Incite Magazine - September 2009

Volume 12, Issue 1 路 McMaster University, Hamilton 路 September 2009

Incite Magazine

An Illustrated guide to the City for Hamiltonians new and old plus Our favourite articles from the archives

Editorial discursive discourse Siva Vijenthira, Editor-in-Chief

“I

want to keep talking to you, you know? I have no idea what your situation is, but I feel like we have some kind of connection.” With those words, Ethan Hawke’s character in Before Sunrise invites Julie Delpy’s to spend a day with him in Vienna, based entirely on the strength of their train conversation. What ensues for the rest of the film is delicious, pitch-perfect twentysomething dialogue: sometimes witty, sometimes faltering, and touching on love and relationships, religion and superstition, hopes and fears. Occasionally, their observations offer something

Artwork by Anne van Koeverden

unexpected, but much of what they say is deeply familiar, born of the same search for meaning, intimacy, comfort and wonder that underlies so many late-night conversations between people our age, regardless of where.

When I’m asked about my university life, it’s those meandering conversations that come first to mind. Them, and the circumstances that allow so many of them to occur: most of us live in groups, and those groups are within walking distance of each other; we congregate in classes and societies that allow us to meet people and talk about common experi-

ences; and entire districts of shops, cafés and bars are dedicated to our demographic. The luxury of our situation! Even if the things we discuss and the conclusions we reach—earnestly, sarcastically, drowsily, delightedly—don’t always retain their importance or ingenuity in hindsight, the opportunity to have these talks with friends, acquaintances and strangers is one of the nicest benefits of attending a mid-size university surrounded by a beautiful, walkable neighbourhood filled with student housing.

In other words, I am very happy to be back at school. Happy September!

the large newsprint and certain design choices used by our antecedents in favour of the format and layout you see before you. We aimed for an attractive but simple aesthetic that would quietly support the excellent textual content. The change in paper quality represents our fond hope that Incite is a publication you will save and share.

In this inaugural issue of the redesigned magazine, we show our appreciation for the eleven volumes that came before by reprinting some of our favourite

articles. The selections we’ve made from the archives are as diverse as always in both theme and style, ranging from Hamilton-centric ones about Westdale’s roots and the Red Hill protests, to pieces both irreverent and serious about Bollywood, the selfishness of academia, microwave cuisine, and, on page 28, the origins of the publication as recounted by two of those plucky cofounders.

Enjoy! If you’d like to contribute to future issues, email incite@mcmaster.ca to receive notice of the next meeting.

A word about the design Twelve years ago, when Titanic was breaking box office records and Jean Chrétien and Bill Clinton were still the best of friends, three plucky McMaster undergraduates pooled their meagre savings and created Incite Magazine. The spirit of this publication has not changed since its inception: it’s still an independent monthly dedicated to inciting insight (zing!), run by enthusiastic volunteers with high-flown vocabularies and pedantic punctuation.

This year, though, we have made some significant surface changes, putting aside 2 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

incitemagazine.ca Features

9 10 12 14 15 18 19

Welcome to Westdale?

Our hood’s dark history Simon Fung & Kate MacKeracher Milling About Cycling past steel factories Galen Crout Florida on a Shoestring Reading Week ruckus Kerry Scott Unravelling the Hour On time Samantha Green A Sinister Conspiracy Left-handed rights Catherine M. A. Wiebe Culture Shocking!

Divided by diversity Laurence Scott Review: Done Like Dinner Student sustenance Alan Borowoy & Kim Haviv

Departments

6 5 21 30 31

Happenings Selected news from near & far An Illustrated Guide to...

Joyce Li & Chiara Meneguzzi Power/Play Yang Lei Sexin’ Marisa Burton Incite Pencil Adventure Chris Hilbrecht

Incite Magazine is published six times per academic year by Impact Youth Publications, founded in 1997.

Entire contents copyright 2009-2010 Impact Youth Publications. Opinions expressed in Incite Magazine are those of the author(s), and do not necessarily reflect the views of Incite Magazine’s staff or Impact Youth Publications.

Photography by Barry DeWitt

Letters of up to 300 words may be sent to incite@ mcmaster.ca; they may be edited for length and clarity and will not be printed unless a name, address, and daytime phone are provided.

22 24 26 28

Risking Arrest for the Red Hill Activism in our backyard Sachi Gibson & Trevor Stark Planet Bollywood A whole other world Muneeb Ansari & Chris Evans Pulling Back the Veil Responsible science Dan Milisavljevic Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Incite’s Beginnings (But Were Afraid to Ask) Matthew Beall & Eric Tam

Editor-in-Chief Siva Vijenthira Managing Editors Christina Lee, Graphics Yang Lei, Layout Associate Editors Patrick Byrne Chris Hilbrecht Hilary Noad Andrew Prine Contributors Muneeb Ansari, Matthew Beall, Alan Borowoy, Marisa Burton, Tings Chak, Galen Crout, Barry Dewitt, Chris Evans, Cary Ferguson, Simon Fung, Sachi Gibson, Samantha Green, Kim Haviv, Noel Severin Iverson, Joyce Li, Kate MacKeracher, Chiara Meneguzzi, Dan Milisavljevic, André Oliveira, Laurence Scott, Kerry Scott, Trevor Stark, Eric Tam, Anne van Koeverden, Michael Wexler, Catherine M.A. Wiebe, The Outer City Drawing Club Cover Tings Chak Printing Digital Art & Graphics, Inc. Contact incite@mcmaster.ca Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 3

Happenings Photography by Dimitri della Faille (flickr)

INSIDE THE BUBBLE...

IN NORTH AMERICA...

...and AROUND THE WORLD

Home base Hamilton’s baseball league for the homeless wrapped up its inaugural season at a tournament in Eastwood Park recently.

Taking a cue from Toronto, Hamilton’s league was conceived by local shelter resident Bruce Rodger. Plans are already being made for a reprisal next summer, and new options for other organized sport leagues for the homeless are actively being explored. Funding for the league is provided through private donations and a league of charitable and developmental organizations throughout the city.

Nipping HIV in the bud ATLANTA, GEORGIA—Preliminary reports from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention have recommended the introduction of universal newborn circumcision in the United States to reduce HIV infection rates. The CDC has been quick to point out that any recommendations involving circumcision would be voluntary, but with 79 per cent of American males already circumcised, some feel that even that is a cut too far.

Loitering lullabies IVERNESS, UNITED KINGDOM—In response to the increasing popularity of youth activity centres in Scotland’s highland hub, volunteers are using creative means to discourage after hours loitering. Promptly at closing time, they begin playing irritating music over the public address system. These mellifluous methods of dispersion range from the mildly annoying—Julie Andrews and Broadway show tunes—to the nearly intolerable— nursery rhymes, Peter Glass and Cher. In cases of emergencies, the adult volunteers are also prepared to recount embarrassing baby stories, how much harder life was when they were young, and the wonders of pubescent blooming. Maybe Hess managers could take note...

Domestic drama Theatre at McMaster starts this year with the Summer Performance Festival, in which actors are encouraged to be set designers, fundraisers are costumers, and stage crew are sound technicians. This year’s festival will feature the play Thyestes, the happy-go-lucky story of a man fed his own children by his brother, as well as a gallery space for art, poetry and multimedia. The festival runs September 17-19 in the McMaster Arts Quad and TSH 114. Admission to the gallery space is free; tickets for Thyestes are $10.

For more information, visit www.summerperformancefestival.com.

Flying ponies!

NEWMARKET, ONTARIO—Tornadoes touched down in more than one place in Southern Ontario on August 21, causing extensive damage. At the Royal Canadian Riding Academy, an equestrian event was just coming to a close when the storm started, uprooting in less than a minute every single tree at the front of the property. More than 400 people and 240 horses were at the site at the time, but there were no injuries. Witnesses report seeing one pony lifted up in the air only to be set down safely a few yards away— unfortunately not in my backyard.

Drama of a different sort In an obvious ploy to keep Incite Magazine from being able to report on the results, McMaster’s CAW members postponed their vote on whether to accept a contentious new collective agreement. If they choose to go on strike beginning September 4, course registration on SOLAR will be shut down, but the bookstore will remain open and most classes will still run.

The times, they are a-changin’ LONG BRANCH, NEW JERSEY—A 24-yearold police officer detained an “eccentriclooking old man” who called himself Bob Dylan, claimed he was touring with Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp, and... actually turned out to be Bob Dylan. Later, the embarrassed young officer tried to explain that it was pouring rain and the soaked, wandering Dylan didn’t look anything like she’d pictured, but the old (and the old at heart) shook their heads ruefully, reminded of their own mortality.

compiled by Cary Ferguson, Andrew Prine & Siva Vijenthira

compiled by Yang Lei, Chiara Meneguzzi & Siva Vijenthira

4 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Pet away the stress NAGOYA, JAPAN—In the midst of a joyless recession, business has been hopping for Japanese bunny cafés, where patrons pay an hourly rate to pet and cuddle with their cunicular friends. The bunnies in the cafés have been acclimatized to constant interaction; guests can even bring in pet rabbits from home to let them spend time fraternizing with like minds.

Lunar lunacy MUMBAI, INDIA—In a crushing blow to India’s space exploration aspirations, radio contact has been lost with the country’s only lunar satellite in orbit, Chandrayann-1. The satellite, which was less than halfway into its two-year mission, was meant to create a 3-D map of the lunar surface and collect data on surface composition. No word yet on whether Nazi moon alligators were involved. compiled by Yang Lei, Hilary Noad & Andrew Prine

triptych By The Outer City Drawing Club - Top to Bottom: Eating in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction The 40th Guest Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner

UnTitled by Anne Van Koeverden

Winter Is Coming by Noel Severin Iverson

Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 5

An Illustrated Guide to Hamilton Joyce Li & Chiara Meneguzzi, Columnists

E

very September, thousands of students are introduced to McMaster and, thus, to Hamilton. Some fall in love with the city right away; for others, it takes a little longer to warm up to this diverse, friendly and fun place.

Whether this is your first time in Steeltown, or whether you’ve been around for years, there is plenty to discover. The Westdale community, right next door to the university, is beautiful and has perhaps everything you could possibly want or need—coffee shops, a movie theatre, bars—but that’s no reason to limit yourself to that small perimeter around campus. Look: you have a free bus pass, and we know you’re not spending all your free time studying. You have no excuse not to explore Hamilton while you’re here!

On these pages, we describe some of our favourite places to visit. This guide reflects our interests and is by no means comprehensive; we’re still discovering the city for ourselves. For the two of us, Hamilton is special because it combines the charm of small, friendly neighbourhoods with the amenities of a big city. It has something for the artist, the bibliophile, the gourmand, the fashionista; for the nature lover, the thespian, the 6 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Photography by Joyce Li

athlete, the activist. After the time we’ve spent here, one of the things we’ve come to realize is that Hamilton is a city with plenty of character. Take the time to find it and you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

Hamilton’s a pretty fine place to hang your hat for a few years, or more; we hope you come to love it like we do!

Before you head out, you should be aware of all the great things you hold in your sweaty little palm when you pull out your student card. Not only will that pretty piece of plastic get you into exams, and buy your dinner, but it will also get you around town on Hamilton’s excel-

lent public transit system, and gain you access to most of the city’s museums and art galleries. If you need help getting somewhere on the bus, the Hamilton Street Railway (HSR) has teamed up with Google Maps to provide an extremely comprehensive bus guide. Simply go to Google Maps (http://maps.google.ca) and hit “Get Directions”. Type in your starting point and destination (in Hamilton, of course) and choose “By public transit” from the drop down menu. If you want to know the schedule for a certain time, click the “show options” button first.

Google Maps will plan out your route for you! And remember, if you want to know when the next bus will arrive, you can always check the nearest bus stop for the four digit stop number and dial it in when you call the HSR (905-527-4441). Now go, explore!

Hamilton has a thriving ART scene, with numerous free or affordable galleries all across the city. Between classes, pop into the MCMASTER MUSEUM OF ART (www.mcmaster.ca/museum; free admission; beside Mills) for a quiet, inspiring escape from the hustle-bustle of campus life. On the second Friday of each month, grab some friends and head

downtown for the JAMES ST. N. ART CRAWL (www.jamesstreetnorth.ca, click on “Events”; free admission; all along James St. N.), during which the dozen-orso galleries on the street open their doors late into the evening. This is a must-do while you’re in Hamilton; it’s always a fun, unique and sometimes bizarre experience. Also downtown, the two-storey ART GALLERY OF HAMILTON (www. artgalleryofhamilton.on.ca; free admission with your student card; 123 King St. W.) has an impressive collection and interesting exhibitions (on now: strange/ beautiful Italian chairs!). The gallery also has interesting events like film showings and nude model-sketching sessions.

If you’re looking for local food, strange or exotic ingredients, or savings on your grocery bill, try one of the city’s great FARMERS’ MARKETS. The HAMILTON FARMERS’ MARKET (www. myhamilton.ca, search: ‘Farmer’s Market’, open Tuesday to Saturday), located temporarily in Jackson Square while its usual location undergoes renovations, is a convenient bus or bike ride away and has just about everything you could possibly want from a market, and more: vegetables, fruit, meats, cheeses, flowers, chocolate, handmade hats, and some pretty awesome baked goods. Pick up fresh samosas (Chiara’s favourite), pasta salad and Colombian coffee, and head up to the Jackson Square rooftop (an almost eerily tranquil place in the heart of downtown) to enjoy your picnic. The OTTAWA STREET FARMERS’ MARKET (www.ottawastreetfarmers.com; 204 Ottawa St. N.) features fresh, local-only produce. It’s open on Fridays and Saturdays, year-round.

It would be a travesty to come to this lakeside city without visiting the WATERFRONT (www.hamiltonwater

front.com). You definitely need to spend some time there while the weather’s still relatively nice! Grab ice cream at SCOOPS or coffee at the surprisingly attractive WILLIAMS COFFEE PUB (47 Discovery Dr.), stroll down the trails and boardwalk, and watch the trolley and boats go by. Bring a Frisbee and/or a blanket and enjoy the sunshine and pretty sights! The waterfront is also the place to see Canada Day fireworks, sample wings from across the continent at the annual Wingsfest (so good! so carnivorous!) and experience other festivals; the great turnouts evince this city’s amazing sense of community.

LOCKE STREET SOUTH (www.loso. ca; south of Main, east of campus) is a vibrant neighbourhood with a variety of interesting shops, restaurants and bars.

Only on Locke Street can you visit both AL’S GUN SHOP (122 Locke St. S.) and THE SPICE EMPORIUM (170 Locke St. S.), grab a freshly baked bagel at the LOCKE STREET BAKERY (202 Locke St. S.), ogle the old things in the antique stores on the street (e.g. ANTIQUES ON LOCKE and LOCKE STREET ANTIQUES, 190 and 200 Locke St. S., respectively), then have a perfectly elegant time at the VINTAGE GARDEN TEA ROOM (35 Pine St.), followed by drinks at THE BAR ON LOCKE (178 Locke St. S.). As a bonus, everyone on this street just seems so friendly. Also visit: TEXTURES CRAFTWORKS (236 Locke St. S.) a cooperative of local artisans; THE HIVE (220 Locke St. S.), for all things beeswax.

ies to your heart’s content at THE HORN OF PLENTY (24 King St. W.) and organic, locally-produced clothing at TERRAWARE (17 King St. W.), where the clothes are made out of hemp. Stop into BODY & SOUL (2 King St. W.) for environmentally friendly body products. If you buy anything in Dundas, let it be a baked good from THE VILLAGE BAKERY (65 King St. W.). Try the mini pizzas. They’re stellar.

If shopping isn’t your thing, Dundas has some very nice restaurants and parks. For a sushi experience that’s touted by some as the best sushi in Hamilton, try MATSU SUSHI (29 King St. W.) or head to high tea at TAYLOR’S TEA ROOM & TAKEAWAY (11 King St. W.; high tea on Sunday), where they serve you scones, tiny sandwiches and your choice of tea. Or simply explore!

The neighbourhood surrounding the downtown area is beautiful and perfect for a walk with a friend.

Tired of Commons food? Can’t stomach another Union Market bagel?

Canned soup getting you down? Happily, Hamilton has a variety of ETHNIC RESTAURANTS catering to a wide range of tastes and budgets. Although we are still upset that the ubiquitous, faux-Chinese MANDARIN BUFFET (we are sure they are lovely people, but we will not provide you with their address) was voted “Best Chinese Restaurant” in one local paper, there are actually many delicious, seemingly authentic eateries in town! Close to campus, we like INDIAN GARDEN (1122 Main St. W.), where the food takes forever to come but is completely worth the wait.

Good Thai food abounds: MY THAI (21 John St. N.), THAI MEMORY (25 King William St.) and LEMONGRASS (1300 Garth St. Unit #1) are all affordable and yummy.

We can’t claim to be sushi connoisseurs, but we do know that our aching sushi cravings meet their match downtown at SAPPORO (96 Main St. E.), AUGUST 8

If you’re looking for a change of scene, make a shopping trip—or window shopping trip if your wallet’s feeling light—to DOWNTOWN DUNDAS (www. downtowndundas.ca). Enjoy the historic charm of this small town, located just a short bike or bus ride away from the university. You can find organic grocerVolume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 7

they’re putting on The Rocky Horror Show in April, HAMMER ENTERTAINMENT (www.hammerentertainment.ca). If you’re looking for something a little more highbrow, don’t fret, because Hamilton has an opera company. This year OPERA HAMILTON (www.operahamilton.ca; tickets from $30) is staging Strauss’s Die Fledermaus and Puccini’s La Bohème.

(1 Wilson St.) and SUSHI STAR (127 King St. E.). If you want good Mexican food, head to PAPAGAYO (246 King St. West), where you can try the chimichangas or a dish with a yummy chocolatebased mole sauce, or visit MEX-I-CAN (107 James St. N.). At the time of writing this, we haven’t yet made it to YA MAN CARIBBEAN CUISINE (315 King St. E.) but we have heard lots of good things and vow to stop by when the new school year starts.

Those with a flair for THEATRE, whether as a cast or crew member, might want to get involved with some of the campus groups or community theatre companies that put on quality productions each year; the rest of us are happy to just enjoy the show. In the new year, the MCMASTER THESPIAN COMPANY (www.macthespians.com) presents W.S. Gilbert’s Wicked World and Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, and MCMASTER MUSICAL THEATRE (www.mcmastermusical theatre.com) puts on Little Shop of Horrors. Off campus, check out: BLACK BOX FIRE (www.blackboxfire.com), PLAYERS’ GUILD (www.playersguild.org), THEATRE AQUARIUS (www.theatreaquarius.org),

If PARKS are your thing then there are quite a few places to enjoy the outdoors. Around McMaster, there’s CHURCHILL PARK (head to the north end of Dalewood, Dromore, Haddon or Cline), which connects to COOTES PARADISE. Visit the aviary (yes, the kind with birds) and spend some time climbing the trees or kicking around a soccer ball. If you’re looking for a good playground to relive some childhood memories, try ALEXANDER PARK (on the south side of Whitney, one bus stop west of Leland); swing on the swings, play baseball on the diamonds or learn how to do skateboard tricks in the mini skate-park. To expand your horizons, try the DUNDAS DRIVING PARK in Dundas, where you’ll find a water park and tennis courts. In the winter they have a skating rink, but you’ll have to bring your own skates. Climb the hill to visit GROVE CEMETERY to take a look at the escarpment up close or check out the view of Hamilton (can you spot McMaster?). For something a little more picturesque, visit the grounds at DUNDURN CASTLE (610 York Blvd.; free admission with your student card). They have an old-fashioned kitchen garden, you can peek in the windows at the castle and check out the cock-fighting house.

And if you didn’t know, Hamilton is the WATERFALL capital of the world (www. cityofwaterfalls.ca); when you have a bit of time, visit the website, grab some

friends and go hunting for some of these natural beauties.

More things to do and places to see: • Westdale Theatre, a historic one-screen movie house with amazing popcorn • Ottawa Street (www.shopottawastreet. com), with shop after shop devoted to fabric, vintage things and quirky odds and ends • the cozy Westdale Bookworm (852 King St. W.) and James Street Bookseller (158 James St. S.) for inexpensive used books • Sky Dragon Centre (27 King William St.) a progressive, welcoming space, home to the Bread and Roses Café • Hess Village (Hess St., between King St. W. and Main St. W.), a concentration of bars, clubs and restaurants along a short cobblestone road; enjoy the patios while you still can • the adorable White Elephant (152 James St. N.), filled with vintage and handmade treasures • live music every night of the week; for weekly show listings, pick up a free View Magazine (in boxes across the city) or visit the online calendar (www.viewmag.com/ calendar)

All Illustrations by Chiara Meneguzzi & Joyce Li 8 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Welcome to Westdale?

Simon Fung & Kate MacKeracher

A

djusting your broken backpack strap while strolling down Sterling Street, you can’t help but admire Westdale’s air of cultured refinement.

Quaint but dignified houses rest on landscaped lawns shaded by mature maples; English cottage-style homes have oriel windows and ivy, style and sagacity. A few blocks over, gift shoppes and florists dot the Westdale shopping district.

Someday, you think to yourself, I’ll be watering my begonias on that veranda right over there, as you stare longingly at your favourite Westdale property.

The birth of Westdale Isolated from downtown Hamilton by the Chedoke ravine—where the 403 is now located but what was once a creek— and marred by its proximity to the town dump, Westdale languished undeveloped until 1911, when Toronto contractor J.J. McKittrick purchased a 100-acre lot in the area. McKittrick bridged the Chedoke ravine, creating controlled access to Westdale and unleashing a flurry of stringently planned urban development in the area. Within four years, a real estate board known as the McKittrick Syndicate formed with the goal of creating a care-

(originally published November 2004)

Artwork by Tings Chak

fully organized, self-sufficient residential community in the area. As its current Business Improvement Area (BIA) website proudly proclaims, Westdale is “North America’s First Planned Community”.

Placing the streets Seeking to escape the wearisome bustle of city life, yet wishing to retain a convenient link with Hamilton’s conveniences, the Syndicate set out to do something different with Westdale’s street layout. Influenced by the German urban decentralization movement, which advocated the creation of living centres close to but detached from urban cores, the developers of Westdale designed the neighbourhood to maximize its close-toeverything-yet-away-from-it-all location.

A central pedestrian shopping district formed the heart of the community, with residential roads placed so that they radiated from this centre. The village was linked to central Hamilton by a streetcar service which passed over the Chedoke ravine by way of the McKittrick Bridge.

The neighbourhood’s semi-isolation from central Hamilton prevented assimilation into the city’s grid system. Having liberated their elegant abode from the

degrading influence of the plebeian street layouts, the Westdale developers moved on to ensure only the right sort of people would grace their aristocratic avenues.

Placing the people From the outset, the McKittrick Syndicate imposed restrictive covenants on the deeds to lots. Anyone who wished to purchase land in Westdale had to sign a document forbidding them to sell their property to: “Negroes, Asiatics, Bulgarians, Austrians, Russians, Serbs, Roumanians, Turks, Armenians (whether British subjects or not), or foreign-born Italians, Greeks or Jews”. The McKittrick Syndicate had a specific neighbourhood in mind for their development, and minorities were not welcome.

Dr. Alan Mendelson, Westdale resident and author of Exiles from Nowhere on anti-Semitism in Canada, attributes the racial and religious exclusion in Westdale’s covenants to fear of lower socioeconomic strata: “These minorities were seen as threats because they didn’t have assets.” Planners wanted to lure privileged individuals to the area—the sort of people who wouldn’t appreciate haveContinued on Page 11 Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 9

MIlling About Galen Crout

I

(originally published December 2004)

have a city map, and there are two distinct regions of the city. There is an organic, soft-edged green part— the residential and commercial areas of Hamilton—and there is a grey, geometric area straddling the harbour—home of the steel industry.

Biking through the grey, and dipping into the green, I imagine that if I had shaded the map myself the border between grey and green would be blended, reflecting the industrial-residential overlap that I see everywhere.

I see old steelworkers, and I imagine their scent—oil, carbon and cigarette smoke—stagnating blue in their living rooms. I’m going so fast on my bike that I can’t stop to smell, but their faces and navy blue coveralls let me smell with my eyes. They look crushed and tired, and everything around them seems worn.

Children walk home from school in heavy jackets, colourful hats; these small groups of five- and six-year-olds walk without parents, run onto lawns, smile, laugh and yell at one another. The trampled lawns lead to three different formations of houses. There are long corridors, connected on both sides, their rows broken up by small, destitute parks.

10 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Photography by John Piercy (Flickr)

There are duplex and triplex apartments: red brick front, cinderblock sides and back, with lightly coloured brick mosaics on flat faces. There are complexes of identical metal houses, separated by a yard apiece. Most are pale; the occasional purple-, red-, or yellow-painted front animates the scene.

I look up at yellowing crocheted curtains in the windows by day. When I pass through at night, the glow—blue from television, or yellow from the light of the kitchen—illuminates the rooms of the houses. I imagine the smell of the breadbox in my grandmother’s apartment filling every inch of these homes.

I bike away from the houses, travelling north on a strip of sprawl, to Dofasco and Stelco. The pavement underneath me is broken, and train tracks split the road’s width. A train thunders through and the guards go down. The domed red and white lights flash. The train bangs on, forever it seems, blaring its horn, crossing fine gaps in the train tracks. I realize the significance of trains in Hamilton: their tracks slice through the landscape, a product of the steelworks. They stretch like tree roots into the soil of the city, burrowing to other cities across the

province and country, sprouting up into refineries.

“Merry Christmas to the HSR and everyone” is spray-painted black on a white board resting against a fence.

Along this road, orange 80s-era signs—Tom’s, John’s, or Mom’s donuts, flea market advertisements, used car dealerships, auto repair shops with the word NASCAR emblazoned on the walls— dot my vision. There is a 70% Christmas liquidation sale going on somewhere, and if I follow the signs, I’m sure I’ll get there.

“Rent-to-Own” is proclaimed on another placard, and faded metallic garlands are strung between everything. I imagine having horse blinders to concentrate against these bright colours.

I’ve been on this same road in the rain at night. Convoys of eighteen-wheeler trucks storm by with beams scattering prisms of raindrops. I’ve been here in the dry day, and the same trucks storm by, tailgated by dust, kicking dirt into my eyes. Like the trains, they move across the country, facilitating the production of steel, bringing raw ore and scrap metal to process, reprocess, and ship out again.

I’m here, on the cusp of the factories, under an overpass that extends off into

the distance. The roads here were built on land cleared with steel machines. They are reinforced with steel bars. Trucks travel these roads built with steel, these roads reinforced with steel. I imagine for a second that these steelworks are selfperpetuating.

My first glimpse of the steel mills is of towers smoking to the sky. Smoke clouds dissipate in the air, framed by the blue of the day or the overcast navy of the night. In the distance, other towers spout off; far away, their spooling films of clouds appear in stasis. There is a stink in the air, like car exhaust.

Near the base of one of the towers is a refuelling hub where fifty-odd trucks gather to weigh in, refuel, and drive off across the country. I circle the hub, and stumble upon piles of derelict dumpsters;

some are yellow and new, others are red and rusted. They’re in the midst of a field of long grass. Beyond them are thousands of crushed cars, stacked and waiting to be picked up and dropped into a compactor by a giant claw in the sky. The cubed cars will be reprocessed, and the steel will make new cars again.

I bike back to the overpass, and go west to more factories. There is a river that smells like death, undulating from a pipe in the ground. The water is black, and ripples slightly. It winds off into an unhealthy-looking cluster of trees, but I can’t make out where it goes once it flows around a bend. I imagine it either surges into the lake or stagnates in some pond.

The ground is muddy here, and my head hurts from the stench, so I leave.

Grey rusting corrugated silos con-

tain unnamed substances. The silos, in clusters, wall the dark water reservoir.

Staircases spiral up their sides, biding time until inspectors or engineers arrive to replenish their noxious contents. I’m sick here, but I keep going.

I pass automated gates, barbed wire fences, and massive truck lots. At the end of the road, pale yellow piles reach towards the sky like mountains. As I get closer, the smell names them sulphur. I keep biking, across more train tracks and alongside cavernous steel warehouses. As I reach the northern tip of this grey steel mill block, pier #23, the sulfuric stench pushes tears from my eyes. I plug my nose, and decide to leave. I bike south, until I find a street I’m comfortable with, and follow it back to my home.

Welcome to Westdale? continued from Page 9

nots ogling their oriel windows.

With similar care, and for similar reasons, developers segregated decent middle-class families from the unwashed masses, allocating specific residences and shopping districts for low-income households. For working-class soldiers returning home from the first World War, the planners thoughtfully set aside an area of thirty-foot square plots across from the garbage dump.

So anxious was the McKittrick Syndicate to establish an upscale tone for the area that it urged McMaster University, then located on Toronto’s Bloor Street, to relocate to Westdale. Developers hoped to create a “colony of professors”, which would in turn boost local real estate values. Perhaps they too imagined a village of distinguished professors watering their begonias on the veranda. Alas, their clever scheme resulted in massive vacancies; most professors couldn’t afford to live in the area.

A further setback to Westdale’s patrician planners occurred as the Second World War came to an end, when the flood of returning veterans and subsequent post-war boom began to erode the village’s carefully nurtured isolation from the bustling metropolis of Hamilton.

Working-class houses began sprouting up haphazardly, and new crescents, cul-desacs, and other disorderly streets started encroaching upon Westdale’s regulated

roads. In the 1950s, Canadian courts dealt Westdale’s exclusivity its deathblow at last, stopping legally-endorsed segregation by nationality or religion. These court decisions, combined with market forces and government inducements, conclusively divorced the village from the McKittrick Syndicate’s rigid vision, and have led to a Westdale that today houses Christian and Jew, white and minority, rich and student.

The new Westdale Westdale was originally a planned, exclusionary community that barred racial minorities from settling in. Today a different demographic worries Westdale residents. In 2001, the Ainslie Wood/ Westdale Community Association of Resident Homeowners listed students (and the noise they bring) as a major issue of concern. Antipathy towards student housing and absentee landlords is a persistent sentiment at community meetings. Are these attitudes symptomatic of a monoculture mentality, or a legitimate attempt at community management?

Certainly Westdale’s original planners did not consider the question of student housing in their plots to lure wealthy professors.

Westdale’s history might be something to ponder the next time you whistle down its tree-lined streets and, in the words of the BIA website, “enjoy the unique shopping ambience of North

America’s First Planned Community”.

You might stare at one of the leaded glass windows and consider just how enlightened we’ve become since 1911. You might fantasize about one day purchasing a home here, until of course, you are distracted by the thought of preparing tonight’s meal of canned tuna.

Chances are that fifty years ago you weren’t allowed to live in Westdale. You still may not be welcome here today.

write, draw, edit or design for incite magazine incite@mcmaster.ca

Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 11

Florida on a Shoestring Kerry Scott (originally published March 2005)

H

ow do you escape the cold and snow of Hamilton for under $300?

This was the question on my mind as Reading Week approached, the temperature hovered at -20°C, and my bank statements became increasingly worrisome. Luckily, four of my brainy friends were willing to forgo studying, eating, and even bathing in pursuit of an answer to this pressing question.

Some realities quickly emerged from this Reading Week think tank. We realized that movement in a southern direction would be necessary in order to see an improvement in temperature. We also recognized that the likelihood of attaining a tan would increase in proportion to distance travelled. Shortly thereafter, we noticed that airplane flights, a common method of migration, were beyond our means. Additionally discouraging was the realization that resorts and hotels, common destinations of southbound travelers, were rather pricey. Dreams of Aruba, Jamaica, (ooh won’t someone take me to…) Bermuda, Bahamas, and especially Kokomo vanished in a cold gush of Hamilton wind.

Before despair (and frostbite) set in, one particularly clever friend had an 12 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

artwork by tings chak

epiphany: Not only is Florida far south of us, it is also accessible without the aid of an airplane! This revelation left only the minor tasks of finding a car and a cheap place to stay. Miraculously, my parents, in a moment of empty-nester delirium, agreed to lend us the minivan for a week.

This glorious golden Toyota came with the added bonus of a sleek grey Thule ski holder on top suitable for carrying the inevitable overflow of hair dryers, pillows, and shoes generated by five girls packing for a week. A flurry of calculations ensued as we worked out how many tanks would be required to get us there and back. We determined, with great relief, that driving would be much more affordable than flying.

With transportation in the bag, we decided that Fort Lauderdale, Florida would be an ideal destination—mostly because a friend had been there once and said it was pretty cool. Plus, it was further south than Disney World.

“Hosteling” had always seemed a sketchy yet romantic way to travel, reminiscent of a generation less concerned about creepy old men, hygiene, and bed bugs. On a whim, we googled “Fort Lauderdale Hostel” and opened the first site

that appeared. A page full of tanned, smiling people frolicking by a pool and sandy beach loaded on the screen before us.

The Fort Lauderdale Beach Hostel offered it all: no curfew, free parking, internet access, full kitchen, and a place to sleep for only CDN $24! We were ready to start packing.

It was only later that doubts began to infringe upon my pre-holiday bliss. It started with the phone call to reserve our beds. When I named the five nights we’d be there, I heard a great deal of hemming, hawing, and page turning.

“Five nights, huh?” the stereotypical surfer-receptionist drawled, “we’re pretty booked up that week.”

My heart sank.

“Just the one bed right? You’re traveling alone?” My heart hit the floor.

“No,” I had to correct, “I’m actually going to be with four of my girlfriends… but we’ll sleep on the floor if we have to!”

I joked.

“The floor, huh?” He continued turning pages and mumbling, “Yeah that’s an option.”

No, no, I was kidding!

“Alright honey, we’ll squeeze you ladies in. I’ve got some mattresses in

the back room. Can’t guarantee much though.”

“Okay, well, thanks,” I said, wondering what I had just gotten us into.

As my Mom emerged from her freakishly generous state, she too began to worry. She was less than impressed by our lack of road maps and what she deemed to be an overconfidence in MapQuest. She advised us to call CAA and see if they had any free maps we could use.

Other parental advice, along with the expected warnings about pickpockets and sunburns, included reminders “not to buy pot from shady characters”, “not to drive if we’re feeling wonky”, “not to try to take anything strange over the border”, and, as it turned out, the most practical of all, “not to park in underground lots because the Thule simply will not fit”. The most adamant advice, offered by several parents, was to “stay away from Miami!”

(I’ll admit that we did take a quick trip to Miami. But to our disappointment, we didn’t spot the CSI team.)

We ambitiously set a departure time of 4:30 a.m. on Saturday. I guess you could say that we were excited. However, with all the sandwiches to be made, the suitcases to be forced closed, and the passports to be located, the actual time we hit the QEW was a lot closer to 10 a.m.

We drove in three-hour shifts, and made an agreement early in the trip to split any speeding tickets five ways. We also decided that drivers on the graveyard shift, from one to six a.m., had the right to music of any volume and a chatty person riding shotgun to keep them awake. This passenger was also useful for mixing Redbull and Coke cocktails for the driver.

For potential US road trippers, I offer you a few pieces of advice: when stopped in a small town diner for a meal, it is not a good idea to loudly ask your server what state you’re in. That is, unless you want every head in the place to turn, and every voice to drop to a whisper. Also, feel free to be fairly picky about the gas stations you patronize. If, at four a.m., you get a strange feeling about the eerie emptiness of a lot (save for two vans with tinted windows parked off in a corner) or begin to wonder why every local between the ages 18 and 26 seems to be milling around the joint, just drive on. We certainly did.

Once we had stopped seeing patches of snow and frost, we developed another stratagem to gauge the improving

weather conditions. Every three hours or so we rolled down a window, someone stuck a hand out, and a detailed weather report was relayed to the rest of the van.

Unfortunately, it took about 22 hours of driving to feel any real change, causing several hours of conversation devoted to the pros and cons of driving all the way to Tijuana. Luckily, those last few hours made all the difference.

Sunday at 10 a.m., exactly 24 hours after our departure, we arrived at 2115 North Ocean Boulevard, where we were greeted by Nick, one of the hostel’s several tanned and chillin’ staff members. Bob Marley was bustin’ from the speakers in the lush courtyard. Seasoned backpackers watched with amusement as we staggered back and forth between the van and the hostel laden with suitcases, coolers, pillows, and beach bags. To our relief, a room with two bunk beds had become available (with promised mattress on the floor), so we were all able to move into the same room. The reading on our trip sketch-o-meter dropped significantly when the sheets that were provide for us actually looked clean, and fell still further when we discovered the fully functional kitchen in the common area outside our room. This place was a tropical version of residence, minus rules and CAs! One whiff of the fridge, however, caused the sketchiness score for hygiene to skyrocket.

When we went to the beach, all thoughts of sketchiness vanished. Less than one minute away from the hostel, I felt as though I had stepped into one of those billboards that mock Canadians throughout the winter. The sun was shining, the waves were warm, the sand was soft, and the fine folks from the Best Western had even left some lounge chairs out for us! Their complimentary beach towels seemed overly generous, but who were we to argue? Throughout the week we managed to fit right in with the resort crowd, and were often found enjoying their hot tub or lazy river. (Another tip: the generosity of Florida’s resorts pretty much ends around nine p.m. when the gates close. After that time, being found dabbling in their chlorinated waters is no longer considered charming and is instead termed “trespassing”.)

We had thought that our underage status in Florida would limit our nightlife to seeing a few movies and walking longingly past the bars in the entertainment district. Were we ever hostel amateurs.

Not a night passed without hordes of travelers of all ages gathering around the picnic tables in the courtyard with guitars, wine, and accents from around the world. By 11 p.m., the socialites remaining around the table tended to be younger and so, not surprisingly, our gatherings got louder. As the night wore on, we were relocated to the beach, where the party continued late into the night.

Our days were full of body surfing, lying in the sun, collecting shells, and reading everything we brought (aside from the course packs and textbooks diligently lugged down from Canada).

One afternoon, as the sun was setting we decided to check out the Galleria Mall, a trip that very nearly ended prematurely due to the seductive convenience of an underground parking lot. At the last moment, right before we attempted to breeze through the six-foot-high entrance, the words of my father returned to me. Thanks to good brakes and fast reflexes, disaster was averted and the Thule remained intact and atop the roof.

Those six days in Florida passed far too quickly. On the drive home, I took the six to nine morning shift. As I watched the sun rise through the West Virginian mountains, I realized how lucky we had been. You can’t pay $500 a night at a classy resort to get as fantastic an experience as we had just enjoyed. The hostel’s atmosphere, for all its sketchiness, provided us with an instant network of friends—both Floridian and international—and the opportunity to travel North America on one very skinny shoestring.

To thank my parents for lending us the van, I decided to take it for a full-body-no-cloth carwash the day after we returned home. I checked that all windows were closed and carefully manoeuvred it into the tracks that were to pull it through the enclosed wash. As I put the van in neutral and sat back to enjoy watching those red scrubbers get to work on the windshield, a mechanic came running at me waving wildly. I casually rolled down my window to see what his problem was. “Stop! Reverse!” he cried, “That Thule won’t fit!”

How we made it all the way to Florida and back without a hitch remains a mystery to me.

Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 13

Unravelling the Hour Samantha Green

I

(originally published February 2007)

have a friend who, I’m convinced, must have spent a significant amount of his life in Trinidad—or perhaps India. In addition to being a big fan of curry, this friend sees nothing wrong in arriving one, two, even three hours late for all formal and informal engagements. He claims to have never left North America, but his assertion loses credibility each time it is reiterated after another “fashionably” late appearance.

Kevin K. Birth, an anthropologist at the City University of New York, has studied the perception of time in Trinidad. According to Birth’s 1999 book Any Time is Trinidad Time, Trinidadians consistently show up an hour or more late to meetings without anyone minding—or even noticing. Across the globe, from Trinidad to Canada to India, an hour is identical down to the last nanosecond, thanks to atomic clocks. But, as many social scientists have observed, organic, cultural time is remarkably variable.

Robert V. Levine, a social psychologist at California State University at Fresno, conducted pace-of-life studies in 31 countries for his 1997 book A Geography of Time. Levine measured walking speed on urban sidewalks, the time required 14 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Illustration by André Oliveira

for a postal clerk to fulfill a request for a common stamp, and the accuracy of public clocks. He concluded that the five fastest–paced countries are Switzerland, Ireland, Germany, Japan and Italy, while the five slowest are Syria, El Salvador, Brazil, Indonesia and Mexico; Canada is somewhere in the middle.

If organic time is so inconsistent, where did the contemporary concept of time—measured in arbitrary yet absolute seconds, minutes and hours—even come from?

The mechanical clock is thought to have been invented by thirteenth century Benedictine monks who believed that it is a sin to waste time. (Clearly my friend would have never made it in the cut– throat world of the Benedictine monastery.) The monks needed something better to measure time with than sundials, astronomy, and water clocks—all unreliable in cloudy and cold northern Europe.

The first mechanical clocks proved fairly inaccurate: cities reset them by reference to a sundial several times a week. But with constant improvements in accuracy, especially with Christiaan Huygens’s 1657 invention of the pendulum clock and the addition of minute and second hands, a

fundamental change in time consciousness took place.

Until the late 14th century, some Europeans punctuated their day with “hours” of twelve equal parts whose length varied across the seasons; others— especially agrarian labourers—did not use divisions of time at all. The invention of the clock and the concurrent expansion of urban wage labour during the 14th century brought about the modern notion of absolute hours. Urban employers paid wage labourers by the day, and wanted to mark the start and end of work shifts in a public, official way. These employers established a standard work shift that remained the same regardless of the season.

Constant hours permitted an assessment of commitments both at work and at play. Time was no longer just a resource, but was an object that could be spent or invested in standard denominations. Time-keeping led to time-accounting and time-rationing.

Lewis Mumford, an American historian of technology and science, called the transition to abstract, measured hours and minutes a process of alienation from Continued on Page 16

A Sinister Conspiracy Catherine M.A. Weibe

S

he’s the girl who sits next to you in class. He’s your boss. She’s your mother. They are at least ten per cent of Earth’s population. Perhaps it’s your best friend, and he has never had the courage to tell you. They don’t look different, talk different, or dress different. They won’t hurt you, and they certainly aren’t contagious. In fact, you might know one for all of your life, and never be able to tell.

They’re contributing members of contemporary society. Some suggest that they’re among the most intelligent and creative people on Earth. And they’re the victims of systematic, world-wide discrimination.

I am one of them. I am left-handed.

Until now, the southpaws of the world have existed in stoic silence, enduring our fate as consistently marginalized members of society. We haven’t complained about the difficulty that even a normal pair of scissors brings into our lives, not to mention the near-death experience of attempting to handle a chainsaw. We’ve lived with the knowledge that the origin of the word “sinister” is the Latin word for “left”. We’ve borne our destiny, taking comfort in the occasional

(originally published April 2003)

Artwork by Anne van Koeverden

witticism (“If the left side of the brain controls the right side of the body, and the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handed people are in their right mind!”). But the time for silence is at an end. Without immediate and decisive action to end this discrimination, the days of left-handed chain gangs (with all right-handed tools, just to reiterate the inadequacy of the left-hander) cannot be far behind.

Many right-handers argue that antileft discrimination is a thing of the past.

“We no longer whip people for writing left-handed”, they say, as if not whipping people is synonymous with tolerance and acceptance. While lefties are no loner beaten for their orientation, the discrimination has become less obvious and, perhaps, more cunning. A few gestures toward lefties have been made, but despite left-handed scissors in kindergarten classrooms across the country, we still have a long way to go to create a tolerant, diverse society where lefties can truly feel welcome.

Two actions would help to make the lives of lefties as carefree as those of their righty counterparts. First the availability of left-handed equipment in all walks of

life is sadly lacking. For example, lefthanded desks make up less than five per cent of the desks in most university lecture halls, yet ten per cent of the world’s population is left-handed. Even those lefties lucky enough to get a left-handed seat are always segregated, as left-handed desks are only positioned at the end of the row. This segregation can only add to the isolation that many lefties feel as a result of their condition.

Further, while the number of those who label themselves left-handed lumberjacks is probably few, those who are of this class are aggravated daily by the problem of the chainsaw. Lefties must use a chainsaw right-handed, as it is “potentially dangerous” (according to MowerMagic Chainsaw Distributors) to use a chainsaw left-handed.

Corkscrews, computer mice and can openers are but a few of the other tools of daily life that are difficult and sometimes dangerous for lefties. Additionally, even implements of life that aren’t directly troublesome for lefties show an obvious handism. Clocks always turn to the right, and most countries promote driving on the right side of the road. While immeContinued on Page 17 Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 15

Unravelling the Hour continued from Page 14

nature; the days of the year, the pulse and the breath all vary in a way that mechanical time does not recognize. Our new reliance on the clock distorted the organic time that had been a sequence of elementary human experiences and events. Before the mechanical clock, keeping regular time had only been a peculiar attribute of music.

With the invention of the digital clock in 1956, the perception of time again evolved, although less drastically and perhaps less overtly than with earlier transformations. Instead of articulating moments within an uninterrupted continuity, the digital clock sees time as discontinuous and fragmented.

The clock is an inconspicuous and forgotten technology that has nevertheless radically changed the way society functions and even the way we think.

Faith in mathematically measurable sequences dissociated from human events promoted the application of quantitative methods in science. The clock shows no beginning or end, and has no middle nor any intrinsic goals. The clock causes us

16 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

to anticipate, procrastinate, and judge.

(Is it irrational for me to judge my tardy friend—and those silly El Salvadorians— as irresponsible?)

Even more insidiously, the clock has acted as a memento mori: continuously with us, it is a reminder of the passage of events, of the changes we witness, and of our continuous march towards death.

Indeed, shortly after the introduction of the mechanical clock in Europe, artists from across the continent were creating paintings and engravings portraying Time as a deadly spirit against which people fought. The association of clocks and time with impending doom may have been related to the primary public use of clocks: churches used clocks to remind parishioners of sermons and funerals.

The clock is also a tool, both in the obvious sense as a device to measure time, and also in other, less evident, ways.

Everyone knows someone who sets her clocks purposefully ahead; that person uses the clock as a tool to manipulate time—or at least her perception of time— to prod herself towards punctuality.

At best, clocks are merely metaphors

for time—a truth that we tend to forget.

What would happen if everyone refrained from checking the time for a day? Would we somehow feel a greater, more genuine connection to wildlife and our natural environment? Would we make it to meetings on time instinctually, out of habit?

If time was measured in relative terms, would we still be productive? The industrialists certainly didn’t think so.

A character in William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury remarks, while looking at dozens of contradicting watches in a jeweller’s shop window, “Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.” While my “Trinidadian” friend would probably wholeheartedly agree, thankful for any deep, societal excuse for his perpetual punctuality problems, the assessment seems a little severe. The clock has artificially organized time; but with its effects understood and acknowledged, we can view the measurement of time less as a constraint, and more as a tool and framework for living.

A Sinister Conspiracy Continued From page 15

diately replacing all analog clocks with digital clocks is probably unrealistic, awareness of the pervasive handism of humanity is the first step in eliminating it.

Perhaps the greatest challenge in creating a world free of handism is an overhaul of the English language. This action is necessary to support the wellbeing of the left-hander. While tangible left-handed implements are easy to install, it is much more difficult to install new language patterns in those who have unwittingly practiced handism all their lives. English is the most widely spoken language in the world, and it is one of the most cruel to the left-handed. Regardless of the words written, the form of English is discriminatory, forcing left-handers to smear their left hands with ink as they move from left to right across the page.

Politically correct North Americans take great pains not to offend the minorities around them. A short, fat, balding man becomes a vertically challenged, metabolically passive male with follicle

function cessation. However, these same tolerant people often think nothing of labelling an awkward person as “gauche” (literally “left”, en français) or calling an evil person “sinister”. Even the word “ambidextrous” literally means “righthanded on both sides”.

The greatest source of obvious antileft bias in English regards the use of the words “right” and “left”. Have righties ever considered how a lefty feels when someone says “right on”? There is no corresponding left-supporting phrase in the English language. No student ever gets the “left answer” on a test—there is only “right” and “wrong”. Although “correct” is an acceptable, non-discriminating substitute for “right”, I suggest that all who are concerned for left-right equality begin to use “right” and “left” interchangeably when referring to a statement’s truth. While this may initially confuse those still entrapped in the old, intolerant ways of thinking, it will be the left thing to do for the cause of hand inequality. Similarly, most countries have a “Bill of Rights” or a “Charter of Rights

and Freedoms”. I need not point out that there is no corresponding “Bill of Lefts” or “Charter of Lefts and Freedoms”. This blatant discrimination can be easily remedied by the simple substitution of “Things the Government Has to Guarantee Us” for “Rights”. While this replacement may not have the pithy elegance of “rights”, it is a gesture that will make the ten per cent of every country that calls themselves southpaws finally feel as if they have all the same Things the Government Has to Guarantee Us as the right-handers Our university, a community that allegedly supports diversity in all shapes and sizes, is the perfect place to begin the worldwide movement against anti-left discrimination. The path of non-violent, yet consistent, resistance to handism can defeat the insidious pro-right bias that permeates our campus and our world, and can, perhaps, make an ambidextrous—er, ambisinistrous—world where the right hand of discrimination will no longer crush the delicate souls of lefties around the world.

Photography by Michael Wexler

Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 17

Culture Shocking!

Laurence Scott

L

(originally published February 2000)

ast summer I was at a party where I overheard two girls behind me talking about a multi-cultural festival one of them had recently attended. “It was fabulous,” one was saying, “because it really cherished diversity.” At that point, klaxons went off in my head.

Unable to help myself, I turned round and said, “Don’t you think we should be cherishing similarity, instead?” The girls stopped talking and looked at me blankly. Feeling that I needed to explain myself, I added, “I mean, diversity is after all only superficial. When you get down to it, we’re all basically the same, aren’t we?” They weren’t at all happy with my thoughts on the subject, mumbling that Nazism is based on such views—one uniform, super-race of blue-eyed blondes.

That wasn’t really my point at all, but their rush to defend diversity revealed much about the current taboo against minimizing diversity’s importance. It seems to me that “diversity” and “multiculturalism” have been grossly inflated by our politically correct ideals as popculture buzzwords, and are distracting us from a true understanding of human relations.

I am not convinced that culture, as an

18 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Artwork by Tings Chak

abstract collection of generalizations, is all that important. Life is important and interesting, but culture is a table of contents. Ask someone to define “Canadian Culture” and they invariably shoot back a list of items: hockey, winter, religion, maple syrup, etc. This list is culture, the mental act of assembling aspects of life into a comfort blanket of familiar words.

When we say, “Oh, but my culture is a huge part of who I am,” what do we really mean? Is culture for one Canadian the same for another? I know many Canadians who do not like hockey, and many a Brit who hates fish and chips. The idea of a uniform culture is likely a myth, so how can “Canadian Culture” be bandied around as a constant term in conversation?

Furthermore, a great deal of our popular culture is imposed upon us, as opposed to an expression of ourselves.

North American culture is unapologetically dictated by big business and commercial appeal. We are so easily seduced by glamour and sparkle that it is easy for others to tell us what to like. And many aspects of culture are constantly changing. In the ’80s I laughed at pictures of my older siblings in ’70s bell bottoms. Then

in the ’90s a tapered jean became horrifying and a good flare a fashion necessity.

So what does this say about me as a person, other than that I am highly suggestible? As individuals, we are much more than our cultures could ever adequately describe. Pop culture is largely built on superficial grounds; if anything, it only expresses flimsy, egocentric elements of our personalities. And “high culture”— most notably religion—should not be classified under the umbrella of culture, lumped alongside blintzes and bagels and lox. Rationalizing religion into one’s life is such a personally spiritual matter.

Whatever public sphere religion adopts— if any—should be the contribution of each person’s thought on the subject, not an institution aiming to culturally impose dogma. So, with culture thus defined, I find it hard to respect it as even a minor reflection of myself.

Then why all the fuss over culture?

The argument is that a respect and appreciation for one another’s culture will eventually lead to an idyll of equality. I think much more than that will be necessary. Suppose a people are known for cooking fish in clay pots—a symbol Continued on Page2 20

Review Done Like Dinner Alan Borowoy & Kim Haviv

W

ith exams around the corner, we students become less and less concerned with Martha Stewartian culinary endeavours and more inclined to consume whatever sustenance has established itself as a stalwart in our freezers. If your icebox needs a refill and you’re not seeking much more than a stomach full enough to stay conscious during study sessions, read on. This month the staff of Incite serve as guinea pigs for the common good. Bon appétit.

Swanson Hungry-Man Buffalo Style Chicken Strips:  OK. Let’s step back for a minute. Most of the mouthy comments that come to mind are a bit too obvious, so we’ll just say that among a field of not-so-stellar dishes, Hungry-Man was the only one to be deemed absolutely inedible. On a positive note, we did come up with a marketing suggestion for the Swanson Corporation—they’ll have more success teaming up with Bill Cosby and pitching the “chicken” as a Jell-O product.

Schneider’s Broccoli & Cheese Quiche:  The French pastoral watercolour

(originally published December 2003) Photography by Slimmer Jimmer (Flickr)

scene on the box gave tasters high hopes that the little pie pastry would bring a taste of bucolic serenity to the often hectic pace of student life. The reality was that the box promised more than this little egg-filled pastry could deliver. The “farm-fresh broccoli” advertised by the Schneider’s milkmaid (whose stare unnerved many an Inciter) was noticeably absent, and the mega-fluffy eggs seemed like they were whisked in a jet engine as opposed to the ceramic bowl of an Avignon matron. But since they’re priced at four for three bucks, we were willing to swallow our disappointment.

Equality Lasagna Alfredo with Broccoli; Equality Fettuccini Alfredo:  We feel the brand name “Equality” deserves some attention: processed social justice for the ground-up revolution. We would never have dared to dream that the fight for equality would extend as far as our microwaves. Unlike the quiche, the broccoli was delivered as promised in the lasagne, and both alfredo options were delicious in their buttery bounty.

We especially appreciated the illustrated instructions for proper mixing technique,

which helped settle a few disputes over form. Apparently, counterclockwise is the acceptable pattern—we didn’t dare experiment with clockwise stirring for fear of rendering the dish inedible.

Maple Leaf Nature’s Gourmet Spaghetti Bolognese with Soy:  Maple Leaf Foods, typically associated with all things meatatarian, jumps into the world of soy. Did they flounder?

Surprisingly, no. The dish was simple— TVP, tomato sauce and pasta—but good quality and generally tasty. Sometimes a boost for vegetarians comes from the most unlikely of sources. We were, however, disarmed by the discrepancy between the depicted dish and the reality that emerged from our microwave, making it this issue’s winner of the false advertising award.

Michelina’s Crisp ‘n’ Flaky Three Cheese Pizza:  For those you who haven’t noticed, our friend Michelina has spread her wings lately; pizza is one of ten frozen genres this staid Italian icon now dabbles in. While the taste was of decent qualContinued on Page 20 Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 19

Culture Shocking! continued from Page 18

of their culture. The diversity crew says relations will improve if I respect the fact that they cook fish in clay pots because the activity defines them as a people. No, relations will improve once I come to the realization that these people are fundamentally the same as me. In all profound ways, we are kindred—literally of the same kind. The people cook fish in clay pots because they live near the ocean and the soil in their region is rich in clay. This sort of cultural awareness is particularly insidious because it convinces people, through a very superficial tolerance of others, that prejudice is on the wane.

We need to search much deeper than the veneer of culture to understand the reasons why bigotry resides within us.

Again it seems that “culture” is not up to the task of helping us reconstruct our non-denominational Eden. As a tool of global unity, it lacks the incisive ability to cut through the source of our division.

Granted it makes sense that, in a

world sadly acquainted with exploitative inequality, we are eager to propagate a sense of cultural respect. Indeed it may be the most practical way of eroding discrimination. But now the movement to cherish diversity has taken on a hallowed, glowing aura and is often ignored by critical eyes. Why are cultural differences being so tirelessly celebrated while fundamental similarities sit unnoticed?

I would think that, as a unifying force, an appreciation and wonder for our innate sameness would be more effective.

Our relatedness goes beyond biological moulds and the looping certainty of double helices. In addition to all of us being variations on an anatomical theme, we share that joyous affliction called the human condition. Condemned to the knowledge of our own mortality and dogged by our chattering egos, we are joined by our mutual quests to find meaning in life.

The greatest danger inherent in the emphasis of cultural diversity is the overaggrandizing of culture itself. We are

assembling a mode of viewing ourselves and others in terms of this bizarre, ethereal notion of culture. By asking culture to “define” us—whatever that means—we are perpetuating a hazardous way of perceiving others. If we see ourselves as entrenched in our cultures, will we not therefore inevitably view all our fellow people as products of their cultures? This does not seem to achieve multiculturalism’s noble aim of unification. Trapped in different bubbles of culture, albeit with the ultimate respect for diversity, we will nonetheless remain divided. Can we for once just see each other as a bunch of similar people strapped to a weary sphere, trying to fathom the unfathomable as we hurtle through lonely space?

However unrealistically utopian this sounds, it could be achieved as quickly as a change in perspective. Perhaps this thought should be given at least as much attention as clay pots and multiculturalism have of late.

it’s done?” questioned another taster, her eyes tearing up slightly. On a positive note, the overcooked pasta will likely be appreciated by mushy food aficionados, or those who are just plain tired of chewing.

The Creamy Cheddar and Fresh Pasta contender fared slightly better. But with “fresh pasta” as a selling point, we as consumers must be honest with ourselves: if fresh pasta is what you’re looking for, you’re in the wrong aisle of the grocery store altogether. Who are they trying to kid? Nevertheless, the cheddar sauce was found to be “surprisingly tasty”. Is it worth the $3.19 price tag? Maybe—if you have, like, company coming over or something.

apples, currants, and mango on basmati rice (exhale). Sadly, the morning after, we could only recall the currants being both skimpy and bitter; in fairness, though, we thought they were raisins. Anyway this was pretty tasty, but a far cry from the sexy dish depicted on the package.

Done Like Dinner continued from Page 19

ity, most testers were rather astonished by the adhesive properties of the pizza they were consuming. “I can’t open my mouth!” one visibly shaken Inciter reported between clenched teeth. Some assembly of the cooking apparatus was required. An iridescent solar panel of sorts must be affixed to the cardboard cooking platform. This was a genuine mystery: does it concentrate the microwave… waves? We don’t know, but we’re working on it.

Stouffer’s Pastaria (Three Cheese Macaroni) versus Stouffer’s Macaroni & Cheese (With Rich Creamy Cheddar and Fresh Pasta):  In this title bout between two mac ‘n’ cheese heavyweights, the most discriminating of Incite taste-testers were put to the task of naming a champion. Were they ever in for a treat. “It sorta tastes like Play-Doh,” one Inciter commented on the Pastaria contender. Leaving aside what this comment says about the eating habits of Incite staffers, the problems with this dish extended to the olfactory realm.

“I guess the rank smell emanating from the Three-Cheese sauce lets you know 20 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Stouffer’s Lean Cuisine “Café Classics”—Mango Curry Chicken:  It seems that everything worth eating these days comes in bowl form— there must be some sort of “keeping up with the Joneses” going on in the seedy underworld of microwavable entrées.

We confess to being thoroughly seduced by the decadence of the rather grandiloquent title: Café Classics Mango Curry Chicken with peas, cauliflower, potato,

Michelina’s Noodle Bowls—Spicy Thai Chicken:  Michelina reportedly brought back this recipe from her extended sojourn in Southeast Asia, but it seems more like an overdose of cayenne pepper in an otherwise generic spaghetti sauce that’s being passed off as Thai fare.

After taking a crash course on the intricacies of origami, you will find yourself ready to transform the packaging of this culinary gem into a contraption best described as a “noodle bowl module.” The excitement of this do-it-yourself project is quickly lost in a mass of bland noodles that tastes suspiciously like nothing. The chicken and vegetables provide brief reprieve, but Michelina shouldn’t expect to be granted honorary Thai citizenship any time soon.

Power/Play No Cold Feet Yang Lei, Columnist

O

n July 13, 2005, a company of Canadian soldiers erected an Inukshuk and planted a Canadian flag on Hans Island, a little rocky knoll in the Nares Strait, between Ellesmere Island and Greenland. Hans Island has been the object of a border dispute between Canada and Denmark since the 1980s and, unsurprisingly, the Danish Foreign Ministry soon registered a complaint with the Canadian Government.

Hans Island is only the tip of the iceberg of issues facing Canada in the Arctic.

Half a dozen nations have overlapping claims in the Arctic and with the possibility of the Northwest Passage being free of ice, no one wants to back off. If the incentive of a multi-hundred-million dollar per annum shipping lane is not enough, there are also vast reserves of oil and natural gas beneath the Arctic ice. In addition to the economic benefit, the Northwest Passage has wider geopolitical implications.

Should the ice melt for even six months of the year, it would be the premier route for shipping from East Asia to North America. Because it would allow East Asian nations, especially China, to bypass the Malacca Strait, which is piracy-prone, and the Indian Ocean, which is in the

Artwork by Anne van Koeverden

backyard of its geopolitical peer and rival, India. Asian shipping to Europe would also benefit from being able to bypass the American-controlled Panama Canal.

The Northwest Passage would have terminals in the Russian Far East, European Russia, Scandinavia, Alaska, and Canada. The likely route from Europe to North America would use Murmansk, Russia and Churchill, Canada as terminuses. That, coupled with the fact that most of the North American portion of the Northwest Passage runs through Canadian waters means that any concessions in the Arctic would be detrimental to Canada. Other Arctic countries—most vocally the United States—have claimed that the Northwest Passage is an international shipping lane, and ships passing through should not be subject to tariffs. Since both Russia and the United States have vested interests in the discussion of Arctic territoriality, Canada cannot compete on a military level to patrol and seal off our Arctic waters.

We live in a world where the concept of the nation-state is not as omnipresent and relevant as in the 20th century, and purely military solutions are unlikely to be successful. Luckily, scientists estimate that the Northwest Passage will not be

commercially feasible for at least another 50 years. This gives the Canadian government a firm deadline for resolving the issue of the maintenance of Canadian territoriality in the Arctic. With dramatically increased military investments being a silly and outdated idea for guarding the Northern borders, what can we do to protect Canadian sovereignty?

In 1990, Joseph Nye coined the term “soft power” to describe the United States’ non-military influence overseas.

Soft power is cultural influence—seen in pop music or corporate structures—that extends beyond the original culture. All over the world, Madonna, McDonald’s, and—prior to the invasion of Afghanistan—American democracy are known and envied. During the 1990s and early 2000s, Chinese government think tanks emphasized the importance of soft power in a series of military white papers. Think tanks realized that because American military spending dwarfs the military budgets of the next ten countries, other countries must innovate in non-conventional fields in order to even think of competing. Since the United States was a democracy with an electorate heavily Continued on Page 23 Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 21

Risking Arrest For the Red Hill Sachi Gibson & Trevor Stark

I

magine hearing from your priest on Sunday morning, “I’m thinking of getting arrested; would you like to talk to me about it? I’ll be downstairs after the service.”

On November 4, Reverend Canon Patrick Doran committed an act of civil disobedience by stepping onto the Red Hill Valley Expressway construction site.

He was arrested at the end of a protest march through the Valley. In an unscripted show of solidarity, other protestors joined the Reverend on the Valley side of the fence. They linked arms, sang hymns, and peacefully refused to let the police leave the site. Confronted by a chorus of nearly 200 voices singing “Amazing Grace”, the police released Doran unconditionally.

Doran is the pastor of St. Paul’s Anglican Church in Westdale. He envisaged the walk as a symbolic action to show solidarity with the Haudenosaunee Confederacy’s desire to protect their treaty rights to sacred lands, and to protest clearcutting one week before Hamilton’s pivotal municipal election. He did not expect so many people, from so many different faith groups, organizations, and neighbourhoods in the city to come out 22 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

(originally published December 2003)

Photography by Michael Wexler

for the walk. “There was a transformative thing that happened there. We were a ragtag group of people from Native activists to Quaker peace activists… we were transformed into a cohesive whole.”

Construction of the Red Hill Valley Expressway has been a point of contention in Hamilton for almost 50 years. The City of Hamilton, in cooperation with the Ontario Ministry of Transportation, plans to build a four-lane, eight kilometre highway through the Red Hill Valley in the east end of Hamilton. The highway will connect the Lincoln Alexander Expressway to the QEW. Disagreement over the fate of the Valley intensified after Hamilton’s city council voted in April to begin building the expressway. Throughout early August, protestors camped and picketed in the Valley, obstructing the City’s construction plans. A temporary injunction was issued, disallowing both picketing and construction at the site. Representatives of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy began occupying the site on August 10, erecting a longhouse and sacred fire. A court order prohibiting anyone from interfering with construction was obtained on September 12. Since then, anyone

found within the fenced off construction site could be arrested for trespassing.

Doran first started exploring the Valley several years ago, finding solace in its “untrampled bits of God’s creation”. Far more than just greenspace, the Red Hill Valley is part of Doran’s being, spirituality, and health.

It was in prayer at the Haudenosaunee sacred fire that Doran was first drawn into a protest demonstration for the Red Hill Valley. When Doran witnessed the arrest of anti-expressway protestors, he was moved to action. “I had this image of being Mr. Person of Privilege,” he explains. “I had my collar on; I was white, more than middle-aged and male. I could walk through an arrest site and not even raise a ripple. It spoke to me of the marginalization, the degeneration of those who were standing up for what they believed in. And it so happened that I agreed with them.”

Doran planned a walk through the valley wearing ceremonial garb, accompanied by other religious leaders. In a press release announcing his intentions, he publicized his support for the Haudenosaunee opposition to the Expressway project and for their treaty rights to

sacred burial grounds. The Reverend described the city’s decision to begin clearcutting as an “affront to democracy” that would result in “irreversible damage”. He stated, “It’s not that I want to be arrested. I am simply called to stand with those who have attempted to stop the destruction of a beautiful and, indeed, sacred place.”

So, with black cassock and shepherd’s staff, Doran led a group of almost 200 supporters on a walk through the Red Hill Valley. They stopped along the way for prayers, readings and hymns. When the walk reached the construction site, the group sang a last hymn and Doran approached the fence that surrounded the clearcut construction site. The security guard informed him that he would be arrested if he crossed the barrier. Doran said that he understood. He stepped over the orange fence and was arrested for trespassing and violating injunction.

Doran deliberated extensively over his proposed actions before choosing to engage in civil disobedience. He reflected on Jesus aligning himself with the denigrated and on his belief in the sanctity of nature. He consulted his bishop and his congregation at St. Paul’s, and even phoned the mayor of Hamilton. After much soul-searching, the Reverend decided to go through with it, with the backing of the Niagara Diocese Outreach Committee and Bishop Ralph Spence. He

No Cold Feet continued from Page 21

dependent on media, soft power and the export of culture was seen as the obvious method for extending influence.

All of Canada’s Arctic Rivals are NATO members except Russia and, conveniently, Russia does not have any overlapping territorial claims with Canada. As the dominant NATO member, the United States will likely have the final say in deciding the fate of the Northwest Passage.

With the estimated 50 years before the passage’s commercial feasibility, it is time for Canada to expand the soft power of the Canadian Arctic and conduct a media campaign aimed towards the American public to ensure that should it come to push and shove, the public, both American and Canadian, will be overwhelmingly support the Canadian position. If military conflicts after the first Gulf War have taught us anything, it is that media

is particularly grateful for the support of both former Bishop John Bothwell and Peigi Rockwell, the warden at St. Paul’s.

“With all these people around me not faltering, it wasn’t hard not to falter.”

Many of the members of Doran’s congregation rallied behind his decision to proceed with the protest, while, as he expected, others found it difficult to support. On the whole, he feels that most of the congregation respected his decision to take action.

Several members of the St. Paul’s congregation were among those who helped reverse Doran’s arrest. After the security guards led him away, the other protestors crossed the barrier one by one and joined the Reverend in an unplanned demonstration of solidarity and civil disobedience. When the Hamilton Regional Police arrived, the officers placed Doran in the back of a police car. The crowd encircled the vehicle, linking arms and singing hymns, refusing to let the police leave. Doran was released unconditionally to the cheering crowd. He told them, “We have demonstrated that those who have been arrested are not marginalized people but in fact representatives of many citizens in this city.” He thanked them, saying, “Your presence and support has brought about an unexpected turn here.” He then asked the crowd to part and let the police cars through.

Almost a month later, a new city

council is in place, with pro-expressway councillors outnumbering the anti-expressway voices. Larry DiIanni, Hamilton’s new mayor, maintains support for the Red Hill Valley Expressway. In an update issued on November 24, the City affirmed its intent to begin work on the expressway. The Haudenosaunee longhouse has been disassembled and the sacred fire extinguished. But the protest is not yet silenced. Most recently, a group of citizens organized a four-day march from the Red Hill Valley that arrived at Queen’s Park on November 24. They approached the provincial legislature, asking the government to withdraw their monetary contribution to Expressway construction costs. Even as the City prepares to build the road, controversy continues to dog the project.

After the first trees came down in the Red Hill Valley, a man approached Doran and said, “I thought that good was supposed to win.” Doran joked, “Actually our model is that good gets crucified.”

While the City proceeds with its expressway plans, Doran mourns, “As the woods get shorn down, and the pathways get trampled into position, the Red Hill as a reserve for our children is lost. It’s lost as the Don Valley in Toronto is lost.”

perceptions are just as important, if not more so, than realities in the field.

To begin the campaign, the Federal Government would be wise to sanction an official version of the Inuktitut “O Canada” currently in use in the Nunavut Legislative Assembly, and increase support for Inuit film. While the films Ce qu’il faut pour vivre (The Necessities of Life) and Atarnajuat (The Fast Runner) have made inroads in Québec, no films about Inuit life have broken into the Anglophone public mainstream. Increased public interest in the Canadian North may translate into more funding for federal programs in the North. Not only does this benefit the Inuit peoples, it is also a long-term strategic investment for the Canadian government. If the High Arctic becomes closely associated with Canada in the American psyche, the United States may

find it more difficult to bully Canada into accepting an unfavourable resolution for the issues of the Northwest Passage and undersea Arctic resources.

The alarmists may point out that promoting soft power in this way may essentialize and exotify the culture of the Inuit peoples. This is a real concern that the government should be wary of. Others may argue that promoting Canadian Inuit culture will somehow displace other pan-Canadian culture already existing in the public consciousness. To that I say: culture is dynamic and never constant.

Some practices are kept alive as tradition and others are banished to the annals of history books. Those who cling onto false constants are left behind by those who live in real-time. So let us go forward with our soft power approach to the Americans, lest we suffer an icy fate.

Editor’s Note: The expressway has since been built. It was officially opened to traffic on November 17, 2007.

Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 23

Planet Bollywood Muneeb Ansari & Chris Evans

B

ollywood is becoming an international force to be reckoned with.

For those who don’t know, Bollywood is the name given to the Hindi–language film industry in India. The name is inspired from “Hollywood” replaced with a “B” for Bombay (now Mumbai) where the industry is based. It is the world’s largest film industry, producing upwards of 1000 movies annually. But its influence is no longer confined to the subcontinent, nor to South Asian expatriates.

Bollywood is infiltrating Western culture.

Blockbusters of the late 90s, for example, also became considerable successes in the UK. More recently, we’ve seen several Hollywood–Bollywood collaborations, such as 2004’s Bride and Prejudice.

Both authors of this article would like to be clear and firm on one point: in our humble opinions Bride and Prejudice was a pathetically lame attempt. In attempting to repackage Bollywood for Western audiences, this abomination of a film reduced the idiosyncrasies and foibles that make it unique to superficial, titillating exoticism. This is not the way for our society to experience Indian culture.

Rather, we should embrace the distinctive, sometimes alienating, but always 24 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

(originally published March 2007)

Artwork by Tings Chak

exhilarating experience that Bollywood offers, warts and all.

The Appeal of Bollywood Even at its best, Bollywood is still an acquired taste. Many of its conventions simply do not translate into Western culture, despite the best efforts of (sometimes clearly non-Anglophone) subtitle writers. Nevertheless, it has a certain charisma—charisma that could entice even Chris, a self-acknowledged WASP. Several years ago, a friend sent him a video clip of the song “Say Shava Shava”.

At first he laughed at the frisky dance moves of the sexagenarian Amitabh Bachchan, followed in perfect synchrony by some 200 supposed bystanders. But over the following weeks, he found himself replaying the clip incessantly.

Gradually, he became transfixed—albeit deeply confused—by the tiny plotlet that unfolded over the course of the song. The scene appeared to be a wedding reception in which the groom, Rahul, was in love with two women other than his betrothed: one dancing at the party, and the other frolicking through the city streets.

Later, he discovered that these were in fact the same person, and that the first

was a projection of the second in Rahul’s imagination. A sidenote: Magical Realism is quite common in Bollywood, and difficult to separate from “real” plot twists, which are often highly dramatic but physically impossible. A nifty tip: keep an eye out for slow motion, angelic lighting, and a cooing female chorus. These are telltale signs. As he began to digest the meaning of “Say Shava Shava”’s antics, Chris found himself beginning to appreciate its subtle charm. The exoticism of the music and dancing appealed to a palate deeply jaded by high–school productions of “Annie” and “Fiddler on the Roof”. He began to scour the Internet for material, and pestered his Indian friends for videos to borrow. But it seemed he was ahead of his time. His peculiar hobby raised the concern of friends and family, which they uneasily silenced for fear of ethnocentrism. Chris’s first roommate in university lasted all of one week, prompting in Chris feelings of guilt over his possible abuse of “Say Shava Shava”. But thanks to the recent advent of Bollywood to our contemporary society, his love for it blossomed into maturity. Inspired by the images of ethnic diversity and cultural exchange that proliferate in McMaster’s

promotional materials, he now expresses this love freely and enthusiastically.

Though desis—the term Indians use to describe their expats—tend to find his story more comical than uplifting, he feels closer to them and their noble culture.

For Muneeb, there was no moment of Bollywood discovery as with Chris. From his youth—when his grandparents forced him to watch 1940s black-and-white Indian films—to the present day, Bollywood has been a part of Muneeb’s life. To him, three hour epics, random breaks to perfectly synchronized song and dance, and melodrama were the basic necessities of any movie. Anything else was strange and foreign—in fact, Hollywood movies were mocked for being only 90 minutes long and too “realistic” (which might explain why Power Rangers is one of his all-time favourite movies).

But what is it that makes Bollywood so alluring? In our opinion, its attraction is in the subtly but fundamentally different outlook it takes on the basics of cinematography. For example, the stars of Bollywood are famous in a qualitatively different way than their Hollywood counterparts. Stars become legendary for certain “stock” roles they play. Shah Rukh Khan—indisputably Bollywood’s leading man—plays impish jokesters who melt into blubbering sentimentalists at moments of high drama. Salman Khan— Bollywood’s “hunky rogue”—removes his shirt frequently and on the flimsiest of pretexts. This move is to show off his much celebrated physique, and possibly to hide the fact that he has only one facial expression. As a result, movies are appreciated mostly for their exposition of their actors’ talents, not so much for their plot lines. Though Bollywood’s charm is much too multifaceted and subtle to begin to be wholly described here, two major, defining characteristics deserve mention: its plots and its songs.

Plot Indians have an understanding of plot unique to themselves. Although nearly all movies follow the same basic story, one should not mistake this repetitiveness for lack of inspiration.

Its charm lies not in being original or unpredictable. Rather, everyone knows the trajectory of the story; the unexpected, heart-wrenching deviations from it are where the drama ensues.

Save a few very avant-garde exceptions, Bollywood movies are unabashedly overwrought and soppy love stories.

Films systematically exploit each and every opportunity to build and intensify this story. The plot is not a chain of events that necessarily builds towards a conclusion, but a tool for creating dramatic opportunities of a sometimes maddeningly contrived kind. Continuity and logic are secondary concerns; audiences are encouraged to suspend their disbelief when, for example, several hundred people simultaneously break into dance with no apparent pretext. But really, no suspension of disbelief is necessary. Audiences are expecting a dance number, and aren’t particularly concerned with questions of Why?, How? or What?

There are a few key moments that structure the plot of a Bollywood love story. These set pieces don’t guide or move the plot forward; rather, they are the plot.

Each intervening section plays out the dramatic consequences of the preceding moment, and builds in an obvious but agonizingly slow manner towards the next.

It is in these explosive releases of tension that we see some of the greatest climaxes of the Bollywood style, moments at which, in the authors’ imaginations at least, the highly-tuned emotional tolerance of Indian audiences are overcome: frumpy, bleary-eyed ladies wail despondently, grandparents leap from their wheelchairs in exhilaration, and so on.

The first auspicious moment in a Bollywood film comes when the two protagonists first meet. There are many conventions by which this comes about.

Our favourite: the two catch eyes at a wedding, and engage in a flirtatious dance-off when music inevitably strikes up. In any case, the two will gaze intensely into one another’s eyes in slow motion for an extended period of time, until a friend or passer-by jostles one, and they snap back into reality. At this point, it is safe to assume how the next hour or so will pass.

For one reason or another, the two will vehemently deny that they share a mutual attraction, but slowly gravitate towards one another under the auspices of an increasingly thinly veiled friendship. During this time, one will stare at the other with a sort of desperate longing while he or she is looking away, talking to a friend, etc. This occurrence may be supplemented with the dramatic power of slow–motion.

Eventually a declaration of love or violent explosion of passion will become irrepressible, at which point comes moment number two: the catastrophic plot twist. For example, the female might reveal that she is already engaged (but never the male, oddly enough), there might be an embittered falling out between the two or their families, or some tyrannical authority figure will intervene.

Depending on the particulars of the situation, the two protagonists will struggle with the implications of the catastrophe.

This anguish often occasions a sad, slow song in which the two see visions of the other wherever they go, while friends or family members—blissfully unaware of their dejected expressions—friskily dance around them, prepare the female for her upcoming wedding, etc.

After moping for the better part of an hour, one character will undertake to do something drastic. This brings us to moment number three: the passionate, public declaration of love that threatens disaster. Thanks to moment number two, external forces have made the protagonists’ love impossible. Though the characters will initially attempt to break off their affair, this proves unthinkable.

At moment number three, one of them lays it all on the line. Angst ridden, but duty bound by family ties, prior agreements, or outside coercion, the other may reject this advance with an overwrought viciousness that betrays his or her true feelings. In this case, the plot recycles through a similar chain of events to those following moment number two.

Alternatively, or perhaps after two or three such episodes, the plot surges towards moment number four: the epic vindication of true love. Whatever conflict was created by moment number two is resolved, usually through a teary reconciliation between all parties. This typically happens at a public venue: a stage, town square, courtroom etc., thus the two protagonists, unencumbered at long last, will embrace each other amid the hoots and hollers of lookers-on. This moment is a trial by fire of the aspiring Bollywood connoisseur. While Indian moviegoers have developed an iron emotional constitution to weather the sheer soppiness that ensues, it can reduce the uninitiated to convulsions. For those who can appreciate it, however, it is an unparalleled rush.

Continued on Page 27 Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 25

Pulling Back the Veil Dan Milisavljevic

I

(originally published October 2003)

have always had a penchant for the physical sciences. At some young age, an overwhelming curiosity awoke in me that I have never been able to quench.

I love science—I love the challenges it holds, its endless supply of questions, and its game of cat and mouse between those who wish to learn and Nature who works to conceal.

This past summer, while working in the Physics department at the University of Toronto, my faith in science was shaken. Confined to my office in excess of ten hours a day, paid to model what, in essence, was little more than a fan with two lasers pointed at it, I could not help but question the reason for it all. Where is science taking us? Millions, even billions, spent on research and development and for what? To investigate the effects of impurities on quasi-two-dimensional quantum antiferromagnets? Or to ensure more dinky games are available on my next cellular phone? I was overwhelmed with disillusionment: my ambition of entering this community to pursue such obscure knowledge seemed less meaningful, and my goals of investigating fields to be appreciated by a select few seemed somewhat selfish.

26 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Illustration by karl eschenbach (Flickr)

It wasn’t long before I recognized that my conclusions were overly dramatic and I came to mollify fears that science was swelling at the sides. Indeed, the consequences of specialization are rampant in all fields; science continues to pursue knowledge presently as it always has, only now its interests are more compartmentalized. Still, I was left unsettled. Science is an esteemed provider of knowledge, but is it free from critique? There was a pervasive smugness in the air that I could not avoid, one that seemed to increase in pungency the more I thought about it.

Science distinguishes itself from other disciplines by virtue of its relative autonomy and heavy funding. The strength of science’s authority lies in the uncertainty of its direction, and to a greater degree, in the uncertainty about where it ought to go. As Dr. William Harris elucidated in a winter lecture, research in science spreads out in all directions because no one is wise as to which direction is correct. There are no oracles at Delphi, and certainly no philosopher kings with the authority to direct research down the “path of progress”, so scientists have no choice but to pursue all avenues of

investigation.

Without a governing body, science has been left to take care of itself. Since World War II and the development of the atomic bomb, governments have realized the benefits of bestowing the power on autonomy to scientists—scientists are the ones who know “best” and will eventually figure out where “progress” will lead—while governments sit hoping that technological advances will ensue. This is a great power, and like any power, it can be blinding. In my eyes, the combination of affluence and autonomy has created a veil in need of being pulled back, one that inhibits scientists from looking beyond the scientific sphere and understanding their position from a greater vantage point.

I discern a fine line between interests that are more selfish or selfless in academia. The distinction is rooted in the individual’s ambition: if one is cognizant of and concerned for the interests of others, pursuing personal goals can be beneficial for both the individual and his or her community. Indeed, one likes to feel that academics search for knowledge not only for personal interests, but for the betterment of humanity. Knowledge, however,

has grown extensively, and contributions have become more selective. It is this selectivity that can easily lead to isolation, making me feel that there is a dire need to retain an awareness of the interests of others while pursuing our own interests.

I will be the first to admit that my situation was personal. I am not criticizing individuals who may be studying fans and lasers, for, as I mentioned, the uncertainty in scientific direction inherently means that any pursuit into the unknown may reveal unexpected novelties.

And I am certainly not insinuating that autonomy has tarnished science in some irrevocable way, so having created an evil empire with self-serving scientists as its infantrymen. Rather, what I feel is that by allowing scientists to entertain their personal curiosities autonomously, they

have been given a special privilege, one with accompanying responsibilities to a greater community that have been taken for granted.

The type of evaluation needed is at the fundamental level; that is, individual self-assessment. What worries me are others in my situation who ignore such concerns, who refuse to step outside the scientific community and who continue to research their please themselves and say, a couple dozen others that could understand it (and an even smaller number that would go on to make use of it). In the “push to publish”, research is conducted as a means to appease the on-looking few, with the ambitions to gain in stature. In its extreme, I call this “masturbatory science”, as it is principally slef-gratifying and a source of orgasmic elation. Of

course, while occasional masturbation, what Tom Waits poetically calls “makin’ a scene with a magazine”, is a healthy thing, psychiatrists and sex therapists alike will warn of the unsettling consequences when it reaches an all-encompassing chronic level.

The reluctance to challenge and critique one’s own endeavours is natural: we think rather poorly of the individual who enthusiastically cuts the limb of the tree on which he is sitting. However, in challenging the position that science is its own raison d’être, scientists are not undercutting themselves; rather, they are clearing away the brush that prevents them from realizing the greater context which gives their work its ultimate meaning.

and there are a number of different types of song that each movie will contain. In the first stage, where the characters are still courting each other, there is at least one cheery, happy song featuring the hero and heroine with a massive group of friends dancing around them. This number establishes the mood for the first hour or so. Then there is the song where the characters have finally fallen in love.

This song usually involves an element of steamy seduction, and also a prompt circumnavigation of various places in the world. It includes 5 to 10 second shots of the two characters doing one (at most two) dance moves in places such as Niagara Falls, Vegas, the Swiss Alps, Dubai, Singapore and Hong Kong (all in the same song). Other favourite locales that are essential components of this type of song are the prancing through green fields, and on the cliffs of mountains.

These locations have nothing to do with the setting or plot of the movie and it must never be thought that the characters are actually in those places. Once the characters realize that they cannot be together as easily as the aforementioned dancing suggested, there is the sad, soppy song. In this piece, there are shots of the male and female shedding tears, interspersed by their thoughts of times they spent together. An anomaly to the other songs, the sad song is usually also one that involves a plot advance—usually of a lengthy amount of time, such as a few months or years in which the two characters start to rebuild their shat-

tered lives. There is very little dancing involved. Many movies also end with a song celebrating the final union of the protagonists (amongst the hooting and hollering of onlookers).

planet Bollywood continued from Page 25

Song Ask anyone not familiar with Bollywood what they think of when they hear the term, the immediate reply is “singing and dancing”. The concept of massive synchronised dancing in the telling of a story is incomprehensible to many people. It is something that Chris, despite his assimilation into the Bollywood– watching community, still struggles with.

However, the significance of song to Bollywood movies should not be underestimated. It is the songs that take the most time and money to film in the production of a Bollywood movie.

To the untrained eye, the musical interludes might seem like a needless, irrelevant addition to an already lengthy feature. Even if they do not necessarily advance the plot a great deal, they overtly explain the emotions of the characters and the overall story at that point in time. Unlike in Hollywood, where movies are marketed through trailers and TV spots, the songs are what sell Bollywood movies. A typical Bollywood movie consists of seven to eight songs, though the number has been declining in recent years. The soundtrack and music videos are usually released well in advance of the movie, with the filmmakers hoping that the tunes will make people go watch their movie.

A typical movie contains a number of different types of songs that correspond to stages of the plot. Songs usually mark the transition from one stage to another,

Bollywood is a powerful institution in India. Though the escapist, melodramatic genre has been dominant, in recent years films have started to focus more on reflecting the socio–political realities of the country. Watching Bollywood movies, it is easy to tell where the peace process with Pakistan stands at that point in time.

When things are tense, the movies are usually a frenzy of pro–war flag waving patriotism. Nowadays they focus on being peaceful and being good neighbours.

For example, Veer Zaara (2005)—another involving Shah Rukh and Rani—portrays the story of a Hindu Indian Air Force officer in love with a Muslim Pakistani girl.

The major theme of politically oriented movies, however, focuses on criticizing internal Indian politics with exposing and portraying bureaucratic and institutional corruption. While Bollywood is enormously entertaining for its unique cultural perspective, it also offers some insight into the realities in contemporary India. As it begins to be imported by the West, we must hope that it will retain its endearing nuances and cultural integrity.

If not, its union with Hollywood may assume a neo–colonial bent, one chillingly akin to the cheap antics of Bride and Prejudice.

Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 27

Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Incite’s Beginnings (But Were Afraid to Publish) Matthew Beall & Eric Tam

(originally published March 2008) Artwork by Tings Chak

Note from Rob Lederer, Editor 2007-2008: I tracked down Matthew Beall and Eric Tam, two of Incite’s three founders (Sanja Savic being the third, who was too savvy to be convinced by my deferential coos and breathy pleas), and convinced them to have a “conversation” about Incite’s beginnings. The following is what they gave us.

Matt: Is this going to be one of those boring, patronizing, back-in-the-day reminiscence pieces?

Eric: Maybe.

M: Cool—I’ll start: If you had to compare Incite’s launch to one significant historical event, which one would it be?

E: The Manhattan Project, except Incite didn’t give anyone cancer.

M: For me, it was like signing the Declaration of Independence while flying with the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk with Woodstock happening in the background.

E: Dude.

M: What? Too dramatic? How about just the birth of Monica Bellucci, because when something like that comes into the world, it is forever changed.

E: …

M: We can at least agree that Monica 28 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

is hotness, yes?

E: Yes. M: Good.

E: Maybe we’ll try something more basic. Why did you decide to do it?

M: For me, I think it really was in large part the challenge. The idea for what was to become Incite was compelling but the execution of it was a very big question mark—that was a good part of the interest for me. But as I recall, you and Sanja were involved with the Silhouette and then… not so much. Did you get into this just to tweak the Sil’s nose?

E: I’d describe it as more of a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus.

M: Nice.

[Ed’s Note: Very Mortal Kombat] E: Seriously, though—when we started Incite, I remember that we felt a bit of a natural rivalry, but we also had both a healthy respect and a connection, too: two of us had worked for and enjoyed the Sil, after all, and one of us was a member of its editorial board.

M: You mean you were on their editorial board.

E: Fine, it was me. Anyway, when we first started, the kind folks at the Sil even let us borrow their printer and other resources on occasion, and we definitely

appreciated that. But we felt that there were things that the Sil wasn’t doing— which is totally fine, because they have their job to do as a weekly that’s devoted to campus news, and it’s historically done it well. We thought that we could do stuff that was a bit deeper, longer— M: —harder, better, faster, stronger.

E: Right—OK, maybe not faster. But, seriously, the split between the two has always been overblown. Maybe there’s occasionally been some editorial sniping, but I’d guess that most people who have worked at one—or both—of the publications ultimately recognize that Mac is better for having both publications. I am a little jealous of their office, though.

[Ed’s Note: Um. Yeah. My office doubles as my living room.]

M: Here we go…

E: No, I’ll restrain myself. For now.

Let’s go back. What do you remember it being like at the very beginning?

M: Hectic. I remember busting our asses trying to get everything we figured we needed together to actually print this thing we’d come up with. Teaching myself the basics of typography and graphic design, figuring out how to actually get something printed, gathering an army of volunteer editors, then hounding those

editors into getting content and filling pages. I also remember moving my 30-kilogram computer monitor around. A lot.

E: Yeah, it was intense and thrilling, wasn’t it? What we did maybe doesn’t sound like such a big deal these days, now that the affordability and power of technology has made small-scale selfpublishing much more accessible. But when we started, we had limited experience with publishing—and the idea that we could put out a solidly edited and designed magazine every month using only volunteers with home computers gathering in living rooms often seemed rather fantastic. Also, money was tough.

Sanja and I personally contributed to it, which made it possible to do this until we managed to get signed on with that ad placement company. And of course the brilliant effort that the crew right after I left put on to get the levy passed was amazing. Oh, and coming up with the name … that took a surprising amount of effort. Do you still remember any of the rejects? For example, could you imagine devoting hours of your spare time as an undergrad to a something called Maction?

M: Heh. Maction. That’s gold. I still think we should have gone with it. [Ed’s Note: I would not have written for this magazine if it were called Maction.]

E: Uh, yeah. Let’s move on to politics.

What do you think about the criticism that Incite’s always been accused of being a little—maybe more like a lot—on the crunchy/lefty side?

M: If by “crunchy/lefty” you mean intelligent, even, and well-informed—not to mention fun, provocative, and generally awesome—then yes, I would say crunchy/lefty.

E: Which is a less diplomatic way of what I usually say to defend the magazine’s editorial slant: Incite was founded to emphasize the arts and social criticism, and when you engage in those interests, especially in a campus setting, you tend to lean toward the underdogs and the dispossessed, and toward exploring why things are so messed up and how you can make them better.

M: Word, brother!

E: On the other hand, when I was an editor, I felt strongly about choosing questions for the “one-on-one” or “debate” section where there were arguments on both sides that would be compelling to a broad range of people, like nuclear power, international trade, and the Kosovo intervention. At least, I consider myself a fairly staunch liberal,

but my view on each of those questions is either at least somewhat uncertain, or, in the case of Kosovo, would have seriously irritated a lot of lefties.

M: You supported bombing Kosovo and Serbia?

E: Very much. Maddie Albright and Wes Clark are my homies.

M: And Sanja let you live?

E: See, a profile in courage, right?

I support the Afghanistan mission too, more or less—I mean, let’s give Obama a chance to sort it out before bailing on it, right?!

M: So you mean, you were the conservative pain in the ass.

E: No, man! I just said I’m an Obama supporter—like big time!

M: Ok, how about the nostalgic, what-would-you-have-done-differently question?

E: Ooh, that’s easy: trusting that 250-pound woman I met at the bus stop in front of Fortinos, who I kept insisting we could trust to help us run local ad sales. She ended up taking our money and never returning our calls. You? M: I remember getting a traffic ticket from the Mac 5–O with Sanja’s roommate’s car for driving on campus one production weekend. The officer didn’t buy my official campus publication business story. He hadn’t even heard of Incite.

[Ed’s Note: So, little has changed.] Let’s just say that I’ve had more gracious moments.

Also, I deeply regret publishing my incomplete, poorly executed short story.

E: If I recall correctly, it was like 4000 words about a guy trying to cross a street and wanting to make out with the flashing pedestrian icon guy in the “Walk” icon.

M: You remember that? [Ed’s Note: Who would forget?]

E: Like a scar that never fully heals…

Oh, here’s one that hovers between a “regret” and “so awful it’s awesome”— when we did a roundtable discussion with my philosophy prof and he revealed that he was “essentially voluntarily celibate”.

Good times.

M: Heh. Yeah, there were a lot of those. What about things you wish we had done?

E: You mean besides getting an office? Also, I guess I shouldn’t have whined so much about the disappearance of the crossword—an idea, which I suppose I should be flattered to mention the Sil, um, borrowed from us—but I had always hoped that the back page would be a fun but smart assortment of puzzles, quirky

“Facts and Arguments” type bits.

M: Like the Sil’s Misc. section, except not for morons.

E: Be nice!

M: I definitely thought we should have had a poetry section.

E: Dude, don’t make me come over there.

M: Whoa, cowboy. How about after— way after—Incite? How did the Incite experience change where you went, what you did?

E: Can I say I resent that you said “way after”?

M: We’re old, man. Get used to it.

E: Incite convinced me not to have children—one experience giving birth was enough, thanks very much!

M: Well for me, Incite was where I started graphic design. I’ve since worked as a Web design and graphic designer.

I’ve even edited another magazine.

E: You mean you’re halfway to becoming an architect! After you graduate, you should design an extension to the University Centre.

M: Eh? E: So we can put our office in it— M: Dude.

E: OK, as for me, I guess Incite taught me to be pushy, which I’ve heard will be an invaluable skill when I go to work as a lawyer in New York this summer.

M: In our day, we used to call that “selling out”.

E: In our day, we used to think investigative journalism meant going to a rave and taking E. M: That was a great piece. And we expensed our “supplies” to the magazine.

E: I can’t believe I let you do that.

M: For the cause.

E: I know—I’m sad I missed it. I guess I thought I had to write a paper or work or something.

M: See, it’s exactly like they tell you.

You never remember spending that extra day doing schoolwork; what you remember is driving to a warehouse somewhere and dancing for fourteen hours.

E: I know. And I still haven’t tried E. M: I need a beer. Maybe we should wrap this thing up?

E: Good call. Last question—another classic: Any final nuggets of wisdom you’d like to pass down to the current and future generations of Inciters?

M: Don’t print articles with “nuggets of wisdom.” Especially about producing a magazine.

Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 29

Sexin’ Sex in Mills (Or, HQ 0-72) Marisa Burton, Columnist

W

elcome to Sexin’, an exploration of all things sexy and sex-related and Incite’s most scantily-clad column. Here there will be reviews of books, strip clubs, and nudist colonies; how-tos; sexy science experiments; and 12-hour porn marathons.

Basically, here there will be me making a guinea-pig of myself in the hopes of finding Hamilton’s inner sex kitten and exposing her to you, dear Incite reader.

This month, in the spirit of Welcome Week and this being Incite’s archival issue, I’m exploring the steamy corners of Mills library. Specifically, a quiet spot on the fourth floor, near the western wall: HQ 0-72. Secluded, usually deserted, near one of those nice sturdy pillars, and offering two escape routes, HQ 0-72 is a perfect spot to “accidentally” steer your date towards, though no, not for that reason (not that finding spots to make out away from your room-mate isn’t also an important part of Welcome Week).

The first thing you will notice is about 5820 different books called Human Sexuality. Don’t give up. As your eyes adjust, you will start to notice books that aren’t called Human Sexuality. Many of these are just more dry surveys of

30 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ September 2009

Photography by Michael Wexler

sexuality studies, but still, don’t give up.

Eventually, something will catch your eye. For example, sandwiched between Sexual Practices and the Medieval Church and Modern Family Life, you might find a slim red copy of Italian Women Confess (which turned out to be more sad than smutty, though it was definitely weirdly engrossing).

Rest assured that there is some smut to be had, though the search can be a bit harrowing—just as your mind is lazily contemplating what Fit to be Tied might contain, three spines down Father/Daughter Incest gets burned into your retinas.

It can also be a bit disappointing—Fit to be Tied turned out to be “An Approach to Sex Education and Christian Marriage”.

There’s also the entire shelf of How to Talk to Your Pre-Teen About Sex (or variations thereof) threatening you with awkward and repressed memories (or maybe it’s just me).

Despite all of this, I still highly recommend a trip to HQ 0-72. I’ve even collected a few of its more interesting specimens for your convenience: • Temptress (“from original bad girls to women on top”) (HQ 29 .B55 2004 ), a catalogue of temptress archetypes, defi-

nitely wins the award for “most boobs”.

An example of each temptress (the nymphet, the bombshell, the vamp, the femme fatale, etc.) appears half-naked in glossy full-page full-colour along with a two-page history and description (which I admit I didn’t read).

• The G Spot (HQ 21 .L192 2005) claims to be “the first book to provide clinical proof of the existence and location of the Gräfenberg spot”. As far as I know that debate was over awhile ago, but if you’re a lingering sceptic the opening chapters seem to be a pretty thorough presentation of the evidence. Even if you’re not, the dozens and dozens of testimonials are fascinating, and occasionally educational.

The G Spot also promises to “provide the practical guidance you need to dramatically expand your sexual potential”, by which it means the guidance you need to reach orgasm (and maybe female ejaculation) through g-spot stimulation. A quick Google search will find you the same basic techniques, but still, this way is a bit classier—you won’t even need to scan for spyware afterwards.

• What a Young Woman Ought To Know (HQ 46 .A54 1913). From the opening list of “Commendations from Eminent

Maze by Chris Hilbrecht, Originally published April 2009

Men and Women” to the back page’s ad for a new book entitled The Social Duty of Our Daughters, this one is a real gem.

It’s everything you’d expect from a 1913 sex-ed book and so much more. There are fully two chapters about the dangers of tight clothing, one called “effects of immorality on the race”, and one section called “boys need our sympathy”. The chapter on “care during menstruation” begins with the importance of not going on any long walks or rides. The next chapter, called “solitary vice”, includes a section on Pinworms. The list goes on and on, and only gets more hilarious as the chapters progress into topics on engage-

ment and married life. Obviously, a girl is supposed to be extremely chaste and reserved during courtship and engagement, but the punchline comes when the author sternly informs you that marriage is another “opportunity for self-control”.

• The New Joy of Sex (HQ 31 .C743 1991) and More Joy—A Lovemaking Companion to the Joy of Sex (HQ 31 .M695 1987). Even though these are the “new” editions, they’re still pretty much the same as the ones you flipped through when you found that old box of books in your parents’ basement, complete with hippie-era admonitions against deodorant and depilation of any kind. Grooming aside though,

it’s still a fun book to flip through.

• Sex on Campus (HQ 35.2 .E55 1997).

Part sex manual, part extremely long list of statistics on the sex lives of college students. The sex manual part is pretty run-of-the-mill, but the statistics are interesting, though of course the most interesting ones are also the most hard to believe. I doubt, for example, that 9% of female college students have had a golden shower. (Interestingly, only 5% claim to have fantasized about it.) Maybe college was just very different in 1997— 5% of females apparently engaged in oral sex “whenever possible”.

Volume 12, Issue 1 ▪ Incite Magazine ▪ 31

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