Man: Issue 6

Although the women’s movement in the 20th century was mobilized to attain equal rights in the political and economic realm, the means by which these ends were achieved were often heavily cultural. When North American women wanted ‘out’ of their staid, housewife identities, they burned bras and lit up cigarettes. They revived Rosie the Riveter and donned slacks.

In many ways, the achievement of equal hiring practices was as important as the change in the female wardrobe and what women were willing and unwilling to shave. Women changed what it meant to be female, but they also changed what it looked like.

Without argument, men have undergone a similar transformation, yet it is not so clear how and why they began shifting gendered identities. Whether an unintended reaction to the change evident in women or a consequence of increased urbanization, men are now skateboarders well into adulthood as often as they are construction workers or accomplished choral singers.

In this sixth issue of Sad Mag, we look at urban masculinity in its many forms: from the barbershop owner who has been delivering “number two” haircuts for more than 30 years, to a threatened cohort of male elementary school teachers. We also profile a mustachioed photographer who repurposes vintage prints, and women who are blazing trails in the maledominated field of construction work.

Pop a Nicorette, slip on that satin bathrobe, pour yourself a glass of light beer, and enjoy.

identity machine

body checking MONTREAL—In their twenties, men and women on the East Coast wear a uniform of toques, ironic sweaters, workman boots and tapered jeans. Born out of Brooklyn, the hipsteroutdoorsman look is taking sex out of fashion.

The only physical feature differentiating the hip (and very skinny) young man from his pretty girlfriend is his beard—a manly man in his twenties is hard to come by.

However, history tells us that this generation hasn’t reached the end of the rugged, brawny man. At the turn of the twentieth century, a man was meant to be industrious, sober, civilized.

But in the places around Montreal and Ottawa, working-class men, threatened by the feminization of male culture, responded with hockey and an obsession for the game. The sport allowed men to be men, to fight, to show athletic skill, to compete. Eventually, those players embedded a tradition of masculinity into our national culture. It wasn’t to “save” the gender (masculinity didn’t and doesn’t need to be saved), but rather to make room for the tough and rugged man.

Even though androgyny rules in Mile End, Montreal’s own Williamsburg, fans in hockey jerseys still overtake the city’s metro on game nights (as they always have) to see the Canadiens; they’re not only defending the net, they’re defending manliness.

-megan lau

LOS ANGELES—I live in a city where much of popular culture finds its beginnings. Catchphrases you’re sure to know, like, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” are relics of old Hollywood. Los Angeles and its surrounding area are home to many of hip-hop’s heavy hitters and gangsta rap’s pioneers. Think Snoop Dogg, N.W.A and Dr. Dre. And skateboarding? Skateboarding was popularized by L.A. surfers who took their boards to the streets in the 1950s.

So it’s no surprise that many masculinities find their origins here too, then make their way into the mainstream through Hollywood’s machine of cultural production.

L.A. was and is a hotbed of gang activity. The notorious Bloods and Crips still run South Central, along with a host of smaller gangs, mostly divided along racial lines. Hardened gangsta masculinities dominate this city as a result, and spread outward from the densely populated beehive of the inner city to communities all over the world via the silver screen. Regardless of their fashions, most every L.A.-born man will know the answer to the darkened-street-corner question, “Where you from, cuz?”

Though every unique identity is represented here in California—I swear it’s true, there are more people in this single state than in all of Canada—there are clear boundaries around the definition of the “L.A. man,” and that definition is broadcast loud and clear. This is Hollywood, after all. So even with expectations around masculinity that are constantly in flux, at the end of the day, you’re sure to find most men prepared to “man up” to survive this town—thanks, in large part, to bright lights and big budgets.

-steph hallet

wipe out

TOFINO—After a long week of standing on one of the most beautiful beaches on the west coast of Vancouver Island, it was time to party.

I was a full-time reporter for the community newspaper, covering an international surf competition. After my colleague finished the story and I uploaded all my photographs for the web, we headed out to the bar.

We walked into a trendy lounge area, jampacked with people, snagging the last tall table directly beside the bar with a beach theme. It stunk of testosterone, sand and liquor compounded by the sound of thick, slurred Australian accents.

We were two unaccompanied females in a room jammed with men and surfer groupies.

While I received an awkward massage from a steroid-pumped Mel Brooks character, my colleague had graphic innuendos involving tongues and orgasms explained to her—complemented with groping—by the very drunk and very rich Australian surf comp winner (now a competing

world surfer).

Between telling my colleague that her marriage was a sham and that she should jump in bed with him (she politely refused him), he proceeded to finish every single drink on everyone’s table. By the end of the night, liquid was coming out of his mouth involuntarily as he spoke.

He finally came back around and slung his arm around me and said he loved me, a bit of his spittle remaining in my hair. Just then the owner asked him if he would top an act by a surfer last year, which was jump on the bar and reveal his man parts.

Not only did our famous Australian surfer top last year’s act, but I finally found out what a mangina is at age 23.

Needless to say, the morning after, another Australian surfer was arrested for revealing himself to minors. He now has a provincial court date set.

-stefania secca

I

’m from France. I came here a long time ago, when I was 23 years old, in 1968.

I attended university in Paris and we locked the dean in his office. He was trapped in his office and couldn’t get out for close to a week and a half. I got caught—they sent in the army, so I was expelled from university.

My mother was very, very upset, so because of this I came to Canada.

I studied to become a barber in 1973, in Edmonton. It was an eight-month course. I was trying to figure out what I could do without going to school for four years. I thought, “Barber, huh?

That sounds pretty good.”

It’s easy. You set up shop, be good and talk to your customers.

You have to be friendly and talk about everything, not just have a one-track mind. I’ve always found it easy. I quit for ten years, eh? I retired. When I was fifty, I

said, “I don’t want to be sixty-five and not be able to do anything.”

So I sold the business, sold the house, and bought a log cabin in the woods near Kamloops. I did nothing up there. I just retired.

After ten years I decided to come back. I lived near Main Street, and one day six years ago I was walking around here.

I look in the window of this barber shop and there was this old guy, Chinese guy, and I thought, “Jeez, this would be a good location.” The next week I walked by and he wasn’t there, just a sign that said, “For Sale.” I talked to my wife—ex-wife—and said, “Do you think it’s a good location?” She said “Yeah, get it.” I spent a month to fix the place. It was completely different.

This whole neighbourhood has just transformed. There’s a good mixture of everybody here: young, old, lots of skateboard kids. I get regulars, yeah. I think

they’re just regular to the shop, they don’t care if I cut their hair, eh? We talk about everything in the chair. There’s an old saying in barbershops that you don’t talk about politics or religion, but I don’t care; I talk about everything. You want to talk about politics? Go ahead. Religion? I don’t care.

Salons aren’t the same as barbershops. For example, I get this guy, he comes in and he wants a number two—that’s about the easiest haircut I can do. Number two is less than a quarter-inch long everywhere. You could do it. Anyway, I talk to him, I said, “Where did you get your haircut?”

He said, “I used to go to a salon on Main.”

I said, “How much does it cost, can I ask you?”

He said, “About 40 bucks.”

I said, “40 for a number two?

She must be rubbing her boobs

against your shoulder or something.”

Here, a number two all over is $10. You save $30, and with that you can go to No. 5 Orange, have a beer, and look at girls all day long.

Most barbershops prefer to do first-come, first-serve. I don’t want to take appointments, you know. Leave that to the $40 salons. It’s okay if they want to go outside to make a phone call, or smoke a cigar or something while they wait.

I’ve been cutting hair since 1973 except for those ten years—and this is true—not one day do I get up out of bed and say I don’t feel like working today. No! A few months ago, it was a Sunday, I look in my wallet and realize I’ve got no more cash.

Before I go to the bank to get more money, I drop by the shop and start to do some chores. As I’m washing the floor, this guy knocks on the window and says “Please, please, I need a haircut.” So I open up the store for him, and before I know it there are seven guys showing up at my door needing a haircut. Seven! I don’t need a bank, the best bank is right here. I never have to go to get money from the bank. I just use my cash. 

I

All-male ensemble Chor Leoni is more than just a chorus line. t’s one hour to showtime.

A sizable group of men stand on a large podium spanning the old St. Andrew’s-Wesley United Church on Burrard Street. Some men are dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, some in tuxedos with tailcoats. Their ages and races are mixed; the group looks like a random selection from YVR. In this city, a common misconception is that a men’s choir means a gay men’s chorus, which makes one think of show tunes sung in a karaoke-esque manner. But an actual choir greatly differs from this preconceived notion: watching Chor Leoni Men’s Choir, one of Vancouver’s finest amateur men’s choirs, can change that.

Why do people affiliate men’s choir with gay men’s chorus? The simple idea of men who sing together brings up this stereotype, though the two are completely different things.

“In this culture we’ve developed—particularly in North America—there’s this sense that when people of any gender sing, it is considered unusual unless you’re a pop star,” says Bruce Hoffman, Chor Leoni’s Director of Communication. Hoffman is also and a singer with the choir.

“Here, it is difficult for men to

feel free enough to sing.” By reinvigorating a classical art, Chor Leoni makes a valiant effort to change this stigma.

Chor Leoni was born in 1992 in response to the mixed choirs and women’s choir that Diane Loomer managed at the time.

Some men wondered why there was a woman’s choir, but not a men’s choir. Soon after, Loomer formed Chor Leoni. Hoffman was in several mixed choirs at the time, but after hearing the men’s choir, his interest instantly piqued.

Vancouver is the choral capital of Canada, and there are more top-notch, award winning choirs here than anywhere else in the country. This might give the misconception that if you’re interested in joining, it should be relatively easy to get into an amateur choir, but the process to get accepted is more difficult than you might think.

“We are an amateur choir, but the audition process to get in is quite strenuous. We do get to perform at a professional level and we are recognized as such,” Hoffman explains. Once he entered the choir, the challenging work started. “I opened the folder and there was music in Japanese, Swedish, Finnish and Russian, and several languages that I had

Members range from eighteen all the way into the seventies.

There is barely a common age, dress style or race between them.

never sung in before.” The precision and talent of Chor Leoni is nothing that would be expected from an amateur choir, but their many awards and achievements challenge the title of “amateur.”

There are now several amateur mens-only choirs and choruses in Vancouver. Why is there a preference for men over mixed?

The answer lies in the richness of similarity.

“Singing in a men’s choir is very different from singing in mixed choirs, in that tonalities are a lot closer in the way that sound works, so there is a very rich feeling and a rich sound,” Hoffman says. “So when the basses open up in the lower registers, and the first tenors are up, it’s as if they are breathing helium that they go so high. Mixed choirs and men’s choirs are like apples and oranges in respect to sound.”

There is a noticeably different style and look to each man.

Members range from 18 all the way into their 70s. There is barely a common age, dress style or race between them. “We’re with a huge range of interests and ages and sexualities, we’re gay and straight, and it’s not a big deal,” Hoffman says. But there is something interesting about this aspect of a men’s choir, which doesn’t fit into the North American stereotype of masculinity.

To challenge this stereotype, Chor Leoni practices open acceptance of all sexualities.

Whether a man comes into the choir as gay or straight doesn’t make a difference as long as he has the ability and talent.

“We’re a classical choir that is focused first on the art and the music: sexuality doesn’t come into play,” Hoffman says. Masculinity finds a new space in the men’s choir: strong, powerful voices and hard work make a great candidate for the ensemble. “I think

that any man that is comfortable enough to sing is pretty comfortable in their sense of who they are,” Hoffman says. “I strongly believe that it’s the way that the world should be. If men sang more often together rather than finding out ways of killing each other, the world would be a better place.”

Back at sound check, Chor Leoni finishes up its rehearsal set and files out to change into formal attire. As soon as the men are all neatly packed behind stage, the doors open. Waiting outside for some time, audience members stream in, rubbing the cold from their hands. There is one common feature in this audience: grey hair. Audience members aged twenty to forty are completely absent.

Church choirs have switched from large ensembles to smaller groups or individual singers, and even pop groups have broken up to make way for solo artists.

Among today’s 20-somethings, individuality is favoured over the dynamics found in a choir ensemble. So much so, that in past years I’ve been to many ceremonies where a choir should be in place, but instead three or four singers stood in, each belting out solo performances.

When Chor Leoni begins singing, something contradicts what has been taught through mainstream culture. Several men of different ages, races and sexualities sing in perfect unison. Their powerful voices create an overwhelming presence in such a large space that it induces tears— taking you completely off-guard.

At the moment wherein voices synchronize and shake the floor beneath you, your misconceptions escape. 

R

obert Fougere is an affable, towering fellow with an impressive handlebar moustache that curls up at the ends.

He looks every bit the graduate student he is, studying pharmacology at UBC. Our conversation circles his academic studies and lands on his extracurricular activities at the university. He is a member of the Sailing Club and serves as its archivist, a job which entails featuring a member of the club every few weeks with portrait and a short, charming interview including descriptions of their fantasy voyages, favourite knots and memorable sailing experiences.

The sailor portraits are just one of his photographic ventures. “I guess everyone likes taking photos,” he says, demurely. “And me, I just really like it.” A year and a half ago, he discovered that UBC students are granted unlimited darkroom access for only $75 a year, and switched to using film. “Seeing the image appear on photo paper is magic,” he says. His camera arsenal includes a Nikon DSLR, a Holga, a Polaroid and a Hasselblad; in addition he always has his Nikon F3 on hand, which he describes as “the classic 1980s reporter camera.” It has that pleasing heft of a camera that predates the digital age.

His website is listed by Google search results as “Robert Fougere fine art photography and lawn care.” His main page background is a bemused, slightly cross-eyed cat in a turtleneck sweater. It reminds me of the kind of website I used to make in 1999 when I was an HTML autodidact with a Geocities-hosted Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan page. A visitor can browse galleries of his work, or check out his online boutique of vintage prints enigmatically called The Suitcase Gallery. I linger over a print of a neon sign reading “ALBERTA: WILD ROSE COUNTRY” and wonder how to justify its purchase as a life-long British Columbian, then forward the link to my Calgary friends.

The Suitcase Gallery is a recent venture. About a year ago, Fougere was digging around at Space Lab (at 3rd and Main) and found an old envelope of negatives from the 1950s, supposedly discovered by a homeless man in a Toronto back alley and conveyed somehow to the west coast. “They were really amazing. There was one of a hunter in a canoe, wearing a suit and tie, posing with a buck. A shot of a train from the 1930s, old cars from the 20s…”

Clint Moroz, Space Lab’s proprietor, let him take the negatives for free in exchange for a copy of the prints. “I made some amazing photos from those negatives,” says Fougere. “Now whenever he finds negatives he sends them my way.”

I like to think that some of the original photographers, es pecially the photo journalists, would be proud to have their photos hanging in a gallery “About two weeks [after digging around at Space Lab], I was trying to think of a good way to display them or shop them around.” Moroz came through again, this time with a wooden suitcase.

Fougere added shelves and voila, The Suitcase Gallery was born. He brings it along to craft fairs and shows, where he sells his prints and pragmatically offers Polaroid portraits to add something extra to his display. Photos are printed in limited runs of 5x7 prints, each numbered, signed and stamped with postcard markings, in order to make them both affordable to produce and appealing to buy. This is an excellent strategy: it’s irrefutable truth that everyone loves to receive postcards.

The Suitcase Gallery sounds like a brilliant entrepreneurial venture, with little to no work involved to find the negatives and constant access to the UBC darkrooms. It’s not art so much as it is curation: the negatives pile up and the process of choosing what to print becomes more selective. “Right now,” says Fougere, “I have more negatives than I can handle: it takes an hour to print each image.” And it may be easy to stumble across negatives, but it’s considerably less likely to find a truly spectacular photo. “I’ll always make sure to tell the people at the film lab if a roll I’m dropping off is found because I’ll imagine (or hope) that it has the most horrific or pornographic things on it, but they’re usually just uninteresting photos.” It brings to mind archaeologists who scour a desert for years before they trip over an australopithecine skull.

Has he ever encountered opposition when essentially repurposing others’ work for profit? “I always try to keep and to present all the information that comes with a certain picture, including who took it. I feel like that sort of information not only makes a picture more valuable, but also more interesting. It’s like an illustrated history course!” he says. “Also, I think most of the people that took the pictures I sell are dead, so I don’t really have to worry about them claiming copyright.” In his experience, original photos require more delicacy and tact to skirt controversy. “I’ve had to bin photos I’ve taken of friends smoking pot or intimate photos from relationships past or photos that people don’t want published because they don’t think they look their best.

“I try not to take credit for photos I didn’t take.

I’ll certainly take credit for printing a found negative, because I’m making choices about how to print the negative, and I feel that’s fair, but I’ll credit it to ‘unknown photographer’ or ‘found negative.’” Throughout the conversation he returns to the importance of making art public, and says, “I like to think that some of the original photographers, especially the photojournalists, would be proud to have their photos hanging in a gallery.”

We’re talking about two kinds of work: photography for the sake of art and exhibition, versus photography for the sake of profit. Anyone who can’t work for free has to balance the two in order to stay afloat. There is a limit to the chances an artist can take when they are relying on sales to fund the next project, especially when building a network revolves around volunteering one’s services. When the profit margins are so narrow (or non-existent), the risk is greater, especially for struggling artists. “The creative people need to unionize and start valuing their work,” says Fougere, who might as well be speaking for every musician, performer and writer in the city.

In a time when everyone can self-publish on the Internet and is willing to work for free, when everyone has a DSLR or a Holga from Urban Outfitters or a Leica from Value Village, and when we are all voyeurs (we all love taking photos, after all), does the scarcity of profit increase talent? Are we pushing people to, as Fougere argues, “make it happen for themselves,” carve out a niche for themselves that somehow supports their work, build networks based on talent and cooperation, support one another’s artistic ventures, work smart and hard? Or is talent indistinguishable from mediocrity if no one is rewarded?

These are my questions; Fougere is magnanimous and unpretentious in his reply. “I’m not going to say anyone’s photos are bad…and it’s not about what camera you use to take the picture, it’s about the end result. You can take an amazing picture with a cell phone.” And there are myriad ways a photographer can balance his own interests with more lucrative ventures: wedding photography, headshots, dog portraits for the Yaletown set.

Fougere wishes aloud that more galleries paid artists to exhibit, in order to “free up people to make work, not necessarily just because it’s gonna sell,

but because you want it to be seen.”

Fougere is extremely practical about his work.

“Art is great and all, but I’m trying to make a living,” he says, candidly. “Photography as an art does have this great commercial aspect. I can go shoot for a band—a painter can’t do that.” If cost wasn’t a factor, he would be printing fewer cheeky nudes and more portraits and street photography. “I like walking around with a camera, being quick on the draw. You see a lot of strange things. I like getting a little humour into my photos, too.” Similarly, he’s always on the look out

for vintage negatives showcasing “the strange, the hilarious and the hauntingly beautiful.”

Despite his pragmatism, Fougere calls his process “organic,” and is content to watch it unfold.

“I have a series on the go—photos shot as drivebys, from a car. I might actually publish it as a book, with Smoke Signals publishing, in the near future. And I’ve got one great one of two street people sharing a bag of Cheezies. It came out beautifully.” 

It’ is not art so much as it is curation the negatives pile up and the process of choosing what to print becomes more selective

While stereotypes thrive on screen, male elementary school teachers are a dying breed.=

I

n a quiet classroom, a teacher paces between rows of desks.

He’s nattily dressed in stereotypical teacher-wear: a slim striped tie, dark brown suit, oxford shoes. His rich baritone voice delivers an engaging address on poetry and Shakespeare, though his students—adolescent boys with floppy hair—watch and listen skeptically.

The teacher, Mr. Keating, circles back to the chalkboard and hops onto his wooden desk in a single bound. His tone rises, but he maintains a controlled cadence. “We must constantly look at things in a different way,” he says, peering out at the students.

On the classroom wall behind him are framed photographs of “important men”—Walt Whitman, Henry David Thoreau, Winston Churchill. The boys look around at each other quizzically and a ripple of excitement passes through the room.

“The world looks very different from up here,” Mr. Keating continues, more excited now. It’s clear his enthusiasm is catching on as the boys exchange glances.

“Come see for yourselves. Come on!” he beckons, and the students

rise and join him at his desk, hopping up onto it one by one, then jumping off the other side.

By now Keating’s aphorisms are coming fast and furious: “Boys, you must strive to find your own voice, but the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all.”

“Don’t just walk off the edge like lemmings—look around you!”

The boys are buzzing now. Mr. Keating’s rhetorical wizardry has electrified the room and shattered the brick walls of the adolescent males’ academic apathy.

“Dare to strike out and find new ground!”

This inspiring scene did not play out in a Vancouver classroom, but on screen, in Dead Poet’s Society, the archetypal film of inspirational pedagogy. Robin Williams, who plays Mr. Keating, makes it look easy. He quotes Shakespeare, spews Latin and channels Marlon Brando, often at the same time. This brand of inspirational male teacher is fairly common in TV and in films, but the real thing is harder to find.

The number of men in el-

ementary school classrooms has steadily declined over the past few decades in Canada and almost everywhere else. In addition to the challenges all educators face—demanding parents, overflowing classrooms, shrinking budgets, stiff competition for jobs—studies have shown that fewer men are entering the profession at the elementary level

because it is viewed as a feminine occupation.

This view of elementary school as a female domain has become a dominant one, partially because women have commanded positions in primary teaching for years. In turn, our views have been shaped by our own experiences as students, and become

entrenched over time.

“It’s just not seen as a manly job,” says Alina Tam, who teaches Grade 1, Grade 2 and Resource at two Vancouver schools.

“And that just goes back to our cultural values.”

Right or wrong, many of us think of teaching younger students as primarily an exercise in nurturing and childcare rather

He\quotes\Shakespeare,\spews\Latin\\\\ and\channels\Marlon\Brando,\often at\the\same\time\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

than education, despite the critical and long-term impact of early childhood learning on cognitive, academic and social development.

For the men who choose to teach, there are rewards and challenges, as with any profession. Peter Williams, a grade 7 teacher in West Vancouver, describes what he found as he started his teaching career. “Kids are amazing to work with because they’re not as jaded as adults,” he says. “There aren’t politics involved when you work with kids.”

Williams, who has been teaching for eleven years in secondary and elementary schools in Greater Vancouver, remembers several male teachers from his youth who were positive influences. “My high school football coach meant the world to me. He was also a P.E. teacher. My social studies teacher in Grade 11, Mr. Parker, was awesome.” He continues, “But the funny part is I definitely remember more of the teachers where I battled.”

He says reactions to his career choice vary. “I get all sorts of things. Some wonder how I can do it, why I do it. The best is the hockey dressing room. You get it from all angles. Family and friends think it’s great. What concerns me is that people see me as professional, and know that we work really hard and make a huge difference.”

Rick Lee, who teaches in East Vancouver, is also conscious of society’s expectations of male teachers. Though Lee teaches Grade 6 and 7, his training is for the early primary Grades. He says one challenge he faces, as a male teacher, is the perception of his teaching ability. “Some people think I’m not best suited for my position, or a particular position,” he says. “In Grades 6

and 7, a lot of people say that’s a good fit for me. In actuality I’m a kindergarten and Grade 1 teacher.”

“People just don’t see me as a kindergarten teacher,” he adds.

“They see that stereotypical female: loving, caring, maybe even an older kind of person.”

As one of the few male teachers who prefer to teach primary grades, Lee points to the importance of giving students a strong start in school. “We want to make a difference in their lives when they’re young so that teachers who are in Grade 6 and 7don’t necessarily have to play the catch-up game,” Lee says of himself and those like him.

Richard Edge teaches physical education to Grade 8 girls in Vancouver, and is aware of people’s biases against male teachers.

“Sometimes there’s a stigma,” he says, “like, why would a grown man want to hang around young children? There’s a stigma that there’s something devious.”

Male teachers like Edge also say they are constantly aware of the personal boundaries between student and teacher, because they don’t want to be accused of inappropriate contact or behaviour. “I just finished a gymnastics unit and when you’re trying to teach correct spotting and things like that, P.E. just lends itself to more contact. Dealing with young girls, it’s something you need to be aware of.”

However, he notes, “I’d say, when it comes to concern, it’s probably more on my part then on a parent’s part.”

In fact, some parents seek out male teachers for their elementary school-aged children, believing that men provide a more disciplined classroom that will benefit their kids. “I’ve recently had parent-teacher conferences

and there are a lot of comments from parents saying that they’re really happy their kids have a male teacher,” Williams explains.

Tam has had similar experiences as a female educator.

“I’ve heard parents say, ‘Maybe he doesn’t listen to you because you’re a female.’” Tam feels that these beliefs are often rooted in cultural norms relating to masculinity and discipline. “At home it’s dad or uncle who does all of the disciplining, so [the student] is making that connection that [he or she] doesn’t have to listen to you because you’re female.”

In reality, the way teachers conduct classroom discipline is tied more to their personality than gender. “I know I can be tough when it’s time, but I think more often than not I have a pretty loose atmosphere in the classroom,” says Williams. “Other female teachers I know can be very tough.”

Given the increasing fluidity of gender roles today, the focus in recruiting teachers should remain ultimately on quality, not gender. The ideal teacher is one who connects with his or her students on an individual basis, who understands how to motivate and inspire, to support and encourage learning—in short, how to get the best out of each kid, whatever it takes. That said, while a teacher’s gender is not the most critical factor, an overall diversity among teachers certainly cannot be a bad thing.

Alina Tam agrees that the issue cannot be reduced to a single chromosome, but can hinge on the broad strokes of diversity. “I think it’s important for kids to see themselves reflected in the teaching staff,” she says. “Whether it’s sex, or race, or whatever it is.”

Of the effects on the students of

having a uniform teaching staff, she adds, “There are all kinds of messages that they’re getting from everywhere, already teaching them what’s appropriate for a boy to do, and not to do. If you go to school and all the teachers are female, you’ll think, ‘Oh, teaching is for girls.’”

Some gendered messages come from film, and there are some positive portrayals of male teachers in popular culture. Head of the Class, Lean on Me, Stand and Deliver, Welcome Back Kotter and The White Shadow all feature decent male teachers and role models at the high school level. Films like School of Rock and Kindergarden Cop feature clumsy men who eventually redeem themselves in front of elementary school classrooms as well.

But what is the effect of these cultural offerings? Did Dead Poet’s Society’s Walt Whitmanquoting, desk-jumping firebrand Mr. Keating inspire legions of young men to gather chalk and enlighten the minds of youth in real life? Did Head of the Class’ Charlie Moore provide a model of classroom control that can be embraced to this day?

Rick Lee doesn’t think so.

“Success stories are always awesome,” he says, “but I don’t necessarily have to look at movies to be inspired.

“As a teacher, until the day you retire, you’re always looking for a new way to teach your kids.

Most students learn in different ways. As a teacher, your job is to find ways for you to teach these children so they can learn—and prosper.”

You don’t have to personify a cultural ideal to change a life. 

OLD BOY’s CLUB

When sparks fly in Carolyn Bramble’s workplace, it’s because she’s doing her job, and doing it well. Bramble, a journeywoman welder and steel fabricator for BC Ferries, dons her coveralls and steel-toed boots each morning and steps into an environment of grinding steel, harsh floodlights, and incessantly droning machines: in other words, a man’s world.

In the 12 years that Bramble has performed skilled manual labour—whether assembling exhaust brakes, creating aircraft tow bars or converting vans into wheelchair-accessible vehicles—she has worked alongside only one other woman. Though, despite her testosterone-charged surroundings she wouldn’t dream of letting her male co-workers treat her like a lady.

“I’m pretty strong and I can do things for myself,” she says. “[Men are] not there to help. But I would definitely help somebody and somebody would help me.”

Bramble’s success in her trade is partly thanks to trailblazing tradeswomen like Vancouverite Kate Braid. When Braid found herself working as a labourer in 1977, she was one of just a handful of BC women in similar positions; she went on to become a rare female journey carpenter.

Over and over again, the biggest difficulty she faced on the job site was fitting in as a ‘man’ among men, Braid says. She became adept at discouraging the damning damsel treatment.

“Some guys will try and carry your lumber for you,” she says. “They’re actually trying to be helpful in the only role they know. So one of the first things you have to do is make it clear that ‘I’m here as an equal.’”

On one of Braid’s initial Vancouver construction jobs, she made it clear that her ability to wield a hammer was the only thing that mattered.

“The first morning, it’s pouring rain and we’re all going up this wooden ladder to go to work, and some guy suddenly stands back and he goes, ‘Ladies first,’” recalls Braid. “And I said to him, ‘No ladies here, just carpenters.’”

It was only years later, after completing a master’s thesis on women in trades, that Braid brought a new understanding to bear on that early incident. “Really what he was saying was, ‘We don’t

know how to treat you. None of us have ever worked with a woman before, so the only thing we know about women is ladies and gentlemen.’ And if they treat you like that, you’re doomed,” she says. “Because you’re being paid what the other guys are being paid, you’re doing the same job they’re doing.”

No longer actively working in the trades, Braid now teaches, writes and serves as a role model for women like Carolyn Bramble.

Bramble says in an average day on the job, she enjoys operating her welding machinery and feels like she’s part of a team.

When the charge hand checks her out, it’s truly her torch cuts that he’s interested in seeing.

Y

ou know Ryan Beil. The chipper teenager from the A&W commercials. The Jessie Award winning theatre actor. The host of Sunday Service improv. Beil is whomever you want him to be.

But to extend beyond his initial screwball typecast, Beil has had to work a little harder, starting a theatre company with fellow actors and investing his own money into dramatic productions.

Not that he minds being best-known as a goofy fastfood spokesperson. Any lofty conceits he had were dropped back in acting school. “I was on this kick for a while, ‘I only want to do really artsy improv. It’s not just comedy, man, it’s theatre!’ And now I’m not such a pretentious little asshole,” he laughs.

This ease and humble disposition lead to a joyous intensity in Beil’s performances. At once unassuming and engaging, Beil grips audiences with his fearless ability to throw himself in any role. He is as comfortable donning pantaloons for foppish Shakespearian characters, as he is wearing a leather jacket and East Coast snarl in gritty fast-paced dialogues.

Any opportunity to act is one Beil will happily take—with the exception of commercial characters that people will hate. “It was a spiced rum commercial, a classic ‘I’m a funny guy and I say something and then beautiful women are everywhere going woo!’” he explains. “It was just embarrassing, but at the same time, if MTV wanted to pay me ten million dollars to do the next American Pie movie, I would drop my pants. Life’s situational.”

Beil unashamedly relishes the attention garnered in the moment of his live stage performances. “It’s a feeling you can’t compare to anything else,” he says.

He is happy with what he has already achieved and simply wants to keep doing what he does already in Vancouver, both highbrow and lowbrow. “I’ve had some success but it’s just a burger commercial, I’m not doing Gone With the Wind.”

I

n-between the discount T-shirt store and sparse strip mall in Chinatown is an abandoned building once ripe with insurance bureaus. The doors are barred, the windows are papered and graffitied, and the fragrant musk of regret lingers at each entrance.

But above the cracked plastic awning hangs a worn neon sign. Its colour, slightly faded, still glimmers. Its relaxed, scrawled lettering seems the epitome of a good time—Chinatown Casino Third Floor.

Confused, I stood outside the locked doors and tried to open them. Maybe this was a trick, a ruse of determination. If I could convince whoever watched me—security camera, casino gods—that I would spend some money, a couple penny slot machines and some coffee, that would be enough to get me in.

No such luck.

I wandered to the back alley, each warehouse door covered by more locks and bars. I rounded the corner again, and the discount T-shirts mocked my futile attempts. A light in my head turned on: third floor.

Steps, I needed steps. I marched into the strip mall and found a rusted and soiled staircase. With each stair I felt it: the chimes clamouring from the jackpot, the terrible carpet sticking to my feet, the hazy thick air of the surely darkened room. The second floor was desolate save for one noodle house. I checked each crevice of the pagoda-themed building; the calcified door handles staining my fingers as I tried, foolishly, to turn them.

Minutes later, dirtied and tired, I stumbled into the only open store.

“Can you help me find the Casino?”

“The Casino?” the gentleman answered.

“It was in the Mandarin Centre, but I can’t find it” I replied.

“Oh, the casino. It’s been gone a long time.”

Stranded and slightly astounded, I stumbled home hopes that the Internet would assure me that a whole casino vanished, with only the faded, kitschy neon sign marking its demise into obscurity.

Darryl Cressman Thing: Masculinity Henry David Thoreau wrote that the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. A little more than eighty years later, in 1939, James Thurber personified Thoreau’s saying through the comedic character Walter Mitty. Mitty is a mundane and ineffectual daydreamer who imagines himself as a great hero. They stand in such stark contrast to many of our conventional notions of masculinity.

Masculinity is commonly associated with bravery, strength and courage. But these traits don’t emerge on their own. Something else is needed—an enemy. Batman had the Joker, Sherlock Holmes had Dr. Moriarty, David had Goliath, Karl Marx had capitalism, Theseus had the Minotaur, Rambo had Brian Denhenny. The list goes on. Take away the enemy, and what do you have?

Different variations of Walter Mitty’s quiet desperation. But does it have to be this way? Are representations of masculinity doomed to be either the quintessential hero or Walter Mitty?

I’d like to think that Clive Owen’s character in the film Children of Men falls outside of this dichotomy. His is a representation of masculinity that is neither confrontational nor apathetic. Does Owen’s character have an enemy? No, not really. He dislikes the world he inhabits, but, like most of us, he is too weary and complacent to do anything about it. He is a reluctant hero, a version of masculinity that falls outside of the spectrum we are used to, and a character that can hopefully point us toward new representations of masculinity. 

BACKSTORY

GeorGe orwell’s

world premiere

mAr 25 - Apr 3

adapted for the Stage by andy thompSon | Starring alex ferguSon & the Senior StudentS of Studio 58

thecultch.com

604.251.1363 | 1895 Venables St.

from

$15

Sponsored by

VAnCouVer eAst CulturAl Centre

Photo by David Cooper featuring Alex Ferguson & Amy Hall-Cummings