36 minute read
OPINIONS
Not my coming-of-age movie
Standing at the crossroads between film and race
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abi aKinlade
aSSOCIaTE OpINIONS EDITOR
Growing up, as I cycled through my various stages of adolescence, I always wondered why coming-of-age movies didn’t resonate with me. In my upper years of high school, I was admittedly becoming more enamoured with film. I downloaded Letterboxd, wrote rudimentary reviews, and studied the meaning of popular jargon like “aspect ratio” and “cinematography.” Aside from horror (what’s enjoyable about scaring the shit out of yourself?), there are few genres I haven’t dabbled in. But there was something about coming-of-age films—a genre which, on paper, I should be totally obsessed with—that has always been ill-fitting.
Movies like Lady Bird and Booksmart are notoriously a hit among self-proclaimed film kids on Twitter. However, while I could easily appreciate their sweeping cinematography; the screenwriting that was admirably accurate to teenage colloquialisms; and the soundtracks that intensified the melodramatic scenes of adolescent yearning, there was always something missing.
Naturally, I assumed this sense of absence had something to do with the plot. A common characteristic of coming-of-age films is their ardent focus on characterization, often at the expense of plot development. They are movies in which nothing really happens, save the protagonist discovering that they truly had been in love with their childhood best friend all along, or finally getting admitted into their dream school after losing all hope of getting off the waitlist. It was all too easy for me to fall back on this excuse.
That is, until I eventually got around to watching Barry Jenkins’ Moonlight.
Finally, here was a coming-of-age story with a darkskin lead. Aside from reaffirming my love for film and giving me a newfound infatuation with Trevante Rhodes, watching Moonlight made me realize that coming-of-age movies could be so much more than anything I’d previously been exposed to. I became aware that my issue with the films wasn’t with their plots; my problem with standard coming-of-age films wasn’t even with their mediocre attempts to pass off actors in their mid-twenties as gangly, pimply high school sophomores. I simply could not identify with them because they never featured anyone who looked like me.
For every Moonlight, there are seven Breakfast Clubs. For every If Beale Street Could Talk, there are ten Edge of Seventeens. It is so, so unfathomably rare to see films that depict Black youth just as we are—multifaceted and diverse. With our culture, music, hair, clothes, and vernacular on full display.
With debates about the merit of “Black trauma porn”—films and TV shows that exploit stories about slavery, police brutality, and other forms of Black pain—escalating on Twitter, now is the perfect time for the film industry to demonstrate its supposed commitment to telling stories that are authentic and indicative of the true human experience. Black teens go through the same motions of falling in love, agonizing about school, exploring and embracing their sexuality, wrestling with body image, and gaining and losing friends that everyone else does; albeit, with the added clause of growing and finding themselves in a world that often degrades and polices Blackness.
As a moviegoer, I deserve to see films that feature Black teenage girls as more than just stock characters—the “sassy sidekick” who is afforded twenty minutes of screentime to further the white protagonist’s storyline before unceremoniously melting into the background.
The question of accurate representation is one that has plagued the film industry since its inception. This issue undoubtedly spans across multiple genres and executive positions (not just on-screen, but off), and has personally proven to have skewed my impression of film.
My perception of the entire coming-of-age genre had been utterly warped by the lack of representation that I saw. When those with the power to make executive decisions consciously (or unconsciously) choose to exclusively centre white stories, they contribute to the implicit Othering and further undermining of people of colour. Media that we voraciously consume should embody the intrinsically multifaceted nature of our society, especially within a genre that prides itself on depicting the occurrences of everyday life.
Seeing the sensationalized, raw, all-or-nothing experience of being a young adult on-screen is unlike anything else. The coming-of-age genre is unique in its propensity to take us right back to our first day of high school—rife with uncertainty, new crushes every 48 hours, and the overwhelming perception of things being drastically more critical than they actually are. There is something so special to be found in a genre that embraces the awkward and the ugly, that takes an overwhelmingly universal experience and says, “No, this isn’t too mundane for the big screen. Your experiences are valid. This stage of your life is important.”
The question, then, must be: if this experience is so universal, why are we only seeing one type of person represented on screen?
Summer reflections
How a seemingly uneventful summer revealed new things about myself, and how it will change the course of my academic career
ILLUSTRATION | SHELLEY YAO
MATHULA MAHUNDAN
CONTRIBUTOR
I’ve never seen leaves change colour. That was my first thought as I ambled along the pavement in downtown Toronto. It may be a strange thought, but I reveled in it for that brief moment. I would have something to look forward to as the summer sun faded away and winter came along. The changing leaves were but one of many transitions I was looking forward to.
To many, my last summer before starting university might be viewede as eventless. However, I found solace in what may seem like the smallest of things: moments spent with family, enjoying nature, having time to myself, and reconnecting with old friends while striking up new friendships. The summer was a taste of normality in a time when our concept of normalcy was, and still is, warped. The past four months provided a touch of familiarity where things were about to become very unfamiliar.
I came to Toronto in August with my parents. After years living abroad in the Middle East (in the United Arab Emirates and Qatar) as a Canadian citizen, I was finally back where I was born, and I was beyond thrilled. As an expatriate studying in an international British-curriculum school, the diversity in the community I lived in was commonplace, and growing up there made me accustomed to having friends from vastly different cultural backgrounds. While the concept of multiculturalism is not new to me, the concept of having four seasons is—I’ve only experienced arid summers and half-hearted winters in the Middle East. Nevertheless, I was ecstatic to meet my extended family, eat delicious home-cooked traditional food that I haven’t had the chance to enjoy in a long time, and laugh at inside jokes together. Coming back home meant that I would get a chance to reconnect with my culture. But after observing the community around me, I realized there’s still so much I don’t know about culture and tradition beyond my intermediate family. I am Tamil by ethnicity and can speak Tamil, but not brilliantly. I’m still mildly embarrassed when asked to have a conversation in Tamil about what I’ve planned out for my future with people who may or may not have held me as a baby at family functions—from family friends’ kids’ birthdays to wedding receptions. With the rather small Tamil community that exists in the Middle East, the sudden escalation in people who I am inevitably connected to is overwhelming. I’m not sure if reconnecting with my family excites me with the prospect of discovery or fills me with dread. I’m not sure where I belong.
In addition to family, friendships have always been something I’ve cherished. The pandemic has made friendships even more important in my eyes, regardless of how difficult it was to form or maintain them. Zoom meetings will never have the same feel as sharing fries or nudging each other in the cinema at parts of a movie we find funny. My friends and I had hoped that high school graduation would let us be together again in person; it didn’t. We had to make do with speeches along the lines of, “In these unprecedented times...” Yet times continue to be unprecedented and exceedingly difficult given the curse of time zones—I am now 12 hours behind some of my friends studying in various parts of the world, including Southeast Asia and the Middle East. Texting won’t be the same now that those punny memes that need to be seen right now will be left unseen for half a day.
While I still hold on to the imperfect, but dear, remnants of friendships built over time, I’ve taken pleasure in creating new ones over the summer that will hopefully last as I navigate new terrain. Of course, in the midst of the pandemic, many of those friendships were initiated online. So, you can imagine my shock when I realized that the person I’ve been conversing with via Instagram and the Faculty of Arts and Science’s Arrive Ready Program on my little laptop screen is really, REALLY tall. Beyond that, however, socialization in a complicated landscape has led me to understand that people aren’t out to get you in university. Some of the most understanding people can be met in the most unexpected places, while bonding over shared experiences.
Some of my most eventful memories of the summer were made possible because new friends I had met said they wanted to hang out. We walked around in the sun, complaining about being sweaty and tired, but chatted as if we had known each other for ages. Our adventures involved sorority members trying to convince us to join them (I still have their contact card to convince myself and others that it was real), trying to open the doors of lecture buildings on a Sunday (“Maybe they’re not locked?”) and walking through Queen’s Park while contemplating how bad it really is to cross the park at night (don’t worry, I’ll steer clear of it).
This seemingly ordinary summer gave me the chance to introspect and realize who I am and how I function as an individual and in society. Even though I told myself I wasn’t scared of standing out or pursuing my ambitions, I was. I was scared of not having the time to pursue my passions, such as trying out for leadership positions or dipping my toes into activism. I was scared that I’d be judged for “trying too hard,” and I was scared of letting people down by taking on too much. Realistically, the only person I was letting down with all these thoughts was myself. This summer—and the people I met during it—made me understand that I need to slow down and take my time in establishing meaningful connections rather than making assumptions about others and worrying what they think without knowing their true thoughts. Standing out and doing something even a little bit differently gives you the chance to grow, and to appreciate growth around you. This year, I plan to do exactly that, by reaching my goals one step at a time and exploring everything I’m interested in without regret, as well as taking the time to talk with the people that can help me get there. To everyone starting or going back to school this fall, here’s to a great year—one that is hopefully full of growth and change.
Bookstore budget battles
Unpacking the exorbitant textbook prices that haunt my parents’ pockets
ADRIANA GORAIEB
STAFF WRITER
It’s the first week of September—my social media group chats are flood with messages now our courses’ syllabi have been released. My eyes light up in excitement as my life as a university student finally kickstarts. That excitement, however, quickly morphs into concern as some bookstore browsing unveils the hefty prices of the textbooks that my pre-college research over the summer had warned me about.
With my limited knowledge of economics and a little bit of research, I understand that the reason why textbooks are so expensive is because publishers don’t expect more than a couple hundred sales. This low expectation is rooted in the fact that the market for university textbooks is limited to (obviously) university students. The anticipated low demand for textbooks forces publishers to raise prices because developing textbooks takes years and costs quite a lot, pushing prices to soar as high as $300. Besides involving expert input, colour production, illustration, graphics and additional software, textbooks cost an arm and a leg. The economic justification of it all, however, does not make me feel any better about spending around $300 CAD a semester for books I will only use for four months. I’m an incoming university student without a job, and so, as financially dependent as I am on my parents, the guilt weighing on my conscience as I muster the courage to ask them to pay that much money is pretty damn nerveracking.
As any student would (I think), I instinctively turn to a website through which I might be able to obtain the books by less *ahem* legitimate means. Eureka, I found them! Wait, but here’s the thing—I need to buy my math book through Perusall in order to be able to complete my assignments and be graded on my annotations. There is no way around it. Save my parents $138.00 CAD (sorry, no, $100.00—the class was offered 50-year access to the book by Perusall, rather than permanent access, for $38 CAD less… bless their hearts) or pass my class? The decision was a no-brainer. And, based on my Reddit research, many other courses have backed their students into the same corner as well.
The monetization of education has always been a topic of deep frustration for me, especially considering that many students worldwide either skip out on college entirely due to lack of affordability or choose not to buy their textbooks at all, at the inevitable expense of their academic success. Alongside the correlation between financial status and college admission success, textbook prices demonstrate that education has become more of a luxury than a right. When I told my mom that downloading the textbook’s PDF off a website was not possible, her defeated reply to my question about whether I should buy the book was, “Do we even have the choice?” Heartbreaking.
I think I speak for all college students when I say, thank God for used books, rentals, and free PDFs. The decades-old stereotype that college students work on a tight budget holds true, and we are all inevitably scrambling to obtain our textbooks at the lowest price possible. Tuition costs, residence costs, meal plans, and student loans make going to university difficult enough. On top of this pre-existing difficulty, a study conducted in 2009 for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation showed that the prices of textbooks played a vital role in many students’ decisions to opt out of college entirely. What should be part of the package deal of being a university student has evolved into a major threat to student success. Plus, the demand for textbooks continues to decline as college students using alternative ways to obtain them. As such, prices keep hiking up in order to maintain publishers’ profit from sales. And with the textbook market being dominated by only a few publishing companies, the lack of competition eliminates any possibility of price reductions.
At this point, we’re all eagerly searching for ways to deal with such exorbitant prices. I, for one, am actively looking for a job in order to alleviate financial pressure off my parents’ shoulders, especially amid an economic crisis back home. Severe local currency depreciation makes it even more expensive to buy my university textbooks priced in CAD. I know of many others who have either chosen to share textbooks with each other or work with less well-formatted—but free—versions. I feel less alone when I realize that penny-pinching is a shared experience. But the value of solidarity does not help our pockets. This is not to say that our professors have not been helpful; several professors have posted the necessary textbook/ reading chapters on Quercus or referred students to rentals or used textbooks from the bookstore. The efforts of such professors have certainly not gone unappreciated. But with the limited quantity of such books, most students are left needing to buy new or digital copies for no less than around $70 apiece.
All in all, I genuinely hope that some sort of financial reform hits the education sector in the near future. With the pandemic making finances harder on all of us, it is my wish that nobody experiences unnecessary hardship. All we can do is help each other out, and keep a lookout for discounts and offers. We will undoubtedly need them.
ILLUSTRATION | YOON-JI KWEON AND VIJAY VERMA
I'm asexual, but 2D characters are the exception
tammy yu
CONTRIBUTOR
I am asexual, which means I do not feel sexual attraction. I am completely uninterested in—and even slightly disgusted by—the idea of having a sexual relationship with someone. I never look at someone and think, Mm, I’d let them do nasty things to me.
When it comes to fictional characters, all of that goes out the window.
Over the summer, I got into Genshin Impact, a storydriven role-playing video game with a buffet of attractive characters. One day, while roaming the fictional world of Teyvat, I spotted one of my favourite characters, Xiao, standing on the shore in the distance, waiting for me to talk to him for a quest. As I noticed his toned, tattooed arms and the shape of his body through his tight-fitting tank, my heart fluttered and filled with joy. That’s when I knew I was attracted to that cluster of pixels on my screen.
I wanted to know all about him. For the next three months, I spent much of my leisurely afternoons learning his lore, browsing fan art, and even reading spicy fanfiction.
All of a sudden, it felt wrong to call myself asexual. This isn’t even the first time I’ve been attracted to a 2D character. One of my earliest fictional crushes was Howl from Howl’s Moving Castle. Even earlier than that? Nori from Barbie Fairytopia: Mermaidia. How could I possibly be asexual if all my life I’ve clearly been experiencing a sexual attraction to fictional characters?
Maybe my attraction to fictional characters isn’t sexual in nature at all. It might be purely based on aesthetic attraction, which is what I describe as an appreciation for someone’s physical appearance without the desire to interact with them in sexual or romantic ways. If you’re aesthetically but not sexually attracted to someone, you might say to them, “You’re hot, so you must be sexually attractive to a lot of people. However, I am not one of those people. I still acknowledge that you’re hot, though!”
All of these 2D characters that I’m into have flawless skin, exaggeratedly cute eyes, and shiny hair that flows in the wind even when they’re indoors. No wonder I want to scroll through pictures of them all day! If what I feel for fictional characters is nothing but aesthetic attraction, then these feelings certainly don’t contradict my identity as an asexual.
Oh, if only it were that simple. The truth is, sometimes I do fantasize about characters in sexual ways. That rules out the possibility of my attraction to them as purely aesthetic. If I can be sexually attracted to a fictional character, then surely I can’t be asexual… which means I must have the capacity to feel attracted to an actual person, right?
This question troubled me so much that I went ahead and did what most people do when they have a major identity crisis—I Googled it. After some scrolling, I stumbled upon a helpful article (which was surprising, because who the heck writes articles about fictional crushes?). The article says that attraction to fictional characters is completely normal, “especially since fictional characters are often created to look really perfect” and have “easy-to-grasp personalities.” Of course I’m in love with Xiao—he’s selfless, heroic, and perfect in every way. These traits make him easier to root for as a protagonist, and that’s exactly the effect that writers want to achieve when designing their characters.
While fictional characters have relatively simple personalities, people in real life are more complex. We each come with flaws and quirks, and it takes effort to maintain a stable romantic relationship with someone. I happily accept the way that my friends and family are because I feel platonic love for them. However, I don't feel attracted to anyone romantically or sexually, so I'm just not motivated to maintain that sort of relationship.
“Dating” a fictional character, on the other hand, takes no effort. The relationship can be whatever I imagine it to be, because it all takes place in my head. If I ever decide that I'm no longer interested in Xiao, I'll happily let my feelings go; no tissue boxes or pity parties necessary. If I fall for other characters, I don't have to worry about breaking poor Xiao's heart. And likewise, Xiao will never hurt me. He will never sit me down at a dimly lit coffee shop and give me the ol' “it's not you, it's me” talk. Liking fictional characters is the closest thing I can experience to sexual attraction, but it comes with none of the commitment or intimacy involved in real relationships, so it's perfectly within the boundaries of what little sexual and romantic interest I have.
But this raises the question: what if my asexuality is nothing but a fear of abandonment? What if it’s not that I lack the ability to experience sexual attraction, but the courage to pursue that attraction because I’m afraid of vulnerability and heartbreak?
I skimmed through countless Reddit threads and YouTube videos to figure this out, and what I’ve learned
I'm asexual, but 2D characters are the exception
is that a fear of abandonment—or of commitment, vulnerability, or relationships in general—is not mutually exclusive to asexuality. I feel no sexual attraction when it comes to real people, which by definition makes me asexual. My fear of abandonment might be the reason I am asexual: because I am afraid of relationships involving sex, my sexual desire is inhibited. However, the reason why I am the way I am doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, the simple fact that I do not feel sexually attracted to people is enough to validate my asexual identity.
And yet, I can’t stop doubting myself. It’s like I’m in a perpetual state of denial, hoping that my sexual attraction for 2D characters will one day extend to real people and I’ll live happily ever after. The truth is that I don’t know how to fully accept my asexuality because of the way that I, like many other queer women, have been taught to desire sexual relationships with men.
When I was in the process of questioning my sexuality, I naturally turned to the Comphet Masterdoc to see if I was truly attracted to men. Compulsory heterosexuality, also known as “comphet,” is the idea that our heteronormative and misogynistic society teaches us that being straight is the default and that women existsolely for men’s sexual pleasure. Comphet thereby forces many queer women to deny their true sexual identities—so the Masterdoc serves as a guide to selfdiscovery for lesbian women who may have lost touch with who they are.
If you think that you might be lesbian but the fact that you like male fictional characters is giving you doubt, your identity as a lesbian is totally valid, according to the Masterdoc. Lesbian women are not interested in intimacy with men, and crushing on a fictional character involves no intimacy due to the completely unobtainable nature of the crush. In fact, having the hots for 2D hunks might even be a direct result of comphet. Since there’s so much pressure for women to like men, the most that lesbian women can do to fit in with those norms is to like fictional men, which gives them an excuse to claim some form of a heterosexual identity while simultaneously distancing themselves from real men.
And if the Masterdoc says that crushes on fictional characters do not invalidate a lesbian woman’s identity, then the same principle should apply to asexual women, too. Both asexual and lesbian women are not sexually interested in men, yet are affected by the same heteronormative pressure that tells us that we are incomplete without them. Perhaps my crushes on fictional characters are a subconscious way for me to deny my own asexuality, a result of what I call “compallo”— compulsory allosexuality.
Allosexual people are those who experience sexual attraction. Unfortunately, most of the media I was exposed to growing up, and that I continue to be exposed to, perpetuate allosexuality as the norm. Every Disney princess I knew in my childhood ends up with a prince. Every chick flick that’s supposed to represent your teen years involves a romantic plot. Tons of movies have sex scenes for no reason at all, and pop music is full of explicit lyrics that objectify women as if we only exist for the sexual pleasure of men. Romance is painted as the most beautiful, magical thing you could ever experience, and sex is portrayed as an essential part of life that validates one's adulthood or coming-of-age.
So when a woman like me has no interest in finding the love of her life or spending steamy nights with hot strangers, it’s hard not to feel excluded, or even broken, for not feeling or wanting the same things as other people. We’re made to feel like children, stunted in growth because of our lack of participation in “adult” things. Sometimes I feel so desperate to live a “normal adult life” that I find myself wishing I could get into a relationship, or at least experiment with sex, even if doing so would make me feel uncomfortable and violated.
The reality is that there is no such thing as a “normal adult life.” Not everyone is going to get married or have kids or have active sex lives. Not everyone wants that.
It seems a lot easier to convince myself that I’m allosexual because of my fictional crushes than to come to terms with my asexual identity. But as any queer person would know, you can’t choose who you’re attracted to or how you experience attraction. I simply cannot feel for real people what I feel for fictional characters—that’s all there is to it.
Asexuality is a vast spectrum and looks different for everyone. There are different types of attraction, and each person experiences each type to varying degrees. Some asexuals never experience sexual attraction, whereas others only experience it under particular circumstances. Some experience romantic attraction and will pursue romantic relationships, while some may not. Some have crushes on fictional characters; others do not. To any asexuals out there who feel like an imposter within the asexual community, I hope you remember that everyone on the spectrum is valid, no matter what asexuality means for you.
Burnt out
The science behind burnout
albert cheng
CONTRIBUTOR
Burnout. A term first coined in 1974, it has been increasingly applied in the first person ever since. Although not classified as a mental disorder by the World Health Organization (WHO), burnout is a part of everyone’s life and often has profound impacts on one’s standard of living and emotional well-being. The online lifestyle and workplace that was adopted at the onset of COVID-19 has only intensified the rate at which employees and students alike feel distanced from their work, with there being little distinction between work and personal life.
Zoom fatigue is an increasingly well-known term for one aspect of this mental depletion. The inability to truly leave one’s work when working from home has contributed to overwork and a reduced capacity to re-energize. But this is not a trend that can be ascribed solely to social distancing—even in 2018, almost half of workers were reported to experience burnout on the job. Historically, this occupational exhaustion has been especially problematic in academia, health care, and social work, where the incumbent stress and emotional toll has resulted in rampant burnout.
Burnout can be delineated principally by three well-characterized psychological dimensions: exhaustion, depersonalization, and feelings of reduced personal efficacy. While exhaustion is straightforwardly defined as feelings of fatigue, depersonalization can refer to increased cynicism; irritability; a tendency to view clients as objects as opposed to people; and reduced personal efficacy, as well as a perception that one’s work is meaningless or inutile.
These facets of burnout are measured by the Maslach Burnout Inventory, the predominant test for its assessment that has been adopted by the WHO. Many symptoms of burnout align and correlate with anxiety and, particularly, clinical depression, to the extent that some studies claim that burnout is a subtype of depression. However, this is not a widely accepted idea, and multiple studies support distinct construct validities between the three—for example, burnout tends to be centred around work-related stress, whereas depression is pervasive in all contexts of one’s life. Though there is definite overlap between these psychological conditions, there is substantial evidence that burnout is a separate concept from other disorders.
As a predominantly stress-related syndrome, burnout has been suggested to be biologically connected to the hypothalamus-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis, a neuroendocrine pathway that mediates the production of cortisol, the chief stress hormone of the body. Although multiple studies have attempted to find and elucidate a relationship between burnout and the body, meta-analyses show contradictory findings, which may be ascribed to a lack of consistency in how and when to measure cortisol levels, small sample sizes, and so on.
Some studies have pointed to decreased sleep, higher immune cell counts, and elevated blood cholesterol as correlates of burnout. Recently, attention has been drawn to brainderived neurotrophic factor (BDNF), a growth factor which promotes neural differentiation and development, which is potentially decreased in individuals experiencing burnout. While no definitive biomarker or physiological mechanism of burnout has been credibly identified, further research is warranted to validate burnout as an independent psychological syndrome.
It’s easy to blame aspects of present-day society—interconnectedness, social media, hustle culture—for the emergence of burnout. Though the term burnout is just over four decades old, there is evidence to suggest that the phenomenon of emotional exhaustion and disillusionment stems from a much deeper past than the twentieth century. And so, as we students struggle with motivation, become dissuaded with our essays or courses, or suffer from imposter syndrome, perhaps some comfort can be found in the knowledge that burnout is not a lonely condition, but an intensely relatable one.
As students, some common pieces of advice we’ve all heard for dealing with burnout include “drink some water,” “go on a walk,” and “pick up a hobby.” As burnout is associated with excessive time and effort devoted to work and an insufficient amount to relaxation, most simple solutions involve taking breaks and implementing a distinct separation between work and life. It’s easy to recognize these strategies, but it’s a completely different beast to integrate them in our daily lives. It’s important to take time to learn what works for you, and to know that you aren’t alone in burnout.
ILLUSTRATION | KALLIOPÉ ANVAR MCCALL
Balancing school while battling a pandemic
PHOTO | GREEN CHAMELEON
serena mareK
CONTRIBUTOR
On November 9, 2020, pharmaceutical company Pfizer Inc. announced that their vaccine candidate against COVID-19 was found to be successful in Phase 3 trials. Shortly after, on December 21, Ontario hospital Trillium Health Partners administered their first COVID-19 vaccine in the Peel Region.
The rapid development of Trillium Health Partners’ vaccine clinic can be attributed to their extremely motivated staff. This was the first mass vaccination clinic ever opened in Mississauga, and no contributing healthcare worker had ever experienced a virus as impactful as COVID-19. The pandemic affected every aspect of workers’ lives, including their work, school, relationships, and mental health.
I started working in the vaccine clinic a week after they administered their first dose, and I will never forget the excitement and passion displayed by every healthcare worker, including vaccinators, clerical staff, IT staff and cleaning staff—all vital members of the team. Most of the clerical staff were students, many of whom studied at the University of Toronto, with a range of responsibilities ranging from administration tasks to clinician roles. Despite balancing 12-hour shifts with school, these students were consistently eager to pick up more shifts. I interviewed three of my previous coworkers currently studying life sciences at the University of Toronto to determine how working in healthcare during a pandemic affected their student life.
How did your work affect your career goals?
Working on the front lines allowed the team to experience what working in healthcare is like and therefore impacted their career goals. Aaditya Modgal, a Biology specialist at UofT, mentioned that he was inspired by the paramedics he had worked with for several weeks. “I never considered a career as a paramedic,” he said. “However, after working with them, I realized I loved their work culture.” Aaditya said that seeing the paramedic perspective motivated him to consider a prospective career in the field.
Alisha D’souza, supervisor of the clerical staff and a Life Sciences student, was also inspired by working at the clinic. She aspires to be a nurse, developing a long-term career in health management and clinical leadership. She was especially inspired because most of the management team was composed of women of colour, like herself, which she had never experienced before.
Pharmacology and Psychology double major Christina Zakala’s career goals were solidified by working in the clinic. Christina plans to pursue research in addiction and substance abuse. Christina was grateful for the opportunity to work in a clinical setting because it reminded her of why she wants to pursue that field of research. “I want to create solutions with my research that directly aid my community. Just like how the research behind the vaccine is helping millions of lives.”
How did your scientific background affect your work?
“Having a background in science made work more exciting,” said D’souza. “I enjoyed watching the pharmacists make the vaccines and talking to them about the process. It reminded me of wet laboratory work.”
Zakala agreed with this, claiming that her background in psychology helped her deal with anxious patients through conversations and “prioritizing their experience in the clinic to make sure they left satisfied and not in a vulnerable state of mind.”
D’souza said that having a background in science helped her feel more confident on the job because she could answer more questions. It also helped her feel compassion for those hesitant about the vaccine. She realized that many people have limited knowledge regarding the science behind vaccines. This realization granted her perspective and empathy, which further helped her understand the hesitancy prevalent in communities where “science background is low and misinformation is high.”
How did you balance school with work?
Team members often worked overtime while balancing school. Staying motivated to study is challenging already; while battling the pandemic as a frontline worker, it becomes more difficult. Modgal emphasized the importance of rest days, explaining that “finding time to relax was definitely part of the balance a lot of people ignore.” He explained that choosing a day every once in a while to dedicate to rest helped him remain focused. Holding onto hope that the pandemic would end once enough people were vaccinated really kept him going. “I think this job was a privilege because I got to work somewhere where we were all fighting for the lockdown to end, and we all did so hopefully,” he said.
In comparison, Zakala said that making schedules with concrete deadlines was the best strategy for her. “I’m prone to procrastinating with schoolwork, so holding myself accountable with strict deadlines is the only way I keep up with anything.”
D’souza was a full-time student while working full-time hours and was also a research assistant in three research laboratories. D’souza also emphasized the importance of scheduling while balancing school. She mentioned that scheduling was important because it ensured she had time to sleep, something a lot of students neglect. Staying firm to a set schedule allowed her to be “fully present at work and at home.” She suggests the productivity app Forest and the scheduling app Todoist to students, claiming that they were major contributors to her finding balance between school and extracurriculars. Although she maintains that her workload could be difficult, knowing that she was helping the community was what motivated her.
“At our closing we had completed nearly 500,000 doses, nearly 25% of all doses administered in the Peel Region, and over one-third of the entire population (including children) in the Peel Region,” said D’souza. “Through an analysis of infections to hospitalizations to death, we have saved over 5,000 lives. Knowing that I was playing a role in doing that for my community is what made me come to 12-hour shift after 12-hour shift.”
Although many find it challenging to balance work and school, there are clearly strategies to stay motivated. Different people have different habits and attitudes—but there’s something that works for everyone.
PHOTO | JOSHUA HOEHNE
Marvel’s Shang-Chi
An experience, not an experiment
ILLUSTRATION | HELEN YU
How often do you hear the phrase “representation
matters”? Chances are, we’ve all heard it at least once. While it’s important to acknowledge such a phrase in order to combat social injustice, it’s brought up so often that we tend to brush it off as something ubiquitous. The truth is, we all know that representation matters—but knowing and feeling the reality of this statement are two different experiences.
Marvel’s first Asian superhero movie, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, has already brought a significant sense of pride to the Asian-American community through authentic storytelling and cultural representation. Of course, one might argue that a number of movies with Asian leads already exist in the history of film. But what we need to remember is that films starring characters such as Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan have been centred around aspects of otherness, such as broken English and cultural eccentricity. Even the comic version of Shang-Chi involves a sinophobic, problematic depiction of Fu Manchu, Shang-Chi’s father. His character was particularly prevalent as an image of yellow peril to evoke anti-Asian sentiments.
In my own life, seeing negative stereotypes on-screen only enforced the internalized racism I harboured. How could we expect representation to matter when the most frequently seen portrayals of Asians in films were wise old men or nerds? For these reasons, I was hesitant to step into the theatre, but within the first ten minutes of the film, Shang-Chi smashed right through my apprehension.
I immediately felt a sense of attachment to Katy upon seeing her struggle to connect with her cultural identity. Katy and her brother embrace an American lifestyle, a stark contrast to their grandmother and mother. The depiction of this multi-generational immigrant family and their individual struggles is one that many viewers can understand.
For the entirety of the film, Katy has numerous family expectations to meet. Her grandmother wonders when she will get married, and her mother harps on her for her job as a valet. She consistently mentions that she cannot speak Chinese fluently, which many Asian parents push for.
In my case, I was lucky enough to be taught Korean at a young age and maintain connections to my roots (thanks for sending me to Saturday Korean school, mom). Despite this, I knew there was a barrier between myself and others. For many of us, this barrier exists in every possible way—physically and emotionally, at school and at home. The fact that I couldn’t speak English until I was seven—and then faltered with Korean fluency thereafter—didn’t help my case. When my parents ate kimchi stew for dinner, I ate mac and cheese. When I brought Korean food to school, I was told that it looked and smelled weird.
What makes me most upset about these experiences is knowing that they’re not uncommon. Being caught between two cultures makes us feel like there’s no way to win. No matter what, we’re left in the middle as the Other, which brings us to the ultimate question: who are we?
Even Shang-Chi undergoes a loss of identity and is told to “stop hiding,” and Katy refuses to pursue new things for fear of failure. When we are continuously told that our efforts aren’t good enough, that we aren’t good enough, we stop trying to be ourselves.
In many Asian cultures, contributing to our family’s legacy is what makes us our family’s pride. The movie alludes to these social conventions in Asian cultures, such as when Katy spots a young Asian woman studying on the bus and states, “That is exactly the kind of girl my mom wishes came out of her vagina.” While this line was written for comedic purposes, the underlying message is that Katy feels the inevitable pressure to live up to her family’s expectations. I myself wonder if my parents would’ve been happier if I was a STEM major rather than an arts student. Would they have been prouder if I wanted to become a doctor? Were they disappointed when I wasn’t feeling too sure about law school anymore?
Whether or not we stray from the paths onto which our families guide us, the focus on heritage in this movie reminds us that we have thousands of people supporting us. Hearing the characters say, “You are a product of all who came before you. A legacy of the family, the good and the bad,” and “Names [...] connect us not only to ourselves but to everyone who came before” truly reminded me of how much appreciation I have for my identity now. This is why true representation matters—it teaches us to love ourselves.
It teaches us to love others, too. I found the main antagonist, Shang-Chi’s father, the most human character of all, blinded by his visions for his family. The grief of losing his wife eventually leads to what one might call his downfall.
At one point, Wenwu tells Shang-Chi, “Throughout my life the Ten Rings gave our family power. If you want them to be yours one day, you have to show me you’re strong enough to carry them.” The ten rings being given to Shang-Chi seconds before Wenwu’s death proves that Wenwu chooses to hand over everything to his son—what many Asian parents consider the best gift they can offer to their children: a legacy. So, is it truly a downfall when he committed the biggest act of service for his son?
Shang-Chi goes a long way in representing interpersonal dynamics and values in Asian cultures. It’s not simply an action movie, but an opportunity to learn to appreciate what makes us us.
With all this in mind, there is still a long way to go in terms of diversity and representation. Shang-Chi is simply a first step forward, and I can only hope that one day, the world will view this film not just as the Asian superhero movie, but as a superhero movie.
JULIE KIM
CONTRIBUTOR
Playlist: Fall Study Session
ILLUSTRATION | SEAVEY VAN WALSUM
