In Transit Magazine by The Strand

the STRAND

Magazine

In Transit

Table of Contents

4 • NYC TRANSIT 7 • NOBEL PRIZE 9 • HOUSING INSECURITY 12 • MURDER ON THE TTC 14 • EVOLUTION OF JOUAL 17 • CEMETERY RUN 20 • MOVING OIL

FRUIT HUNTERS • HIGH RISE •

ART IN TRANSITION •

THEATRE PASSE MURAILLE • THE JOY OF WALKING • METAL IN IRAN •

The Strand Magazine presents

“In Transit”

from the editor It’s easy to spot someone who’s riding the subway for the first time. When it starts to move, they go flying; they stand up three stops before they need to; they go north when they mean to go south. After a while, though, the particular tiles of certain subway stations become ingrained in our mental map of Toronto. When Spacing Magazine started releasing buttons for each station, there’s a reason they were wildly popular: by the time you’ve used the TTC frequently enough to do it unthinkingly, the cracks and benches and music of some stations become highly personal. For many students at Vic, that station is Museum. For me, it’s that never-ending hallway at Spadina station and the elegant glass dome at Dupont. This is The Strand’s second magazine issue, and it’s been an opportunity for us to work with a theme that was a little looser and more abstract. In addition to looking at biking, running, and public transportation, we’ve taken a closer look at the potential these spaces have for creativity and political commentary. On pages 10 and 11, Jade Bryan interviews Roadside Attractions on public art in Toronto and how to match our artwork to our fast-paced world. On 12 and 13, Ariel Leutheusser and Blaire Townshend look at transit as a literal space for artistic experimentation, asking why so many murder mysteries involve public transportation and why Theatre Passe Muraille is situating much of its season on street corners and streetcars. More broadly, we’ve also been thinking about the connection between transit and things that are “in transition.” On pages 14 and 15, Elaine Chan examines the evolution of Joual and Québécois language debates around class and art. And on pages 18 and 19, Bahar Banaei talks about the disconnect between her experiences with metal and underground music in postRevolution Iran and Toronto. Thinking about transit also brings us to issues of accessibility and politics. In post-Sandy New York City, the transit system is a microcosm of economic and racial inequality in the city. It’s also an opportunity for us to think about how we’ll deal with the future – in terms of climate research, speculative fiction, and urban planning. In Toronto, the condo boom brings out our cultural fascination with height for height’s sake, as Kris Kinsey discusses on page 8. And on page 9, Jen Roberton discusses misconceptions of homelessness and housing insecurity. We’ll be doing a second themed magazine issue in the spring semester. If you have thoughts, feedback, or are interested in getting involved, get in touch with us at editor@thestrand.ca. Happy reading.

contributors Editors-in-Chief Pauline Holdsworth Muna Mire Patrick Mujunen Design Editors Amanda Aziz Bahar Banaei Jade Bryan Allie Chenoweth Alex Griffith Johanna Lewis Emily Pollock Paula Razuri Blaire Townshend Grace Quinsey Copy Editors Allie Chenoweth John Cockshutt Blaire Townshend Claire Wilkins C ontributors Bahar Banaei Jade Bryan Elaine Chan Alex Griffith Pauline Holdsworth Kris Kinsey Ariel Leutheusser Tom McCarthy Stephen Michell Rylee Raeburn-Gibson Paula Razuri Jen Roberton Blaire Townshend Art

Sarah Crawley

Photo Victoria Chuen Jill Evans Thomas Lu

New York Transit AN UNNATURAL DISASTER FLICKR/DMCOOK

PAULINE HOLDSWORTH

FLICKR/SUSAN NYC

And for some the evacuation zones didn’t apply. Rikers Island was classified a “No Flood Zone” prior to the storm, though it was entirely waterlocked and only accessible by crossing a bridge from Queens by bus or private car. All of the surrounding areas were classified as being at a high or moderate risk for flooding. Rikers Island is the world’s largest penal colony, designed to be difficult to access in either direction. It houses approximately 12,000 inmates on any given day—many of whom are in transit themselves; waiting for bail, waiting to be transferred to a long-term facility, or waiting for trial. Most of them have been given prison sentences of less than a year. And yet when asked what would happen to the Rikers Island prisoners, Mayor Bloomberg’s response was to tell reporters and residents, “Don’t worry about anyone getting out.” “The only way on and off [Rikers Island] is by bridge. If that bridge becomes inaccessible due to flooding, do they have 12,000 lifejackets on hand? Do they have hundreds of life boats standing by? If there is a plan in place to remove the prisoners safely, why can’t they give us specifics?” said Lisa Ortega, whose 16-year-old son lived through Hurricane Irene as an inmate at Rikers. For community activists, Bloomberg’s decision not to evacuate Rikers Island was one more sign of a government determined to ignore all the warning signs. “It is appalling that the lessons of Hurricane Katrina, where prisoners at Orleans Parish Prison were abandoned and left in locked cells, some standing in chest-high sewage-tainted water, remain stubbornly unlearned by the leadership of our city,” said Centre for Constitutional Rights Executive Director Vincent Warren. For those without housing, the storm was particularly dangerous, and the flooded subway system represented more than the inability to get across the city. Alternet reported that when Sandy displaced city residents from their homes, it overloaded an already-strained city shelter system, which in turn displaced many homeless New Yorkers. One 43-year-old homeless man, who had tried to access an emergency shelter during Hurricane Irene, told a freelance reporter, “They don’t want us there. These shelters are for the good folks, the families that get evacuated. There is no room in there for me.” And since the subway tunnels were flooded and off-limits, he wouldn’t be able to seek shelter there either. In the years leading up to Sandy, climate scientists and transit specialists released reports predicting severe consequences for the NYC transit system if nothing was done to reconsider infrastructure and design in an era where rising sea levels are a reality. “Overarching all of this is design, urban plan-

It’s time to utilize every avenue available to us—whether speculative fiction, urban planning or climate science research—to build new defenses, not just in terms of levies and walls but in terms of community preparedness, planning, and solidarity.

ages two and four, were swept out of her arms by flood waters and later found dead. We have ample warning about all of these things: about the danger of climate change, the danger of institutionalized violence, and we have proof of how our lack of preparation for both of these things adds a devastating man-made component to natural disasters. We’re already imagining ways these things will play out in our future—what we need now is to translate the stuff of these dreams and nightmares into concrete plans for a sustainable future. Some of these strategies will focus on community-building and critically examining the way we think about who’s worth saving. Some of these will be centered around redesigning our transit system, and others will seek new alternatives—discovering, for example, that bicycles are one of the best resources to have after a natural disaster. Some of these strategies will work to build public consciousness about the real danger posed by global warming. But in combination, they may be instrumental in reconsidering any number of possible futures. FLICKR/MR. WRIGHT

There’s a marked disconnect between our fictional fascination with disasters and our real-life readiness to address them.

ning. What we really need to do is recover, rebuild, and create a vibrant and sustainable coastal city region...We have to accept that we are a coastal region. There are going to be coastal floods. How do we live with it?” climate scientist Cynthia Rosenzweig told Scientific American. “Sandy threw the ocean at the land, and because of global warming, there were about eight inches more ocean to throw,” wrote Chris Mooney in Grist. He went on to explain that the New York State Sea Level Rise Task Force “estimates up to 2.5 feet of sea-level rise by 2050, and up to 4.5 feet by the 2080s. In these scenarios, global warming’s contribution to every storm surge event would be dramatically worse than it currently is.” In that context, it’s time to utilize every avenue available to us—whether speculative fiction, urban planning, or climate science research—to build new defenses, not just in terms of levies and walls but in terms of community preparedness, planning, and solidarity. Speculative fiction can be a powerful tool for imagining possible scenarios and building positive alternatives, as well as for reminding us of the need to plan ahead—something that was crucially missing in the lead-up to Sandy. Though New York officials made plans to close the subway before the storm hit, in other areas of the city, contingency plans and worstcase scenario readiness were few and far between. The way we imagine the future must take into consideration the way oppression is reinforced in times of crisis. Hurricane Sandy brought us many stories about people overcoming differences and working together—like Newark Mayor Cory Booker inviting random residents without a safe place to stay over to his house and personally checking up on residents’ stranded grandmothers—but Rikers Island serves as a powerful reminder that storms often worsen inequality and oppression rather than making them irrelevant. Our conceptualizations of apocalyptic futures are often highly masculinized, and show a future where gender roles are reinforced in the name of protection and racist violence and mistrust are amplified. Our current feel-good narratives about people from all backgrounds coming together in a storm are certainly valuable, and good work deserves to be celebrated, but these narratives often overshadow and erase the other, more unsettling narratives about the effects of institutionalized oppression during natural disasters. A black mother on Staten Island spent the night knocking on neighbours’ doors asking for help and refuge, but was refused. That night, her two sons,

FLICKR/ERNOP

ccess and public transportation become crucial in a storm. One of the most iconic natural disaster B-movie images is that of a massive traffic jam straining to get out of the city. More often than not, that city is New York, the space which houses so many of our pop culture imaginings and fears about natural disasters and the end of civilization. It’s an image we’ve re-tooled and re-imagined over and over again, but there’s a marked disconnect between our fictional fascination with disasters and our real-life readiness to address them. When Hurricane Sandy hit NYC, it shut down the subway system for three days, leaving many New Yorkers stranded and raising important questions about mobility and safety during a storm. The differing levels of access to mobility that the city’s residents had served as a key illustration of NYC’s staggering economic inequality. “Those with a car could flee. Those with wealth could move into a hotel. Those with steady jobs could decline to come into work. But the city’s cooks, doormen, maintenance men, taxi drivers, and maids left their loved ones at home,” wrote David Rohde for The Atlantic.

Concerning Fruit Alexander Griffith interviews Taiwanese-Canadian filmmaker Yung Chang on fruits and those who love them in his latest doc

his is a rambutan,” says Yung Chang, handing me what looks like a hairy purple acorn husk. He gave one to the last interviewer too, a routine for promoting his latest documentary, Fruit Hunters. “It’s a relative of the lychee,” he says when I note the similarities in a bid to appear worldly about the topic and to break some pre-interview ice. Chang is a quietly-passionate ambassador of his cause: the exploration and preservation of rare fruits (it seems only right to use “fruits” instead of “fruit” because of the reverence Chang and his subjects accord all varieties of seed-bearers). I was pretty skeptical going into Fruit Hunters. Vegetarian friends have done their best to make me denounce the old gods and diversify my diet, while I always quote Fran Lebowitz and reply that my favourite animal is steak. But Chang’s movie was moving, even when it departed from truth (China’s Tang Dynasty didn’t fall because of a concubine’s love for lychee). He does not overload you with statistics, or force a conservation message down your throat. Chang is a fiction director liberated by his documentarian’s career. His last doc, China Heavyweight, closely followed rural teenagers trying out for the Chinese Olympic team. Up the Yangtze chronicled a changing China through the lives of cruise ship employees who feel more like full-blooded characters than talking heads. Chang is no detached journalist; he wants to get involved. Fruit Hunters’ enjoyability rides on the enthusiastic eccentricities of the horticulturalists (expert or amateur) who “live for their fruit.” Chang’s inspiration was Adam Leith Gollner’s book of the same title, a bestseller that focused more on the science and economics of modern food production. In the film, the call to arms against monoculture and devastating deforestation is soft-pedaled beneath the fruit porn and lush landscapes of Honduras, Borneo, and Bali. In person, though, Chang is ready to promote selfsustainability movements. Food Forward is a Torontobased organization that picks fruit off plants in urban areas—streets, backyards, parks—and donates the produce to shelters and schools. “I’ve heard of water chestnuts and pears and apples growing everywhere here,” he says. “Canada has a lot of unique fruit. In Saskatchewan they’re growing the haskap berry, which is being touted as the next big thing. Extremely coveted in Japan. You

eat it with chopsticks because it’s so beautiful. It has three times the antioxidants [as blueberries].” Chang is optimistic about the growing variety of produce we’ll soon see stacked at the supermarket. He cites Floyd Zeiger, a Californian (like so many fruit hunters) who “actually invented, using age-old techniques of grafting, the plumcot.” This plum-apricot hybrid can now be found at Metro. “It takes time for people’s attitudes to change,” admits Chang. Geopolitics are also at work. The West has been importing all sorts of Latin American-friendly fruit—like bananas and pineapples—not only because of the durability of such products, but also because American companies are heavily invested in Latin American agriculture. As the percentage of East Asian immigrants to the West increases, the influx of curiosities like durian and dragonfruit will probably become more commonplace. “[Asian immigrants] have this desire to have this nostalgic fruit—it’s so sensory —that takes them back home.” One of Chang’s subjects, Juan Fernando Aguilar, has been working on finding a replacement for the Cavendish banana. The Cavendish, discovered by a nineteenth-century British exporter in a Chinese garden, is the world’s only export banana, durable enough to travel overseas. But the plant is also extremely susceptible to a number of diseases. Aguilar, who describes hand-pollination as a measured act of seduction, “uses this non-GMO process of trying to breed Cavendish hybrids.” The results are often seedless, or have another fatal flaw, so the process is slow, but Juan is “getting close” to finding a substitute. Chang, too, does not think much of genetic tampering. “It’s not the same as having a mango tree and finding a piece of fruit that tastes like piña colada, and cutting that branch off and grafting it onto a tree in Florida and preserving that genetic material.” In the film, Dr. Richard Campbell, a horticulturalist/modern day Indiana Jones, grapples with the relative importance of his cause. “You could play devil’s advocate and say what does it matter to save all this biodiversity because there is this economic crunch in the world right now.” He compares avocados (one of his many passions) to the Mona Lisa. “Does it really matter to save the Mona Lisa? Most people starving in the world don’t care about the Mona Lisa, but there are lot of people who do care, because if it’s lost it can never be regained. I would look at our genetic collec-

tions in the same way. You could never regain the pura vida avocado if it’s lost. The pura vida is a Mona Lisa.” The more Chang muses, the more he seems to zero in on the heart of his movie, so different in style and subject than his social-realist look at working class China. In fact, I press him a little on this, wondering if Fruit Hunters is somehow less important or a break from his serious material. “I think the film is trying to make a point that we’ve lost that inherent connection with fruit,” says Chang, “that we shaped fruit and fruit shaped us, that we cultivated it to be tasty. And somewhere along the way we went overboard a little bit, where we cultivated the [Cavendish] banana to be so good that we forgot about the other ones. The idea of the film is to sort of reawaken that innate connection – after you watch the movie you should feel like going to Chinatown and buying a durian.” Full caveat: I went to Chinatown on a photo assignment for this article, so in this light Fruit Hunters succeeded. Like any work of fandom, there will be converts gorging on every frame, and those who drop by.

“I would look at our genetic collections [as irreplacable]. You could never regain the pura vida avocado if it’s lost. The pura vida is a Mona Lisa.” – Richard Campbell

PHOTOS Clockwise: persimon (under the title), mangosteen, red dragonfruit, papaya, and lychee.

MOBILE NOBEL T

he mixed reception to the presentation of the 2012 Nobel Prize for Literature to Chinese author Mo Yan illuminates the ways the award can shape our idea of “world literature.” When there is a recognized global standard for excellence in literature, such as the Nobel Prize, the standard becomes a way of defining what we can call world literature. Often literature that is wellread across the globe requires the cross-language movement of stories and text: the prestigious Nobel Prize for Literature determines what becomes highly translated, and rewards texts which have already gained a global reputation. In the case of Mo Yan – an author with a pre-Nobel global reputation – the criticism surrounding the author’s prize has centred on his closeness to the Chinese government, that he hasn’t spoken out enough against the establishment, and that his writing isn’t politically inflammatory enough to warrant such a prize. The idea that a literary award for excellence should be given to those whose body of work shows political resistance is dangerous to our understanding of the landscape of world literature. Just dismissing certain aspects of our cultural experience because of an item’s commercial success or popularity can give us an incomplete picture of our cultural surroundings. Part of the controversy surrounding the Award for Literature has been based on its favouring of writers with strong voices of political resistance, equating a successful career with a rebellious voice. Certainly an artist should be awarded if their work provides an alternative way of thought or an insightful critique of their nation’s governmental flaws, but there is no reason why quality and rebellion should always intersect. When the Nobel Prize acts as an authoritative mark of quality world literature and the catalyst for a text’s translation into a globally consumable text, requiring political dissent from recipients can be

Paula Razuri

World literature, translation, and the Nobel Prize.

//Svjetskaletterkunde...перевод & ang Ödülünü kazandı. Literatura mundial, la traducción, y el Premio Nobel.

harmful and limiting to the outsider’s perspective of a nation. The award is a certain guarantee that an author’s body of work will see an increase in readership and sales. Often the recipient of the award has already been widely translated and has garnered a global reputation for their work. In other instances the award has also acted as a cue for translation, and in that translation, protection. 1988 Laureate Naguib Mahfouz’s award of the prize incited a trend to translate many of his texts into English, and following his win, some Arab countries who had banned his works lifted the restrictions. Thoughts surrounding 2006 recipient, Turkish author Orhan Pamuk, expressed the potential political motivations behind choosing Pamuk, who had been charged with speaking out against the Republic only one year previous. By acknowledging Pamuk as a literary success, the Nobel committee effectively granted him protection through the peaked global interest which inevitably ensued his receiving the prize. Translation and the Nobel Prize are intimately linked: they each encourage an author’s success and propagate the movement of a text or body of work through languages. Through translation, a work gains new properties attributed to the language; it develops the language’s perspective, tones, and nuances as well as providing the reader another way of looking at the world. It is a re-writing of a story that does its best to capture the music of the language and transpose it into another. In an interview with The Browser, well-reputed literary translator, Edith Grossman, stated that, “translation is the cement that holds literary civilisation together.” While we undoubtedly need to constantly translate and transpose our literary surroundings to better understand them, the process of recognizing literary excellence marginalizes our contemporary

canon of must-reads. This creates a global demand for a particular author’s work, and in translating based on demand our literary civilisation becomes quite selective. When translated works and the idea of world literature are closely tied to literary awards, it can become quite easy to construct a very narrow image of the diverse landscape of world literature. What is rewarded becomes translated, and what has been translated can be rewarded. One example of how “major” languages can be perceived as the watermark for mainstream success is how our selective literary civilization is also linked to the predominance of Anglophone or European authors as recipients of the Nobel Prize. But what happens to the national identity of an author once his or her work has been translated and dispersed through the global market? As was the case with Orhan Pamuk, there is a sense of national betrayal that can follow a work’s translation; global reception of certain ideals may contradict a large ideology of a body of people and stir up national displeasure. Translation is authoritative. Though a presence on the European circuit is not analogous with an author’s quality of work, the movement of texts through languages onto an accessible global stage is undeniably powerful. When literary awards, such as the Nobel Prize, play a role in the shaping of world literature, it does well to consider just how much of the world we are looking at.

‘‘LOOKING DOWN BY KRIS KINSEY

‘‘

ast month, the AGO’s red carpet was rolled out to welcome superstar architect Frank Gehry who, along with theatre mogul David Mirvish, was set to unveil plans for a landmark development in Toronto’s entertainment district. Their proposal would see the construction of three condominium towers, each over 80 stories tall, and beneath them, stretching across a number of Mirvish’s properties, a multi-level podium housing two museums as studio and lecture space for OCAD University. Following the announcement, design-savvy urbanites from across the city retreated to their bedrooms to pleasure themselves to the skyscraper porn that was surfacing on the Internet; anybody within earshot of one of these people would have heard “Oh, Frank!” or “Look at the size of it!” screamed more than a few times. Meanwhile, less enthusiastic residents groaned at the thought of more tall glass buildings going up in the city. Even Adam Vaughan, councillor for Ward 20 (where the project is to be built) would have reacted to the news, cringing in anticipation of the proposal meetings he will have to attend. For some, this project signaled the dawn of a new era for Toronto—it was the bold vision we were lacking; the thing that would make us beautiful. These people likened Gehry’s towers to “sculptures” and “works of art” capable of transforming the city. For others the development was just more of the same but on a grander scale. Certainly one could argue that the use of glass in the majority of new developments in Toronto has led to a sense of design monotony. Regardless of opinion, people’s reaction to the proposed megastructure has demonstrated that there is no lack of meanings attached to the high-rise.

ne of the high-rise’s most prominent characteristics—perhaps not surprisingly—is its height. Ask anyone who has attended a proposal meeting for a building over 50 metres and they will tell you that this is the

Standing there at the base of the monstrous tower, we could look up in awe at its impressive height, but we could only imagine what the view must be like from the top.

topic that gets the most attention. Unfortunately, as the uproar over height continues to grow, some of the quieter voices in the room go unnoticed. These voices are less concerned with the buildings themselves than with what goes into them: for instance, what types of spaces does the building offer and—more importantly—who gets to use them? These are good questions to ask. After all, some of the most exciting and ambitious high-rise projects in the city are designed to make it difficult for the majority of us to truly experience them. If you or I were to walk up to the front door of any one of these buildings, we’d most likely be greeted by a man in a uniform who would say, “Uh, can I help you?” Standing there at the base of the monstrous tower, we could look up in awe at its impressive height, but we could only imagine what the view must be like from the top. Even the mixed-use developments (buildings that blend residential and commercial spaces) have done a poor job of engaging us. Typically it takes a trip down an escalator to the concourse of a building to find the Tim Hortons you saw a sign for outside. These subterranean shopping malls with their storefronts, park benches, and trees growing out of the granite floor have brought the street indoors. Meanwhile on the actual street, the buildings have essentially turned their backs. This trend of bringing all the action inside means that the high-rise is increasingly a selfcontained form. Unless we’re lucky enough to live in one, or have something to buy, there’s really no reason for us to pay a visit. For resi-

POLICING ACCESS TO THE VIEW FROM ABOVE

dents, the effect is quite the opposite. With everything they could ever want or need just an elevator ride away, there’s really no reason to leave, and residents can be left feeling stranded.

ith all these considerations, it’s a wonder that we can’t move beyond the discussion of height. Perhaps it’s because height is what we notice the most. From across the harbour at Toronto Island, the impact of the high-rise on our city’s skyline is impossible to ignore. Yet what we can’t know from looking at the city from that vantage point is what these buildings are achieving on the ground a ferry-ride’s distance away. How do these buildings engage with the street, with the block, and with the neighbourhood they occupy? Similarly, how do they interact with the pedestrian outside, the tenants inside, and all the residents in between? When Gehry’s proposal eventually goes before City Hall, what should be important is not the height of the buildings, but rather the height these buildings will be able to achieve.

‘‘

Following the announcement, designsavvy urbanites from across the city retreated to their bedrooms to pleasure themselves to the skyscraper porn that was surfacing on the Internet; anybody within earshot of one of these people would have heard “Oh, Frank!” or “Look at the size of it!” screamed more than a few times.

‘‘GETTING OUT

NAVIGATING INBETWEEN-NESS & PRECARIOUS HOUSING

BY JEN ROBERTON

he line between the housed and the homeless is blurred in a city as massive and expensive as Toronto. There is an all-too-common stereotype of poor, lazy, drug-addicted homelessness. Although this image might be true for some individuals, it is far from the whole story. Close to a quarter of Torontonians live below the lowincome cutoff, meaning that they spend 63% of their after-tax income on food, clothing, and shelter. This standard applies for all of Ontario, but it doesn’t take into account that Torontto is the priciest city in Canada and the 59th most expensive city in the world. The number of services available in the downtown core attracts many homeless people to the area. Covenant House, Salvation Army, Robertson House, and Adelaide Resource Centre for Women are just a few institutions within Toronto’s vast shelter system. But despite the number of services in Toronto, many still feel like they have nowhere to go. A place to sleep for one night may not be comfortable, safe, or available the next. Many seasoned street-involved individuals go between spending their nights in hostels, shelters, all-night coffee houses, and the street. ueer individuals and youth generally avoid the shelter system. Queers—especially transpeople—face barriers in accessing safe shelter that will accommodate for whatever dormitory or washroom they wish to use (most shelters are either male or female only or segregate their space accordingly). Youth can only enter the shelter system if they’re over the age of 16, which leaves younger individuals at risk of slipping through the cracks of social services and housing. Many different types of people stay in shelters. They may stay for a night, a week, a month, or longer. An old housemate of mine worked at a men’s shelter off of McCaul St and spoke of working with a gambling addict who ate and slept for free while betting away his earnings. There were men with cars; men with jobs; men saving up to buy a house and men who lost it all in a divorce. A women’s shelter evokes different imagery. While men’s shelters often conjure images of drug-addled and/or mentally disabled folk, women’s shelters often operate within

the assumption that its clients are survivors of domestic abuse. This stereotype is problematic, since men can also suffer from abuse and women can be addicts. LOFT Community Services is Toronto’s only post-treatment residence service for women, while many shelters offer counselling and support for men who have experienced abuse. The services provided in the city speak to the multiplicity of homeless experiences and the need for non-judgemental, safe, and open services to cater to the needs of the transient population. Last winter, a missing 64-year-old man, Rocco Morra, was found in a shelter at McCaul and College—just steps away from UofT. He had been reported missing by his family a week before. The schizophrenic senior left his care centre in Newmarket, and ended up signing into the Hope Shelter downtown. His sister found a fine for jaywalking on Highway 403 in his pocket. She was disgusted with the police’s behaviour, saying “A homeless person walking on a highway and they let him go?” Homeless Torontonians are someone’s child,

blood-stained clothes and her child in tow. She says the bus driver and fellow passengers recoiled at her appearance. She was in transition between unsafe and safe, between abuse and healing, between blood-stained clothes and academic pursuits. This inbetween-ness was unknown to the people surrounding her on the bus. Homelessness, shelter life, and unstable housing doesn’t generally last more than three months. The 20% of Canadians who are homeless for the long term are at a high risk for addiction, abuse, and suicide. In short: either you get out of homelessness or it gets to you.

he self-sufficient post-secondary student often lives below the ‘low-income’ line in Ontario. My OSAP funding form tells me that I do. But the UofT population as a whole probably won’t be students forever. Education comes for many with an end goal, an expiration date, an ‘I-hate-this-and-want-a-real-job-ness’. Students are not the highest-risk demographic for homelessness, as we often have a support system and other privileges. Yet when tuition is due and your hours have been cut at work, A lot of people avoid paying rent on time may be unrealistic. Some parents or partners who can help during a shelters because they have money crunch, but some do not. feel that they won’t I bring up the image of student homelessbe safe for them or ness not only because of the assumed audience this publication, but also because of my own recognize that most of experience attending both public shool and shelters are at maxi- university while not always having a safe place mum capacity already. to stay. I won’t bother going into details, and I bring it up simply to expand mainstream congrandparent, parent, or friend. Morra quickly ceptions of ‘homeless’. The person next to you went from health care patient to homeless man at Robarts could be coach-surfing, just like the to beloved family member. The way he was bearded man who asked you for subway money treated changed at every stage of his seven-day in front of St. George Station. journey. As a homeless man he was fined and abandoned by the police. As someone’s brother helters and sleeping on the street are somehe was a found missing person. It is all too easy where in between here and there. It is only a to shift on and off the street. The shelter system matter of time until you are forced to go someis, for many, a way to bridge the gap between where else or winter comes and freezes you out homeless and housed. of the outdoors. Homelessness is both traumaVivyan Adai, a survivor of violent domestic inducing and created because of trauma. The abuse turned academic, writes about the mo- emotions and states attached to it should not ment she realized her homeless and abused be treated as temporary, but the actual state of body was marked by passerbys in The Classed homelessness itself—living in shelters, streets, Body. She recounts how she rode the bus from parks, coaches, and homes—is inherently tranthe women’s shelter to the Welfare office with sient.

‘‘

ART

N W

IN TRANSITION S

BY JADE BR

“ 36% OF CANADIANS

ART GALLE

oronto is not a city of white walls and empty spaces. Our city is one of colours, movements, and sounds, horns honking and the shuffle of people on the sidewalk, neon signs and streetcars, skyscrapers mirroring brick townhouses with traffic lights cutting in between. It’s one of telecommunication and wires that reach across the globe. Our city – our world – is in the midst of an era that does not stand still. So why should our art? When we think of visual art, the traditional gallery set-up comes to mind: a white box lined with paintings, sculptures, sometimes installations, permanent cultural records frozen in time and space. However, if art is meant to reflect society, shouldn’t its environment do so as well? In a culture of commoditization, it’s getting harder to integrate visual art with people’s daily lives. According to the Canada Council for the Arts, only 36% of Canadians over the age of 15 visited an art gallery in 2012, compared to 68% who went to the movie theatre, 76% who purchased music, and 87% who read the newspaper. Of this 36%, the majority were individuals with high incomes and high levels of education. Unlike many other art forms, visual art isn’t readily accessible to the masses. This is where street art comes in. The southwest corner of Davenport and Christie is an otherwise-beige intersection. It’s a residential area, a commuter’s routine drive—that is, until a

particular window stops them: a roadside attraction. The sign above reads “Observation=Dismay,” bookended with two eyeballs. In the window can be anything from a Victorian grieving veil to a crochet reef or a live video of artists at work—it changes every five weeks. Roadside Attractions is a window gallery, a carnival circus for our time. It takes us away from our daily automatism with bold spectacles of ideas and distracting feats of human expression. Unlike a traditional art gallery, the viewer doesn’t have to go inside, and doesn’t expect it. It’s art that grabs us by the arm during our daily routines and says, “Hey, you—slow down.” “There’s a bus stop a few feet away, and a traffic light. People stop and have discussions if they have time, they take pictures of the various installation— every once in a while we hear tires screeching as some driver’s looking at the installation and they don’t notice that the light has turned to red,” says Roy Kohn, co-founder and owner of the space, which is also his studio and home as a working artist. Kate Vasyliw, his partner, refers to their ongoing project as a “mom and pop art space,” which the two of them run from their own pockets. Their aim is to create discourse and encourage all types of people to experience art, even those who “would rather go to the Hockey Hall of Fame.” “We look at the artwork behind the window as a kind of cultural sneeze guard, so people don’t get too exposed to the artwork that they’re over-

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whelmed,” says Roy. It serves as a stepping-stone for both the public and artist into the art world. Roy and Kate are artists first, and don’t consider themselves curators. “If what an artist is proposing to us is interesting and we like it, then we don’t care what their background is, what their education is, what successes or failures they’ve had before.” Roadside Attractions accepts mostly non-established artists fresh out of art school, whereas at commercial art galleries, artists often have to give a large commission for their work, sell it, and sometimes even pay to have it shown. “[Commercial galleries] make artists feel like they wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the gallery, and we feel the exact opposite: that galleries would be empty boxes without artists.” The social art movements of the 1960s aimed to move away from monetizing art, but in our value-driven society, it’s inevitable. Yet artists have proven that art doesn’t necessarily have to be economically valuable, and can be rich in ideas. New democratic mediums allow people of all classes to create and view art: think YouTube for the art world—from digital art to video art. Some view graffiti as vandalism, while others see it as an artistic medium that can be incorporated into the urban landscape. Those who frequent Yonge and Dundas are probably familiar with “Chalkmaster Dave” Johnson, who draws chalk scenes on the sidewalk outside the Eaton centre. “Creativity is always in a state of flux. There’s always people interested in more

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traditional ways, and commercial galleries have their purpose too… [but] there’s a history of artists working with whatever’s available: Banksy, who utilizes inexpensive materials to produce work that everyone sees and passes by; Roechenburg would [take] walks and select ‘junk’ within his neighborhood to make things that wouldn’t cost much money…. there’s always ways of making art and there’s always different ways of presenting it,” says Roy. Big Art Mob is a start-up company based out of London, England that’s recently expanded to Toronto. It’s both a website and an app that are part of “a collective effort to create the world’s first comprehensive survey and map of Public Art,” and the ultimate tool for art in our generation. As a collective conscious, we can use technology to experience art and play a part in its redefinition. It uses mapping software that allows users to input the locations of street art, from graffiti to sidewalk drawings to sculptures. Projects like these create a new art experience by blurring the lines between daily routine and art. Our culture is regrettably underexposed to visual art, but artists and establishments like Banksy, Chalkmaster Dave, Roadside Attractions and Big Art Mob are working to change that. Their goal is to change art to suit the public need. Next time you walk down the street, take a closer look. Our society doesn’t lack creation but attention. There’s art all around us: in the buildings we go to class in, the sidewalks we walk on, and the windows we pass by. All you have to do is look.

Theatre in Transit

AN EXPLORATION OF THE MARRIAGE OF TRANSIT AND PERFORMATIVITY ARIEL LEUTHUESSER

Murder on the TTC

tarting next January, riders of the TTC will be Toronto Urban Film Festival) and the public pho- film lends visibility to a marginalized experience. invited to participate in a bold new form of tography project, Contacting Toronto. Switzer was Displaying installments of a film on subway interactive media for transit users. The One- interested in the possibilities of a murder mystery monitors has never been attempted before. John stop network that displays route information being displayed over the screens, and John Grey- Greyson stated “we know from TUFF that the expeand advertising to over one million people each day, son was eager to be involved. Greyson found that rience of the subway platform is very fragmented— on 300 screens in 60 subway stations across Toron- “the challenges were equally artistic [creating a your train always arrives at the wrong moment.” to, will be screening a serial mystery in 30-second serial narrative that hooks viewers] and politi- This fragmentation and extension of the narrative installments, which will be displayed over 40 days. cal [occupying a very public space to join a con- certainly raises practical concerns: will viewers be The film, Murder in Transit (originally titled Mur- versation about urgent trans* and transit issues].” able to observe and understand the entirety of the der in Passing), chronicles the aftermath of a trans* Using the public space of the subway platform clips? Will viewers be able to see enough of the clips bike courier’s death in a hit-and-run. The film is di- is not only an unique way to approach a narra- near the beginning of the story to get hooked and rected by John Greyson—an important keep following the plot? Perhaps figure in the New Queer Cinema movethis fragmentation has the potenment of the 1990s. He’s best known for tial to encourage different ways of his 1993 movie/musical Zero Patience. interacting with the narrative itBy literally situating the conversation a response to Randy Shilts’ 1987 book self on the part of the transit user. And The Band Played On which chroniIn viewing fragments of the clips, about the dangers posed to cyclists and cled the spread of HIV and AIDS in the which are themselves fragments of pedestrians before the users of public 1980s and the notion of “patient zero,” the larger film, is an alternative nartransit in, those on the vulnerable side who brought the disease to America. The rative created? One not only fixed of the transit battle are presented with films of the New Queer Cinema moveto the physical, transient space a narrative which takes the possibility of ment are marked by a revolt against cinof the subway platform, but also ematic conventions of form, narrative, to the possibilities of imagining experiencing danger while in transit very and genre. It’s interesting that this most new artistic and political contexts? seriously recent film of his takes to the subway The possibilities of the film replatform, defying conventional modes main to be seen. On subway platof presentation and viewership, yet also forms in January, watch out for a fits squarely within the mystery genre. glimpse of Murder in Transit, and Interested viewers will also be encouraged to tive, it’s also an interesting space in which to en- visit their website to follow along. See what posinteract with the project online. There, the seg- gage with the issues of transportation gripping sibilities the film presents in both the medium of ments will be displayed for viewers not tak- the city right now. It places the diverse ridership the subway platform information displays and the ing the subway, along with additional clues of the TTC in an educational conversation with narrative of the murder mystery. In John Greyand a whodunnit questionnaire with prizes. trans* issues. By literally situating the conversation son’s words, “murder in transit always fascinates The idea for the film came from media artist about the dangers posed to cyclists and pedestri- us because transit usually involv[es] public visible and curator Sharon Switzer, head of Art4Com- ans before the users of public transit, those on the space—like Murder on the Orient Express—as opmuters. With Onestop Media Group, the com- vulnerable side of the transit battle are presented posed to private spaces.” Take a break on your jourpany owns and operates the display screens on with a narrative which takes the possibility of ex- ney in the public space of the subway platform and subway platforms in Toronto. Onestop provides periencing danger while in transit very seriously. take part in this new kind of interactive media art. free screen time and support to Art4Commuters By displaying the tale of a trans* character in front for their media art projects, including TUFF (The of a diverse audience of public transit users, this

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Theatre Beyond Walls

ince its inception in 1968, Theatre Passe Muraille formed for unsuspecting commuters on streetcars throughhas showcased distinctly Canadian theatre, and in out the city, and will now confine itself to the stage. Another doing so has consistently promoted the discussion project worth noting is TPM Everywhere, a conglomeration of topical and often contentious ideas. The theatre— of guerrilla-style theatre that will be performed in Toronbased out of cheerfully-painted converted bakery just off of to’s streets until mid-December. The first piece, Hope Blitz, Queen and Bathurst—has come to be known for this unique combines farcical clown work with puppeteering and more artistic aim, as well as for its efforts to offer local theatre- traditional acting to put the flash-mob form to work as a goers experiences that barrel through the boundaries of the theatrical event. The second, Consumer Circus, is a whimsisupposed “theatrical space.” It is especially interesting for cal event of skipping and “lemon-less lemonade” selling that us, then, that this year, TPM is producing a season entitled creates an atmosphere of impromptu, carnivalistic theatre. Theatre Beyond Walls, in which many of its pieces cenTPM Everywhere as an artwork is remarkably incluter around issues of transit and community connectivity. sive, and therefore holds particular significance as a sort Andy McKim, Artistic Director of TPM since 2007, has of pedestrian-friendly theatre-in-transit. McKim spoke taken an active interest in revisiting the interactive roots on this project in particular. “I really wanted to take work of the company—his choice of season title is both an ideological throwback and a direct translation of the company’s name. But why now? What significance can be found in the timing of reinforcing this theme? McKim explained that the scope of the project he had envisioned required significant investments of both time and capital. Though the ideas that have coalesced into this season were conceived years ago, the opportunity to support them only presented itself this year. For its 50th anniversary, the Metcalf Foundation offered a grant application for out into the city and make it accessible to everyone, and projects working towards “Toronto-building,” as he put it. maybe even to make it difficult for them to tell if it was “My objective was to go outside of the theatre, both to theatre or it was art, so both of those [flash mob shows] develop work and to present work,” McKim said. “[The fit under that category,” he said. “Both will happen, are Metcalf Foundation grant] fit perfectly with my aspira- ephemeral, and will go away. There is no ticket purchastions for the theatre. So I pulled together all the ideas that ing, no planning. It’s just offered up where it happens. By had been percolating and put them all together in this one definition it’s really inclusive, is an opportunity to break program called Theatre Beyond Walls so we could as an in- down barriers that some people have up against theatre.” stitution explore as much as possible all of the many ways So what do all of these shows accomplish? How does that we could go outTheatre Beyond side our building and Walls come tobring the world outgether as a coheside into the theatre.” sive season and say I really wanted to take work out into the This exploration something about city and make it accessible to everyone, covers an impresour community as sive amount of tera whole? Simply and maybe even to make it difficult for ritory. The TPM put, the venues and them to tell if it was theatre or it was art season has been in platforms utilized full swing since Sepby each of these tember, offering a shows are shared community block spaces. McKim party called the Queen West Street Fest to kick things described a pedestrian as “someone in contact with other off, an interactive dancing tour of the CAMH grounds people, someone in community contact”—a statement that called the Queen West Project, and a docudrama podcast holds true for streetcar riders and cab drivers as well. To called The Four Corners, which explores the intersec- McKim, it was important to enter these venues in order tion of Queen and Bathurst and its cultural significance. to tap the vein of community opinion, even while supAnd there is still much more to come. This week, two porting individual narratives. “There’s something interestmajor productions are starting their respective runs. First ing about looking at people when they’re not in an enviis Fare Game: Life in Toronto’s Taxis, a show that uses mixed ronment that is theirs—when they’re in an environment media and a live-documentary platform to voice the con- that they’re sharing with others—and seeing how they cerns of a marginalized labor force and a failing industry. behave,” he said. “I think that we are fundamentally soNext comes The 501: Toronto in Transit—a show studying cial animals, so it’s something that’s interesting to explore.” life on Toronto’s streetcars—which has already been per-

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THEATRE PASSE MURAILLE SEASON: A THEATRE HETAERAE THEATRICAL EVENT NOV 5 – 25, 2012 TPM BACKSPACE FARE GAME: LIFE IN TORONTO’S TAXIS NOV 16 – DEC 8, 2012 TPM MAINSPACE

THE 501: TORONTO IN TRANSIT NOV 29 – DEC 8, 2012 TPM BACKSPACE THE TOYBOX DEC 12 – 15, 2012 TPM MAINSPACE & OUTSIDE TPM WALLS TPM EVERYWHERE UNTIL DEC 15, 2012 LOCATIONS TORONTO-WIDE THE FOUR CORNERS SEP – DEC, 2012 PODCASTS ON SOUNDCLOUD

challenging disglossia: joual & francophone canada

«Moë, je parle québécois, moë.» (Me, I speak Québécois.) «Qu’est-ce que ça veut dire, parler québécois?» (What does it mean - to speak Québécois?) «Québécois, c’est ma langue. C’est ma patrie. C’est mon Québec.» (Québécois: it’s my language. It’s my country. It’s my Québec.) Conversation between a French reporter and a young French-Canadian (CBC Documentary : « Tout le monde en parlait : L’histoire de la langue québécoise – le joual »)

ith wide eyes, head cocked to the side, the young man spoke confidently to the reporter. Yet beyond his youthful optimism, slick greaser hair and crooked smile, there was a revelation of something eminent, in his demeanour. The pride for his nation was evident, but the delivery of his speech itself was a clear deviance; a stark contrast to the standard, “correct” spoken French and pronunciation from France. Often used pejoratively, Joual is the term for working-class spoken Québécois French. The coarse pronunciation of certain vowels, muddled anglicisms and use of profanity as related to the increasing frustration with the Catholic Church were defining characteristics of this language that belonged to the Francophone working class of Québec. The history and origins of Joual can be seen as an example of a search for a collective Québécois-Francophone voice. It is a story of progression towards equality for a minority identity struggling against two pertinent forces: a dominating Anglophone culture and society, and a stubborn traditional elite and its bias against the expression of Joual. Since it is no longer a contentious issue today, it is easy to take for granted the history of its development. However, it is important to revisit its fragile beginnings on the fringes of social and political acceptance. More importantly, its significance is two-fold: first, it is an example of one of the more successful and established forms of literary Canadian French. Second, the history of its development can help us better understand the process in strengthening alternative French language expression in the Canadian landscape. During the Quiet Revolution of the 1960s, there was a huge controversy concerning the underlying political tensions between the use of the

When I’m done for and living on the street This great public, I won’t have it anymore That’s when I’ll end up stark naked The day when I can’t do it anymore There will be others, y o u n g e r, c r a z i e r To make the Boogaloos danceI love my fellow men, I love my publicAll I want is for it to work outI don’t give a damn about the critics They’re just sympathic losers I’m not a psychedelic clown This music, it’s my life If I sing it’s because I want to be heard When I scream it’s too defend myself I’d like it if people could understand me I’d like to travel all around the world Before I’m dead and buried To see what the rest of the world looks like All around me there’s war Fear, hunger and miseryI’d like for us all to be brothers That’s the reason why we’re on Earth I ’ m not a popular singer I’m just a pretty ordinary guy

“Standard French” as opposed to Joual. This controversy was particularly eminent with the arrival of Michel Tremblay’s play Les Belles-Sœurs, written completely in Joual dialogue as opposed to the ‘Standard French’ expected of literature at the time. It would later spark controversial language debates between those who defended the independence of the Québécois-French collective identity and those who struggled with the idea of “bien parler francais”: the respect for the conventions of the French language. In Québécois Society today, the use of Joual is now recognized and respected as a spoken and literary form in its own right. During the 1960s, A generation of writers and artists felt a need to express and celebrate their inner identity as a political statement against colonization and, what was at the time, the inferior political and social status of Francophone speakers, particularly of Joual, at the time. Michel Tremblay, playwright of Les BellesSœurs, eloquently describes the origins of Joual on a social level. “To me, Joual is something so admirable, because it was ultimately... women in Montreal at the end of the 19th century who [wanted] to stay Francophone. It’s because of this that I’m always bewildered when people see it as this “shocking thing”. Firstly, who are we to judge the quality of language of others? Who are we to judge the beauty [of Joual]? I think it’s absolutely magnificent – at the end of the 19th century, rural Francophone settlers moved to Montreal because that’s where the jobs were, where the industries were, where the money was. As the economic opportunities were propagated by the English, the (Francophone) men would go work at their jobs, speak in English and bring English words from their daily conversations back home. Yet, the women were the ones who wished to stay

Quand j’serai fini pis dans la rue Mon gros public je l’aurai pu C’est là que je m’r’trouverai tout nu Le jour où moi, j’en pourrai pu Y en aura d’autres, plus jeunes, plus fous Pour faire danser les boogaloos J’aime mon prochain, j’aime mon public To u t ce que je veux c’est que ça clique J’me fous pas mal des critiques Ce sont des ratés sympathiques J’suis pas un clown psychédélique Ma vie à moi c’est la musique Si je chante c’est pour qu’on m’entende Quand je crie c’est pour me défendre J’aimerais bien me faire comprendre J’voudrais faire le tour de la terre Avant de mourir et qu’onm’enterre Voir de quoi l’reste du monde a l’air Autour de moi il y a la guerre Le peur, la faim et la misère J’voudrais qu’on soit tous des frères C’est pour ça qu’on est sur la terre J’suis pas un chanteur populaire Je suis rien qu’un gars ben ordinaire

Francophone. [Joual] is essentially the encounter between the words of these two languages.” I spoke to Professor Francis Langevin, French Professor and specialist of Québécois Literature at the University of Toronto, about the nature and emergence of Joual. “The use of Joual in literary art”, he explains, “challenged disglossia.” “Disglossia is a competition between two varieties of a same language (in this case, between Joual and Standard French) or two coexisting languages in the same social space (English and French, particularly in Montreal). The use of Joual by authors, such as Claude Jasmin (Pleure pas, Germaine, 1965), can be linked to the “experimentation” with popular language in the novel, in poetry in theatre. Until the 1960s, it was

As a social movement, it was a rebellion against the established hierarchy between varieties of French in Québec. As a literary movement, the use of Joual participated in autonomizing Québec Literature. called “French Canadian Literature”. The revolt was against a subtle, but persistent colonial admiration for French culture and literature. In the late 1960s, some still fear[ed] Joual would “demolish” French, but the same debate goes on in France today about the use of French in the suburbs. Deviance from and ignorance of the norm are sometimes considered to be one and the same. Today, in the public

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space, in the media and in literature, Joual is used in a reflexive way: authors know what it means to use popular language in art, and refer to it as being a “vernacular”: a signal for authenticity and shared experience. It creates a bond between people: immigrants and Anglophones who live around the world, and [those] in Québec [who] speak different levels of French [and their] use [of ] Joual idioms, pronunciations, grammar and even profanity. We should also remember that authors are not always holding a social discourse: the relationship to language does not have to be social, it can also be very intimate, and link us to territory and family. One cannot put aside the music of language. I believe that this music of language is what makes Belles-Sœurs [feel so modern].” There are also many discussions concerning the promotion of knowledge and production of the varieties of French Canadian Literature. With Francophiles and literature enthusiasts abroad, Québécois literature is often identified, quite wrongly, as the representative of the French Canadian identity. There are 9.5 million French speakers in Canada, 2.5 million of whom live in Québéc. In the west, there are small minority groups of ‘FrancoColombiens’, ‘Franco-Albertiaine’, ‘Fransaskoise’, ‘Franco-Manitobaine’ and even smaller groups within the Yukon and Northwest Territories. In Ontario, the most populated province of Canada, there are approximately 1.4 million French speakers. I ask if it is difficult for other Francophone communities in Canada, who are generally considered minority groups, to achieve this level of success and recognition in literature and culture. Professor Langevin explains, “Franco-Ontarian literature, for instance, is now an established institution, widely studied in universities and col-

Disglossia is a competition between two varieties of a same language or two coexisting languages in the same social space.

leges, and also exported to Québec. The same can be said about the Acadian Literature [which is] widely known around the world. These literatures exist and are relatively autonomous from Québec literature. Translation from French to English has always been a good way to build bridges between communities. In Canada, we could simply concentrate on French Canadian [including Québecois] authors in French as a Second Language classes.” In the preface of “Écriture Franco-Ontarienne D’Aujourdhui”, curated by Hédi André Bouraoui and Jacques Flamand, the discussion of the importance of a unique identity, as a part of French Canadian literature illustrates this point. They argue that the Canadian-Francophone cultures outside of Quebec do not consider themselves Québécois and are by no means interested in being represented by this identity. Much like the origins of the French-Québécois language, these communities have decided to vigorously strengthen their own identities and collective voice. In terms of continental production, small Francophone communities are dispersed within Canada as a whole and within dominantly Anglophone provinces. There is a wish to develop relationships beyond those in Canada including with Francophones around the world in order for Joual to gain its identity and situate itself as partner in cultural exchange. The authors continue to explain that despite the modest status of the alternative Franco-Canadian literatures, they are also studied in Québec and other Francophone countries. Perhaps in understanding the development and current strength of Québécois literature, we can better understand the diversity of Canadian-French expression as a part of the vast diversity of Canadian identities.

Stephen Michell expounds on pounding the pavement

The Joy of Walking

This is an exercise. Listen, I took my bicycle home for the winter. My apartment is too small, and to leave a bicycle out in the cold snow and sleet is a cruel thing. Bike care is important. You should stop by Bikechain on St. George to learn more about it. So I took my bike home. Since then I’ve been walking. I’ve only just started. But walking is a slow activity, especially at first. It takes time to wean the mind from haste. I walk along Harbord St. every day to Queen’s Park and around the crescent up to Bloor for class. I walk to work down Spadina and Augusta Ave through Kensington. I have to walk home at the end. I find I am always walking home. And I am standing at a street corner, waiting for the lights, looking down— Is walking an art? I What are the little hope it isn’t, in this smudges all over time and culture, or the street? Have you seen them? Those we’ll soon have to little black and white and grey blots, like start paying to old gum stamped experience it down and trampled over a hundred and one times. Look! What are they? Or does it not matter? They’re there and that’s that, and this is Life! The light has changed green, I ought to be going— But wait friend, get off that motor cart, get out from your solipsist orbit; I want to know. All of this has become so much more for the present, has it not? We have attained an acute awareness of being NOW—to the

detriment of the past, and superseded, it seems, only by a preoccupation for the future—NEXT! But surely we have a free moment? “We cannot afford not to live in the present,” avowed Thoreau, so look! I stand at the street corner. Rain falls on the street. The light is red. I stop, wait, look down, think— we begin to Walk. We have two feet. We stand on them. We walk forward. We are Walkers (not that kind, stay with me). We are Walkers, wholly alive, and there is more; nothing is ever so simple. To walk to some place is not to Walk—the time has come: Walking has disappeared much in this modern landscape, the open woods and paths have been sequestered and partitioned by property Lords—it is speaking for speaking rather than speaking to say a thing, or actually thinking beyond completing an undergraduate degree (good luck). The act of Walking is divine. Now, it’s strange, but the city is a fine place for Walking because it is less confined than the countryside. A difficult setting still, as every instance compels you to get there, GO, NEXT! In the city you must walk without place in mind. Think of your feet and open your eyes. Walk alone (unless it’s dark out, of course), you’ll see many more— Is walking an art? I hope it isn’t in this time and culture, or we’ll soon have to start paying to experience it. But Walking is artistic. And we have reached a moment of thinking, so please feel free. Any movement can be artistic if understood as more than the mechanism that gives it motion. Think of the millions of cracks in the sidewalk, follow one sometime—

An institution, as most in our time, is a thing ignorant of where it came from. Listen, the Humanities teach argumentation because in the past Humanities bred lawyers. But why must I argue now to understand this poem? I have legs, I have feet, I am not a building. Humanities overlooked the chance for a new reason. But new thinking awaits, as Walking still remains. Walking is to know where you come from. We are a Walking thing. All day, every day, since we first drew a breath and before, our hearts are beating; NOW, right now, your heart beats, a constant two-pulse pattern of motion, left, right, quickening at times, slowing to a calm, never does the heart cease to beat—left, right. We are the sum of this constant motion. And it should not be hurried; and it should not be tedious. It should be experienced in a moment as instantaneous as the absence of time, in which everything exists at once. Something of the divine, I think, exists in slow-motion. To slow down Time is— I stand at the street corner. The rain falls, and I see where it lands upon the ground. The red light changes into a green arrow. Forward. I think I see snow falling. Look. The world is alive, slowly. I am Walking. The world is made slow by the virtue of my being There, present in each step. To be slow is to stop and to know why you continue. To be slow is to challenge that tyrant who ticks away our moments. In slowness there is clear sight. In slowness there is reflection. In slowness there is curiosity and thinking and wonder. This is Walking. And to Walk once each day is a fine start.

Cemetery Run Rylee Raeburn-Gibson

It may already be too cold outside for all but the most hardened fitness enthusiasts, and soon snow will force even more into the crowded gyms. But whether you’re resigned to the treadmill for the winter or putting on a spacesuit to run in sub-zero weather, a new jogging route is always something to look forward to. Toronto has some fantastic runs, but finding them near campus is not always easy. A great trail everyone should check out is the Beltline, which runs in a loop north of Bloor Street, through the ravines surrounding Moore Park neighbourhood. There’s more green space along this trail than you might see in a whole year stuck on campus. Take Bloor Street east to Mount Pleasant Road and go north. At the intersection of Roxborough Drive, the Beltline begins, cutting west into David A. Balfour Park. This section follows the running water at the bottom of a large ravine. Steep, treed hills surround the trail as it crosses back and forth over small bridges. Suddenly, it no longer seems like you’re in the middle of a large city, but in a natural oasis. Some parts of the trail here can also get a little technical, with dugin steps taking you up and down the walls of the ravine. You’ll go under towering, graffitied highway overpasses. If you’re looking

for a shorter distance, go as far as you like along this first section and then turn back. It’ll still be worth it. After less than ten minutes, the trees and dirt trail fall away quite suddenly. Here, you step up out of the bush into the southwest section of Mount Pleasant Cemetery. The trail follows paved roads through the grounds, cutting across from west to east (follow the blue paint lines). Mt. Pleasant is one of Toronto’s most beautiful maintained outdoor spaces, but one that UofT students rarely see. It’s large, with over 168,000 people buried there, and stretches from Yonge to Bayview. It can be tough to run through, as it’s tempting to stop and look for the graves of famous internments like Northrope Frye, William Lyon Mackenzie King, or Frederick Banting. It’s a beautiful, quiet place and worth the distance. The Beltline curls through the cemetery and then goes south again into the trees of Moore Ravine Park. This is the longest section of the route, on a smoother, wider trail. It’s flat for quite a ways, passing under the same bridges and through similar quiet woods. You’ll pass an access point to the Don Valley Brickworks—another tempting spot to stop—and hit some long hills as the

Steep, treed hills surround the trail as it crosses back and forth over small bridges. Suddenly, it no longer seems like you’re in the middle of a large city, but in a natural oasis trail curves to come parallel with Bayview Ave. It comes out of the ravine on Milkman’s Lane, and from there you can get back to campus any number of ways. Look up your options on Google Maps. The whole loop is ten kilometres from Bloor and Bay. If you’re looking for a longer distance, you could find a more elaborate route through the cemetery, or come farther south of Bloor at the end. If you don’t run at all, I’d still recommend taking a weekend walk up to the trail just to check it out, even in the winter. One thing St. George students often don’t get enough of is the outdoors, and this trail is a great way to access it.

t was Metal that did it for us. Metal that drove us off the bed and out of the house. It was the one genre that allowed us to define ourselves amongst a crowd of the arbitrarily indistinguishable. We needed a vessel that would let us take matters into our own hands. But in reality, it was just a teenage fix. It allowed us to do something more than what we were expected to do even though that expectation was quite simple: it was for us to do nothing. In hindsight, I would call it our salvation. We, unlike millions of other people, had found something that gave us some sense of purpose once more. That purpose had been lost shortly after a marching crowd of two million gathered around the Shahyad Square nearly 30 years ago in Tehran—the very city where I found my saviour.

I arrived in Iran in 2000 and, as a seven-yearold, I was absolutely clueless about the political status of the country, but was well aware of the dress code I was expected to follow and that I had to be cautious of what I said once I left the house. After several years, as a young woman, I finally began to feel directly victimized by the environment I was living in, and that was when I began to understand why such precautions would ever be given to a young girl. By the time I was a teenager, instructions were not needed, because I had been giving myself a few: avoid being seen with a member of the opposite sex, be careful you follow the dress code (especially when revolutionary guards are present) and of course, don’t voice your political ideologies or those of your family and friends to anyone you don’t know. All these rules were second nature to us and we never thought twice about them. Pulling up our headscarves was just another thing we did. Eventually I began to realize that these were the only things we did. People, of all ages, seemed to be doing nothing. Our hours and thoughts were occupied with an extremely unhealthy routine. We did nothing, absolutely nothing; we sat around and talked to the friends we had seen at school for eight hours about nothing. If we had the chance we would grab a cab to a mall and aimlessly walk around looking for clothes we wouldn’t wear anywhere special or new head scarves that were in fashion. Nothing would usu-

ally be bought, so we’d take a cab back home and to see it all happen, but images of this period were flip through the banned music channels on our il- perfectly clear and we all knew that not enough of legal satellites. We felt like we were on autopilot. us were ready to raise a fist just yet. We’d change the channels to feel like we weren’t After a couple of years I had finally decided to doing nothing. But nothing was essentially what contribute to the scene I had been a part of for so we were doing. It was through Eastern European long. I thought long and hard about how I would music channels like Viva Polska where I was intro- do so, and all that came to mind was a black and duced to Polish hip-hop (that I can’t say resonated white Gibson Flying V with an amp that was loud with me much) and heavy metal. That was when I enough to headbang to but small enough to fit in heard In Flames, a Swedish melodic death metal my room. It was perfect. I headed down to Jomband, for the first time. My eyes widened and ears houri Street (a street in downtown Tehran where perked up. Seeing the thrash and crash on a stage most of the music stores are located) and on my was inspiring. I felt rejuvenated and alive again. I way to the back of a store where I had spotted immediately began using proxy codes to unblock all the loudest and brightest Gibsons hanging, Western music websites to download albums and I passed an entire room filled with soft, curved, went out to find people who would sell me bootleg spruce Yamahas glazed with a shimmering finish. My Dying Bride CDs. I was well aware of the ban I stopped there and remembered that some of my on Western music in the country, but this wasn’t favourite bands like Metallica had been classically just us listening to another American song, it was trained before starting up their bands. I thought of our way of showing the country who we were. what Malcolm Dome had said in the movie Metal: After my discovery, I joined the Metalheads (a A Headbanger’s Journey; “If Richard Wagner had term to describe avid Metal fans) of Tehran. Every- actually been around today, he’d be in Deep Purthing we did revolved around our dedication to the ple.” I looked around the room, strummed a few music. We expressed our anger towards the regime strings, asked for one of their cheaper guitars, paid in one simple way: a headbang. We were fully aware of the stigma the govern- Concerts we began hosting were indoors in the ment had built around building of the music school. No one knew about the music—calling us Satan-worshippers, blas- these concerts. Only the students and others who phemous and a countless may be interested. It was all illegal. list of other adjectives -Bagher Moazen that would place us on the government’s blacklist that catalogued everyone from musicians to Marxist activists. Knowing all the 600,000 Rials and walked out of the store with this only made us headbang more. Being criticized the black, musty-smelling guitar I hoped would for worshipping Satan and other ridiculous prac- start me off. I never touched the Gibson Flying V tices is something Heavy Metal musicians have or made it to the back room. had to endure all over the world, even in the States. What set our experiences apart from those of the even months later I came back to Toronto Metalheads in the West was that it wasn’t some disand I noticed a radical shift in my music listant idol like Marilyn Manson who was being put tening habits. I attentively kept an eye out for on trial, but our own friends who would call from my fellow Metalheads; the people I didn’t personprison asking to be granted bail. Buying CDs on ally know but hoped to rage and headbang with. I the street, using our dial-up to download tunes, or looked hard, but there was no trace of any familattending underground shows was a safer way for iar faces. I immediately noticed how I had toned it us to protest in the midst of people who were still down. I had gone from the moshing headbanging lamenting nearly 30 years after the revolution and crowds at underground concerts to shows filled the Iran-Iraq war. Most of us had not been alive with boys and girls who would slowly sway back

Reverberations of revolution Bahar Banaei

and forth to Neutral Milk Hotel. Everything was a lot more indie than what I was used to and it was something I had let into my life. I looked back and realized that I didn’t have the same reasons to headbang anymore. To me, indie was kept for the land of the free—which is exactly where I was. I was at a bar not too long ago and I was asked what the first “cool band” I had ever listened to was. I knew they were referring to an indie band because my little mention of In Flames was immediately brushed off. Although I don’t listen to the music anymore, I owe my love of music to that phase in my life. It

and wished the country was ruled by the Pahlavi’s again. The reality is that, aside from Farah—the Shah’s wife’s initiative to start a Chamber Music Program that would be aired on television—there was no intention of increasing the arts in the lives of the citizens. Like the current regime, the Shah put much of the country’s money towards purchasing arms and constructing prisons. The drastic transition of losing the privilege to play an instrument at will was one people had unfortunately experienced after a call for change and improvement. In November 1979, talk of the Iranian Hostage Crisis had been buzzing What set our experiences apart from those of the worldwide, Khomeini was becoming the counMetalheads in the West was that it wasn’t some dis- quickly try’s Supreme Leader, and tant idol like Marilyn Manson who was being put Moazen had returned to with the hope of conon trial, but our own friends who would call from Iran tinuing his musical career in the hectic revolutionary prison asking to be granted bail. nation. Things were not the same and the sign above was hard to explain, so I obviously answered the the door of his music school read “Revolutionary question with a very simple response: The Smiths. Anthems of the Islamic Republic of Iran” with his As I slowly stopped uploading new Children of name signed below it. “The government knew we Bodom albums onto my computer I came to un- weren’t actually teaching anthems, but that was the derstand that my classical guitar was the only part name we had to advertise and put up on our walls,” of metal I had truly kept in my life. he told me. Despite the fact that the government had given them permission to run classes, even ne day I flipped through the Yellow under a name to their liking, it was not uncommon Pages and, to my surprise, found an Ira- for government officials and police officers to connian classical guitarist. Naturally, I was fiscate or even break his students’ instruments on intrigued, so I set up a class with the performer, their way to class. He explained to me how this was composer, and instructor Bagher Moazen, who a slow process that began with more than a ban has been my musical mentor for the past six years. on music. It started with forbidding women to reOver the years, there were many small mentions veal their hair in the workplace, and then schools. of his career in the city and country we had both Later they began separating schools based on genfought to be a part of, and of a musical culture we der, and these laws were inevitably applied to the had chosen. I had always known that Metalheads arts. Classes in the academy had to be separated were not the only ones fighting the battle for ar- by gender and concerts were banned. “We tried tistic freedom, but it was only then that I realized to host an outdoor concert. It was going to be me that musicians of the “tamest” genres (as Metal- and several other musicians. The police showed heads would put it) had fought the real battle in up shut it down. Future concerts we began hosting the heart of the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Moa- were indoors in the building of the music school. zen, as a classical guitarist, was an active advocate No one knew about these concerts. Only the stufor keeping this mission alive. He made it perfectly dents and others who may be interested. It was all clear to me that even during the Shah’s regime, illegal.” These underground concerts that spread the government did not fund music programs in solely by word of mouth was not something I was schools. After the revolution, many people in the unfamiliar with. Not enough has changed since the country looked back at the time of the monarchy first several years of the revolution. And Moazen

himself is aware of this. In 2001 when he returned to Iran to perform at four charity concerts for Tehran’s Children’s Hospital, workers of the Roodak venue were instructed by government officials to deny that such a concert has ever taken place But this ban had done something that the government would have not been fond of. The number of music students had increased, and people were using the arts to express their hostility towards the regime. They took any measure they could to continue hosting concerts. People were instructed to enter the music school during concert hours from different streets and different entrances of the building to avoid suspicion. People’s instruments were still being confiscated and stolen during transport from music schools, but it didn’t stop any of them. “When I was teaching during the Shah’s regime, let’s say out of every 100 students that would come to learn to play guitar only one would stay. After the revolution, those numbers began to rise and those students would stay.” These students and their instructors were not going to stop playing, no matter what it took. They even devised a system where advanced music students would go to other’s houses to tune their instruments to avoid having anyone be seen with an instrument outdoors. “When an officer saw you with a guitar, they wouldn’t know if you’re playing Bach or Isaac Albeniz, they would assume that you’re playing popular Western songs by Elvis or other similar artists. Not that playing Elvis is a bad thing, but it is to them.” They had to get around the instability the country had given its people. Even traditional Iranian musicians today such as Homay and the Mastaan Group have been banned from performing because of their references to Omar Khayyam.

A battle was and still is being fought today. The number of artists has only risen and I have personally seen these people grow stronger after witnessing how people such as Moazen have fought for artistic liberty. Moazen ended our conversation with a few words that embody this mission perfectly and will resonate with me forever: “Someone can go around the world and pick every flower out of the ground, but they cannot stop the coming of Spring.”

by Tom McCarthy

MOVING OIL How the transportation of tar sands oil brings the threat of environmental havoc much closer to home

Plans are currently underway to reverse the flow of a 37 year-old pipeline and begin pumping large volumes of tar sands bitumen through Toronto. The Enbridge Line 9b pipeline runs from Montreal to Sarnia, and has historically brought imported oil from refineries to manufacturing centres in Southern Ontario and west to Michigan. Enbridge intends to refit the pumping stations along this aging infrastructure so that it can be used to transport tar sands crude out of Alberta. It runs across much of Canada’s prime agricultural land and through the largest urban area in the country, as well as countless towns along the way. The lands of 18 First Nations communities also stand in its path. Tar sands pipelines have been highly controversial over the past year. Notably, the Keystone XL and Northern Gateway proposals have both been put on hold by people in British Columbia, Oklahoma, and Texas who refuse to allow this

dangerous substance to flow through their communities. Much of the PR surrounding the Line 9 proposal has centred on the idea that this is all about bringing the benefits of Canadian oil to eastern Canada. In reality, this is misleading—communities in Ontario and Quebec have little to gain from this proposal and will face significant risks to ecosystems and public health if it is approved. What is commonly referred to as tar sands oil is actually a substance called diluted bitumen, or “dilbit,” which behaves quite differently from common petroleum in pipelines as well as in the environment. For starters, because it is found dispersed among vast quantities of sand, it contains a high content of small, abrasive sand and mineral particles. Additionally, it’s highly viscous—so much so that it needs to be diluted by up to 20% with chemical solvents and heated in order to pass through a pipeline. Essentially, tar sands pipelines are full of toxic, high-temperature, pressurized liquid sandpaper. It’s interesting to note that the federal government considers this material the same as normal crude in its regulations on pipelines. But when spills occur, the difference between this substance and regular petroleum becomes even clearer. Normal oil is hard enough to clean up in the environment—picture birds so drenched in crude they can’t lift their wings. But at least when it meets water it floats, which allows much of it to be skimmed off the top of lakes and rivers. Bitumen (which, remember, has to be heavily diluted with toxic chemicals) quickly sinks and disperses, making it nearly impossible to remove effectively from an ecosystem once it’s been released. Enbridge is adamant that its ‘state-of-the-art safety’ and monitoring equipment eliminates the possibility of a large spill. Regardless of their claims, their track record is dismal—look

at their behaviour during a pipeline burst on the Kalamazoo river in Michigan. Their safety equipment raised alarms, but Enbridge personnel disregarded it as a fluke and resumed flow in the pipe an astounding four times before sending somebody out to have a look at the gaping, gushing hole in their line. Seveteen hours went by before the leak was stopped, resulting in nearly 4 million litres of toxic dilbit being released into a healthy river and causing 320 cases of exposure to humans in the process, damaging the ecosystem for generations. People who live along the path of Line 9 ought to think carefully about whether they are prepared to take this risk in their communities—to the ponds they swam in and streams they caught crayfish in as children. One section of Line 9 precariously lies exposed in Scarborough’s Rouge River, vulnerable to damage and erosion. Several First Nations lie along the path of Line 9. Like Indigenous peoples in B.C., groups like the Haudenosaunee are staunchly opposed to the threat this pipeline poses to their land and ecosystems. Will their needs and demands be taken into consideration, or will Enbridge and the Ontario government turn a blind eye to them and go ahead with this project? As recent history on the West Coast has shown, notably the struggle to save the Great Bear Rainforest from clear cutting, environmentalists and Indigenous activists make a potent combination and can work together well to advance each others’ goals. People in Texas and British Columbia have taken all of this into account and have flatly said NO to tar sands pipelines. Given that the plan to reverse Line 9 requires little additional approvals and has already begun between Sarnia and Hamilton, it’s imperative that people in Toronto take a serious look at this proposal and ask themselves if they like what they see.