The Strand | Volume 60, Issue 11—Queer Issue

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VICTORIA UNIVERSITY’S STUDENT NEWSPAPER VOLUME 60, ISSUE 11 | 20 MARCH 2018

02 NEWS

EDITOR | AINSLEY DOELL NEWS@THESTRAND.CA

LGBTQ+ resources on campus

georgia lin editorial assistant

UofT houses numerous resource centres for LGBTQ+ and marginalized communities on campus. Student-led organizations and those run by the university provide accessible, educational information, and support systems for queer students on the St. George campus. The university’s tri-campus Positive Space Campaign also identifies safe spaces for LGBTQ+ students on campus, marked by a rainbow triangle sticker on office doors or windows.

LGBTOUT: The oldest and largest LGBTQ+ student organization at UofT, offering services and programs through their Drop-In Centre at University College’s Sir Daniel Wilson Residence; the centre also provides free sexual health resources for students.

Sexual and Gender Diversity Office (SGDO): The SGDO hosts frequent educational and social events for LGBTQ+ students on queerness, identity, community, and other relevant topics. The office has also spearheaded initiatives for LGBTQ+ visibility at UofT, such as the Washroom Inclusivity Project to implement all-gender and accessible washrooms across campus, an LGBTQ+ film series, and a monthly dropin Gender Talk discussion series at their Sussex Avenue location.

Centre for Women and Trans People: A drop-in facility for women and trans people at UofT that advocates for equity, LGBTQ+ rights, anti-racism, and other marginalized issues and communities. They organize a Peer Support Program that pairs students with members of their staff to provide confidential guidance for their concerns.

Sexual Education Centre (SEC): The student-run volun-

teer organization aims to provide accessible sexual education and sexual health resources to students on the St. George campus. UofT-affiliated organizations can order safer sex supplies in bulk from SEC and receive peer consultations from SEC volunteers; the group has also compiled resource lists for counselling, health clinics, and HIV/AIDS resources in Toronto.

Qu(e)erying Religion: A UofT religious program analyzing the intersections between faith, religion, and queerness through drop-in discussion groups; the organization also collaborates with prominent campus groups such as the MultiFaith Centre, the SGDO, and Positive Space.

VicPride!: The LGBTQQIP2SA+ students’ association of Victoria College, located at the Goldring Student Centre, hosting queer-focused creative events at Vic and publicizing LGBTQ+ activities across campus.

There are also mental-health-focused resources on and off campus that LGBTQ+ students can use to receive counselling, therapy, physical health checkups, and more.

Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH): CAMH’s Rainbow Services offers drugs and alcohol addiction counselling programs to LGBTQ+ people through therapy, support groups, and mental health education and assessments. No referrals are necessary to join the programs.

Planned Parenthood Toronto: An active community sexual healthcare facility located near the St. George campus dedicated to pro-choice sexual education, with projects such as Queering Sex Ed (QSE), led by LGBTQ+ youth. The QSE Youth Advisory Committee created the Affirmation Deck that can be found at the Goldring Student Centre, a series of categorized cards with supportive statements such as: “No act

PHOTO | SAMUEL KUBANI, GETTY IMAGES

of resistance to homophobia, biphobia, queerphobia, or transphobia is too small. All resistance is revolutionary.”

Sherbourne Health Centre: The centre offers various services specifically designed for the LGBTQ+ community, such as their Supporting Our Youth (SOY) community program that caters to the needs of queer and trans youth in Toronto.

SOY runs mentorship sessions, housing workshops, social justice leadership teams, and more. The health centre also sponsors the Rainbow Health Ontario program that trains healthcare workers about LGBTQ+ concerns; they also act as consultants on public policy for organizations across the province.

Expansive LGBTQ+ resources exist across the city, ranging from health clinics to digital help lines.

LGBT Youth Line: A confidential service led by Toronto youth to serve their peers in the LGBTQ+ community; the organization manages an Ontario-wide phone, text, and online chat line for LGBTQ+ youth. Youth Line also facilitates leadership training, volunteer programs, and community events for the queer community.

The 519 Community Centre: A City of Toronto agency dedicated to supporting members of the LGBTQ+ community in Toronto by providing various accessible immigration, housing, arts, and education resources; it also hosts youthspecific and trans-specific programming at its office, located in the Church and Wellesley Village.

Glad Day Bookshop: A literary establishment featuring works by LGBTQ+ writers and creators that represent authors from broad cultural, religious, and gender spectrums.

The bookshop also hosts LGBTQ+ events at its location near Wellesley Station.

Love Wins concert postponed Suspension comes after criticism from the LGBTQ+ community ashley meehan staff writer

An event advertised as being “part vigil, part celebration” for the victims of alleged serial killer Bruce McArthur has been negatively received and criticized by the LGBTQ community, resulting in its postponement.

66-year-old Bruce McArthur was arrested in January and charged with first degree murder of six men who were members of Toronto’s Church-Wellesley LGBTQ community. The crimes date back to 2010 and continued until recently, all targeting gay men. McArthur has been charged with the murder of Skandaraj Navaratnam, 40, Andrew Kinsman, 49, Selim Esen, 44, Majeed Kayhan, 58, Dean Lisowick, 47, and Soroush Mahmudi, 50.

The Love Wins charity concert was organized in part by councillor Kristyn Wong-Tam and was set for March 29th, 2018 in Nathan Phillips Square. It was to feature local Toronto artists including: Carole Pope, Tyler Stewart of the Barenaked Ladies, the Toronto Gay’s Chorus: Forte, and many others.

The concert was heavily critiqued by the LGBTQ community for being “tone deaf ” in light of the recent devastation in the community, as police investigators are still trying to identify other alleged victims. Councillor Wong-Tam’s website announced on March 10th that the event would be postponed while the organizers discuss these concerns.

The statement read, “Our intention was to bring the city together in love and healing after hearing from

many people who wanted to come together in unity and strength. Unfortunately, the event created an unintentional division at a historic time in the LGBTQ2S community. […] We will postpone the event and work with all community members to ensure that any future endeavor will address the concerns raised thus far.”

Members of the Church-Wellesley community are working to create more appropriate events commemorating the victims, with a focus on healing and support.

McArthur’s trial has been pushed to next month on April 11th. In the meantime, community members will meet with Wong-Tam and other event organizers to develop changes to the event.

EDITORIAL 03

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF | MOLLY KAY AND ELENA SENECHAL-BECKER EDITOR@THESTRAND.CA

You can't contain the whole world in your life

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The value of writing about our queer experiences lies in diversity

V O L U M E

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molly kay elena senechal-becker

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strandcast@thestrand.ca editorial assistants

elena senechal-becker editor-in-chief

When I think about how to define queerness, which is an utterly undefinable concept, the closest thing I can reach is Eve Sedgwick’s famous passage from Society and the Individual: “queerness is the open mesh of possibilities, gaps, overlaps, dissonances and resonances, lapses and excesses of meaning when the constituent elements of anyone’s gender, of anyone’s sexuality, aren’t made (or can’t be made) to signify monolithically.”

I use this quote in every one of my Women and Gender Studies essays, so it’s only fitting for me to use it here as well. At the risk of turning this into a scholarly article rather than an editorial, I’d like to include some more relevant ideas on queerness and society: In her article “Punks, Bulldaggers and Welfare Queens,” Kathy Cohen explains that “the hallmarks of queer-ness should be marked by anti-normativity.” Her examples are people who live within the margins, and especially how their sexuality is policed: Latinx single mothers, drag performers, butch lesbians. Their experiences are all vastly different, but they are “queer” because they defy the monolith of heteronormative, cisnormative, and monogamous sexual identity. I think it is important to see the word “queer” not just as an identifier of non-heterosexuality, or even of non-normative gender identity (though these are of course valid descriptions), but also, more broadly, as any way of experiencing sexuality outside of what is generally considered “normal.”

Gayle Rubin puts this into visual terms with her diagram of The Charmed Circle (procreative, married, hetero, vanilla, etc.) vs. The Outer Limits (homosexual, promiscuous, commercial, etc.). In this way she demonstrates how societally acceptable sexual behaviours are set in opposition to what is considered “sexually deviant” behaviour—in other words, what is considered “queer.”

There is queerness in more aspects of our lives than we imagine. It is difficult to encompass what being queer actually is, what it means, and what it feels like, because all our experiences as queer people are fundamentally distinct. The

way I experience my own lesbian identity as a white, middle-class, non-binary, feminine-presenting person is obviously very unfamiliar to those with different identities and embodied experiences than me. We can’t all be everything at once. That’s why a diversity of voices is so important. At Vic, we often shy away from topics like love and sex, which I attribute to the “bubble effect” that comes from our relatively small community. It’s hard to open up and talk about your private life, so to speak, when you know your readership is the same people you see on campus every day. We wanted to break that barrier.

So, welcome to The Strand’s first identity issue. Our reasoning behind putting out a Queer Issue was that we rarely cover much content about LGBTQ+ issues. Beyond that, though, we wanted to open up the floor to new ways of expression. It seemed too contrived to set out with the express intention of filling all our usual sections with “queer content,” whatever that means, so this issue ended up being a fluid, unidentifiable mess. I mean that in the best way possible.

Within these pages we’ve managed to gather poetry, artwork, personal essays, and news articles on topics ranging from RuPaul’s most recent transphobic comments to diversity in theatre at Vic and beyond. I think I speak for everyone at The Strand when I say that we are so incredibly proud of this issue and we can’t thank everyone enough for reaching out and contributing in such a meaningful way.

I told myself I wouldn’t get all emotional and mushy in this editorial, which has become more of an Editor’s Letter, but I feel so strongly about all these works and so lucky to be in a position where I was able to read them and help curate this issue.

I don’t want to come across as deluded, however. I know that not everyone is able to make themselves so visible and vulnerable, and that the agency to write for The Strand, a campus publication, is a privilege in itself. I’d like to dedicate this issue to anyone who felt like they would have something to contribute to the Queer Issue, but for some reason or other weren’t able to submit.

This is for you! I hope you feel at home here.

renna keriazes georgia lin anna stabb

contributors sidney drmay, maia kachan, sarah krichel, christy li,

cy macikunas, ashley meehan, leo morgenstern, zoe

ritchie, hazel sands, erica sung, chelsea tao, devon wilton, kirsten yeung copy editors alyssa dibattista, lauren lacey, mariah ricciuto, julia wyganowski design team amy jiao, molly kay illustrations melissa avalos, yilin zhu photos samuel kubani, joshua singler, elena senechalbecker art emily fu, ellen grace, carina qiao cover illustration misbah ahmed

The Strand has been the newspaper of record for Victoria University since 1953. It is published 12 times a year with a circulation of 1200 and is distributed in Victoria University buildings and across the University of Toronto’s St. George campus.

The Strand flagrantly enjoys its editorial autonomy and is committed to acting as an agent of constructive social change. As such, we will not publish material deemed to exhibit racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, or other oppressive language.

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Our offices are located at 150 Charles St. W., Toronto, ON, M5S 1K9. Please direct enquiries by email to editor@thestrand.ca. Submissions are welcome and may be edited for taste, brevity, and legality.

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04 OPINIONS

EDITOR | KATHLEEN CHEN OPINIONS@THESTRAND.CA

ILLUSTRATION | MELISSA AVALOS

Queerness in athletic spaces Student-led initiatives seek to dismantle barriers to access christy li contributor

As winter is beginning to phase into spring and people are in the midst of putting away their winter coats, we welcome a new season of activities—sports! As the weather begins to clear up, (albeit, reluctantly) more people are putting on their athletic gear and running outside to embrace the beautiful weather or hitting the gym once again. However, as more people begin to re-enter these athletic spaces, there are some people who are struggling to do so.

of women and LGBTQ+ students in athletic spaces on campus, the Faculty of Kinesiology and Physical Education (KPE) has implemented initiatives that hope to incentivize students to come to their locations (such as women-only hours in the Strength and Conditioning Centre). Be it for religious reasons or for the comfort of women, it is important that these hours and spaces exist. It is important that students are able to use the facilities that they pay for in their tuition, without the anxiety of their bodies being objectified by others.

It is within the rights of each student to

IT IS IMPORTANT THAT STUDENTS ARE ABLE TO USE THE FACILITIES THAT THEY PAY FOR IN THEIR TUITION, WITHOUT THE ANXIETY OF THEIR BODIES BEING OBJECTIFIED BY OTHERS. LGBTQ+ students over the years have expressed disinterest in going to athletic spaces, specifically the Athletic Centre and the Goldring Centre for High Performance Sport. Given the fact that both of those spaces are extremely heteronormative (for instance, most of the gyms are dominated by cis men who are hypermasculine, which means they end up taking up a lot of space, leaving LGBTQ+ students feeling like they don’t belong there), it is no wonder why LGBTQ+ students would be hesitant to enter such spaces.

Historically, both the Athletic Centre and the Goldring Centre have catered towards athletes, creating barriers for the average student on campus to enter them. Even though both of these spaces have opened up over the years to students who are represented by the UTSU, many students are still reluctant to spend time there.

In response to the under-participation

be able to use these spaces without feeling uncomfortable. However, with LGBTQ+ students, it’s a little more complicated than just that.

No person is defined by solely one identity. In fact, everyone has their own unique intersection of identities. Each of those identities allows those around us to perceive us differently than others. For instance, a queer person of colour is perceived differently than a white queer person; a cisgender woman would be treated differently than a transgender woman. This difference of treatment not only creates barriers for individuals to enter athletic spaces, but is also rooted in greater systemic issues.

KPE acknowledges the different barriers that people face in order to enter these spaces, given that these facilities were originally built for cisgender men. For instance, the Change Room Project, a campaign initiated by a KPE professor last year, put up posters

in changerooms addressing homophobia and the problematic nature of “locker talk.” The Change Room Project also addressed the microaggressions queer and trans students feel in changerooms, such as being unable to go to the changeroom that resonates with their gender identity because of a fear of violence.

Like most spaces on campus, many were not accessible to women when they were initially built. While those spaces have opened up more to women over the years, LGBTQ+ students disagree with the notion that these spaces are completely inclusive because of factors such as transphobia, and gendered changerooms.

KPE’s Equity Movement has developed different incentives over the years to seek to address and deconstruct these barriers. One of Equity Movement’s initiatives, Move with Pride, focuses on bringing LGBTQ+ students into KPE’s athletic spaces. Move with Pride is best known for its “Day of Movement” where they book the Athletic Centre, and LGBTQ+ students take it over and make it their own. While the event is fun, and students have a good time, students are still reluctant to enter the space on a regular and consistent basis because it, like other spaces, is still incredibly cisheteronormative.

It takes more than just one event to change the dynamics of the space and to make it accessible.

Over the past few years, Move with Pride decided to get away from simply doing one big “extravaganza,” instead focusing more on students and their voices. Move With Pride has decided to redistribute their funds into smaller events that happen more frequently throughout the year. By hosting more events throughout the year, Equity Movement hopes to help students familiarize themselves with the different facilities, so that, instead of just feeling safe in these physical spaces on one day of the year, students can become comfortable enough to use them regularly.

These events are designed in response to event ideas and general concerns voiced by LGBTQ+ students, in conversations facilitated by Equity Movement. Equity Movement work-study students then take these ideas and create events based on those sug-

gestions and concerns; like Bubble Soccer, Learn to Lift, Queer Orientation events, and most recently, the Hayley Kiyoko Choreo Dance Workshop.

Students are the ones for whom these events are made. It is not marketing tactics that bring students to us, but rather, it is the camaraderie within the LGBTQ+ communities. For instance, the events with the strongest attendance are always those where students have brought their friends, who then spread awareness of the events to other groups. This goes to show how important it is to reach out to student communities and to establish a good rapport with different individuals. Because of people’s overwhelming generosity, there is never a shortage of support coming from these individuals.

There has been a gradual success recently because of these smaller events, and Move with Pride seeks to continuously improve itself with the assistance of students.

Student voices are imperative, regardless of whether they are voices of enthusiasm or valid criticisms; student voices are what help generate these diverse ideas. There has been progress made over the years, but it is still not enough, and there is always work to be done to deconstruct barriers for LGBTQ+ students in athletic spaces. Move with Pride will continuously strive to advocate for students’ rights to exist comfortably in athletic spaces, and it needs the voices of students in order to address barriers it may be blindsided to.

If you’re interested in any Move with Pride events, follow Equity Movement on Facebook to be part of the conversation!

Keep an eye out for any upcoming events, initiatives, or conversations that will be hosted over the next year.

This article is part of an ongoing series in which The Strand tackles issues relating to systemic oppression, privilege, and identity.

All are welcome to contribute to the discussion. Pitches should be directed to opinions@thestrand.ca

OPINIONS 05

@STRANDPAPER THE STRAND | 20 MARCH 2018

How hypersexualization of bi people excludes them from the LGBTQ+ community PHOTO | ELENA SENECHAL-BECKER

sarah krichel the eyeopener

Sarah Rowe had a huge, gut-wrenching crush. Make that two crushes. Rowe and her friend Lucas* were ready to walk home together after another long day in their freshman year in high school. It was nearing 5 p.m. when Rowe’s best friend, Amelia*, Lucas’ girlfriend, came through the empty hallway. She was fighting with some other friends at the time and needed Rowe on her side. Amelia grabbed Rowe by the shoulders tightly, pulled her aside and shook her purposefully. “You’re my best friend,” Amelia told Rowe. “We’re going to be best friends forever.”

Rowe felt butterflies in her stomach, but forced herself to listen to her inner monologue in that moment: Don’t lean in and kiss her. Don’t lean in and kiss her. Do. Not. Kiss her.

After making her case for Rowe’s loyalty, Amelia planted a kiss on her boyfriend and fled. Rowe recognized her friend was straight. If she ever disclosed her feelings, the friendship would surely end. So she decided to throw herself into the crush she had on Lucas. At least a fraction more hope existed there.

Rowe’s high school heartbreak is reminiscent of any innocent crush or young relationship. But once Rowe came out, her love life became less about finding “the one” and more about who she was attracted to. To others, the fact that Rowe is attracted to more than one gender encapsulated her identity.

Egale Canada Human Rights Trust, a nonprofit advocacy organization for LGBT+ equality, launched its second national inquiry into homophobia, biphobia and transphobia on Canadian post-secondary campuses in October. In 2012, their first inquiry found that 70 per cent of participating LGBTQ+ identifying students in Canadian schools reported hearing homophobic remarks every day in school, and 10 per cent reported hearing such remarks from teachers.

But biphobia for women and femme people often takes place in nuanced ways.

When Rowe previously came out to her male friends, the usual responses consisted of “it’s just a phase” accusations—something all too familiar in the bisexual community. Other times, reactions have to do with threesomes, asking whether she’s “even had sex with a woman before” or random sex questions because they assume Rowe’s some sort of expert. “Everything I did and everything I said just became a little more sexual.”

Claire Davis was never on the fence about her bisexuality. But having to continuously reassure her own girlfriend of her queerness slowly chipped away at Davis’ confidence in what her own truth was. Are you sure you’re gay?: an unanticipated question for somebody in an on-again-off-again relationship of about a year and a half—yet Davis had to deal with it on a regular basis.

Disbelief and pressure to come out persisted in the group of queer friends the two hung out with. “If you don’t come out, then we don’t believe that you’re actually queer,” they said to Davis, after an intoxicated night sitting on a kitchen floor at 3 a.m. Davis felt if she didn’t come out soon, she would be ousted from the queer community by the very people that she sought approval from.

Misconceptions of bisexuality don’t exist only among straight people.

When she came out to her family, the validation also wasn’t there. She was inclined to keep her identity a secret as she became more self-conscious of how people perceived her. To her queer friends, she was an in-the-

closet straight person, slutty and confused about who she wants. To straight people, she was the “warden of the queer land”—the person anyone could ask sex questions to.

Davis was hypersexualized on both ends and wasn’t being perceived as who she really is: someone simply willing to love anyone and everyone.

Being bisexual is often perceived as “fake queer,” as Davis puts it, and as someone seeking attention because they just can’t decide on one gender. People also often assume their bi partner is more promiscuous due to being attracted to more than one gender and consequentially, assumed to be cheaters. By anyone, straight or gay, Davis’ sexuality was sexualized.

“I wanted them to accept me in that community,” Davis remembers. “People that are supposed to be welcoming and understanding … those same people are the ones that are pretty quick to push bi people out, because we’re just not gay enough.” She says she’s perceived as being confused about what she wants.

found in LGBTQ+ specific retailers, leaving bi folks with few resources.

“What you’re seeing as a result is this kind of biphobia going unchecked,” Davis says. “People having to just carry their experience on their own and not having a community to check in with … That’s even more for people who live outside of cities or are in isolated situations.”

Shiva Safari, a bisexual, LGBTQ+ therapist who specializes in collaborative, emotionally-focused therapy, says it’s all about the specific experience for the person—because contrary to popular belief, every bisexual person is very different from the next.

Safari advises that rather than focusing on the condescension and sexualization from within and outside of the community, it’s good to talk about your feelings and validate them in a safe space. “It’s usually a big relief to acknowledge your sadness.”

While this isn’t always accessible, Davis suggests turning to visibility. According to Davis, who is a coordinator for the Ryerson Students’ Union Equity Centre, this plays an

letter, she didn’t question herself—unlike Rowe, who questioned her own identity after constantly being challenged for it.

After Rowe came out she was ashamed for “daring” to come out as bi because she never had sex with a woman. “It’s just the mere thought of having to prove myself as a bisexual woman,” Rowe says.

Nothing ever came to be between neither Rowe and Amelia, nor Rowe and Lucas.

But some months after their moment in the hallway, an innocent, curious dare unexpectedly enticed Rowe to explore her sexuality again. She and her friends were curious to know if it was possible to breathe while kissing. It didn’t take them long to learn it was, and they kissed a few more times that night.

And it felt right for Rowe.

After that night, Rowe went on another hiatus from exploring her sexuality after the girl from that night told her to “never speak of this again” the next morning. It wasn’t until she got to Ryerson and started frequenting Toronto’s gay clubs and bars that she became more comfortable being honest about who

BEING BISEXUAL IS MANY THINGS. IT’S CONSTANTLY FACING THREESOME REQUESTS, ASSUMED BDSM KNOWLEDGE AND PRESUMED STDS. IT’S A LACK OF SUPPORT AND RESOURCES ON YOUR LOCAL BOOKSHELVES. The bi identity itself is often dismissed, made invisible and degraded. Another problem is that data doesn’t exist for these experiences—according to a report from Researching for LGBTQ Health, the organization found that studies which probe treatment of LGBTQ+ people tend to overlook the unique experiences of the “B.” Navigating biphobia can be difficult with little statistics to cite and little to no access to support or resources. This shortage of resources is also prevalent in local book stores. Glad Day Bookshop is a Toronto store dedicated to LGBTQ+ content on Church Street. But books on bisexuality and biphobia exist only on one shelf, with some content interspersed in other sections. Content for sale remains limited when it hardly exists. Gay and lesbian fiction are more easily

important role in dismantling this category of biphobia.

One year ago, Davis took to her passion for embroidery to make a testament to her bisexuality. The piece depicts a two-headed snake, just born, on the verge of death. It elicits the truth of being stuck in one body but having more than one direction to go in. She finds the animal unnecessarily politicized, just like her sexuality. “It’s just been born, and it probably won’t last very long in its pure existence,” Davis says. But unlike the baby two-headed snake, Davis won’t let unwarranted opinions stifle who she is.

“I’m not out, but I’m really glad I have someone like you in my life,” some bi folks told her upon seeing the piece.

Once Davis learned about the alternatives to the stringent definitions of each

she was. While she still struggles with people sexualizing her on a regular basis, she’s honest about who she is at the very least.

Being bisexual is many things. It’s constantly facing threesome requests, assumed BDSM knowledge and presumed STDs. It’s a lack of support and resources on your local bookshelves. It’s fighting for equal rights alongside an oppressed community that doesn’t seem to want to accept you either. It’s butterflies in your stomach that you’re told are fake, temporary and attention-seeking.

What bisexuality is not, however, is a factor determined by anyone other than yourself.

“If you feel like you’re bisexual,” Rowe says, “no one can tell you you’re not.” *Names have been changed to protect anonymity.

06 OPINIONS

EDITOR | KATHLEEN CHEN OPINIONS@THESTRAND.CA

Loving without labels ILLUSTRATION | YILIN ZHU

erica sung contributor

My unofficial coming out involved me telling my friends in eighth grade that I had a crush on a girl.

With complete sincerity, they asked if this made me bi or gay, although their prior knowledge of the boys I was dumbly starry-eyed for throughout elementary school made them lean more towards the former. I said I wasn’t sure, because I wasn’t. I was too occupied with the crush itself to consider the implications it had on my sexuality. My discovery of my queer identity was neither sudden nor gradual. When I realized I had developed feelings for a girl for the first time, I accepted it and allowed it to be a starting point for continuous exploration.

In my first few years of navigating my queer identity—my “baby gay” years as I like to describe them— I was initially fixated on labelling myself. I wondered what to call myself, what I should say when other people asked, what label best suited how I experienced attraction. I used “pansexual” the most at first, as I attributed the prefix pan to be a rejection of the gender binary. (Although now I also understand that bisexuality can have similar interpretations, some considering “bi” to mean attraction to different genders, instead of attraction to just men and women.) Then there was also the umbrella term of “queer” which, while I often use it now, seemed to me at the time too foreign to consider as something that I could use to describe myself.

I was concerned with how I should articulate how I felt, a task that was hard enough in general, but exacerbated in relation to feelings I didn’t fully understand.

It worried me whether labelling myself as one sexuality now, would compromise me later if it turned out I wasn’t who I thought I was.

Sometime in high school, whilst scrolling through Tumblr as my baby gay self did, I read a poster that declared we should “experience attraction freely and worry about labels later.” After reading it I had the realization that this struggle I was having with my sexuality—the biggest struggle I had ever had with it—was one I was having for the sake of others. Instead of being concerned with who I was, I was fixating on how to describe it.

There were times when I would develop small crushes on a boy in my grade, and I was confronted with the dilemma of whether I was no longer queer, whether my earlier experiences of having feelings for a girl would be my last. This conflict also had to do with how my insecurities regarding queer identity were still rooted in heteronormativity. I worried about problems I had yet to have. If I were to date a boy, would my friends think my queerness was a passing phase? If I were to marry a man, would my parents eventually forget that I came out to them? I use gender-neutral labels when I refer to my potential spouse, but my mother doesn’t, although I don’t think she does so on purpose.

AT THIS POINT IN MY LIFE, I UNDERSTAND MY IDENTITY AS IT IS SPECIFIC TO ME. I DON'T FEEL THE NEED TO USE A LABEL WHEN THINKING ABOUT MY SEXUALITY, BUT I UNDERSTAND IT ISN'T THIS WAY FOR EVERYONE.

I joke with friends about playing rock-paper-scissors with my future wife to decide who would carry our first child; make snide comments about never dating a boy because “boys are gross,” but exhale exaggerated, resigned sighs when I inevitably develop feelings for one again; have a long-standing joke about how my friend and I made up the “queer women of colour” brigade in our high school yearbook committee. If so

much of my identity revolved around a label, would it be dismantled if I were to stop using it? Although it took me years to come to terms with the answer, I now know it to be a definite “no.”

Labels are important because they help to articulate your specific experience of attraction to other people, but your identity is so much more complex than can be summed up in one word. I think the problem with labels is how their connotations are so often considered to be their definitions. Experiencing rare attraction to the same sex doesn’t mean you have to identify as bisexual, nor does rarely experiencing attraction mean that you have to identify as asexual. It’s not a matter of conforming to the idea that many may hold about how you identify, it’s finding the label that best suits you.

At this point in my life, I understand my identity as it is specific to me. I don’t feel the need to use a label when thinking about my sexuality, but I understand it isn’t this way for everyone.

I’ve never been at a complete consensus with myself about my identity, and perhaps I never will be, but I’m comforted by the notion that I don’t have to adhere to any idea of what label I use to identify myself.

Nowadays I’m most comfortable with the umbrella term “queer,” and if someone asks for specifics on that, I will divulge so long as it matters enough to them that I can explain more thoroughly. My identity as it relates to other people isn’t as important as I once thought. It matters more when I engage in the queer community and show solidarity with my LGBTQ+ peers, but beyond that, it remains imperative to myself only.

I realize the exploration of sexuality is unending and continuously important, but that’s why I prioritize its significance in relation to me the most. If I can help it, I don’t want to put any restrictions on myself. Why should we make the navigation of identity about anyone but ourselves? Labels can be empowering, so long as we ensure that we define them, instead of allowing them to define us. We decide what labels mean to us or whether they mean anything at all. Now, when I find myself at odds with my identity again, I recite the same sentiments: I am queer without the need for explanation, I am queer because I say I am.

OPINIONS 07

@STRANDPAPER THE STRAND | 20 MARCH 2018

Put on the spot Should we be asking people’s sexual orientation? kirsten yeung contributor

My friend thinks she’s got a “pretty accurate gaydar” and I’m hard-pressed to remind her that we’ve known each other since Grade 3 and she still hasn’t completely figured it out. She was telling me a story about a girl who was “totally hitting on her,” but I think she was just being friendly. It seems to go this way a lot with the people I know; they see stereotypes and attributes and use those as proof of someone’s sexual orientation.

Unless I’m wearing a plaid and toque ensemble, with an armful of cats, and a half-shaved head that’s dyed petrol or unicorn balayage, I’m not necessarily going to be perceived as queer. I can use up all my fingers and toes twice over recounting the times someone’s first reaction was to deny my orientation when I told them I’m queer.

And it’s not just straight people.

I have a bad habit of telling people to “just ask” when I catch them speculating on someone’s orientation.

I try to play it off like it’s not an important question, that the way people interact with you won’t change after they know. But it always changes—sometimes it’s bad, sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s only an insignificant neutral change, but it changes nonetheless. I try not to tell people to “just ask” now, because the question, “Are you gay/straight/etc.?” turns my stomach inside out every time I hear it. The question sits in my belly like a landmine made of panic, and I only have a split second

to decide if I’m going to tell the truth and face the consequences, or if I’m going to lie to them about myself. I don’t feel that I have the option of telling them to F-off, and that it’s none of their business.

It feels dishonest because I always say that orientation doesn’t matter; since, at the end of it all, we’re still us.

I mean it, but of course, orientation does matter—we’re different but equal. It’s important to recognize these differences. It’s neither pragmatic nor responsible to live life blind, because this ignores the reality that differences can disadvantage certain groups of people.

they choose to share, all other negative consequences such as attacks and phobia aside. Furthermore, the question doesn’t serve any greater purpose other than satisfying the curiosity of the asker. I can’t think of a realistic situation where knowing someone’s sexual orientation will cause momentous and justifiable change.

I don’t like the question and I certainly don’t think it’s necessary. It would be great if we could stop playing 20 questions about other people’s sexual orientation, because it’s usually not fun for at least one of the parties involved. There will be some people who are alright with

AS A GENERAL RULE OF THUMB, WITH SEXUALITY AND ALSO WITH GUM, IF SOMEONE WANTS TO SHARE, THEY’LL LET YOU KNOW. So, we’re back to square one, but I still have reservations about the question. It seems wrong to put someone on the spot, to possibly out someone before they’ve decided to do it on their own terms. The question is a pressure cooker and some people may be pushed into saying something they otherwise would not have wanted to share. Fundamentally, it seems that to out someone is to deprive them of their privacy and autonomy over what

being asked to specify their orientation, and it’s great that they are comfortable enough to be able to do so. But as a general rule of thumb, with sexuality and also with gum, if someone wants to share, they’ll let you know. So, I tell my friend with the “gaydar”—quietly, because I’m a bit embarrassed—that, trust me, she was probably just being nice.

Queerness in the Estonian diaspora renée olo contributor

“Kaob keel, kaob rahvas”: if the language disappears, so do the people. This phrase was neatly inscribed on a wooden plaque above the door of the dining hall of the Estonian children’s camp, where I spent most of the summers of my childhood from the age of three. It’s one of my oldest visual memories and one of the most poignant. I grew up within the Estonian diaspora community in Toronto, a small and rather insular group of people who are fiercely proud of their identity and equally proud of all the things that they aren’t: Estonian, they were; Russian, they weren’t. This community raised children who raised more children who could speak Estonian, sing folk songs, and do their fatherland proud.

In this diaspora, you go to kindergarten, Estonian school, camp, and church with the same pool of people within which you’re inevitably expected to choose someone to marry, and raise another generation of Estonian children with. The weight and gravity of this is constantly reinforced by well-meaning teachers and older folks. Any community as small and insular as mine is extremely preoccupied with the idea of survival, keeping traditions alive, and keeping the language and culture alive. Small communities evolve more slowly than larger ones because they’re scared of disappearing if they change. It only makes sense that if reproduction is key, strong heteronormative values and hyper-femininity and masculinity are largely encouraged—if not, expected. As a little gay kid, these values and expectations were isolating to say the least.

At camp, once you reach a certain age, you’re allowed to stay up past your bedtime so you can slowdance with the opposite gender. The boys always picked the girls, an unsaid rule. One particular night, I was dolled up with the most horrific fuchsia lipstick that I had purchased at the camp canteen, legs entirely eaten alive by aggressive rural Ontarian mosquitoes, when a boy chose me. It should’ve been the most magical experience of my ten-year-old life, but all I could think about was how it was the girls’ sauna day the next day

and how greasy the hair under his ball cap was. It felt like all the Cheetos and punch I had devoured with my friends ten minutes earlier were about to erupt from my mouth. I ran outside into the dewy grass, and asked myself “what the hell was wrong?” I didn’t talk about this with the other girls, or anyone ever for that matter.

From that night on, I decided that I could never date anyone, ever. There was something wrong.

For years I told myself that I was too young to “like” boys despite being completely in love with my choir’s female accompanist, or really any girl who’d give me the time of day. In school, I would pick one generally acceptable, non-gross boy to be my “crush” in case I had to play truth or dare. I told my parents that I was too focused on school, choir, and piano to have any time to think about boys. They, in turn, told me they were proud of me for being responsible and levelheaded. Their practical little girl.

My parents weren’t overtly homophobic. To them, gay people were like a sideshow attraction—entertaining to observe for short periods of time, but at an arm’s length. When I asked them what Pride was, they answered that it was a parade of half-naked people yelling.

My mother would talk fondly of her gay male friend from art school and how good his sense of humour was, but described a doctor who she felt got a little too touchy as a lesbian, the word rolling sharply off her tongue. She always continued this account by comparing her to Dr. R, my first family doctor, a good nonthreatening lesbian. The message was loud and clear: we, Estonians, are quiet, civilized, and dress well. Lesbians are aggressive, have bad taste, and act manly. We are not that, therefore, we can’t be gay. Gay people are fine, but we’re different from them.

When I moved out and came to university, I was suddenly tossed into a new world of options. I could wear men’s button-up shirts if I wanted to, I could date women if I wanted to, I could walk down the street with the newfound confidence that I now recognize in other queer women who have come out the other side stronger. When I came out to my parents, my mom couldn’t look me in the eye for three days. “If sexuality is on a spectrum,” she asked, “How low or high are

you?” desperately hoping I would say I was somewhere in the middle. “I always pictured you marrying an older man in grad school, maybe a colleague. What am I going to tell my sisters?” “Nothing,” I said, “Everything, I don’t care anymore.” I was tired, finished, spent.

I recently gave a lecture about revisionist feminist music history to an Estonian women’s group where I had to use my laptop. Having decided a few years ago to be more honest and visible in my queerness, the entire front of my laptop is covered in different vaguely queer themed stickers—the most eye-catching one being a rainbow heart somebody had stuck to my cheek during Pride last year. In addition to this, I had also elected to wear a full suit, firmly confirming whatever the audience may have suspected from my laptop stickers. When I stepped up to the podium, I could feel my heart pounding against my chest. I was more nervous about how people would receive my presentation and appearance than about how my 45 minute-long lecture would go. I sipped my glass of wine, scanned the faces in the audience, and tried to make playful banter with the front row. I felt like I needed to be as cute and nonthreatening as possible in order to appeal to the sea of grey old ladies and younger women in short dresses and heels. But, as I started lecturing, I felt the room open up to me. My love of the subject matter gradually overtook my nerves, and my confidence increased.

The audience started asking questions, got engaged with the subject, and hung back later to talk and ask for song recommendations. I love my community and family with all my heart, despite all this. And, ultimately, that’s what queerness means to me: loving despite adverse circumstances; being patient and tolerant; understanding others who don’t share your views or opinions and where they come from. I choose to live as openly as possible and be the positive role model I never had within my own community. I want young queer kids to be able to look at me and know that living a happy and fulfilling life is entirely within their reach, and I want my younger sister to never have to experience the degree of self-loathing that I did. If the language disappears, so do the people. But, what if it’s the culture that’s driving them away?

08 FEATURES

EDITOR | ERIN CALHOUN FEATURES@THESTRAND.CA

ONE YEAR AFTER PETERSON Examining trans experience and safety on campus

maia kachan associate arts and culture editor

Content warning: this article includes discussion of violence against trans people and Jordan Peterson’s transphobic rhetoric Transgender people, because of their gender, are at great risk for violence, harassment, and discrimination. At particular risk are intersectionally marginalized groups like transfeminine people, racialized trans people, and low income trans people. At the University of Toronto, Jordan Peterson and his followers have significantly perpetuated a culture of fear surrounding marginalized bodies since his rise in popularity in late 2016. Given these factors, what steps are being taken by the University to ensure the safety of trans students? Perhaps more importantly, do trans students feel safe at UofT? The basics Trans people refers to, as an umbrella term, all people whose gender identity does not align with their gender assigned at birth. It is important to note, however, that not all people who fit into this definition identify themselves as trans. Other terms used by students to describe their gender include: non-binary, agender, demigirl or boy, androgynous, and gender fluid. Trans people can use any, all, or no pronouns.

There are significant access barriers that exist for trans people in attaining employment or education. It was reported in one of the few studies on the experiences of individuals who identify as trans in Ontario, by the Trans PULSE Project in July 2015, that 13 percent of trans people were fired for being trans and 18 percent were turned down for a job. In an academic context, 58 percent could not get an academic transcript with their correct name and pronoun. One effect of these examples of additional barriers is that they create a significantly higher risk of homelessness, poverty, and unemployment for trans people.

The rates of violence against trans people in Ontario are staggering. In the same Trans PULSE Project study, 20 percent of participants reported physical or sexual assault due to being a trans person, and 34 percent more reported verbal threats or harassment for the same reason.

ment, as well as black trans people, Indigenous trans people, and low income trans people.

This does not minimize the fact that trans people, as a whole, experience incredibly high rates of discrimination.

University policy and resources In previous years, UofT has made numerous attempts to provide resources for trans students on campus. The Sexual and Gender Diversity Office provides online explanations for how to access hormone therapy and change one’s name on official documentation. One important addition to the name change policy is that students do not need to have their legal names on their academic records. They currently run a discussion group, called Gender Talk, specifically on trans experience and multiple events for queer and trans students of colour. Also provided is a map that shows students singleuser and all-gender washrooms. One barrier to washroom access for trans students on campus that still exists, however, is the limited number of gender-neutral washrooms. Moreover, almost all are single stall and accessible. Many non-disabled trans students are uncomfortable using them as it takes away the use of a washroom from students with accessibility needs.

Other resources on campus for trans students include: The Centre for Women and Trans People that provides food, a fully functional kitchen, and programming with an intersectional framework in mind. LGBTOUT, the longest running group for queer and trans students at UofT, hosts a drop-in centre where students can volunteer and seek non-professional support. Individual colleges also have their own LGBT student organizations, such as VicPride! at Victoria College.

— It would be virtually impossible to discuss the experience of trans students at the University of Toronto without examining the impact that Professor Jordan Peterson’s transphobic and misogynistic comments made after coming into public attention in the fall of 2016. The rise of his discourse on free speech had many consequences, a major one being the creation of a space for white-supremacist, free-speech groups on campus. Much of his public discussion surrounded his refusal to use gender neutral

IT WOULD BE VIRTUALLY IMPOSSIBLE TO DISCUSS THE EXPERIENCE OF TRANS STUDENTS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO WITHOUT EXAMINING THE IMPACT THAT PROFESSOR JORDAN PETERSON’S TRANSPHOBIC AND MISOGYNISTIC COMMENTS MADE AFTER COMING INTO PUBLIC ATTENTION IN THE FALL OF 2016.

When working to understand the experiences of trans students, it’s important to note the intersectional marginalization that further impacts how a person navigates the world.

Intersectionality is a concept that highlights the ways that race, class, gender, sexuality, and other factors intersect with each other and how these intersections influence our treatment of each other. Specifically, in the context of trans experience, patriarchy and fragile masculinity means that trans women and femmes are at a significantly higher risk for assault and harass-

pronouns, due to their supposed inability to fit into proper English grammatical structure.

Following many of his most inflammatory comments, hundreds of groups, academics from across Canada and the United States, and University of Toronto faculty, among others, signed a letter to the Dean of Arts & Science, David Cameron and Provost, Cheryl Reghr, asking for the termination of Professor Peterson on the grounds of violation of University policy. Earlier that year, Peterson had been warned by Cameron and the Vice

Provost of the University that he must follow the Ontario Human Rights Code to be employed by the University. More recently, Peterson spoke out against Bill C-16, which passed in May 2017 to protect gender identity against hate crimes in Canadian law. Despite his continual discriminatory attitudes towards many marginalized communities (including trans people), Jordan Peterson is still employed by the University of Toronto.

Student experience and safety On the topic of safety, Daniela, a University College student, said “Obviously safety as a non-cis person is something on my mind, but the focus should also be more on racialized experience, and safety of black bodies. I don’t want to take up more space than bodies that experience more marginalization. I don’t think my voice as a more privileged queer person matters more.”

On the whole, other trans students who were interviewed for comments also reflected this, saying that speaking on issues where they don’t feel personally affected and representing a community over more marginalized bodies would be erasing people's experiences by highlighting their own voices. Another sentiment that was expressed wholeheartedly was the ways that other groups, namely black, Indigenous, and specifically transfeminine people experience heightened marginalization and should be centred in discussions on marginalization.

An anonymous trans student, on the topic of racialized and trans experience, said that she “feels inherently wrong at this school. [...] I am brown, trans, and low income. University of Toronto’s population of student leaders are mostly cis, white, and high income. When almost everyone who is elected into power is part of one group, where does that leave the rest of us?” She went on to comment that, as for trans safety on campus, “Jordan Peterson’s tenure and the rise of alt-right groups makes me scared to exist in my body here.”

What’s clear is the ways in which representation is power, and how privileged voices are still centred and represented in leadership positions at the University of Toronto.

Another trans student, N, expressed a similar sentiment. They said that, while on campus or in class, they’ve been “consistently misgendered after correcting people multiple times. I find it difficult to go to class and interact with other students knowing that attitudes like Peterson’s are still financially endorsed by the University.”

Many students at UofT experience intersectional marginalization. Intersectionality must be acknowledged when considering any experience on campus, whether it be writing a test or living in the year after Peterson.

Recognition of intersectional experiences further allows the community to empower and protect its members. Discrimination and marginalization do not exist exclusively within UofT’s campus borders. Peterson’s rise in popularity has sent ripples throughout North America, where his alt-right following has only grown. The fast metabolism of prioritizing a harmful rhetoric of freedom of speech only further allows for further discrimination and abuse. Although there are several resources for trans students on campus, fear is not obsolete. Trans students continue to feel unsafe on campus. The university administration should look further into resources for trans students on campus and encourage a community that recognizes them.

@STRANDPAPER THE STRAND | 20 MARCH 2018

VISUAL ART 09

ART BY JOSHUA SINGLER

ART BY EMILY FU

10 ARTS AND CULTURE

EDITOR | SABRINA PAPAS ARTSANDCULTURE@THESTRAND.CA

Misconceptions of a neutral identity and blind casting in campus theatre ILLUSTRATION | MISBAH AHMED

cy macikunas contributor

Genderblind and raceblind casting seem like the equitable words to use these days if you don’t want to sound like a bigot; but what do they actually mean? Usually, blind casting means that someone will be considered for a role “regardless of their features,” so genderblind and raceblind mean someone will be considered regardless of their gender or race. This often signifies that their own identity will not be important to the work they are doing, and this is an issue where we, as artists, must be critical.

I suggest raceblind, genderblind, and other “blind” casting remain as tools to deconstruct the innate sexism, cissexism, racism, ableism, and heteronormativity of a work’s core materials that artists cannot alter. What we can’t change, we transform, and we do it as a challenge—asking the audience to look at a famous work from another angle and to examine the new dynamics of these well-known characters.

In the development of new works, however, these tools should not be used. It’s better for there to simply be diverse roles for actors, rather than having to consider diverse actors in spite of their identities.

“But Cy,” you ask, “What words will I use if I have not specifically imagined a character’s ethnicity, gender, and sexuality? What if I would like to find people first and build the character with the actor? What if it doesn’t matter all that much?”

I’d like to suggest we make use of another term: “open casting.” It doesn’t imply the “regardless of/in spite of the text” that blind casting does. Instead, it indicates that the creators are open to seeing what individual actors can bring to the table. As well, “it” (someone’s ethnicity/gender/sexuality) always matters. The idea that these qualities of a character sometimes don’t matter is deeply rooted in the cultural idea that there is a neutral, default identity. Cishet white men dominate books, movies, and news. They are not only artists, but everyone. A white able-bodied cishet male actor is seen as a neutral canvas, unmarred by the connotations of their skin and their body.

Except that this is not neutral and treating it as such only solidifies the harmful idea that it is. My ethnicity, gender, and sexuality are not additions to this baseline form, they are separate and their own.

We all say we support equitable, diverse narratives. We, as a community, know theatre isn’t as diverse as it should be.

We know there’s a problem, and we know our side on that problem; so why aren’t we doing anything? Consider how in the past three years at VCDS, there have been four white cis men directors. That’s not that many out of 17 shows, but

keep in mind that, in our culture, white cis men have the largest amount of freedom and credibility. If anyone is able to (and therefore should) branch out, it’s them. Of those four, only one directed a show not written by a white cis man.

Why is this a problem? Out of 17 shows over three years, 11 were written by cis white men. In fact, the entire 20162017 VCDS mainstage season was written by white cis men.

The only show in the season written by someone who wasn’t a cis white man was the student-written UofT drama festival production, A Perfect Bowl of Pho.

lour, and trans people. A throwaway line about a guy’s boyfriend, Jufran; menstruation—it’s an inch that makes a mile.

To performers, be loud and vote with your feet. Don’t be in productions that demean you on any level and, if you don’t want to walk out, talk it out. Talk to your director, your fellow actors, the crew, and the writer if you can. If you must do the work, find ways to do it without playing into the harmful structures it supports.

To directors, I know it’s pitch season. We’re all thinking about what to do next year. Consider more authors, and be mindful of them; how much space do both of you take up?

BE EXPLICIT. TELL ME OF YOUR IDENTITY, YOUR ILLNESSES, YOUR BODY, YOUR MIND—YOUR EXPERIENCES THAT ARE UNIQUE TO YOURSELF. WRITE GOOD ROLES FOR QUEER PEOPLE, AND WOMEN, AND PEOPLE OF COLOUR, AND TRANS PEOPLE. I’m not saying we have to only work with the most diverse set of people we can find and only do very diverse plays.

As a marginalized artist, I am not saying this is our fault or that we have failed our own people. In this culture, our identity is under constant scrutiny. It is easier for us to pay homage to the old white cishet man classics, because they will always be taken seriously. If we take a show from an author like us, about us, it becomes an agenda, because a marginalized author is not seen as having the same versatility. Their stories are always shaped by how they navigate the world. The issue is, the white cishet man author is the same, but his experiences are perceived as accessible and universal. This creates a pressure on artists, especially marginalized artists, to stick to the established canon instead of branching out.

“But Cy, if we make things too diverse blah blah white noise?”—there is no such thing as too diverse. I’ve been made to relate and empathize with these characters and stories for most of my life. Remember what I said about the default?

The constructed idea is that you are neutral because you are the majority. Your stories are as relatable to me, as mine are to you. I’m not saying they aren’t relatable, just that diverse works are denied the universality given to works from that white, cishet canon.

To writers, don’t shy from writing your stories. Be explicit. Tell me of your identity, your illnesses, your body, your mind—your experiences that are unique to yourself. Write good roles for queer people, and women, and people of co-

How loud is your voice and who does it speak over? There is a wide gap between how much white, cis-man writers are put on versus anyone else. This is a gap we can’t close on our own. Sometimes it’s not your place to explore someone else’s identity. But in the case that identity isn’t core to the narrative, you can be mindful and hire a dramaturge.

You know, a dramaturge: that person you hire because you don’t know what it was like living in 1930s Brooklyn. It’s not a big change to have them help you navigate the intricacy of say, womanhood, either. It’s their job.

Find plays by different kinds of people instead of recycling the plays you already know, do your research, and explore. Find narratives you can honour, and that you want to.

I don’t think anyone should do art that their heart isn’t in; but I think it’s key for us all to consider different kinds of stories and different kinds of ideas. It’s the only way we can grow as people or a community.

This is my challenge to you. If you say you care about diverse theatre and want to support diverse stories, and believe in diverse artists, act like it. Throw out your ideas of neutrality and the default. I don’t expect you to be sorry—that’s worthless. I expect you, and I expect all of us, to be better.

Cy Lian “he/him” Macikunas is a trans, biracial, bisexual, bipolar, short and angry theatre artist. Come check out the workshop results of his play A Brand New Sky in early April, and the VicPride! Wordpress where he hopes to post a campus theatre diversity report as well as a few lists of plays by marginalized artists.

ARTS AND CULTURE 11

@STRANDPAPER THE STRAND | 20 MARCH 2018

Clumsily queer Coming out as bisexual in 2018 hazel sands contributor

A lack of representation has historically hindered children from understanding themselves in relation to the world around them.

Whether it be diversity in race, gender, sexuality, or disability that’s depicted on-screen and in the news, a lack of representation can be damaging to those trying to make sense of who they are. While finding LGBTQA+ representation has always felt like a challenge, finding an openly bisexual individual, be it a public figure or a character in a film, feels somewhat impossible.

Bisexuality is rarely treated as a viable identity in pop culture. We see this in Orange is the New Black’s refusal to use the term “bisexual” to address its characters; Glee’s referral to it as a “stepping stone” to identifying as gay; or in headlines that refer to celebrities as gay or lesbian even when they have come out as bisexual (look no further than headlines discussing Alan Cumming’s or Kristen Stewart’s sexualities to see proof of this).

The awkwardness in not knowing how to formally address bisexuality has come as a result of growing up in a world that has never really learned how to discuss it as a proper identity in its own right. Instead, those that identify as bisexual are taught to treat it as something to dance around.

Lee Pace’s recent public coming out is a perfect example of this delicate dance around the word. Originally outed in a February 2018 interview by W Magazine where he seemingly unwillingly stated that he had dated both men and women in the past, he later tweeted a clarification, saying that he considers himself a part of the queer community. While this would suggest him to be bisexual, he avoided using that label.

Perhaps afraid to have their sexuality seen as a pitstop between identities, as bisexuality is so often made out to be the well-worn path between straight and gay,

many other celebrities and public figures have chosen to come out in a similar manner. During interviews, when asked about their sexuality, they claim to have dated or are open to dating anyone of any gender, rather than staunchly identifying as bisexual or pansexual. Queer celebrities, from Ezra Miller (“I’m open to love wherever it can be found”) to Zoe Saldana (“If one day I wake up and I want to be with a woman, I’m going to do that”), to Aubrey Plaza (“I fall in love with girls and guys. I can’t help it”) all dance around labelling their sexuality as anything other than an ambiguous open-minded approach to sex and romance.

While not wanting to adhere to a label is by no means a sin in the queer community, it is important to ask ourselves why so many within the bisexual community are often the ones to avoid naming their sexuality. The stigma that surrounds bisexual identity contributes to this hesitation of openly joining the community for fear of being branded as greedy or indecisive.

However, I don’t think celebrities are necessarily attempting to hide their sexualities out of any sense of shame when they refuse to put a label to it. Perhaps instead, like me, they have just gotten to a point in their personal lives where they have come out in so many ways that they simply don’t see it as important enough to deserve a grand “coming out of the closet” moment.

I used to associate coming out with sweaty palms and butterflies in my stomach, that felt more like a tornado than a flutter.

However, after coming out as a bisexual what feels like hundreds of times, I associate it more with a flippantness that never ceases to stun the clammy handed fifteen-year-old still inside of me.

I recently went on a date with a girl I’d met through Tinder at an event venue I occasionally bartend at; and while she looked around, I went to say hello to a co-worker.

He asked what I was doing there and when

I mentioned that I was on a date, he immediately looked around the room and asked what he looked like. I emphasized that she was standing just over there, gesturing towards her. The momentary look of surprise on his face is one that I’ve become accustomed to, since most of those around me know that I recently came out of a long-term relationship with a man, and therefore they assume that I’m straight.

why those in the bisexual community tend to waiver when discussing their sexuality, preferring to vaguely explain that they’re open to any and all possibilities of love, rather than firmly placing themselves outside of a binary that many find so difficult to wrench their minds out of.

While we may have a long ways to go until the world can comfortably adopt the middle ground of the Kinsey scale as a re-

WHILE NOT WANTING TO ADHERE TO A LABEL IS BY NO MEANS A SIN IN THE QUEER COMMUNITY, IT IS IMPORTANT TO ASK OURSELVES WHY SO MANY WITHIN THE BISEXUAL COMMUNITY ARE OFTEN THE ONES TO AVOID NAMING THEIR SEXUALITY. Knowing the sheer annoyance at having to repeatedly come out of some fictional closet makes it very easy to understand why so many celebrities come out with phrases that make less of an earth-shattering revelation and more of an “of course I won’t limit myself to one gender” tremor.

Regardless of how casually I view my identity, coming out has always been a bit of a challenge. Skepticism and questions tend to meet me when I address the fact that, although I have predominantly dated men in my past, I am not straight. One of my close friends made a joke about my recent date, saying: “You know once you date a woman you probably ain’t going back.” And while he meant no harm by it, it’s nevertheless frustrating to constantly be forced into a binary view of sexuality. Comments like these are

ality, many of us can still acknowledge that progress is being made against bisexual erasure, as 2018 has already welcomed several bisexual celebrities and characters.

Hopefully this pop culture wave of bisexuality, as seen in Janelle Monae’s “Make You Feel” music video; Charlize Theron’s blatantly bisexual character in the film Atomic Blonde; Frank Ocean’s casual insistence on seeing both sides in his song “Chanel”; or Rosa Diaz’s heartwarming coming out story on the television show Brooklyn NineNine, will provide a much-needed confidence boost to the bisexual community. The steady increase of queer representation in pop culture and media will perhaps allow us to boldly claim our identity without feeling the need to say anything but that dirty word, bisexual.

PHOTO | ELENA SENECHAL-BECKER

12 ARTS AND CULTURE

EDITOR | SABRINA PAPAS ARTSANDCULTURE@THESTRAND.CA

TV made me gay sidney drmay the eyeopener

Let’s get one thing clear from the start: Growing up in the late ‘90s/early 2000s was weird because they made cartoon characters hot. I don’t know why they started doing that but they did, and now all us millennials have to live with the reality that a lot of our first crushes were cartoon characters. So thanks for that, animation industry. As a direct result, my best friend Kayla and I have a list of all the characters from childhood media that made us gay. Well, maybe not ‘made’ us gay necessarily, but certainly helped with that sexual awakening people have and gave us some kind of representation. It’s almost three pages long.

One of my first crushes growing up was Raven from Teen Titans. I would wake up every Saturday and station myself in front of the TV, waiting for the show to start. If I was extra lucky it would be a marathon day.

I had never read any of her comics and didn’t even fully realize that the character was actually created in the ‘80s. All I knew was that her snarky attitude and purple hair was super cool. Raven sparked an unending trend of immediately being obsessed with the spunky, goth girl character in shows as soon as she was introduced. You know the ones: Sky High’s Magenta, Nikki from 6teen, Shego from Kim Possible, Ellie from Degrassi. They were cool, tough, stylish, a little bit scary and defied expected notions of femininity. It wasn’t until I was part-way through puberty that I realized I didn’t just think these fictional girls were cool, but that I legitimately had crushes on them. They were everything I wanted to be while also being everything I wanted to kiss.

Growing up, I attended a French Catho-

PHOTO | WARNER BROS. ANIMATION

lic school in a small town in Southern Ontario, where there were plenty of people who showed me why that would quite literally ruin my life. The girls who wouldn’t invite me to their sleepovers, the friend who immediately told everyone after I confessed to thinking a female classmate was cute; the Grade Six teacher who sat me down and told me that the things I felt were a problem; the Grade Seven teacher who told me gay marriage was a sin. It was a constant battlefield of avoidance, shutting down and brushing off what people say to me. I didn’t have the liberty to be a curious kid, I was more focused on surviving in a hostile environment. I lived in fear of developing a crush on a classmate.

This meant that the characters in TV shows and movies were perfect for me, I could pin all my growing hormones on someone non-existent that wouldn’t tell all

THANKS FOR THAT, ANIMATION INDUSTRY.

our classmates about how I was sinning. I could talk about how cool I thought they were and my friends assumed it was purely admiration for a character, not an intense crush. All the discomfort and confusion of being a young queer kid in Catholic school

was alienating, it made it impossible for me to feel like I could believe in a God who hated me. So instead of devoting myself to God and a community that didn’t want me, I devoted myself to the goth girls of my dreams.

I dyed my hair dark blue when I was twelve, wrote shitty fanfiction and I worshiped their shows, watching everything I could as often as I could.

I learned how to stream on the family PC and started downloading as soon as I got my first laptop for my fourteenth birthday. If my school days were bad at least I had some good shows and movies to watch at home to help me feel better. They still do too— they’ve become my comfort media. Whenever I’m feeling sad or sick, I turn to them, feeling the nostalgia of youthful crushes and happiness. I rewatch Degrassi, Teen Titans and 6teen at least once a year. They remind me that though this world can be a cruel and uncaring place for young queer kids, we still

find ourselves wherever we can. Kids media has been getting better; there’s overtly queer characters in major showrunners on major networks. It’s amazing to see and I still make time to watch the episodes that have queer characters, but the shows I was obsessed with as a kid still mean the most to me. They helped me feel comfortable in my identity, calmed my fears of loneliness and eventually helped me find other queer kids to bond with.

Even though I’m pretty sure being queer is just a thing you’re born with, I feel pretty confident in saying that TV made me gay.

Without those goth girls I might have always felt a little bit broken. Which means, despite the weirdness of growing up with hot cartoon characters, I really do have to thank the animation industry for making that a thing.

So, again, thanks for that, animation industry.

All born naked and the rest is drag?

RuPaul’s ongoing perpetuation of transphobia and misogyny renna keriazes editorial assistant

RuPaul Charles, host of the reality television show RuPaul’s Drag Race, recently made an extremely controversial statement to The Guardian on March 3rd, 2018. RuPaul’s transphobic and misogynistic comments, specifically on the topic of women performing as drag queens (bio-queens and transqueens), highlight ongoing issues in the drag community. The title of The Guardian's article about RuPaul, “Drag is a big f— you to male dominated culture,” begs the question: by perpetuating the thought that one can only be a drag queen if one is a cis man, aren’t you perpetuating male-dominated culture?

explaining that he allowed Peppermint to compete on the show because she had not yet transitioned surgically. RuPaul made it extremely apparent that he does not think that transgender or cisgender women belong on his show, which is ironic because the art of drag itself is about blurring the gender binary and creating an illusion. Drag queens specifically parody femininity, so excluding women and non-conforming gender identities from this art form is an incredibly misogynistic, and transphobic practice. If “We are all born naked and the rest is drag,” why does RuPaul deliberately exclude women?

Drag Race’s popularity gives RuPaul a wide platform to share his opinions and ideas—one would assume that because of his prominent voice in the LGBTQ+ com-

RuPaul

@RuPaul

You can take performance enhancing drugs and still be an athlete, just not in the Olympics.

1:17 PM - 5 Mar 2018

In summary, RuPaul said that being a woman (either transgender or cisgender) is something he rejects from his television show and his own perceptions of drag. He used the example of Peppermint, a trans woman who was a finalist in season nine of Drag Race,

munity, he would be cognizant about what he says. Unfortunately, RuPaul has a history of transphobia in his music and television show. In 2009, with the release of his album Champion, RuPaul included songs with titles such as “Tranny Chaser” and

“Ladyboy,” which illustrate his insensitivity and ignorance about terms that are used as transphobic. The show Drag Race itself used to feature a segment called “You’ve got Shemale,” which has been removed from later seasons. Since RuPaul is such an influential figure in the LGBTQ+ community, he needs to do better in recognizing how pervasive his actions and influence are.

It is also important to acknowledge that actual drag shows and Drag Race exist on completely different planes. Drag Race focuses mainly on the contestants out of drag and the behind-the-scenes elements of the art form. Drag shows are extremely different.

If, for example, one was to attend a drag performance, you would rarely see the person behind the makeup and the costumes. The TV show’s focus on the personal elements of the art of drag is why it is so unsettling that RuPaul would denounce the possibility of having women on his show; because the experiences and stories of women are valued as lesser than those of men.

RuPaul, a few days after his interview with The Guardian, tweeted: “You can take performance enhancing drugs and still be an athlete, just not in the Olympics.” In this tweet, he is referring to the idiom that Drag Race is the “Olympics of drag,” while also referring to hormones that transgender individuals may decide to take to change their appearance to be more feminine or more masculine as “performance enhancing.” This denouncement of “performance enhance-

ment” has not stopped the many male-identifying drag performers who have appeared on the show and have had plastic surgery enhancements to look more “convincing” in their performance. RuPaul’s tweet is extremely transphobic and hypocritical since, although he is not worried about the physical enhancement of cis-gendered contestants, he is worried about transness itself and non-binary identities—which is even more troubling.

Women should be welcomed into the drag community, and the Drag Race community. As stated before, drag is not about portraying a “convincing woman” or “man,” it’s about how to explore stereotypical aspects of gender, adopt them, and elevate them into a performance and art, in order to subvert gender norms and expectations. One must understand that what drag queens are doing is not attempting to be a realistic vision of a woman or womanhood.

Exposing the world to more transqueens, bio-queens, and non-binary queens would only help people find television personalities that they can relate to and idolize in many ways within the LGBTQ+ community. Transgender, cis-women, and nonbinary identifying individuals belong in drag spaces as much as men do, and we can only hope that something positive will come out of the backlash RuPaul is experiencing.

ARTS AND CULTURE 13

@STRANDPAPER THE STRAND | 20 MARCH 2018

Queerness and hip-hop Carving a space within the intersections PHOTO | ELENA SENECHAL-BECKER

chelsea tao contributor

Hip-hop and rap music have always been employed as a voice for the disenfranchised. I have always appreciated and been drawn to them as spaces where dominant, oppressive narratives can be deconstructed and reimagined in more fruitful, understanding ways. Some of my fondest memories include delving into hip-hop’s genre-defying archive, exploring a discography that invites the listener to penetrate its bass and kick drum armour to uncover a swelling ocean of personality and intimacy.

But whether I’m listening to Nas’ critically acclaimed Queensbridge flow; Mobb Deep’s visceral narration of street life; Kendrick Lamar’s faithfulness to rap’s lineage; or the masterpieces created by the hundreds of other artists who have impacted me in one way or another, I sometimes find myself wondering whether my queerness (or anyone else’s for that matter) has a place in the world of hip-hop.

In a 2005 interview with MTV, Kanye West made the now-iconic observation that “everybody in hip-hop discriminates against gay people… matter of fact, the exact opposite word of hip-hop is ‘gay.’” Undoubtedly, the relationship between hip-hop and LGBTQ identity has historically existed on tenuous ground. But this relationship goes much deeper than Macklemore and Mary Lambert’s relatively simplistic illustration in “Same Love.” From the rise of homohop in California in the 1990s as an attempt to unify queer artists with hip-hop culture, to the modern-day critical acclaim of queer artists like Young M.A., Kevin Abstract, and Syd the Kyd, hip-hop has blended, partitioned, and challenged notions of queerness since the genre’s conception.

Hip-hop has historically revolved around male-dominated, heterosexual, and binary conceptions of love and sexual fulfillment. The genre’s most quintessential and foundational artists, from Grandmaster Flash, to Wu-Tang Clan, to N.W.A, have utilized homophobic slurs and proudly displayed homophobic attitudes throughout their careers.

Contemporary hip-hop continues to champion the heterosexual male and heterosexual female. In a 2014 interview, T-Pain stated that “radio is getting more gay-friendly [but] I don’t think urban music is getting more gay-friendly because

if that was the case, Frank Ocean would be on a lot more songs.”

Rappers consistently and often aggressively avoid anything that falls out of a binding heterosexual binary. Offset was recently in hot water for his verse in YFN Lucci’s song, “Boss Life,” where he raps: “I do not vibe with queers/ I got the heart of a bear/ I bust ‘em down by the pair.” Eminem has continuously weaponized the use of anti-gay slurs to shame and emasculate his opponents. Kanye West’s compelling introspection and bold comments regarding the marginalization of queer identity in hip-hop were ironically and disappointingly stained by his use of the antiquated phrase, “no homo” in his verse in Jay-Z’s “Run this Town.”

His contemporaries like Lil Wayne, Future, Nas, 50 Cent, Busta Rhymes, T.I., and various others, continuously employ homophobic slurs to denote weakness and inadequacy, and insinuate that the only path to success in rap or hip-hop is through protecting and promoting hyper heteronormative ways of being.

Pride Toronto, and continuously provides a space for racialized LGBTQ rappers and hip-hop artists to thrive. A Tribe Called Quest’s record, “Georgie Porgie,” was held by many to be one of the most anti-gay songs to ever come out of rap. Yet the group has grown to recognize and criticize active discrimination of gay people on their recent track, “We the people…” Jaden Smith and A$AP Rocky boldly show off the gender-fluid fashion pieces in their wardrobes, interrupting a strong current of clean-cut gender binaries in contemporary hip-hop. Between Frank Ocean’s magnificently intimate and poetic honesty and Young M.A.’s fearless exploration of her own sexual identity, lies an ocean of rappers recognizing and encouraging the turning tides in hip-hop’s relationship with queerness.

At the end of the day, however, hip-hop’s relationship with queerness is inseparable from society’s relationship with queerness. As artists and producers continuously influence and are continuously influenced by society’s growth and ethical reimagining of queerness as something innately complex,

AT THE END OF THE DAY, HOWEVER, HIP-HOP’S RELATIONSHIP WITH QUEERNESS IS INSEPARABLE FROM SOCIETY’S RELATIONSHIP WITH QUEERNESS. Despite the records and features with outdated phrases or lyrics, and controversial antics that cause friction between hip-hop and queer identity, hip-hop continuously and characteristically rejects stillness. Respectfully, I disagree with TPain’s position that rap and hip-hop music is failing to become more gay-friendly. As the elusive Kanye West stated more than a decade ago, “Hip-hop is about fighting for your rights, speaking your mind, and breaking down barriers.”

Recently, Jay-Z’s “Smile feat. Gloria Carter” on the Grammy-nominated 4:44 shared the process of coming out with a global audience. Kid Cudi and Ty Dolla $ign took to social media to denounce homophobia in the hip-hop community, following the tragic 2016 Pulse shooting in Orlando.

Toronto’s own Blockorama is the longest running event at

common, and human, the bold lines where hip-hop begins and queerness ends become fainter. It hasn’t arrived at this alliance yet—queer-identifying rappers like Mykki Blanco, Cakes da Killa, and Le1f still work in the penumbra of mainstream success, despite existing and producing art faithful to their experiences. J. Cole, The Game, 50 Cent, and others have shakily attempted to provide questionable and somewhat problematic constructive comments on homophobia in hip-hop. But hip-hop is gradually breaking out of its aphasia, or inability to speak about queer identity, at a time when its influence is needed the most. Hip-hop’s historical position as a bridging process for the disenfranchised allows it to play an integral artistic and social role in the relationships queerness develops within society.

14 SCIENCE

EDITORS | TANUJ ASHWIN KUMAR AND NADINE RAMADAN SCIENCE@THESTRAND.CA

The social construction of the sexed body (Excerpt from “Against Bioessentialism and Towards Trans Liberation: A Polemic") tanuj kumar science editor

CW: discussions of genitalia, reproduction, biosexism, bioessentialism, intersex genital mutilation For this section, we draw upon evolutionary biologist Joan Roughgarden's Evolution's Rainbow, a study of the immense diversity in sex and gender in animals and humans. What is the most common definition of “sex” in this context? Roughgarden explains that, ultimately, it is a differentiation of gametes based on size.

We know the small-gamete (which I will call “microgamete”) as the “sperm” and the large-gamete (which I will call “macrogamete”) as the “egg” in animals that undergo some form of sexual reproduction, but even this can vary—Roughgarden presents the example of a Drosophila (fruit fly) species where the microgamete size is as large as the macrogamete size!

But this becomes the basis of conventional sex-differentiation from an evolutionary biologist’s perspective. Beyond this point, however, Roughgarden shows how everything flies out the window. Through an exhaustive coverage of the simplest animals, to our great ape cousins, we learn that there is little in the way of commonality between what kinds of bodies produce microgametes and what kinds of bodies produce macrogametes, or even their roles and behaviour.

Many species have extremely distinct and unique chromosomal systems that are nothing like human systems, some of which are not binary at all. Many species can change whether they produce micro- or macrogametes based on external temperature conditions; or seemingly at a particular point in their life, if certain conditions necessitate it; or apparently at will. Some animals can alternate between sexual and asexual reproduction (an example being parthenogenesis) based on external conditions. Macro-gamete producer mammals such as hyenas can have external genitalia while micro-gamete producer mammals can have internal genitalia, such as whales, and other such micro-gamete producers get the “egg incubation” role instead of the macrogamete producer, such as seahorses. Many animals exhibit some form of biological hermaphroditism, like flatworms, and there are numerous mammals like various mole species who even possess “ovotestis” tissue in commonality, that is, gonadal tissue that can potentially produce both micro- and macrogametes.

Roughgarden explains how the extensive diversity in “sexed bodies” essentially renders this “natural” definition of binary sex moot, and to top it all off, presents an extensive theory that improves upon Darwinian sexual selection in light of this massive sex variation and sex diversity, while also taking into account recent developments in animal behaviour science and social choice.

If this state of fluidity and slipperiness exists in essentially all other animals, what about humans? How is “sex” defined in humans as opposed to how evolutionary biologists define it? When you're a baby, a doctor looks at your junk and assigns you a “sex” based on this.

However, this sort of assignment is where we begin to see the lie for what it is, in how this so-called “assignment” is immensely damaging towards people who are intersex.

Dr. Cary Gabriel Costello's work and research presents a massive trove of information on intersex people, as both a doctor and an intersex activist. Through his work, and the work of others such as Dr. Anne FaustoSterling, we see the existence of the “phalloclitoris,” and how there is immense spectral variation in genital shape

due to how all genital structures come from the same tissue. In fact, much of the rich variety in genital shape works fine.

On top of this, Claire Ainsworth's famous literature review published in Nature, “Sex Redefined,” provides further damning examples against the supposed truth of “binary biological sex.” Individuals may have numerous different chromosomal combinations of X and Y of all genders and all people who produce micro- or macrogametes (or those who do not produce either), not just XX for “women” and XY for “men,” and live perfectly fine lives, not even knowing that they are someone with different chromosomal combinations than they are “supposed” to have. Furthermore, Ainsworth provides cases where different cells from different parts of the same people have exhibited different combinations of these X and Y chromosomes in them, challenging conventional ideas.

Hormone levels vary immensely from person to person, as testosterone, estrogen, progesterone, and so on are both produced by the same body but in different levels, and the exhibition of so-called “secondary characteristics” due to this are immensely affected by the personal makeup of the body, whether particular hormones can even be accepted (e.g. androgen insensitivity syndrome), and other external conditions that allow for heavy variation in supposedly “gendered” characteristics like body hair (which, for example, women are socially expected to shave off!), breast tissue (gynecomastia), and fat distribution. There are even cases where gonadal tissues simultaneously exist in the same body, such as in the existence of the “ovotestis,” and in Ainsworth's specific example of a man who fathered multiple children, but still was found with a womb inside him on his death bed.

Cordelia Fine's two books, Delusions of Gender and Testosterone Rex, respectively tackle and effectively discredit the prevailing theory that “men and women have different brains” and “the hormones in men and women cause their behaviours,” not only attacking the “science” involved in the above, but also insinuating how these are constructions of ideology. Other characteristics like height, muscle mass, and even bone structure have such a great deal of variance that they are inadequately precise definitions upon which to base a dimorphism, without simply being blatant about fitting square pegs into round holes.

scarring, infertility, and a host of other things created by this medical adherence to a “binary” by claiming that these forms are “incorrect and abnormal.” This is despite the fact that something around 1 in 100 people are some form of intersex using the more precise definition, which would amount to approximately 7.4 million people, larger than both the population of Canada and the population of people with red hair. On top of this, individuals are socially expected to adhere to ideas of this “platonic form” of “man” and “woman” which is then retroactively justified to attempt to claim a physical sexual dimorphism despite the fact that a large deal of evidence points to the fact that such a dimorphism does not exist.

So then, all we are left for as a basis of “sex” is the same definition as the evolutionary biologist's: sizedifferentiated gametes. But then it makes absolutely no sense to refer to sexed bodies in this way. Firstly, not everybody produces gametes. Secondly, we have seen that the tissues that produce these gametes are not always disjoint for the same body. Thirdly, “male” and “female” descriptors are social descriptors. We refer to male bikers or female scientists and so on. It is therefore bad science to needlessly use “male and female gametes” as these descriptors make as much sense as using “happy and sad gametes” in that they offer no proper information on the gametes, as they should, and they project ideological social constructions for absolutely no reason.

This is why I have used “microgamete” and “macrogamete” above, as these descriptors are far more accurate—they do not gender what does not need to be gendered—and they close the lid on gendered language when referring to biology, keeping it to the only realm it should exist in: society.

When we want to refer to different things like uterine or testicular health, or hormonal health, or chromosomes, or secondary characteristics, or so on, it therefore makes far more sense to actually refer to these on the basis of these individual characteristics and conditions for the patients involved, without needing to arbitrarily use an unwieldy moniker that groups people with immense variations together under one category that contains a massive amount of internal difference while holding up a standard of “normal” that can be damaging in itself. A woman's body is a woman's body, a man's body is a man's body, a non-binary person's body is a non-binary person's body: a body and its

WHEN YOU’RE A BABY, A DOCTOR LOOKS AT YOUR JUNK AND ASSIGNS YOU A “SEX” BASED ON THIS. HOWEVER, THIS SORT OF ASSIGNMENT IS WHERE WE BEGIN TO SEE THE LIE FOR WHAT IT IS, IN HOW THIS SO-CALLED “ASSIGNMENT” IS IMMENSELY DAMAGING TOWARDS PEOPLE WHO ARE INTERSEX. But where I discussed the insidiousness of ideology through scientism before, this is where it rears its ugly head. Costello and Fausto-Sterling discuss the phenomenon of “intersex genital mutilation,” where individuals with so-called “ambiguous genitalia,” which otherwise has been shown to function perfectly fine, would be medically mutilated into one of two “binary forms” (penis or vagina, often with an additional removal of gonads) which would subsequently lead to

components are gendered only on the basis of the person's gender as a whole, and that's all there is to it.

And with that, we see “sex” fall away as a meaningful category that “objectively exists in nature,” witnessing it for what it is: as pseudoscientific as my examples of race science were. But then why does it exist? This is where the function of ideology through scientism, as I discussed above, comes into play.

STRANDED 15

EDITOR | REBECCA GAO STRANDED@THESTRAND.CA

Can You Match the Male Celebrities I Had Crushes on in High School with the Way I Convinced Myself I Was Still Straight?

A. I just like him cause he’s an athlete. Sports are super masculine. This is just a man-crush.

Harry Styles

B. Look at those feminine features! I’m just attracted to him cause he looks like a girl!

C. I’m not into him, I just admire him for how handsome he is.

D. I just like to think about kissing him, I wouldn’t actually do it.

Avan Jogia

Marlon Brando E. I just like him because he’s funny. It’s not a sexual thing.

F. Okay, maybe I’m like 5% bi. But just for him. No one else.

leo morgenstern associate stranded editor

Darren Criss

Russell Brand

ANTONI POROWSKI CAN COOK devon wilton and zoe ritchie contributors

Earlier this week, Straight Boy™ and Stranded staff writer Max “Silly Nickname” Nisbeth watched Queer Eye for the first time. He cried through the last fifteen minutes of the first episode, as we all did, and spoke to these reporters after the fact. “All I can think about is Antoni not being able to cook,” he said. “I’m also thinking about how he’s a weird American version of Christian Bale.” FIRST OF ALL, Antoni is CANADIAN. SECOND, he is a culinary GENIUS. THIRD, he’s SMOKING HOT. Antoni serves as Food and Wine Expert for the new reboot of this iconic lifestyle makeover show. Suffice to say he’s earned half of that title, and then some! Jumping right into episode two, Antoni teaches sad-homebody-of-theweek Neal to make a saucy grilled cheese for a crowd. And girl, that cheese was grilled for the Gods. Many were skeptical that grilled cheese could be gourmet, but Antoni rises to the challenge, and apparently all it takes is a little bit of leek (?) and excessive use of mayonnaise!

Tom Daley

The real shining moment of the season was Antoni’s “clean eating salad” from episode three. A salad, composed entirely of avocado and grapefruit! Can you believe it!? Fresh AF!!! Honestly, 2018 was a big year for fruit and gay men. You know what we’re talking about—Elio’s innovative method for pitting a peach.

And truly, there’s nothing we’d like to see more than Antoni recreating the peach scene from Call Me by Your Name with a grapefruit, a bit of avocado, and a light and easy-to-make grapefruit vinaigrette.

Do I hear a Netflix Special? Antoni is such an avoDADDYo. He makes us melt like a hot pan of queso fundido. And if that weren’t enough, just wait for the season finale, “Hose Before Bros,” featuring Antoni and a whole house of sexy firemen slurping down fire trucks full of $5 hot dogs and...

Okay, so maybe he can’t cook, maybe he can. One thing’s for sure, he can get a helpless straight man to make a dish his friends and family will actually eat. That, and his jawline, biceps, and the cutest giggle that just makes me weak in the knees, well, good enough for me.

Good enough for me. We believe in you, Antoni.

ILLUSTRATION | YILIN ZHU

16 VISUAL ART AND POETRY

@STRANDPAPER THE STRAND | 20 MARCH 2018

L’appel du vide carina qiao contributor

Have you ever stood at the edge of a cliff and thought, “what if I jumped?” The French had a name for this feeling, l’appel du vide: the call of the void. But in this case, the choice at the cliff’s edge, in my opinion, resembles the choice to explore your sexual identity. For a lot of people, coming to terms with your sexual identity can be a tricky, winding road

of a journey. It can be confusing and scary and the fear can drive you a little mad. But what if you jumped, just went for it and embraced who you are? Of course, sometimes it is not that simple. It can be a difficult process and a very long one at that. This photograph is a leap into the void. A place where a teal light shines in the midst of a rose-tinted landscape—something a sense of love creates.

Sometimes it can be a terrifying leap, but a thrilling one.

Burning ellen grace contributor

Polarities georgia lin editorial assistant

Kindergarten nap times on foam puzzles She and I sprawled on blue and green mats noses, faces grazing I close my eyes when she does my makeup soft pads of her index fingers gently brushing across my eyelids sweeping strokes on blank plane under eyes that aren’t yet tired She keeps me awake when I should be resting Second grade in plastic chair classroom I sit across from chopped hair and swaying braids; my gaze flitting back and forth, staring down at white uniforms with screen printed green dragons I don’t make eye contact with either They are referred to as skirt and pant in my binary mind I just focus on the dragon, absent of orientation to wrestle with me the brawl of the octagon manifests itself in boxed groups My hair is squarely behind my shoulders, straight and static Eighth grade dimming cellar the first of us gets a boyfriend He is sweet and she is mean He tells me about skipping school to see a concert I think he is mature and I want to tag along She tells me her qualms I am annoyed but desperately want to please her worries I seek to solve, not ask Thirteen on the cusp of teetering off wooden porches in July I am defensive and only wear black yoga pants;

attending girls’ week at white summer camps, infatuated with my guitar counsellor who laughed and said I sang in the wrong key, but he would help me with the chords I didn’t end up playing. noticing a superwoman tattoo on a bare shoulder, matched with sharp blonde hair and wicked smile She joked with me about arts and crafts while I weave uncertainties onto my wrists I write stories to affirm heterosexuality my characters are the white girls I long to be with I continue to devour mundane chapter fictions thinking that these girls can do better Ninth grade hallway echoes Boys with unchanged voices call me a feminist bitch Girls in packs label me as the asian girl I believe in women, I shout I believe in them so much I want to cry, I wish I shouted an English assignment called for a remake of Much Ado About Nothing; personal directorial choices led to Hero being enamoured with a woman fuck Claudio Eleventh grade overloads reaches crossroads My senses are censored; refusing to recognize my dualities, afraid of donning a flag and embracing rainbow insignias My arm held by her brassy confidence on bucolic lakeside edges in late august She cackles in my ear and teaches me how to skip rocks A friend tells me that she had to come out to her mom as straight, she clarified

I twitched and shelved potential conversations, the ones that matter, in the crevices of my insecurities inabilities Twelfth grade trauma transforms but it is not enough I write exclusively about identity but only address three-quarters of my whole: a woman, an immigrant, an artist My liberalism has never been more intact; grounded policies and active movements cheering (only) internally, pressing against seals on ceilings of my own doing I cannot broadcast rawness like the dramatists do I cannot jump down welcoming lanes I cannot chant just yet First year launches itself into a depressed cavern, illuminates itself through revelations nestled in the crook of my pseudo sister’s shoulder; a bitter October trek to find warm broth with a fellow queer WoC, exuberance induced by cheap wine The only party I threw was applying glitter eyeliner on exhausted, content eyes I love we love can love let us reconcile bisexuality as a constant instead of a question we’re ever more closer to closure.