all’s well. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d just like to ask you a few quick questions.

Santa: Okay.

Incite: Well, first of all, the big one, are you the real Santa Claus?

Santa: (Slightly hesitantly) Yes. Yes I am.

Incite: Okay, great. We thought you were.

In case you don’t remember, we spoke to you a few days ago over at Lime Ridge, but it’s good to see you’ve still got that knack for knowing where you’re needed. Your suit looks very nice. Is it machine washable, or dry-clean only?

Santa: Only the best for Santa. It’s dry-clean only.

Incite: I meant to ask you this last time. I noticed that you’re wearing spectacles. Are you near-sighted or far-sighted?

Santa: Actually, they’re bifocals.

Incite: Oh, I see. Now, this is purely hypothetical, but should the worst happen, and you fell off a rooftop on Christmas Eve and injured yourself, would you use a candy cane?

Santa: To be honest, I’d just roll. Being round is good for something you know.

Incite: Your beard always looks very lush.

Do you condition it regularly?

Santa: If you want to know a secret, I never wash it.

Incite: That’s interesting. Tell me, since makeover and redecorating shows are all the rage on television right now, if you were to give Christmas a makeover, which colours would you choose?

Santa: I wouldn’t change a thing.

Incite: All right, just a few more. Who are your other favourite Christmas characters?

Santa: My reindeer.

Incite: What is the strangest thing anyone’s

ever asked you for?

Santa: The strangest thing? That happened just today. I had a little boy in here who asked for $200 000, a Lamborghini, and a Ferrari.

Incite: Wow, that’s a bit of a tall order.

Whenever you’re in Hamilton, where is your favourite place to hang out?

Santa: Why, Jackson Square of course!

Incite: It is very nice. And our last question: Santa, what do you want for Christmas?

Santa: Oh, I don’t want anything at all. I’m happy just giving.

And on that note, Santa and his friendly helper gave us candy canes and sent us on our way. Surprisingly, Santa didn’t seem quite as lucid or comforting at Jackson as he did during our interview at Lime Ridge, but it was probably just the jet lag from his demanding travel schedule finally catching up to him. Also, given that the man has to keep track of the naughty/nice status of millions, if not billions, of children, we can forgive him if he forgets to wash his beard.

Overall, we recommend taking a few moments out of every hectic holiday schedule (because it’s pretty insane that the words holiday and schedule can even be found next to one another) and sitting down to chat with the next Santa Claus that you encounter.

If you can’t do it this year, make it a New Year’s Resolution. If you’re lucky enough to catch him when he’s well rested, you might even have found yourself a new analyst.

Kind, tranquil, and—most importantly—red, Santa Claus comes to town (and malls) each December, content and ready for a good conversation. So why not stop by? That is, of course, if his manager lets you.

G RAPHIC BY PoUYAN A HANGAR

incite 15

DEBATE

Invasion of the Google MindSnatchers Could the Internet be making us stupider?

Onward and Upward with the Interblags

by Chris Hilbrecht

T

here is no way that the Internet is making us stupider. Pitting Suzy Wi-Fi against Johnny Book-smarts in a battle of the wits would be like sending a US Army special-ops force against a crew of Spartan hoplites. No matter the skill of the classically-trained, it would be a massacre perpetrated by the moderns. Sure, mechanized warfare has stolen much of the honour and glory associated with battle, and the same could probably be said for intellectual bouts decided through Google Answers, but the fact remains that technology makes us more effective at doing what we need to do. By revolutionizing the way we store, access, and produce knowledge, encouraging greater creativity, and giving rise to a culture that’s not quite as vapid as Lolcats might lead us to believe, the Internet is steering us toward a smarter tomorrow.

Knowledge is the first aspect of intelligence being radically changed by the Internet. The power of the Internet to store knowledge, combined with our ability to quickly access that knowledge, forces us to question what it means to know something.

Is to Google the same as to know? Does it matter if we are calling a fact up from a series of interconnected external computers instead of a series of interconnected internal neurons?

Lambros Malafouris, a researcher at the Uni-

versity of Cambridge, is an academic investigating human cognition as it relates to material culture in a field he describes as “Neuroarchaeology.” In an interview with the magazine SEED, he discusses how our technology is just as much a part of our mental landscape as our intelligence. Writing is an extension of memory, a blind man’s cane an extension of the senses, and so on. Each piece of technology ultimately improves on our natural capacities and changes the structure of the human mind. In this way, the Internet is a part of us, and its knowledge is effectively our knowledge. This may seem far-fetched at the moment given that we cannot yet pull a fact from the depths of the Internet as quickly as we can from out our memory, but it is conceivable that as computational power increases, and as the ever-growing time spent online approaches 24/7, we could effectively become permanently wired to the Internet, its thought processes as swift and its knowledge as valid as our own—if not better.

With the massive brain of the Internet a part of us, either figuratively now or literally in the future, it seems hard to say that we are getting dumber. Not only do we still effectively know the same things, but we can waste less time searching for facts, and focus our mental energies on the synthesis of new

The Internet Eats Your Brain We are quickly progressing towards a society where we will conceivably soon be able to access the Internet anywhere at anytime.

While this rapid transition seems almost inevitable, there are questions being raised f Benjamin Franklin were raised in our generaabout the mental effects the Internet could tion, he would not have invented bifocals. I have on users. This month’s debate tries to doubt the Declaration of Independence would answer the question ‘Is the Internet making have been signed. I doubt we would have enjoyed us stupider?’ public libraries for as long as we have. I doubt he

by Mary Yang

I

could have resisted the masochistic temptations of Facebook, email, and Twitter. Franklin embodies a thinker from an older generation, who read inMary Yang writes that, it is in fact saptensely in the evening by candlelight and thought ping our intellectual abilities, by making deeply about the world. The very structure of the us less creative and taking away our ability Internet makes this type of thinking very difficult. for deep, critical thinking. Chris Hilbrecht Firstly, the potential to procrastinate is immense. A lazy flick of the finger can take you to a wonderful counters that the Internet allows us to be more creative, while offering unprecedented world of Lolcats, math comics, and porn. Most modaccess to gaining knowledge about anything ern day activity on the Internet is a schizophrenic mishmash of email checking, Facebook stalking, we could possibly think of. and blog reading. Our minds have become used to jumping from link to link like hummingbirds on meth, unable to concentrate for more than a few minutes.

Studies on modern cubicle farmers conclude that the average office worker checks his or her email from 30 to 40 times a day. But while the dangers of procrastination, especially at school or work, are obvious, a more subtle concern is how the immensity of information is affecting our ability to think—permanently. In a much-blogged article, Nicholas Carr of The Atlantic confessed that he had lost the ability to read dense and complex texts for a long time. Many readers confessed that they

16 incite

too, had become unable to concentrate or think deeply for a long time. Why? For one thing, content on the Internet that exists unconnected to other content is rare; pages are structured so that there is always one more page to visit, one more Wikipedia article to consult, one more photo to check out … What started out in the late 1990s as an information superhighway has turned into an information traffic jam.

There is a danger to bingeing on knowledge like this: you lose the ability to digest it properly. The human mind was not meant for multitasking; we are incapable of managing even many simple tasks at once (I had a high school friend who actually couldn’t walk and talk at the same time), and so it should not be surprising that we are not cognitively built to skim interesting articles on the Internet and gain deep insights from them. The structure of the Internet discourages us from focusing profoundly on one issue. Instead, those maniacal links urge you to explore further; that Google search box begs you to feed it something. Thinking deeply is hard enough without a myriad of procrastinatory pitfalls. The brain has remarkable plasticity, but this goes both ways: practice deep thinking, or you will lose it. The Internet has atrophied the muscles of powerful thought, and we are the weaker for it.

Not only has the Internet changed the way we read and the way we think, it has changed how we interact with ideas, especially different ideas. On

ideas. In a world with instantly searchable databases of knowledge, thumbing through indexes of journal articles is reduced to a trivial waste of time that could be spent digesting and reflecting on the material.

This seems to be an acknowledged truth given the mass transition of academic journals from print to electronic forms. Some academics are beginning to give up on the slow process of publication entirely, and have taken to posting new knowledge directly to online open-access archives. A notable example of this shift occurred when Russian mathematician Grigori Perelman posted a Field Medalwinning proof of the Poincaré conjecture on arXiv, a database of scientific articles, in 2002.

The production of knowledge has also been accelerated by the elimination of distance that has occurred online. Thinkers no longer have to span continents to meet up and think; they can do it in any chat room on the Web, speeding up the exchange of ideas. Altogether, the way in which the Internet has streamlined our production of thought indicates that it is making us smarter, not duller.

Creativity is another aspect of intelligence that is thriving thanks to the Internet. The seemingly infinite stores of knowledge and ideas that exist online allow for easier access to inspiration than ever before. Today, any 15-yearold with Wi-Fi connection can ponder the surrealist manifesto, visit gourmet the Internet, differences in opinion and knowledge are thin. Authority in the blogosphere does not originate from impressive intellect, but impressive inbound links. Like Google, Technorati, a popular blog search engine ranks blogs based on how many other blogs link to them. Most blogs are not famous for the sharp intellectual edge of their writers, but for how well they can express the views of their readers.

Crowd wisdom is valued over experience or intellectual rigor. Thus, the structure of the Internet is very much a series of thinly connected echo chambers.

The Internet may be the first medium where a person can choose another community in which to participate and, in a sense, live. As human beings, we naturally seek out people with whom we share similarities. Yet the beauty of living in a pluralistic society is that we encounter different views and perspectives. When enclaves of homogenous thought form, democratic exchange is threatened.

In Republic.com 2.0, scholar Cass Sunstein conducted an experiment where two groups of people were asked about their views regarding traditionally polarizing topics, such as same-sex marriage and affirmative action. Their views, when written down anonymously before discussion, showed a range of opinions, but after discussion with people of similar political opinions they became more homogenous and extreme. He hypothesizes that the Internet is replicating this experiment on a larger scale.

cooking forums, read up on the curvature of spacetime, watch videos of kinetic beach sculptures, and find myriad other ideas they wouldn’t have been exposed to without the Internet. Ideas build upon ideas, and the overwhelming blob of thought that is found on the Web is serving to incite even more thought and creativity.

Further, Internet is contributing to a creative boom by democratizing knowledge, art, and media. Not only are ideas are accessible to all, but the Internet also provides the means for anyone to contribute to the creative conversation. This is the age of self-publishing, the time of recording albums on Garageband and posting them for the world to download, and of homemade animations posted on YouTube. The simplicity and low cost of self-production means that artistic expression is not limited by commercial considerations. Take web comics, for instance; freed from the traditional

newspaper format and the need for commercial appeal, they have been able to explore the humour in everything from mathematics to the future of human evolution to obscure Canadian history.

Similarly, the Internet has enabled the explosion of the independent music scene, giving rise to innovative new acts that would not survive on commercial radio. (Some bands, like Toronto’s Juno and Polaris Prize-nominated Holy Fuck, have decided to totally bypass the traditional radio market by using names or playing music that would never pass CRTC standards.) The digital Wild West found online is chaotic and free, allowing for greater creativity than can be found in an offline world dominated by social and economic controls.

It may seem as if such chaos would lead us to distraction, to the point even of getting in the way of deep thought. Yet the Internet is not really different from other enticing technologies like books, television, or bedroom windows, which can all both enlighten and distract. If people want diversions, they will find them. To blame the Internet for our collective idleness is merely to have identified the latest scapegoat for our own laziness.

It could be argued that a final test of the Internet’s effect on intelligence is the culture it has produced. If a society is becoming more intelligent, would it not Continued on page 18

G RAPHIC BY TaJANA R ISTIC

The Internet has made it possible to be a liberal and get all your news sources from a liberal perspective, where news comes pre-digested by pundits and is picked apart for any traces of conservative bias. If Sunstein is right, a group of liberals are less likely to oppose each other than a group of individuals with no common political identity. In this way, the Internet has become a way for people to reinforce and uphold their biases, instead of examining them for truth and validity. It has become a refuge for the deluded and intellectually lethargic.

The ability to contemplate the merits of alternate perspectives is not only essential for a healthy democratic exchange; it is also the indication of a well-trained mind. The Internet has contributed to the deterioration of our power to think well, and to think differently. A popular argument for the Internet’s creative potential is the notion that culture and creative abilities have been democratized

by the Internet. In addressing this argument, it must be clarified that the Internet has not changed the fundamental process of artistic creation. Writers, musicians and artists have existed long before the Internet, and will continue to exist long after the Internet. Where the Internet innovates is in its usefulness as a marketing tool.

It has yielded undue power to the critics of the world in deciding the taste of the masses, whether the reviewers are writers from the New York Times or Pitchfork, or gentle Amazon reviewers. Authority and structure on the Internet don’t come from wisdom or experience, but come from how many people know who you are. We have become a culture more aware of what others, rather than ourselves, think of something.

In some domains, this is a great arrangement.

If I want to buy electronics, I want to know from past users if it’s worth the money. But for subjective domains like art and music, it’s hard to know if sites like Pitchfork have done more harm than good. Their viral authority on all things has made massive success out of some previously unknown bands, while inexplicably deriding other bands.

Bands like Arcade Fire and Tapes ‘n Tapes benefitted greatly from Pitchfork’s reviews of their debut records. For the vast majority of bands, these sites Continued on page 18

incite 17

(Upwards and Onwards with the Interblags continued) be reasonable to expect that its culture is also achieving new intellectual heights? While the emergence of clever comics and intriguing music may point to such an outcome, the fact that I Can Has Cheezburger?, better known as Lolcats, is one of the most popular blogs on the Internet might be considered a fatal blow to my argument. But the presence of inane blogs, frivolous MySpace pages, and depressingly illiterate and illogical YouTube comments is not a sign of declining intelligence.

It just reinforces the previously mentioned democratizing nature of the Internet.

We’re not really any dumber than before. It’s just that the general public has never before had the ability to disseminate their thoughts as easily as they now can through the Internet. In past, the élite were the literate ones, who owned the printing presses and therefore controlled which ideas were recorded or published.

The thoughts of “the mob” were probably not considered valuable enough to preserve

then, so while their works have mostly disappeared, preInternet societies surely had their equivalents of a crudely typed “OMG LaWLzzz.” Today, the Internet preserves an unprecedented record of culture, warts and all. As much as we may want to forget them, we can look back and find our stashes of porn, Perez Hilton posts, and even the online version of this essay. Perhaps the most intelligent thing we can do is admit we are imperfect, and embrace the stupid aspects of the Internet along with what making us brainier.

The emergence of the Internet has changed and continues to change the way we interact with and create information. We have outsourced parts of our minds, but only so that others are able to grow.

As the Internet expands, so too does our potential to use it to become massively knowledgeable and devilishly creative people. Any thoughts that using Internet is dimming our wits will surely go the way of all those non-Google-powered search engines. Cyberspace FTW!

CROSSWORD 2

3

4

11

5

6

7

15 19

21

22

23

25

26

27

36

41

24 28

45

37

38

39

46

47 51

53

54

60

61 65

69 72

18 incite

66

40 43

50

64

29 32

42

49

10 17

31

35

44

9

20

30 34

8

16

18

59

remain ways to be exposed to listeners. This is no different than the traditional media structures; perhaps more niche markets and populations are now available at once, but pretentious music existed before Pitchfork and will continue to exist after it. Nothing fundamental about the works’ creativity or general quality has been altered.

What is different is that the opinion of amateur critics have become more authoritative, legitimized solely by their Internet following. Without the Internet, Pitchfork and its ilk are just a bunch of lonely, misunderstood hipsters reading Russian lit in a dark basement.

Furthermore, it’s hard to know if any of the culture produced on the Internet is really worth keeping, when usually it is produced by the masses encouraged by the ease of starting a blog. Everyone may be capable of having a blog, but how many of us should? Serious writers do not need the encouragement and convenience of the Internet to write, just as most serious artists do not need a tablet and

Across 1. Governing body of the MSU 4. Wind dir.

7. ___ California 11. Country in Southeast Asia 15. Millennia 16. Miuccia’s country 18. Complicated situation 20. Easily metaphorized herb 21. Barnyard sound 22. Statistics visuals 24. Hamlet verb past tense 25. Butter unit 26. Reply to a response (abbr.)

1

33

(The Internet Eats Your Brain continued)

48 52

55

56

62

63

67

68

70

71

73

74

57

58

Photoshop to create. Perhaps the flood of Internet creativity is mere cyber garbage for future generations.

As a civilization, we would be lost without some sense of cultural memory. One argument is that the sheer volume of information is what makes us smarter, more civilized, and more refined. Memory is a type of intelligence, but what the Internet provides is not memory – it’s just is the inability to forget. A person with perfect, photographic memory cannot function in society; they would be overloaded with useless, depressing, mundane, or just plain incorrect information—in short, intellectual garbage. Do you really want to remember what movie starred Paris Hilton? Do you want to never be able to forget an episode of Gossip Girl? Do you want to remember every moment of your life?

If your memory consciously absorbed all of those moments of plain stupidity, numbness, heartbreak, boredom, and selfpity, it would be a miracle if you could get out of bed in the morning. The Internet is like a big reminder for our collective cultural memory, a reminder

27. In a boat 30. Wager 31. Lunar mission 33. Diva’s tune 36. “I believe I can ___” 39. Dams 41. British wedding must-haves 42. Copy 43. Mailed 44. “Encore” demand 46. Coup d’___ 48. God of love 49. Stomach issues 51. Hawaiian guitar for short 53. What the blind man said when he picked up his hammer and saw 54. It’s better to burn out than to do this 56. Chum 59. Milk operon 61. Church address 63. Journey stat.

64. Pro 67. Comforting sound 69. Seeps 70. Snake sounds 71. Makes a mistake 72. Ultimate bridesmaid colour 73. Sounds of understanding 74. Popular crime show

of every moment of emotional lesion and numbness. There’s nothing intelligent about not forgetting.

The Internet is not evil.

Email and Facebook won’t automatically make you dumber.

But it is still an easily abused tool to fill in the voids of life.

When you get lonely, Facebook is always there. When you feel trapped, Google can free you.

When you feel dumb, you can read YouTube comments and feel better about yourself. Depressed? There’s thousands of other people, feeling the same way. Just bored? Play online poker or Text Twist. It’s the ultimate drug, but use it too long and your hard-earned ability to concentrate, think, and reflect will probably suffer.

And so, here is a lament for all the short stories never written, all those hours in the dark of night spent learning about celebrities and their children, all those anonymous chat forum posts that seemed funny at the time. Here is a lament for the hours spent on Facebook, stalking other people’s lives. Here is a lament for the pieces of you the Internet has taken and the time that you can’t get back.

15. Water birds 17. Affirmative 19. Shrek species 23. Use up 28. ___ it!

29. Parisian paradise 30. Back to ___ 31. Length x width 32. Goddess of wine 33. Finder’s cry 34. Tomato sauce 35. Emphasize text 37. Otoacoustic Emissions (abbr.)

38. Suited to a purpose 40. Blvds.

45. Maiden name indicator 47. Royal family of Elizabeth I 50. Dorm build.

52. Chatham-___ 54. ___ Prince 55. Gather 56. Looks in a window 57. Space Invaders company 58. Currency of Latvia 59. August star sign 60. Much 62. I’m a Canadian ___. ___ what?

65. Steeped beverage 66. Class for non-English speakers 68. “Je te plumerai le ___”

Down 1. Island nation north-east of Australia See page 2 for solution.

2. Will probably take over the world 3. Muslim afternoon prayer 4. Eco energy source 5. Short verbal assault 6. Panty____ (backwards) 7. Masticated 8. Baby’s bre___ (flower) 9. Main Street shortcut taker 10. ___ Mater 11. Opposite of erect C ROSSWORD BY JOYCE LI, CHIAra M ENEGUZZI, AND WILL VAN ENGEN

COLUMN

Mac in Time

by Melissa Charenko and Kate Logan School Spirit, Then and Now

T

he average student will look down upon a fellow classmate arriving to lecture in pyjamas. Whether or not this scorn stems from disapproval of the student’s fashion sense or from a secret envy of the extra ten minutes of sleep such a decision entails is unclear. Whatever the reason, almost every McMaster student agrees that there is one day when pyjamas are completely acceptable on campus and even in the wider Westdale community. Every September, hundreds of McMaster students get dressed for bed and take part in the simultaneously much-loved and much-detested Pyjama Parade.

At first glance, the festive atmosphere seems absurd: teddy bears, bathrobes, and slippered feet marching the neighbourhood streets to be welcomed to the community. When we explain this tradition to others they usually respond with an incredulous “You do what?!” Really, who ever thought that this would be a great way to introduce freshmen to their fellow students? We’re not exactly sure how it all began because, like most traditions, the Pyjama Parade’s origins are steeped in mystery.

Early initiation activities usually involved cortèges or parades to attract attention and students often wore imitation adult dress or outrageous garb. It is hard to say when exactly parading in pyjamas became the norm, but photographs do exist from the 1940s of men clad in striped pyjamas serenading the ladies of Wallingford Hall. The boys probably relished the opportunity to be in sleepwear, which would have been much more comfortable than the academic gowns senior students were required to wear. One of the arguments in favour of the robes was that it could cover up clothing that would not have been tolerated in civilized company, but students could get away with inappropriate clothing one day a year.

Other features of McMaster’s Welcome Week also go back a long way. The colourful t-shirts that help identify residences and faculties are similar to the coloured clothing used to identify each cohort in the 1890s. First year students, because of their lack of experience, were assigned green and wore distinctive beanies, while sophomores wore yellow, juniors red, and seniors blue. For events with other institutions, these colours would be combined to create an interesting pennant for McMaster. But in intercollegiate competition, McMaster needed more than just a distinctive banner to make itself known.

It adopted loud yells and, by 1892, the “Boom on

Mac” cheer was celebrated for “its power of kindling enthusiasm in the breast of every McMaster student.”

The united student body seen at intercollegiate contests did not persist year-round as sophomores enjoyed the opportunity to test and, at times, humiliate incoming students. One longstanding tradition was a tomato fight between freshmen and sophomores. It was banned in the 1950s along with other initiation rites, much to the chagrin of students who feared that the administration was toying with venerable traditions. Customs that managed to survive included climbing greased poles to retrieve a hat, cheers and yells and, of course, the Pyjama Parade that took place every year. More short-lived customs involved streaking, which became increasingly popular in the 1970s. It was most fashionable in Woodstock Hall when, in a single month in 1974, 107 streakers struck. Less in good spirit were hazing rituals. One tradition that lasted close to 50 years involved dropping frosh off in the country with pillowcases over their heads and their hands tied behind their backs. Luckily everyone managed to find their way back to campus in time for the Soph-Frosh dance that followed initiation events and where any hard feelings would be reconciled.

A reconciled student body could be seen wearing the school colours in unity. McMaster originally wore black and green, but in 1912, these colours became maroon and silver-grey. Officially, this combination represented a much more photogenic ensemble, but another reason may have been that the black and green team jerseys were very similar to those worn by Italian labourers. McMaster students were often saddled with the derogatory term dagos by the competition, much to the annoyance of both McMaster players and Italians. Local artists at the time also extolled maroon and grey’s complimentary nature and the ease with which it could be washed.

Students also united under the McMaster Coat of Arms, adopted in 1930. Relating to our Baptist roots, the coat of arms consists of a motto which says “In Christ all things hold together.” It is an unusual motto for a university in that it is in Greek rather than Latin. Latin mottos reflected the origin of universities in medieval institutions, in which Latin was more prominent than Greek, but McMaster founders wanted to go further back than the Middle Ages to the earliest days of the Chris-

tianity. The Greek motto also brings to mind the Greek New Testament. The most recognizable part of the coat of arms, the shield, displays an eagle, the symbol of heavenly vision because of its ability to gaze directly into the blazing mid-day sun. The open book is a common symbol of learning, and the maple leaves signify that McMaster’s Charter was granted by the Province of Ontario.

Individual faculties also adopted symbols as representation, like the distinctive fireball for the engineers. The fireball itself was taken from the seal of Hamilton College, but engineers have made it their own by adorning brochures, reports, letterhead, and even the hillside beside Highway 403 with the distinct symbol. Engineers also call their annual dance the “Fireball.”

Did you know...?

The “Boom on Mac” yell from 1892: Boom on Mac! Boom on Star!

Boom! Fitz! Boom! on Mac-Mas-Tar! Each class also began adopting yells, for example: Oh, ’95 is the crowd for me!

We agree. Don’t you see?

For in ’95 Together we strive, together we thrive, And together at the goal of success we arrive, Then faster, ever faster Cheer, – ’95, McMaster!

Traditions are important to unite a community and establish school spirit. From the Pyjama Parade that other university students just shake their heads at, to the McMaster crest that inspires collegial pride, traditions are an important aspect of McMaster life. We might not yell “Boom on Mac” at sporting events or send first-years out into the countryside alone anymore, but they remain part of our history. Traditions are always changing, just like the students. Nothing lasts forever, so be part of it while you can.

incite 19

The McGill Daily MONTREAL (CUP) – IN 1973, THE American Psychiatric Association (APA) removed homosexuality from its list of diagnostic criteria for mental illnesses. This was a major early victory for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, and queer rights. However, despite these achievements, two particularly troubling diagnoses remain: transvestic fetishism and gender identity disorder.

These diagnoses, which govern how transgender and gender non-conforming people interact with mentalhealth providers, reflect stereotypes rather than actual people—and, with perverse irony, often hurt the people they’re supposed to help.

as a paraphilia—or sexual fetish—just like pedophilia. This categorization reinforces stereotypes of cross-dressers as sexual predators. In addition, one of the criteria for a diagnosis is “over a period of at least six months, in a heterosexual male, recurrent, intense, sexually arousing fantasies, sexual urges, or behaviours involving cross-dressing”.

This feeds into the stereotype of cross-dressers as people who dress that way for sexual pleasure. However, people cross-dress for much more varied reasons than sexual thrills. Furthermore, it’s not really clear why, medically, only heterosexual males can be diagnosed with transvestic fetishism.

The rules for diagnosing gender identity disorder focus even more on

cially in children. Criteria in children assigned male at birth include “aversion toward rough-and-tumble play” and “rejection of male stereotypical toys, games, and activities”.

This ignores the full range of human possibility. It’s entirely possible to be a woman and feel like a woman while enjoying “rough-and-tumble play” or “male stereotypical toys, games, and activities”. In fact, not only would I wager that it’s possible, I’d also wager that you have interacted with such a person today.

The APA claims the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders (DSM)—the standard guide for identifying mental disorders in both the U.S. and Canada—does not say anything about treatment, only diagnosis.

diagnosis legitimizes stigmas surrounding gender-variant behaviour by linking them to the stigmas associated with mental illness, which can only hurt those who truly need mental-health services.

When declassifying homosexuality as a mental illness, the APA acknowledged that social factors were often responsible for depression, shame, and other issues that led some lesbian, gay, and bisexual people to seek help from mental-health sources.

Why then does the APA refuse to acknowledge that social factors are often responsible for those same issues of depression and shame in gender non-conforming people?

Perhaps most perversely, these diagnostic criteria allow people who retreat deeply into the closet—which can be very damaging to their mental health—to escape a diagnosis and the social stigma of mental illness.

At the same time, those who decide

rest of thei The best ing or rec disorder is necessary claims, whi transition surgery, es and the n people faci lack of fam is medicall significant people wo still do, no way. And t tion for ins force trans a need to d der as a dis The APA revision to ever, a dra APA conti fall on tran

HECKLES:

Get your floormate gift of all this Chr not pissing the

by Lisa Le Fulcrum Contributor AFTER LIVING IN residence for about three months, you begin to realize that your floormates are of all different breeds, and different people don’t necessarily live in perfect harmony with one another.

Think about it this way: it’s like living with all the people in your classes and dealing with their extra little quirks and mannerisms, 24/7. Here are some steps you can take to avoid pissing off your floormates, because the walls are thin, and as of late, so is your neighbour’s tolerance level.

Step 1: Do not overplay an already overplayed song There’s a constant stream of music on the radio, in cars, in restaurants, and in malls, and it’s the same song assaulting your ears over and over and over. The endless replay can drive a person up the wall. People come back to their dorms to escape the infuriating songs that haunt them everywhere they go. Everyone on the floor is going to snap if they hear “I Kissed a Girl” through the walls for the millionth time, loud and clear, while they’re trying to decipher their philosophy textbooks. So if you’re going to listen to music, use headphones. Please.

Step 2: Do not party at 3 a.m. on a Thursday What compels a person to be awake

www.thefulcrum.ca

20 incite

Dec. 4, 2008

at 3 a.m. u assignmen ing? Most Thursday, misfortune You might classes—lu mean othe by someon rendition a.m. on a entire floo

Step 3: D appliance

What ha each use straighten The fuse the next t the next t mental fu dences, t between t fuse goes in half th stereo pla was on th if one fus your perf your neig too. If yo half an ho the bathro

Follow th and your passive-ag you choos will keep down the

OPINI

COLUMN

Y

, This Food s Got Soul

ou will not meet anyone more personable or thoughtful than Sam Robertson, which are particularly noteworthy traits for someone who has been averaging 60-hour work weeks since the recent opening of his new restaurant, Tapestry Bistro. Perhaps better known as the man behind Westdale’s revered My Dog Joe muffins, he has spent more than a third of his life as a professional chef.

After speaking with Sam for longer than there was space on my tape recorder, it is evident that his labour is one of love. He describes his culinary craft passionately and has put endless thought into every step in the life cycle of his food—from where it is procured to how the scraps are disposed of. Not that leftover food is a chronic problem for his restaurant.

Restaurants typically do not enter our consciousness when listing the actors within local food systems. Sam and his concept for Tapestry challenge us to rethink this exclusion. Sourcing as much local, organic, and sustainably grown food as possible, he is jumping on the bandwagon and makes no excuses for it.

Everything worth doing has a story. What is the story of Tapestry Bistro?

I was living in Thailand for a while and knew I was going to be coming back to Hamilton. I knew I wanted to do some cooking but I also wanted to ensure what I was going to be doing something aligned with my principles. From my experience, a lot of restaurants focus on the food and not much else—and sometimes not even the food. The opportunity came up at My Dog Joe’s and I liked that they were concentrated on offering a lot of fair trade and organic products. I sat down with the owners of MDJ, a husband and wife duo, got the job and have since then developed a great relationship with them.

The husband had been thinking about opening another MDJ for a little bit and this space [in the Staircase Theatre] became available. I was blown away by it but I didn’t think it would be right for a coffee shop. It needed something a little bit more complicated. We both agreed and he approached me about becoming a partner in Tapestry. This is an opportunity for me to have my own restaurant and cook what I want to, doing my own thing.

I was nervous, wondering if I knew enough. Then I read a quote from Charlie Trotter, a really famous chef out of Chi-

cago. He never had any school training, just started working at restaurants. He felt that he wasn’t perfect, but was never going to be. I am never going to be at the point where I can say I’m the best and am beyond ready to open a restaurant.

There are tons of amazing chefs in Hamilton and I might not ever be better than any of them but that should not hold me back because I want to do things that not many people in this immediate area are doing.

It’s still a work in progress, though. I want to incorporate even more local produce from farmers. I am OK with using some food terminal produce right now and progressing towards something else.

I don’t want to be the type of restaurant that figures out a formula and just keeps doing it.

Since the menu will be so responsive to what is available locally, is it kind of like your formula is a non-formula?

It is and it isn’t. Fifty years ago that’s how people used to do it because they had to. Now, with things being shipped everywhere and being able to get UPS vanilla beans directly from Madagascar, you don’t have to be so responsive. And now we’re learning the benefits of going back to depending on the surrounding land. We’re fooled if we think local and organic food is something innovative or new.

You have been cooking on and off for a dozen years now. What keeps bringing you back?

Food makes me more excited than most things. I’m not quite to the point where if I’m having a horrible day I will start to cook, but if I happen to find myself cooking at the end of a horrible day I will notice that I feel better. My first three jobs out of school, once I retired from delivering newspapers, all had to do with food. I have just somehow always been surrounded by it. It is fascinating to me and there is still so much we don’t know about it.

I remember visiting my friend’s organic farm and he had three types of spinach growing. I had no idea there are even three different types. There are in fact dozens of types of every food—spinach, cows, chickens, and there are so many possibilities for combining them. There is so much to learn about, it’s amazing.

But the best is sharing it.

Do you think of Tapestry as being part of Hamilton’s local food system?

In some ways it is, and in others it isn’t. At the end of the day we’re just another restaurant and we have to survive among all the others by figuring out how we’re different. There are certain things that I think we’re trying to do or that we want to do that other restaurants don’t have as a priority. I don’t want to tell others how to do things, but we have to ask ourselves why we follow certain practices. Is it because it’s the easiest way? The one that makes the most sense financially? I don’t want it to just be a small group of chefs procuring locally. I would prefer to be part of a restaurant community where we can learn from one another.

What other dreams do you already have in mind for the future of Tapestry?

I am thinking about how to be as selfsustaining as possible. The other owners and I have spoken about solar panels as a possible way to power the building, but it is really expensive. Beyond being as minimally taxing on the energy system, I want to grow as much food as we can for ourselves. I want to use natural light coming in from the beautiful windows, figure out an efficient way to compost, and be all organic. We’re not there yet, but it is hard to be so purist, especially at the beginning. I have never run a restaurant before so I have to find my footing first.

How does food unite us?

Food unites us because we all enjoy eating. It is amazing to watch people in the restaurant when the food shows up.

One group we had in for a meal last week was very lively and laughing and then when the food came, the restaurant went silent. A group of people sitting down together enjoying food is a really amazing thing. It can really lower tensions and do us some good. Food unites us by bringing us together. And it can do so at different stages: the growing, harvesting, preparing, serving, and consumption.

Tapestry Bistro is located on the first floor of the Staircase Theatre, at 27 Dundurn Street North. www.tapestrybistro.ca (905) 481-2166

incite 21

FICTION

We Know What You’re Doing

By Garnet Johnson-Koehn

“W

e know what you’re doing, Mr. Simmons.”

It’s easily the weirdest message I’ve ever heard, and I don’t recognise the voice. I play it back again, just in case I’d missed something, but I hadn’t.

It’s just those seven words. With a shrug I hit the big red ‘erase’ button, and decide that obviously it’s a joke. I push myself up, hands gripping the cheap plastic arms of my chair, until my eyes are just peeking over the top of my cubicle.

It’s probably Dave, or maybe Jane; one bored cuberat having fun with another.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

Weird, though. When I look around, everybody’s got their head down, every last one of them either working, or at least faking it well enough to fool our supervisor. But none of them are much in the way of actors, a lesson learned through a truly brutal team building exercise a while back. I guess it wasn’t one of them.

I drop back into my chair again, staring off into the distance. “Well, whatever,” I mutter, shrugging. It must’ve been a wrong number, meant for some other Simmons.

Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, it’s not like I have anything to be worried about.

The idea almost makes me

22 incite

laugh. I have to stress the “almost,” of course. Miss Tellerine can get downright nasty when her blood sugar’s down, and swimsuit season’s coming up; nobody’s seen her with so much as a brownie in over a week. Anyway, it’s a ridiculous idea. I mean, hell, I’m just a middle manager, a tiny little cog in the vast accounting engine that is Young, Gomeshi and Stewart.

With that out of the way, I get

ing anything over a missed decimal point or a forgotten remainder.

It’s deadly dull, but I’ve been at it long enough now, that I could do it with my eyes closed. Or at least, I could if it weren’t for the fact that I wouldn’t be able to see the figures.

My attention drifts away, no surprise given the incredibly boring way Accounts Payable sets up its reports. And when an accountant says that, you know it means

G RAPHIC BY AVa HAM

back to my work, feeling still just a little bloated from lunch. I never should’ve up-sized those fries. Going into my inter-office messages, I see a half-dozen attachments sitting in my inbox, reports they want me to double check. Probably more like septuple-check. We’re getting some pretty fat contracts lately, and I doubt they want to risk los-

something. I can’t help wondering what this other Simmons is doing.

Having an affair maybe, or a spot of white collar crime? Or hey, what if it’s something juicier, like blackmail, or even some kind of national security thing? I bet it’s straight out of a summer blockbuster, lots of cloak-and-dagger stuff, and then a random shootout or sex scene. I wonder what’s opening this week-

end…

My phone starts ringing, jarring me from my effort to remember the last decent trailer I saw. I don’t even hesitate, just reach out with my left hand and scoop up the receiver. I have to hold it close, because the speaker’s a little shot, and god forbid that the people at Maintenance ever trouble themselves. “Simmons, Accounting. How can I help you?”

“Simmons.” Holy cow! “We know what you’re doing.

And we don’t like it.”

There’s a sharp click, which somehow contrives to sound like the loudest one ever, even over this broken speaker. Then the line goes dead. I immediately punch in the code for security, before I’ve even figured out what I’m going to say to them.

‘Someone’s crank calling me, make them stop?’

Yeah, that’d go over real well.

“Corporate security. Is this an emergency?”

“No,” I say.

“I just, ah, I just got disconnected from a caller. Do you think you could trace the last line that called through to this extension?”

“One moment please.” The voice on the line is a woman, sounding every bit as bored as everyone else here at Y,G & S. She puts me on hold, and my eyes roll so hard they nearly get friction burns as the terrible hold music kicks in. I cannot believe someone actually

thought that assailing people with Elton John and Meatloaf was even remotely acceptable. That much ‘easy listening’ is a crime against humanity.

“Corporate security here,” the bored-sounding woman says, just when I think I’m finally going to give up and beat myself unconscious with the phone. “Sorry ma’am, the number that called you is unlisted.”

Apparently the mike’s shot, too.

“That’s sir,” I tell her, speaking up.

“You’re sure it’s unlisted?”

“Absolutely, sir. Anything else?”

“No,” I say, and she’s hung up almost before I’ve finished. Wow, and I thought Miss Tellerine was brusque. I drop the phone back into the cradle and try to go back to work. No reason to worry. I mean, it’s not like I have anything to hide.

Do I? Oh, hell.

I toss a handful of change onto the cafeteria counter, not even bothering to check it over or wait for my change, just grab my coffee and go.

The coffee’s sloshing around in the cup, thanks to my shaking hand, as I hurry back to my cubicle, head down. It’s been a bad week.

He calls me at work. He calls me at home. I come back to find little Post-Its on my desk, messages in my inbox, I even got a letter with just those seven words. A letter!

Who even sends letters anymore, honestly?

And the cops are useless, of course. Every time I talk to them they promise they’re looking into it. But they’re not. I mean, an untraceable phone number? Notes with none of that CSI stuff all over them? Hell, the cops are probably in on it too. Them and the Shriners.

I drop down into my chair with an exhausted groan, scrubbing my face with one hand. It’s really starting to get to me. Between the calls at all hours and a conscience that’s starting to get increasingly heavy, I haven’t exactly been sleeping well.

And once you really start thinking about it, you realize how often you break the rules.

I jaywalk. I mix plastics and paper. I leave my cash bonus off my income taxes. I break the DRM locks on my CDs. I tip eleven percent. I speed in residential areas.

I smoke a little pot every now and then. I keep fansubs after the official dubs are out. I litter.

The phone rings, stopping my cavalcade of confessions before I can really start reaching back for some of my better-aged, greatest hits misdemeanours. I wish I could say that was a relief, but oh, how I’ve come to dread that terrible little chime. The wheels on my chair squeak loudly as I recoil from the phone, staring at it like it’s a rabid badger, just waiting for me to get close enough. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I whisper, glaring at

the black plastic device. “Can’t wait to make me get big needles right in my spine!”

Wow, I think, rubbing my face.

I am losing it.

“Answer the phone, Simmons!”

The shout comes from the cubicle next to mine, from Jerry Anderson. I think about telling him what I think of him, but heck, even I’m getting annoyed by the phone now. My hand’s shaking like crazy as I reach for the receiver, but just before I can pick it up the ringing stops. My eyes widen and my hand hovers over the mercifully silent phone. Is this it? Has he finally given up?

“Argh!” The sound, a pure, animalistic roar, is pulled out of my startled throat when the ringing starts up again. I don’t quite let the first one finish before the handset’s up, the speaker by my ear and the receiver pressed against my cheek.

“What? For the love of god, what!”

“It’s rude to keep someone waiting, Mr. Simmons.”

I nearly break down, just from hearing that voice finally say something different. “I’m sorry, I swear I am. Please, just leave me alone.”

“You know we can’t do that, Mr. Simmons.”

“I don’t even know who you are,” I say, although I have a few theories. My latest one involves a collection agency, the Toronto Public Library system and the Recording Industry Association of America, acting at the behest of my eighth grade English teacher.

Look, it’s been a long time since I slept well, alright?

“This is no time for games, Mr. Simmons. We’d hoped, by now, that you’d be ready to see reason.”

“I swear, I don’t–” The voice runs right over me, like I didn’t say a word. “If that’s not the case, then we’ll have to take a more active hand in this affair.”

The line goes dead, and I have what I’m pretty sure is a full-blown panic attack. It’s my first one, so I’m not totally sure about the diagnosis, but it sure feels like it. I’m frozen, stuck like a statue for long enough that the phone starts to make that irritating sound, and the operator’s recording starts politely informing me that I should hang up. “Try doing what she says, Simmons.”

“Everyone can tell it’s a combover!”

I slam the phone down as Anderson splutters on the other side of the cheap felt-covered wall that separates us. Okay. So. I’ve got to hide. That’s it! If they can call me at work they must know where I am. I’ve got to get out of here!

I’ve got to hide!

The footsteps get closer and closer, clicking against the dingy green tiles. I hold my legs up against my chest, my knees under my chin, so he can’t look under the bottom edge of the stall. Maybe if I just stay very, very quiet, like not even breathing I’m so quiet…

“Ah, Mr. Simmons.” A pair of shoes, shiny black leather, and just the very edge of a pair of matching black dress pants, appear under the bathroom stall door. They’re big shoes, like basketball-player big. It’s weird that his head’s not over the top of the stall. “There you are.” I stay quiet, and stay rolled up in the ball on the toilet seat. Next time the voice speaks, I can hear just the faintest hint of frustration in it. “Really, Mr. Simmons. Trying to hide from me here, of all places; hardly a fitting space for our last meeting.”

“I… I don’t…”

“No, Mr. Simmons. No more.”

The door to the bathroom stall jiggles a little, but the metal bar across the support post doesn’t give. I try to turn it into steel by sheer will.

It’s not working so far, but I’m willing to keep at it. “I have tried to be reasonable,” he says, and then there’s a pause before he says, “Or at least, as reasonable as I can be.

But my time is up, and that means so is yours.”

“N-no… P-p-please…”

“Mr. Simmons.” The voice softens a little. “John. We’re not unreasonable. Just give us what we want.”

“I… I…” “John…”

“I’m… Brian.”

There’s this long moment of just totally awkward silence, and then the voice says, “Could I see some ID, please?” At this point I’m pretty sure I’m in shock, and my hand goes automatically to my wallet, going for my driver’s license; it’s like getting pulled over by a cop, I don’t even think about what I’m doing. A hand, dark-skinned with long, nimble fingers, reaches over the top of the stall, and I pass my license up towards it. The hand disappears back on the other side of the stall door, and I just sit there, listening to the water gurgling in the tank behind me.

“We apologise for any inconvenience you may have suffered,” the voice says, tossing my license over the top of the stall. It drops neatly into my lap. Then, without another word, the guy on the other side takes off. I can hear his heels click on the tiles, then the door opens and swings shut again, and that’s it. I’m alone.

I come out of the stall slowly, my eyes going back and forth like that little stick on a metronome.

Nobody’s there, and I step over to the sinks and splash some water on my face. The cold brings me around again, and I stare at my reflection, taking in the scruffy three-day’sgrowth and the bleary, bloodshot eyes, the rumpled clothing and the tousled hair.

Any inconvenience my foot.

“That’s it,” I mutter, straightening up and taking a deep breath.

“I’m going home.”

And god help Miss Tellerine if she tries to stop me.

incite 23

POETRY

GRAPHIC BY DANIELLE PIERRE

First Dream of Winter Returning Home from Petersburg in Mid-December Go limp, she learned, and early morning she would find herself Under the frost, suspended from a thread, and with mild unconcern For winter, her knees drawn up, she lifted of her free will And left the windowsill. In this position she learned to float, 5 a.m.

Memorizing the six city blocks with her fingertips, She stopped to warm them on chimney smoke, mid-December Long past the red evenings and grey rain, she thinks about going home.

In a house at the end of the street, a dreaming child reflected in the grey Glass, Is tethered, learning to float above her bed in a grey room, Next to her sleeping mother. By now, the sky was light, and Circling the unfettered sleep of trees and memory of red azaleas In an old woman’s garden far from here, a grey cat curled in the snow.

Then, without recognition, her dream changed: she floated Down, sitting now with her knees crossed, on the train reading A Petersburg Poem. Sunrise, she curled the edges between Light and dark, practicing cathemeral she fed on poems about other places.

Bound to her book of songs, she left the city in winter, azaleas pressed Into the pages longed for the memory of scent, the train rambling on its grey tracks, She thought about following herself home.

By afternoon, she’d learned about transformation-- She buried herself Into the soil until the train passed over her white hair and her face turned Into the sunlight, she warmed her breath and became ancient, on her back And tethered to the story of the goddess (she remembered her mother) who plunged into December in search of her lost children. She left fields empty, Crossed the continent, and no longer being able to float, Lowered herself until her toes rooted into the earth-- Until she woke.

Then once, she truly flew, for a few hours, at Kristmastime, the stars-Windless and sailing past her towards the equator, she went south in search

Of an old song and red flowers.

At night, she turned in her sleep and found the edge of her dress caught Under the eaves of an old barn. It was late, looking down and knowing that she had returned, An old woman, to her mother’s garden in the middle of a snowless December, she rested, Her hand stretched out towards a distant hill.

Catherine Zagar

24 incite