Women: Variations on a Theme by The Strand

SPRING MAGAZINE VOLUME 58

women v a r i a t i o n s

o n

t h e m e

table of contents 4

Pulling pigtails

Butterfly wings

Alexandra Jones

Linh Nguyen

Feminine bodies in the industrial kitchen Claire Wilkins

Learning how to be

Yes, English is my first language

I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel safe on public transit

Beyond the Bechdel Test

Free spirit

Menstruation frustrations

Breaking the grass ceiling

Safe spaces & overcoming misogyny

In between the lines

Campus safety

High school gym class revisited

Girl in the band

Hair-itage

A rose by any other name

Celeste Yim

Rhea Bhatia

Molly Kay

Katie Elder

Hiba Siddiqui

Ashley Meehan

Ainsley MacDougall Shailee Koranne

Genevieve Wakutz

Clarrie Feinstein & Erik Preston Miranda Alksnis

Susannah McKenzie-Sutter Cara Schacter

Angela Sun

from the editors

It’s difficult to pin down a definition of the term “women,” since it encapsulates so many wonderful, diverse, and nuanced types of people. This is certainly one of the most confrontational terms we’ve taken on for an issue of The Strand, and one which commanded a great deal of thought and attention. As you will see across the next 40 pages, all of the talented people who worked to produce this magazine rose to the occasion beautifully.

Our editorial team has been moved and impressed by the powerful work put forward by our contributors. Our writers have commented on the empowering nature of female relationships in personal, professional, and artistic settings. Others wrote on gender inequality in the workplace, family home, educational institutions, and media. Many pieces in this collection examine the specific experience of womanhood with intersections of gender and racial identity, sexual orientation, and culture, complicating the idea of one restricted definition of “women.” These pieces start a conversation about continuing to explore and expand upon the notion of womanhood, a process that must take place outside the pages of this publication. Our goal in putting together this magazine was to offer a tangible creative space for the stories of women, stories that are all too often sidelined or outright ignored. As a collection, these pieces stand as a diverse cross-section of lived experiences that we are honoured to be able to publish. All political implications aside, this is a collection that showcases the work of very talented writers, artists, editors, and storytellers, whose stories are funny, heartbreaking, thought provoking, and essential. We at The Strand are incredibly proud and humbled to present their fantastic work for you to enjoy. - RJK/HMS

editors-in-chief

copy editors

contributors

Anthony Burton Rhianna Jackson-Kelso Holly McKenzie-Sutter

Justine Chen Olivia Dziwak Tanuj Kumar Neil MacIsaac Tristan McGrath-Waugh Bronwyn Nisbet-Gray Sabrina Papas Christian Schoug Alison Zhou

Miranda Alksnis Rhea Bhatia Katie Elder Clarrie Feinstein Alexandra Jones Molly Kay Shailee Koranne Ainsley MacDougall Susannah McKenzie-Sutter Ashley Meehan Linh Nguyen Erik Preston Cara Schacter Hiba Siddiqui Angela Sun Genevieve Wakutz Claire Wilkins Celeste Yim

art director Emily Pollock

senior copy editor Jacob McNair

layout Anthony Burton Rhianna Jackson-Kelso Holly McKenzie-Sutter Emily Pollock

photographers Lelen Abeywardena Rhea Bhatia Jessica Daneluk Ainsley MacDougall Ashley Meehan Linh Nguyen Genevieve Wakutz

illustrators

Lauren Strapagiel, for her edits on “Campus Safety” Amanda Ghazale Aziz, for her edits on the introduction Taylor Lindblad, violin model extraordinaire Ariana Douglas, resident cheerleader Lucinda Qu Shaelene Clark-Bulick Brumbpo Tungus Our sponsor, Chipotle Nicki Minaj Amy Lee The designer of Blogger Sans

published by:

special thanks:

Julian Battersby Morris Sarah Crawley Seolim Hong Emily Pollock Greta Pylypczak The Strand, Victoria University’s Student Newspaper 150 Charles Street West Room 153 Toronto, ON The Strand is proud to be funded by the student body of Victoria University.

Pulling pigtails Written by Alexandra Jones Illustration by Seolim Hong

Let me tell you about the twins. I was eight years old and had just moved to a rural town called Zurich. If you stood in the middle of the main road, you could see a sliver of Lake Huron on the horizon, and if all the kids in my grade were lined up on that road, they would barely be able to stretch across. Of the 18 kids in my grade, there were two girls who were the clear rulers: the Douglas twins. They were smart and popular, with pretty, round faces, blue eyes, and straight, strawberry blonde hair. They reminded me of the Sweet Valley High twins—successful in every endeavour, the kind of girls that looked like they were meant to have stories written about them. The other girls loved them. Teachers loved them. Most importantly, boys loved them. Within two weeks of moving to Zurich and meeting them, I had decided that they were my rivals. It wasn’t fair, I thought, that they could be pretty and be sporty and be good at school. It wasn’t fair that they had all of the boys falling at their feet, when none of the boys would even look at me. I was mousy and small, and being liked by me was apparently a worse affliction than the plague; one of the boys in our

grade avoided me for weeks after finding out I had a crush on him. The same boy hung around the twins all the time, and the sight of him next to them made me sick inside, even long after I stopped liking him. I worked to defeat the twins in every test, to be better than them at every sport. I would stare at the backs of their heads in class, trying to guess their secrets. The fact that they didn’t seem to be aware of our endless rivalry made me even angrier—with only 18 kids in our grade, I knew they knew who I was, but I wanted more than that. I told myself that I didn’t hate them, because that would be ridiculous. No, I just wanted to best them. Nothing stranger than that. And I certainly didn’t like one twin better than the other. I certainly didn’t forget my sacred mission to triumph over her and her sister sometimes and find myself enjoying any sort of attention she gave me. No. We were rivals. Skip forward seven years. Let me tell you about Stephanie. I was 14 years old and had just been thrown into the blender of high school like a piece of fruit; I was far too soft to make it out unscathed. High school was full of new kids my

age—new boys to pine for and new girls to measure myself got to the point where I could barely move. Finally accepting against. All the other girls seemed to be developing figures that I was bisexual was like taking that backpack off and seethat I wasn’t, and I didn’t know where to look in the locker ing how fast I could run without it. room. I changed into my sweatpants in a bathroom stall and From childhood, everything a young girl is told about glared at the popular crowd of girls who laughed in shorts on the world, everything she sees in TV shows, movies, and the other side of the gym. books, sets up and reinforces the idea that other girls are to Stephanie was physically perfect—she had good clothes, be viewed as competition for the attention and affection of shiny hair, and a face that I once overheard a male teacher boys. We’re given kitchen playsets and baby dolls and told referring to as “Grecian.” She was just the right height to look again and again, whether subliminally or directly, that what cute standing next to any boy, and she had perfect breasts. I we have to strive for is heterosexual marriage. That’s our end wouldn’t’ve been surprised to see someone like her on the set goal, our purpose. In this light, any positive qualities of other of a teen movie, smiling and flipping her hair. women are threats to us, not things we can appreciate and Naturally, I hated her. love them for. I hated her face and her smile and her fingers. I hated There are a lot of narratives out there on the struggles of her last name. I hated the soft, stunned feeling that came over discovering queerness, but one of the ones I don’t see a lot is me the one time she complimented me in the bathroom. Ap- that of bisexual or pansexual women. There’s a specific type parently, my waist was tiny, and she was jealous. “Jealous?” I of misogyny that grows inside you when you’re pushing negawanted to say. “Jealous, are you kidding me? Have you ever tive feelings towards other women because you can’t accept looked in a mirror?” the reality of being attracted to them as well as to When questioned about it, I said that I disother genders. Had I been attracted only to girls, liked her because she had gotten a better part I might’ve been able to figure it out sooner. than me in the school musical, but even I could’ve realized that hey, I didn’t really I knew that that didn’t explain just how want to be competing for the attention of There are so many much I hated her. Stephanie was popular boys, because I didn’t really want those things I know now that I and thus was friends with lots of mean boys after all. But when you’re a young girls, but she herself had never been girl who hasn’t been taught that you can wish I could go back and particularly rude to me. And we weren’t be attracted to more than one gender, it tell that eightrivals in schoolwork, the way I had been seems like your attraction to boys is natuyear-old girl filled with the twins in elementary school. So ral, and your fixation on girls... well. That why did I hate Stephanie more than girls must just be hatred. with hate. who laughed at me in class and whispered When I looked back at the twins and behind my back? Stephanie and Meghan and realized that I’d I was starting to inch my way towards an anprobably actually had crushes on them, at first I swer, but it was too scary, so I stuck my head in the sand thought it was funny. But then I started to get very quietand ignored it. And then there was Meghan. ly angry. I remembered how miserable I was as a child over Let me tell you about Meghan. it all—how much I fixated on measuring myself up to those She was the one that shattered the glass wall between my girls, on filing away my obsession with them into competition mental compartments of girls as friends or girls as enemies instead of attraction because I simply didn’t know any other and competition. Meghan had ringlets of curly hair and an way—and I got angry. I’m still angry. I think of all the time I irreverent attitude towards everything, and was the coolest wasted hating girls I thought were beautiful, and I’m angry person in my group of friends. All the cute, artsy boys that I that no one taught me differently. Those girls didn’t deserve to liked always ended up having crushes on her. I complained have those ugly feelings aimed at them. about it, grew bitter about it, and yet still desperately wanted When I was a kid, I thought about how unfair it was that her attention. I felt constantly insecure around her, even angry the twins were liked by all of the boys while I wasn’t, but now at times, because I understood too much why all the boys all I can think about is how unfair it is that I wasn’t equipped might like her. with the understanding that the twins weren’t purely compeHow could I reconcile that desire for friendship and af- tition in some contest none of us had signed up for; they were fection with an ingrained compulsion to hate any girls more people, people I could be attracted to or love or hate based successful with boys than I was? I spent the rest of my high on their own merit, not based on whether a boy thought they school years lurking in her shadow, resentful and longing and were prettier than I was. confused. There are so many things I know now that I wish I could Skip forward one year. go back and tell that eight-year-old girl filled with hate. I I was finally an adult, leaving Zurich for the first time to would stand beside her in the middle of the main road and live somewhere else, to move in with ten other people and look down at the lake, and tell her that it’s alright to have a travel Canada. From 18 kids in my grade, to 18 years old and crush on a girl, even if last week she had a crush on a boy. meeting Shaina. All that I need to tell you about her was that That it’s okay to love more broadly than people expect. I’d tell I didn’t hate her. Not at all. her that later on, she’ll understand even more—that a perFor some people, living in denial of their queerness is like son’s body doesn’t define their gender, that there are people being in the dark, and accepting it comes as a sudden light. who aren’t boys or girls, and that bisexuality can extend to It wasn’t like that for me. It was more like I’d been carrying a include them as well. I’d tell her that there are so many more backpack full of bricks for years. I kept telling myself that it possibilities for people and love than she can imagine right didn’t hurt, that I felt nothing, but my body knew the weight now. was there. With every step, I grew sorer, more bruised, until I I’d say to her, “Let me tell you about the twins.”

“

Butterfly wings

Writing & photography by Linh Nguyen When I was in Grade 3 at Belle Sherman Public School in Ithaca, New York, I had a teacher who was crazy about wildlife. While other classes had pet hamsters, Mrs. Shaw imported cockroaches straight from Madagascar. Every lesson was hands-on. Once, we even set off the school’s fire alarm while trying to make maple syrup from scratch. The longest experiment, however, was the one with the beetles. At the start of the year, we were each given a small, clear plastic jar containing several beetle eggs. The jars were to sit on our desk throughout the term, and we would be able to watch as the eggs hatched, the larvae became pupae, and the pupae blossomed into shiny black beetles. As someone who had once refused to step into the house because there was a bug on the doorframe, I was not thrilled about this project. “Why can’t we have butterflies?” I had asked in disgust when she explained the experiment and presented us with our then-empty-looking jars. “Butterflies are too big to keep in here. Besides, they’re very fragile. Their wings could be hurt by the lightest touch. They wouldn’t make it, not like these sturdy beetles. We’ll be able to release them after they’re grown, and they’ll be just fine.” “But butterflies are so beautiful,” I said. “I could almost forget they were insects…” But, surprisingly, my fear of bugs was suspended—to a certain extent—as my beetles grew. It was quite fascinating to watch them, to consider how so many insects went through the same stages of life but came out of their cocoons looking so different. As Mrs. Shaw had assured us, our beetles thrived and were released into the schoolyard shortly after. A few months later, in the warm summer sunshine, my mom graduated from her master’s program at Cornell. The celebration of her completed milestone was bittersweet. With no more reason to stay, we were forced to leave the States and make our way back to Vietnam, where I clumsily settled into an international French school without knowing two words of French. The transition was a rough one, and I found myself constantly hiding in the English books that my friends in the States continually mailed to me. Some of my favourites included The Chronicles of Narnia—I would spend days outside play-fighting with my cousin and pretending I was a brave warrior like Lucy or Susan—and The Wizard of Oz series—I always saw myself as Queen Ozma, the powerful and beloved ruler of Oz. My absolute favourite books of the time, however, were the Little House novels, Laura Ingalls Wilder’s memoirs of her life as an adventurous pioneer girl. The heroines from my stories made up the landscape of my childhood. Thus, strong, self-reliant women were all I had ever known. I took it for granted that the world saw them the same

way I did—resilient, always ready to bounce back up. Once I’d adjusted to life in Hanoi, it wasn’t so bad. One of the big advantages was proximity to our extended family. Every Sunday, with my aunts and uncles and cousins, we would taxi over to the suburbs where my grandparents lived. There, my seven-year-old cousin and I would spend our days racing around the ponds and challenging each other to tree-climbing contests. We would climb over fences and venture across marshes into abandoned schoolyards to play on the structures. I did not have to adjust to being the only granddaughter; in Ithaca, I had been the only girl in my neighbourhood. I had waded in the creek, played hide-and-seek, and participated in bike races just like the boys. It’s not that I didn’t also have my fair share of Barbies and Groovy Girls. But my close family, being fairly progressive, had always encouraged my adventures outdoors, even when that meant me occasionally falling several feet out of trees. At the time, being nine years old, I saw no differences between myself and my cousins and neighbours. We played the same games, and I was better at climbing than any of them. It was before the time when my grandfather would chide me for not helping with the cooking. It was before I started noticing how at every house party, the men would sit in the living room laughing and munching on appetisers, while the women gathered in the kitchen, bustling to prepare the meal. In the full bloom of my childhood, I loved being the only granddaughter. No one ever let me forget it, which meant that I was usually the centre of attention at reunions. Relatives and family friends complimenting my cuteness and presenting me with extra gifts, extra lucky money—it made me feel special, and I took it all in. The day I lost those rose-coloured glasses, I was visiting my grandfather’s village in the countryside, a few hours’ drive from Hanoi. It was an annual day trip, and one that I was not particularly fond of. My mom had bid me goodbye that morning, with a reminder to be polite and respectful, and then left for work. With the exception of my grandpa and one cousin, I was alone. Despite having lived in Vietnam for a couple years, I was still uncomfortable with the courtesies expected when meeting strangers. I was fine when my mom was present as a buffer, and I had no problem with family members or close friends who would not judge my patchy Vietnamese, but we visited the village so rarely and so briefly that I could not remember anyone’s faces. With all the dirty outhouses, the mouldy walls of one-room homes, and the unpaved roads that were lined with garbage, I was definitely out of my element. My cousin and I escaped to go play at every moment we could, but there were meals to be appreciated and old people to greet. I laboured through lunch—lukewarm kohlrabi soup and fried silkworm

pupae—hoping that no adults would notice my lack of appetite. me that other people would see her—and all of the great women that I It was afternoon when I came across the frame. We had just been so admired—as anything different. to see my grandpa’s older sisters—both in their nineties and bowed But the men around me merely chuckled, patted my shoulder, and with age—and were casually making our way to a few other houses in moved away, seating themselves around the table for tea. My cousin, the neighbourhood to pay our respects. My cousin and I ran ahead and having lost interest after finding his name, left to join them. our grandfather strolled behind, pausing every few minutes to make I stood rooted in front of the frame, and even then, I could feel conversation with people on the street. something big opening up inside me—an awareness that It was a hot July day, and every door was open to let I had never had to face before. All the times that I had the air circulate. At our grandpa’s direction, we made been called pretty had never felt so meaningless. I was our way into a small living room, where a distant winning the little battles—the extra five dollars on family friend politely greeted us. New Year’s, the new dresses from business trips— The space between her Quickly, I noticed the large, ornate frame but those victories paled in the face of my losses, brothers’ names was small which would only become more apparent with hanging on the wall. Amidst the gray cement, it stood out—an elegant black border and pearly time. and even, as though she— white paper. We all moved in to take a closer look. It was clear then that the compliments I rethe only daughter in her It took me just a few seconds to realize that ceived had always come at a cost. For a large part family—had never existed. of society, I was nothing more than a beautiful butthe chart was a family tree—my family tree. I had recognized it because it looked like a larger version terfly that would crumble with the first rainstorm. In of the family trees that were at the beginning of all the the grand trail of history, I was not worth knowing, not Little House books. I had studied those meticulously, fasworth noting, and not worth preserving. For the first time, it cinated by the five generations of real women and their life suddenly became clear to me what being the only granddaughstories. I had envied how their histories had been documented; mine, ter meant. I had believed, was lost. Practical to a fault, my mom laughed off the incident when I told Eagerly, I searched through the names on the chart in front of me, her later. feeling a jolt of excitement when I found my cousins, my grandfather. “It doesn’t really matter what’s on that paper,” she said. “It doesn’t Even my youngest cousin, who had just celebrated his first birthday, determine anything about you.” was acknowledged. It was clearly very up-to-date, with two glaring She was right, but what it had spelled out for me could not have omissions: my name was not there, and neither was my mother’s. been clearer. After that moment, I was suddenly aware of what the The space between her brothers’ names was small and even, passing comments, the little differences meant: when my mother’s as though she—the only daughter in her family—had never existed. friend was divorced for bearing two daughters; when my little brothUpon closer examination, I realized that it was not just we who were er came home from school in grade five and stated, “Boys don’t like omitted, but all the women. My grandpa’s sisters, old and respected smart girls”; when, later in high school, my vice principal made an anthough they were, had no record of their lives here. nouncement saying that girls were not allowed to wear tank tops and “Why am I not on this?” I demanded to know. other revealing clothing, because “We don’t want to distract the boys.” “You do not share your grandpa’s last name. He is your mother’s For so much of my childhood, I had believed that because I had father. This is the Dao family tree,” answered the owner of the house. been raised just like my cousins, because we had played the same “But my mom isn’t named either,” I said, “She never changed her games and behaved in the same way, that we were equal. But regardmaiden name.” less of our similarities as children, we might as well have been of a dif“She still doesn’t carry on the family name.” ferent species. Regardless of our accomplishments, our courage, and “That’s not fair,” I said. My mom was one of the most determined our drive, women would always have to fight to stop being seen as just and hard-working women I had ever known. It had never occurred to pretty butterflies.

“

Chop Me Up: Feminine Bodies in the Industrial Kitchen

Written by Claire Wilkins Illustration by Seolim Hong

Growing up, women dominated the majority of kitchens that I encountered. In my family, cooking is a woman’s job, and doing it with grace and skill is a woman’s duty. My grandmother’s gendered customs of food service have taught me and other female relatives of my generation how to behave, and how to be valuable as a person. It is the mothers of my family who spend hours making a meal and the daughters who are called upon to help pack the evening away. The kitchen is where we work, and it is the space that we are continually drawn back to. Cooking is what we do, and truly, we do it well. But the workplace kitchen is a different beast than my grandmother’s four-cornered (and at times, claustrophobic) feminine community. Cooking professionally always seemed like something only men were allowed to do and something only men could handle or understand. For a long time, I struggled with this distinction between private and public kitchens and who was allowed in each. I didn’t understand what made these spaces distinct from one another, but nevertheless, I accepted them as different. Each had its tion. I have been made uncomfortable several times by the head own kind of politics, and its own social climate. chef’s sexist remarks and overly sexual ‘jokes.’” Rachel’s experiBut are domestic and workplace kitchens really that distinct, ence in the food industry has been crucially different from her male other than the fact that one necessitates a pay cheque at the end of coworkers’ in terms of wage payment. “At the rib place, the men the week? In all contexts, cooking calls for independence, asserwere paid more because apparently they worked harder. Not being tion, speed, and attention to detail. Cooking professionally simply in the restaurant industry for a very long time, I didn’t experience means doing what my grandmother did and does everyday, only any sexism in promotional matters, but I believe that would be an having the nerve to do it in the public eye, and the privilege to be issue had I pursued a career in foods.” paid for it. Perhaps cooking for a living means publicly asserting Rachel sees employer education as necessary for improvea kind of knowledge that’s only acceptable to assert in the space ment in the field. “I think better monitoring and reporting of sexof the home. To survive and thrive in a workplace kitchen means ist behaviour or insinuative comments would help to dismantle having the type of gendered body that can easily affirm itself as reworkplace misogyny. More education on the employer’s side of spectable, even outside of the kitchen, on a day-to-day basis. It’s no what’s appropriate in the workplace and more efficient reporting wonder that there are so many straight cis white dudes in industrial programs put in place to reprimand behaviour immediately would kitchens: these bodies hold a societally informed degree of implicit help. Equal pay is obviously a huge issue as well.” legitimacy and fortitude required for the high-stress zone of the Jane Doe, a student and Toronto activist, described her experikitchen, qualities that are often dismissed in those who do not fit ence working in food service environments as routine debasement. their physical description. “Due to discrimination, specifically due to being a trans woman, I am a cook at a startup fast-food restaurant in Toronto. I work food services was a better time for me than what I had been doing alone most nights for shifts of up to nine hours. I am a woman, before,” said Jane. “That said, I have been treated derisiveI am in the kitchen, and I am working, but I still don’t feel ly, regularly exploited, been made to work in a hostile like I belong there. My own uneasy experiences in work environment, mistreated by co-workers and an industrial kitchen setting made me interested in managers, and even people I was supervising to talking with other women who worked in food Cooking professionally some extent. And then, in both cases, [I was] disservice environments. missed on illegal grounds due to disability. I had simply means doing what I talked to Rachel Gilmore, a close friend no legal recourse when this happened.” of mine from high school, about her experimy grandmother did Jane described the spaces in which she ences working as a woman in professional and does everyday, only worked as highly masculine. “Frequently, my kitchens. Rachel has worked in a restaurant work environments would be dominated by kitchen as line cook, in an Ontario universihaving the nerve to do it men, and despite being out as trans at work, and ty cafeteria as sauté chef, at various fast food in the public eye and the with no official gender divide even existing, I restaurants, and in a travelling rib trailer. Even privilege to be paid for it. would be frequently paired with men to do work, under fast-paced and stressful circumstancsuch as heavy lifting and other kinds of industrial es, Rachel has had to continually assert herself labour, despite disability. On top of this, the demeanto be taken seriously. “Although I am six feet tall or of other coworkers frequently involved incredibly oband stronger than half the guys I work with, I am still jectifying comments directed towards women—they would treated dubiously, having to earn respect of my skills and make misogynistic comments directed towards everyone from knowledge when less qualified new male employees are given celebrities to other coworkers who were not at the time present. equal responsibility as me,” says Rachel. “At the rib trailer I worked In addition to this, transphobic comments directed towards me as at, I wasn’t allowed to participate in the ‘boys’ activities such as well as frequent use of incorrect pronouns were common, espemoving the BBQ, taking the metal ceilings down, carrying more cially from men that I worked with. One occasion had a coworker than one rib box because I was employed in the cash ‘girl’ posi-

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in people to have my best interests in mind. [We are pushing] towards a minimum income and a proper distribution of wealth, given [that] we produce goods and services with a surplus, yet [we] still live in a scarcity economy, where many are exploited. Though my ideas about how to move forward centre [on] communism and anti-capitalism, combating misogynist exploitation is also necessary, or else labour will still favour men.” Without institutional restructuring or continued examination, the work of combating misogynist exploitation ultimately falls to individual women. In my own workplace kitchen experiences, it’s enough to make me want to give in and accept attitudes the way they are. I still wonder if I’m making too much of a fuss. I’m not being groped or sexually harassed, so maybe I should just put up with what seems to be a favouring of the opposite gender, right? Except that trying to prove myself as a competent employee in a semi-professional kitchen has been a thoroughly exhausting and anxiety-ridden experience. The aggravation from being held to such high standards of performance while male employees are given break after break is at times too stressful for me to bear. The daily toll that this repeated disaccreditation has had on my self-esteem has pushed me away from seeking further employment as a cook. I used to think about cooking long-term, but, like Rachel said, sexism would likely be on the horizon if I were to seek a career in the field. This seems to be the most salient tragedy that misogyny in the workplace kitchen can effect: women cooks stop showing up for work, and careers in the foodservice industry get erased from the horizon of possible womanhood. It’s not that women can’t do these jobs, it’s that they can’t do them without also spending levels of emotional labour that their male coworkers do not have to provide. As Jane told me, it isn’t sharing their experiences that is brave, but the actual act of enduring unfair treatment for as long as they did and with such little support out of economic necessity. A job is a way to survive, and many women are being pushed out of positions that they are more than qualified for simply because they don’t look the same as the other bodies that dominate the space of the kitchen and are marginalized for this fact. Misogyny in kitchen workplaces, whether explicit or subtle, continually works to cut women down from positions of authority, and to cut up our identities as powerful and capable beings. The message is clear: women don’t belong in the public kitchen, making money for their work. It’s a boy’s club. Meeting the several other women that work at my place of employment has been helpful. These women and I frequently bond over our shared frustrations and confusions in relation to how we are treated in comparison to our male coworkers. Whether on the record or off, talking to other women about being a girl in the industrial kitchen has helped me make sense of my own experience and has made me realize that my personal concerns are valid. Many other women I know had experiences that they wanted to share, but were unable to do so without risking their employment or future reference capabilities. It is women who are entrusted to keep secrets of inequality in the workplace in order to make it as individual professionals. It is women who are made to accept unfair and unequal treatment, and women who must stay quiet in order to continue to earn a salary. But staying quiet shouldn’t be a part of the job. Women aren’t just kitchen objects to be sliced and diced. We are people who deserve to be afforded legitimacy and respect, and not to be chopped down for our gender presentation. We shouldn’t have to risk our livelihoods in order to say that.

slack off to stand behind me and begin to list names that started with “J” in an attempt to deadname* me. There was nothing I could do about this. Even when co-workers made holocaust jokes at my expense, the work atmosphere was that those jokes shouldn’t be taken seriously, despite the fact that the chance of perishing multiple times over is a very real and continued threat in my life. Getting harassed, being put in situations where regular conversations made me feel unsafe and impacted my ability to trust coworkers, and being forced to act subserviently regardless of what roles I was serving in the kitchen all had a profound impact on my personal well-being.” Jane sees next steps to dismantling misogyny in the workplace as starting with dismantling the workplace entirely. “It is unfortunate that as an non-unionized worker—first … in very sketchy food service work situations and then as a student worker—there was not a direct forum to vent about my treatment. Regardless, the unions that presently exist in Canada are not sufficient to bring upon necessary change, and even there, women are still mistreated by those who are their allies in fair treatment seeking labour. As a young, physically disabled trans woman, these issues are magnified for me, but ultimately, the only thing I can do is push forward, as well as create communities and build up trust and communication between myself and others so that I can actually have confidence

*A deadname is the birth name of a person who has since chosen a new name.

For a long time, I thought I had no one to help me learn how to be. As I tread deeper into “womanhood,” I feel less and less certain about how it is I should be, and more and more fearful of being how I should not be. I know the best ways to be have something to do with not stealing, balancing my ratio of laundry cycles to pairs of underwear, and fighting the oppressors. But I’ve always felt both an awareness of and uncertainty about knowing how to and how not to be—especially when there are so many confusing messages about how female-identifying people should be. It is a long perpetuated expectation that the relationships female-identifying people have are riddled with jealousy and manipulation. Girls are competitive! They are mean! They lie to one another and make out with each others’ boyfriends! Female authority figures put down their subordinates to assert their power! When there’s no one to tell you how very underwear-laundry-cycle-less you should not be, how can one be expected to trust the same team that brought us Regina George and Miranda Priestly? For me, a particular kind of relationship to other women has persisted against such claims. Until last year, I lived in the same house for 11 years. As I confronted my newly adult context—university, boyfriends, and jobs—it was comforting to still have a single, fundamental constant: home. All the new dimensions of being an “adult” sat comfortably atop it. Whatever my deadlines, heartbreaks, and general exhaustions, I knew I could go home at any time to my parents, my parents’ couch, and my parents’ dog. Then my dad left my mom. All of a sudden, every context felt different. If I did not know how to be in Little League, pre-adult situations (e.g. proper ratio of laundry cycles to pairs of underwear… Seriously, can someone please contact me about this?), I certainly did not know to be in the goddamn World Series of adulthood (e.g. a cynicism about the very concept of love, etc.). I wondered if I would ever again know how to be. An even scarier thought struck me: had I ever really known how? As soon as I found out my parents were splitting up, I called my… well, I’ve never really known what to call her. Friend is a little too casual. Crush is inaccurate. Sister does not make sense when she’s a fiery ginger who’s never even met my brother. Aunt is too adult and formal and, again, we’re not related. (Asian gingers are mythical.) I called Jackie. Jackie was my camp counsellor when I was nine years old. She was 17. Since then, she has come to see my school plays and picked me up from parties where people were way too drunk. She has coaxed away many tears caused by mean boys, and she has helped me over-prepare on the eves of job interviews for which I was under-qualified. When I urgently called her, just like all of the other times I have done so, she reminded me to take a deep breath. To stay calm as I mourned the end of such an important context for my life so far, and to approach the next firmly. She reminded me how to be when I really thought I did not know how. My own divorce, from home as it were, asked me to reflect on what—if anything—really had stayed constant over those pre-“adult” years of my life. The feeling of uncertainty, while suddenly amplified, was not new. Sure, it was now overcast by a decided distrust of men, but I’ve certainly never felt certain about how to be. And the dissonance I suddenly felt about trusting men illuminated the special, oneway relationships I’ve always had with older women. This sounds suggestive. It’s not. That would be exciting. My special, one-way, platonic relationships were with mentors: quasi-friends, but not-quite moms to ask, to listen to, and to trust. I call the relationships one-way because they were and are not relationships with my equals. Yet these women did and do not interact with me for their own personal benefits. In other words, there was and is no real reason for them to have given me the time of day, let alone offer me leadership and advice in the best ways to be a person, “adult” or otherwise. In fact, it often felt as though they were at further disadvantages than advantages by mentoring me in the ways they did and do. My mentors are all suc-

Jackie

Position: Camp counsellor, truly such a ginger Nickname for me: Munchkin I’m dumb: Jackie invited me over for dinner once and asked if I had any dietary restrictions. I’m allergic to peanuts but asked for peanut butter cupcakes to be hilarious. She didn’t know I was joking, made them, and I couldn’t go over anymore.

learning how to be Written by Celeste Yim Illustrations by Emily Pollock

Amy Poehler Position: Comedian, perfect guardian angel Perfect anecdote: We have met many times if meeting someone is watching her on television, reading her books, and responding aloud to the things she says. Amy and I have also met once where she was present. I wore a Hillary Clinton shirt and she “loved” it. She was gracious and flawless and beautiful.

Mme. Hatchell Position: Art teacher, first adult I ever met who was also a weirdo Texts I get from her: Once in a while, I get a captionless picture of a toilet she has spotted sitting on the side of a road. For no reason. This is not a lie. I find it hilarious.

Position: Badass, seemingly only person who knows about laundry cycles/underwear Three kinds of people she has told me not to trust: People with no chins, people with two first names, men. Best advice she has ever given me: “Don’t underestimate people.”

Mom

Position: Comedian, person I currently trust for all womanly advice Thing she commented on a Facebook picture of me and my boyfriend, and meant it: “You two make me sick.” Word I’ve heard her use unironically: “Finger-blast”

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cessful and busy women in their own rights and really have no time to waste, especially with a lost, boyish child like me asking unanswerable questions like, “Hellooo! Quick Q: How do I be???” There was and is something truly distinctive and resilient about the relationships I’ve had with these mentors, especially in times of ambiguity and weakness. My Grade 6 art teacher, Madame Hatchell, was the first person to assure me that being authentic, even (and especially) when you are an authentically huge weirdo, can be welcomed. I once interrupted one of her lessons by using a dismantled rubber baby-doll arm that I found in the back of the art room to stroke my peers who were sitting nearby on the backs of their heads. I thought it was so funny and all my friends were bursting. At the end of the class, she took me aside. I thought she was going to give me a long, stern lecture about being disruptive and, frankly, disgusting. Instead, she wordlessly handed me a bin full of similar rubber arms. From then on, I went to her when my high school friends were being high school idiots, when a mean boy made a racist joke and I did not yet have the agency to confront him, and when I did not know which boundaries to push in my graduation speech. As I reflected on the ways in which I have benefited from these mentorships, I realized they have long, indeed, been one-sided. I have always loved comedy, and until embarrassingly recently Saturday Night Live was an integral, rigid part of my weekly schedule. But I did not realize I could partake in comedy until Amy Poehler looked at me through my television screen, pointed, and yelled, “Don’t tell me what to do!” This is how the Weekend Update correspondent ended a rant about barring women in congress from talking about birth control. She taught me so much about the relationship between ideology and comedy. With that one sentence and others like it, Amy instilled in me the power of harnessing comedy to talk about being a woman. These days, I am a (trying) stand-up comedian. I perform regularly at shows around downtown Toronto. And now that I’ve changed my hypothetical relationship with comedy to a real one, it only makes sense that my female comedy mentorship is with a comedian I actually know. Her name is Natalie, and she’s a freak. On a particularly dreary night at an open mic when I was first starting out, I was catcalled and heckled for being both Asian and a woman. It was disheartening (albeit accurate). After my set, Natalie equipped me with words that have defended me since. “Remember who you are getting up and doing this for: those who look and are like you and who don’t have a voice, who feel silenced and alone. And for those who don’t yet understand what your experiences have been. Not for those assholes.” She said this in a way that was probably more vulgar than I remember. I took many quiet, lonely hours of reflection last year to consider just how many strong women have yelled and whispered, told and shown me how to be. I could not believe how prevalent these kinds of magic, sister-friend-aunt relationships had been—and how oblivious I had been to their recurrence. Even more unbelievable, I did not notice who my longest, most glaringly obvious mentor was: my mom! Her fierce commitment to showing me how to be—especially with or without irresponsible men—provided me with templates to find further guidance in all contexts. Just as I had with my other mentors, I underestimated both the nature and resonance of our relationship. My army of older, wiser mentors—with my own mother at the forefront—has equipped me with the strength to take on challenges and the independence to face ones still forthcoming. I’m not proud that it took a tumultuous falling out with a man to recognize all of the important women mentors in my life. But I feel a sobering fortune for their presence throughout, and I am actively trying to make up for what I have missed. I will never again doubt the power of looking up to the women I know—and the ones I do not. They all know so very much more than me, which is good, because I am so very much out of clean underwear right now. I still do not know how to be, but I know now who to ask.

Yes, English is my first language Writing & photography by Rhea Bhatia Have you ever been made aware of, or felt conscious of, the colour of your skin? Well, I have, and it’s more than likely that this is something you have never thought about. Yet it is something that some of us are reminded of everyday. I’d like to consider myself the average first-year undergraduate student but of course, that’s a loaded statement. For all of us, there’s more to it than that. I was born in India, but as a child I moved around a lot. I lived in Toronto for a few years, and after living outside Canada for over ten years, I have finally returned for my first year of university. Having lived the majority of my life in Mumbai, India, I have been exposed to people of all backgrounds. Naturally, I was never perceived as an outsider in India. I was an Indian with brown skin living in Mumbai, and for the most part, I thought nothing of my skin colour. I only became aware of what it really means to be a person of colour upon my return to Canada. As a Canadian citizen, I felt excited to be back; Toronto always felt like my distant home. There was nothing in my mind that held me back, especially not the fact that I am Indian. As a Canadian-Indian, I welcomed the idea of going to school in a city as culturally diverse as Toronto. What I did not

expect was that my skin colour, my heritage, and my home back in India would set me apart from my classmates in a way that made me feel like an outsider. Perhaps I was naïve to believe that my transition back into a Canadian lifestyle would be seamless. It surely wasn’t difficult—thanks to my exposure to North American culture, I feel comfortable in Canada. I am made to feel welcome, accepted, and at home here in Toronto, but this feeling relies on my ability to blend in with my surroundings. Aside from politeness and minimal curiosity about India, I feel that generally people are disinterested in learning more about Indian culture. My sense of comfort in this city depends entirely on my level of self-confidence and my awareness of Western culture. I guess you could say that I’m fortunate to have lived in Canada in the past and to have been exposed to North American culture through the media and my education. Sure, this all makes it easier for me to live in Canada, but I shouldn’t have to feel self-conscious or embarrassed of my culture just because it doesn’t align with Western standards and it’s something you’ve never studied or watched on TV. We should be proud that large-scale, blatant sexism or racism doesn’t exist in Canada as much as it does in other countries, and we should be proud to be Canadians. However, the

discomfort I feel on an everyday basis is rarely discussed. It’s important to recognize that struggles of this nature do exist, and should be discussed openly. While people of colour may still be treated with respect, there is an air of preconceived notions that surrounds us no matter how “Americanised” we are. I find that people actively avoid asking questions and tiptoe around subjects pertaining to who I am and where I come from. This is perhaps out of courtesy, or fear of being offensive. While it’s appreciated, I would love for people to respectfully ask me endless questions and admit to their ignorance in an attempt to learn more, instead of casually making jokes based on archaic and offensive stereotypes. To a certain extent, most people love talking about their lives, cultural backgrounds, and how unusual foreign customs seem to them. I wish more people took the time to engage in conversations about cultural differences. Believe it or not, you might even learn something. It makes me sad to admit how often I find myself changing the way I say things in hopes of fitting in and even making things easier for others. At parties, while meeting people for the first and probably last time, I often attempt to say words in an accent that is not my own. I know the way I’d normally say words won’t be understood, and so to avoid the impending “What was that?” from the intoxicated stranger, I force myself to harshen my A’s and rhyme my “can’t” with “ant.” No one is actively forcing me to change my pronunciation of words in a way that’s more accessible to Canadians, instead of the more British-Indian pronunciation that is my own. But as silly as it may sound, it makes me embarrassed and insecure when people don’t understand what I mean because of the way I speak. When my Canadian friends mimic the way I say “banana” with soft A’s, I do find it amusing and good-spirited. But all the while I feel hyper-aware of every word that comes out of my mouth that sounds different from their Canadian tongue. I resent the societal pressure that is imposed upon me to “fit in” with the way my peers speak. During my Frosh Week, I became very aware of how unusual but easy enough my name was for the Western tongue. I’ve always liked my name but suddenly I felt very lucky to have a name that could be easily pronounced. I began noticing the struggles faced by my friends with more traditional and complex Indian names. They have created western nicknames and adaptations of their names to simplify introductions and Starbucks orders. Our accent becomes a hindrance in speaking up in class, for fear of not being understood by professors and peers. This seems like a completely ridiculous and unfair burden and demand. With your name being the first thing someone knows about you, you shouldn’t have to adapt it to what the listener expects. I should be—and now I am—proud of my name and where it comes from. It’s important to remember that you or I have nothing to change or be ashamed of. It is the responsibility of the other person to try a little harder even if that means endless clarifications and corrections on how exactly my name is pronounced. I want to make it very clear that I feel welcome and comfortable in Toronto and at Victoria College. I’m surrounded by friendly, warm, and intelligent people who treat me with respect and dignity. I do not feel oppressed, ostracised, or discriminated against. Unfortunately, sometimes this makes it harder to mentally justify my discomfort in certain situations.

But it feels wrong to be confronted with this inner struggle to defend the uncomfortable feelings I face on an everyday basis. This issue runs my mind so often that I’ve become desensitised to this persistent sense of alienation. It’s not surprising to me that this issue doesn’t even cross the minds of White North Americans. In fact, that’s exactly why I wanted to write this. Sometimes I wonder how other people perceive my accent. I wonder if the stereotypes you’ve been exposed to about my culture will flood your mind and subconsciously create an image of me. I hope they don’t, but I know that is unrealistic. I want very much for my Indian heritage to be acknowledged and respected. I want you to understand who I am, where I come from, and why that beautiful place is so important to me. I want you to understand that, like many other Indians, English is my first language. Yes, I say things differently than you do, but that doesn’t make your pronunciation better or more proper than my own, nor does it make mine “strange.” I hope you recognise and embrace that every Indian you meet is going to be different. It is our cultural differences that make us unique as human beings, and I hope that one day that fact can unite and educate us more than it sets us apart.

(i don’t feel safe

Written by Molly Kay

I started taking public transit by myself at the age of 14. Like many kids growing up in a big city, this meant commuting to a high school halfway across the city. I remember my mom obsessing and worrying over the thought of me taking the bus all by myself. She said I would have to be extra careful because I’m a girl, but I never really understood what she meant by that. City transportation opened up many opportunities for me; I got to see a side of my city that I had never seen before. I fell in love with the freedom that came along with my bus pass. I was old enough that I began wanting to do things on my own, and it felt great that I no longer had to rely on my parents every time I wanted to go somewhere. But in all its glory, there are some aspects of riding public transit that you can’t really ever be prepared for. I’m talking about that sinking feeling in your stomach when your eyes meet those of the drunk guy at the back of the bus who has been eyeing you for the past 15 minutes. Or the fear that grips you when the man across from you is mumbling profanities and making inappropriate sexual comments about your body. Is he taking it too far when he slides his hands down his pants to reveal the bulge that he is so disgustingly proud of? What about when he grabs you and tells you all of the horrible things that he wants to do to you? Why are we, as women, at risk of experiencing violence every time we step foot on public transportation, and where do we draw the line? I was 16 the first time I encountered sexual harassment. I had slept through my alarm and missed my usual bus to school. It wasn’t a big deal, really. It just meant that I would have to catch the one that came 30 minutes later, and that I would be late for my first period painting class. So I got on the next bus and opted for a window seat

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near the back, leaving an empty seat beside me. The bus that ran at this time didn’t get as packed as my bus usually did, and so the seat remained empty until we reached the downtown core. The crowd that was getting on was the type you’d typically expect to see in that area at nine in the morning. Businessmen and students flooded onto the bus until there was virtually no room left. I sensed a large figure slide down beside me. Instantly, an overwhelming wave of body heat and Axe body spray began to choke me. I felt his eyes burning a hole in the side of my face. I glanced up from my phone to give a sideways glance at this person seated next to me. He was a light-haired, blue-eyed male who appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties. He was large and extremely physically fit, but intimidatingly so. He grimaced at me in a way that was so terrifying that it gave me goose bumps, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall. “I’m John,” he said menacingly, his grimace remaining intact. He held out his hand to propose a handshake. I smiled nervously, nodded a bit, and then looked away immediately. I ignored the offer and I purposely avoided direct eye contact. He did not take to this kindly. “I said,”—still grimacing and grabbing my wrist—“my name is John.” I swallowed and then held my breath. I still couldn’t get my eyes to meet his gaze. “Won’t you tell me your name? You’re just so beautiful.” His grip tightened. I scrambled for a name that wasn’t my own, but drew a blank. All I could focus on was his moist and heavy breath sticking to my neck. “Mary,” I croaked. I began to panic even more, realizing that I

on public transit) Photography by Lelen Abeywardena

had practically just told him my real name. “Mary,” he sighed. “Mary, Mary, you’re so pretty and so delicate, Mary. Do you think I’m handsome, Mary? Would you like to go out with me?” I felt a tear escape from my eye, and I began to tremble as I fought with myself to remain calm. “How’s about this,” he began logically. “I’ll give you my number, Mary. I’m sure you would like that. Do you have a boyfriend, Mary?” I nodded silently, even though it wasn’t true. “Aw,” he said in a patronising tone, “that’s a shame. But it doesn’t matter, sweetie. I’ll call you up, and we can talk. Just as friends, ‘kay? I promise, Mary. No funny business.” He sneered arrogantly, not loosening his grip for a second. I only realised how loudly he’d been saying these awful things when I took the time to look around and notice that people were staring. I wondered how long they had been watching us for. I was terrified and confused. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? I didn’t know where we were, but instinctively I pulled the cord for the next stop. Abruptly, I stood up and I felt a twinge of relief as John loosened his grip on my wrist. I attempted to wiggle my way past him. At first he laughed at me, but eventually he opened his legs, and crudely let me pass. “Mary!” he shouted across the bus, as I got away. “You’re beautiful, Mary! I love you, Mary!” I became hysterical as I rushed to the back door. I think a couple of people may have said something at this point, but I couldn’t really hear them. I could only hear his voice, and it resonated within my entire body. I stood there anxiously with my head down, tears

streaming down my face. He was still catcalling me and roaring my poorly chosen fake name. Suddenly, I heard the doors pop open. I almost tripped as I leaped off the bus and I collapsed as soon as my feet felt the ground beneath them. I began hugging myself, whimpering with my knees at my chin. I sat there for what felt like hours until my breathing became even and I stopped hearing my heart pounding rhythmically in my chest. I wasn’t sure how it all happened. But somehow, numbly, I was able to get on a different bus and get to school just in time for second period. The unfortunate reality is that this experience is not limited to myself, nor is it limited to the bus or subway. Public transit is simply another place that women must face harassment and assault. For some reason, we just don’t talk about it. For a long time I didn’t feel comfortable talking about my own experiences because I felt that I wouldn’t be heard. I felt that perhaps I was somehow “lucky” to walk away from this situation, and that an outsider might assume that I was overreacting. What I didn’t realise was that my silence enabled my assaulter, just as much as the silence of those who rode the bus with me on that day and didn’t try to help me. This made me think about all the women who have experienced sexual or physical assault on city transportation, and all the women who will experience it. Then, it made me think about all the women who have been afraid to speak up about these everyday encounters, and whose voices remain unheard. Public transit is a serious issue in a society that is desensitised to violence and cruelty against women. The lack of awareness surrounding this problem is a blatant injustice to us. The truth is that public transportation is not safe for women; what will it take in order for it to become so?

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Beyond the Bechdel Test Female friendship onscreen Written by Katie Elder Illustration by Sarah Crawley In Alison Bechdel’s 1985 cartoon, “The Rule,” part of What is important to remember, however, is that the comic strip Dykes to Watch Out For, two wom- while the Bechdel Test does raise questions about the en visit a movie theatre and debate what they should lack of female representation onscreen, it is not always watch that evening. One of the women has a specific a fool-proof way to assess the strength or development rule when it comes to the films that she likes to watch: of individual female characters. Many films that do 1) it must contain at least two female characters; 2) pass the test do so with a brief conversation between who talk to each other; 3) about something other than two characters that are hardly developed and promptly a man. These principles seem like a bare minimum— forgotten, or may pass the test while still portraying a to pass the test, two women can have a conversation world with a negative or derogatory attitude towards onscreen about literally anything. It doesn’t have to be women in other ways. Last year’s Fifty Shades of Grey, lengthy, and it doesn’t have to be an in-depth discus- while depicting a possessive and controlling relationsion of particle physics or financial investments or a ship between the two protagonists, technically passes philosophical debate about the full works of Friedrich the Bechdel Test because of a brief conversation the Nietzsche. If two women have a ten-second conversa- female protagonist has with her roommate about a brotion in a movie about what brand of toothpaste is best, ken laptop. Similarly, films may fail the test, but still the film passes the test. However, in “The Rule,” the provide diverse and interesting female characters. two women ultimately find no movie that While Dory from Pixar’s Finding Nemo is meets these very basic criteria, and an adventurous, talkative, and spunky they decide to return home to eat little fish, there doesn’t seem to be popcorn there instead. a single other female fish in the What started as a brief ocean for her to interact with, comment in a comic strip has and the movie consequently grown to hold much more fails the test. Over and over again, womweight over the years. Instead, the Bechdel en are cast in blockbuster These criteria, now known Test can be used to signal popularly as the Bechdel a slightly more specific movies as support to male Test, are often used as an problem with the porcharacters: friends, mothers, assessment of the active trayal of women in film: wives, romantic interests. So presence of women in film a lack of female companor how “female-friendionship and friendship on rarely do we get to see genly” a picture is. An online our screens. Dory may be uine friendship and support user database, bechdeltest. an important and central between women. com, has applied the test to character in Finding Nemo, 6,369 (primarily Hollywood but she lacks a girlfriend to blockbuster) movies, of which tell about her adventures or even only 57.7% pass. 10.3% of the films just to goof around and make whale considered fail the test so completely that noises with—though maybe we can hope there are not even two female characters in the for these things in Finding Dory. Over and over film, and in many of the rest of them, women never again, women are cast in blockbuster movies as suphave a conversation with each other that isn’t part of port to male characters: friends, mothers, wives, roa romantic or supporting plot line to a male character. mantic interests. They are seen in competition with Applying the test to Hollywood films of 2015 produces each other. They are seen as catty and dramatic, or as similar results: of the eight films that were recognized vehicles for the other to discuss their love life. But so by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences rarely do we get to see genuine friendship and support with nominations for “Best Picture” of 2015, only four between women, something that has been so central to actually pass the test. my own life.

“

Interestingly, recent television shows seem to have been much more attentive to these female relationships than Hollywood films, and many more inspiring relationships can be found on the smaller screen. Almost every girl I know aspires to have a relationship with her own mother that mirrors the connection and communication of Lorelai and Rory Gilmore’s in Gilmore Girls. Broad City’s Abbi and Ilana are not only independent, hilarious, and lively individuals, but they are also nearly inseparable friends. While they are eccentric characters in often exaggerated situations, they still remain far more relatable than so many of the women on our screens for just being real humans: they go to brunch together, they get high, they complain about their jobs, roommates, coworkers. They discuss their own goals and desires, but also have spirited debates about Phish albums and Crocs. And when one of them is in need, the other is there immediately: Abbi literally carrying Ilana out of a restaurant after she swells up due to a shellfish allergy, Ilana pushing Abbi to go beyond her comfort zone and take new risks. Even HBO’s Girls, in which the leading women don’t even really seem to like each other anymore, has a touching moment in the Season 5 premiere in which Lena Dunham’s character, Hannah, finally sets aside her own hesitations and fears over her friend Marnie’s decision to marry, showing her best friend her total support in her choices when she most needs it.

The more television I watch, the more I enjoy these female friendships: How I Met Your Mother’s Lily and Robin, Parks and Recreation’s Leslie and Ann (and even April), Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s Buffy and Willow, even the real-life friendship between Amy Poehler and Tina Fey, to name only a few. And the more I crave it in shows that lack or sometimes dismiss these friendships: I would love to see a best friend to lie on the floor and feed Mindy Kaling donuts during her dramatic outbursts in The Mindy Project, or more plotlines with Jess and Cece in New Girl. These friendships are interesting, varied, and important parts of these individuals’ lives, allowing them to find connections and companionship with other women. Instead of using the Bechdel Test as a general way to measure individual female involvement onscreen, more focus can be placed on the specifics of the way these women interact. The Bechdel Test can be used a little bit more specifically to focus on the nature of these relationships between women: a signal that women can interact in support of one another, as opposed to in competition with each other, and do more than function in support of men. And having two women who talk to each other about something other than a man can be used as a gesture towards important platonic relationships, featuring more frequently and prominently onscreen as an indication that a relationship does not have to be romantic to be meaningful and important.

Free spirit Painting & poem by Hiba Siddiqui Acrylic on canvas

“When I hear the word ‘woman,’ I think of someone who is powerful and strong, caring and resilient. A woman embodies beauty, intelligence, and love. She is capable of moving mountains, improving lives, and creating hope. After all, the whole world is in her hands, and she has the ability to make a positive difference. A woman is incredible.”

menstruation frustrations Writing & photography by Ashley Meehan

What is it about vaginal bleeding that makes everyone so horribly uncomfortable? Sure, it can be gross if you don’t like blood, but in the end it is still a biological process that roughly 50% of the population deals with. From advertisements of women frolicking in a meadow while supposedly on their period, to the microaggressions that people who menstruate face every day, there are endless discussion points and plenty of social implications to talk about. Though most people who possess uteri are knowledgeable about their inner workings, most cis men show a strong aversion to the topic. Why is this? Of course, there’s the whole idea that periods are like opening the floodgates to the red sea, but there are also many pesky social factors that allow for contempt to brew faster than a cup of coffee. As Maria from The Sound of Music once said, “Let’s start at the very beginning”; that is, with the first period story: a tumultuous beginning to one woman’s relationship with her uterus. Many of us can relate to unexpected surprises. When you get that uh-oh feeling down there for the first time. Most start their period around the age of 12… ah yes, sweaty palms and the squalour of middle school. So, I asked an assortment of young women to think back to their first time. Thankfully, they were eager to share their stories. Even before starting the interview, Joan is a ball of enthusiasm; she gleefully shares, “It was probably the middle of Grade 7, and I was a big volleyball player... One of my first volleyball tournaments, I had those little spandex shorts, and I had to wear a pad… it was so awkward! I remember being so, like, ‘Mom, don’t talk to me, don’t even touch me, don’t come in!’” She continues, “I was ashamed of it; now I realise that.” Katherine outlines her archetypal beginning of “womanhood” with a giggle. “When I was 11, I was at a sleep-away camp. Honestly, for the first few months, it was so light that I could keep a panty liner on for the duration. So, I was just really confused, like, ‘What is this?’ But it wasn’t bad, it was okay.” Maria’s story takes a sombre twist. “It was September 17, 2009, and my grandfather was in the hospital. It was a Tuesday, and I went to school. It was recess when I realised that I had gotten my period. I passed a note to my friend, we got up, she went behind me, and we scooted down the hallway to the main office. I wore a kilt, so they gave me a new kilt from the lost and found and a pad, then later that day my grandfather passed away, and that’s why I remember the date.” Ali describes her experience as embarrassing “I got it the summer after Grade 6. I was in Vancouver with my aunt, so my parents weren’t there. I went to the bathroom, and I saw it. [My aunt] went and got me a pad, then I called my mom and said, ‘Mom, you know the thing at the end of a sentence?’ She didn’t understand, but I wouldn’t say it. I was like, ‘Mom! Punctuation!’ She was like, ‘Oh, Ali, that’s so nice! Let me put your dad on!’ I was like, ‘No! Mom, don’t!’” Although these period memoirs are incredibly diverse, themes of awkwardness, confusion, and shame reoccur.

Changing her once-peppy tone to a more serious one, Joan addresses the stigma associated with periods: “One [thing] that bothers me is when someone dismisses your pain because it’s ‘just your period,’ and that it’s something to be ashamed of and it’s something you have to keep quiet. It’s a very direct extension of the patriarchy. It’s [cis] men telling women how to feel, and that their experiences aren’t valid and important.” Katherine brings up a sensitive cultural issue. “I had a friend in high school who was Sri Lankan, and every time she got out of the car when she was on her period, her dad would clean the seats. In some cultures it is considered very dirty. I think it plays into the whole, ‘women are supposed to be seen as clean and dainty,’ but losing copious amounts of blood out of your vagina doesn’t really go along with that.” With a hint of agitation in her voice, Maria declares, “People are like, ‘You must be PMS-ing,’ when you talk about literally anything with a little more passion than usual. It feels sort of crappy that everything about a cis woman is tied to her boobs or her vagina.” Ali pauses for a beat to think before answering. Then, she stresses, “People think it’s really gross, and that we have a lot of mood swings, which may or may not be true, but when I’m moody, it’s not because I’m on my period. The stigmas are to make women feel awkward, to make them feel ashamed of the fact that you’re on your period. It makes it harder for young girls.” These aggressions have been absorbed into our societal values and are constantly pounded into our minds through the media and societal norms. We’ve all seen those ridiculous advertisements for “feminine hygiene” products featuring women frolicking in meadows. Maria comments, “I understand that mostly the ads are trying to be, like, ‘With this product you will be able to frolic in a meadow,’ but I don’t think it is helpful. There’s this expectation for you to be hiding it, and the ads don’t quite address the reality of a period.” Considering this idea of addressing the reality of a period, Ali suggests, “Society does these nice commercials so [cis] guys won’t feel uncomfortable if they see them. It doesn’t help people, because it is not how anyone is feeling. I think a nice commercial would be maybe someone crying, really upset, and they’d be like ‘It’s okay, this is normal.’ We shouldn’t try to make accommodations, or hide what it’s really about from boys.” Joan confesses, “Part of growing up and learning about feminism has really ended [the shame].” Ali adds, “Some [cis] guys make it awkward because they don’t want to hear about it, they think it’s gross, but as I got older it got less awkward.” People who menstruate shouldn’t have to sugar-coat their natural bodily processes to make cis men feel comfortable. Social progress happens with maturity, truth, and an open mind. So by being transparent about periods, we are creating an opening for cis men to experience and understand what they’re all about. Periods aren’t just going to go away, so it’s about time that we break down the stigmas surrounding them, because we’re all stuck in this menstrual cycle together. Some names have been changed to protect privacy.

Breaking the grass ceiling Why we need to talk about gender and food

Writing & photography by Ainsley MacDougall Nowadays, it is considerably more difficult to avoid talking about food. Our food and nutrition standards and practices have become hot-button topics, thanks to debates on GMOs and the merits of organic versus non-organic food, trends like juice cleanses, and the rising obesity rate, which is a serious cause for concern. Spawning countless documentaries about the consumption and production of food, together with a variety of think pieces and books, our changing food landscape is a popular talking point. For all these food documentaries, exposés, reports, and books we see, the role of gender in determining diet and production practices remains largely unaddressed, however, despite being a major influence on individual eating habits and the food industry’s decisions. Studies have shown significant associations between gender stereotypes and food, and how the former can even affect how men and women taste it. One study illustrated that healthier food is more likely to be associated with women, while unhealthier food is associated with men. This is also reflected in eating habits: a larger percentage of men (84 percent) over women (58 percent) reported typically eating fast food for lunch at least once per week. Fewer men also consider portion sizes or the healthiness of the food they eat, while women tend to stop eating after becoming full at fast food restaurants, with many intentionally ordering smaller portions. Brian Wansink, director of Cornell University’s Food and Brand Lab, says people are “more likely to eat something when they associate it with qualities they’d like to see in themselves.” This means that if a man wants to appear strong and masculine, he will eat something that fits the stereotype, like red meat or a hamburger. If a woman wants to appear healthy and feminine, she will eat yogurt or a salad, and maybe indulge in a chocolate square—or eat something larger, but be embarrassed by it, a practice that has been satirized widely, from Amy Schumer to Family Guy.

The gendering of food is preyed upon by advertisers. Yogurt commercials are a classic example since they continually appeal to women, citing health benefits while female actors belly dance or sit on a cozy-looking couch, enjoying a small, fruit-filled yogurt cup. Commercials for burger joints are often loud, filled with “guy jokes” or attractive female actors catering to the male gaze, and advertise large, filling burgers as opposed to lighter, healthier equivalents. Soda brands like Dr. Pepper have run blatantly sexist ads in the past, proclaiming, for example, that the drink Dr. Pepper Ten was “not for women.” There is more to be frustrated about with these eating habits and stereotypes, however, than just sexist advertising. In 2014, Statistics Canada reported that more men than women were obese, and obesity levels have risen more for men than for women in the previous eight years. Men were also more prone to develop obesity-related health problems, like type 2 diabetes, and were more likely to eat an unhealthy diet. It must be noted that women’s rates of obesity are lower than men’s in Canada, in part as a result of negative issues. Women, for example, are more fixated on body image than men. From a young age, girls critique their bodies and compare themselves to others, making them hyperaware of how they look and what they eat. A contributor for Rookie Magazine, Krista Burton, speaks out against the expectation that women eat small portions and never “cheat,” writing: “Girls and women of the world, could we stop apologizing for wanting and eating food?” Matters defined and shaped by gender need to be addressed as such. When we write and speak about rising obesity rates, it is not enough to suggest blanket solutions. The way women and men relate to food is fundamentally different, and always has been, but there are many aspects of it that can change—particularly the stereotypes. No one, of any gender, is meant to eat only meat and processed foods, nor is any human supposed to worry about how “fat” they look at age ten. Tackling

stereotypes will make it easier to change the future of diet and nutrition, for both men and women. Both will benefit from healthy approaches to food that don’t rely on beliefs upheld through clever marketing schemes and a fear of being associated with a gender they don’t identify with. These considerations focus on the consumptive side of the food industry—who buys what, eats what, and why. But the other essential side to the market is food production itself. In an article for The Atlantic entitled “Agriculture Needs More Women,” writer Sonia Faruqi describes her experience leaving a Wall Street job to devise animal welfare solutions upon discovering the deplorable animal farming conditions after living with factory farmers. She describes her experience on farms across the world as virtually being run by men. This sentiment was echoed by 2011 US data that confirmed only one out of every six full-time agricultural leaders or managers was a woman. Understanding that women are more likely to consume healthier food, and seeing overwhelming data suggesting that women are more compassionate and sympathetic towards animals than men, Faruqi suggests that having more women in agriculture would improve farming practices, thanks to more humane attitudes towards animal welfare. Extending beyond the lower levels of the production chain—the farmers—it is also important to have more female executives at the corporate level. Faruqi mentions that Maple Leaf Foods, which you may recognize as one of Canada’s largest agribusinesses, has only three women on its management team of 22. As a whole, women constitute less than ten percent of senior executives, illustrating what some in the industry call the “grass ceiling.” Considering similar statistics in other Canadian industries, unfortunately it shouldn’t be a surprise that agriculture suffers from the same systemic gender inequality. You may ask—if you are not extremely concerned with the treatment of animals or the representation of women in this industry—why this is an especially im-

portant consideration. As you can see in virtually any documentary about food (think Super Size Me or Food, Inc.), inhumane factory farming practices are not just detrimental to the well-being of animals; poor farming practices have led to outbreaks of E. coli and salmonella, resulting in serious illness from the consumption of tainted meat. Beef from sustainably raised cattle is less likely to have bacteria (especially antibiotic-resistant bacteria) than commercially raised ones. Better food handling safety procedures and investigations are also needed to avoid situations like the 2012 XL Foods meat recall in Canada that made headlines for E. coli contamination. Having female farmers and female executives making industry-wide decisions could potentially improve the industry in a way that is more sustainable and humane for both the animals and their consumers. I imagine many will think this just falls under the umbrella of bolstering female representation across the board, and it does. But with this industry in particular, there is much more to be worried about. Food is something we can’t escape from. Our society is dealing with more obesity than ever before, and we are paying the price. Children are becoming obese and developing obesity-related illnesses like type 2 diabetes earlier, while adults scramble to find a solution on often-limited budgets with little food literacy. Knowledge and education on proper diet and exercise routines is not taught enough in Canadian school curricula. The production of meat continues to be one of the most environmentally taxing practices in Canada and around the world, emitting over 11 times more greenhouse gases than most staple vegetable products. All of these issues involve food, whether it be production or consumption. Many of them—if not all—are gendered to some degree, be it in its consumption, production, or regulation. Recognizing these issues and taking steps to involve more women in the agricultural industry is a necessity. Changing gendered attitudes toward food is also essential in breaking down gender-based stereotypes that don’t benefit anyone but the advertisers.

Safe spaces are helping me overcome the impacts of misogyny Written by Shailee Koranne Photography by Jessica Daneluk Makeup by Shaelene Clark-Bulick

When I was younger, my friend group was pretty gender-balanced. I had a lot of male friends that I spent all day with after school, and just as many friends that were girls. I’m not sure how my friend group switched from being gender-balanced to being all women, but at first, I didn’t like it. I took pride in having lots of male friends, because, in a way, hanging around guys made me feel cooler. I wanted their approval, and I wanted the rest of the world to know that I was cool enough to have lots of guy friends. Having the approval of guys meant that you “weren’t like the other girls”, that there was something special about you. Obviously, that has never been true; nevertheless, I went out of my way to make male friends

for most of high school at the expense of losing out on friendships with girls. Some of my friendships with boys happened naturally and were really fun, but I was never entirely comfortable around them. In the same way that I used to seek the approval of men, I find myself going out of my way to seek out safe spaces. The difference is that now I’m looking for solace and understanding. A safe space is generally understood as a place made for people that are open-minded and unprejudiced about folks that are LGBTQ+. To me, a safe space can also be a place that is exclusive to people that identify with a certain gender, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity,

etc., maintaining exclusivity for the sake of comfort. downright disgusted with myself. When enough cis men make In Grade 12, two friends and I started a women’s activism you feel that way, you can’t help that those feelings arise reflexcommittee to spread an understanding of intersectional femi- ively every time one of them talks to you. Before you go crying nism to our peers, while also learning from them, and to fund- #NotAllMen, know that I’m not saying that every single man in raise money for local feminist organizations. At first, our goal my life makes me feel insecure, because that is definitely not was to disseminate knowledge about intersectional feminism, true. I still consider some men to be my best friends. I’m not and many cis men—people who were assigned male at birth even trying to say that I never want to spend time with men and grew up identifying with this assignment—would attend again, because that is definitely not true either. I still date men, our meetings. Most were our friends, so because of their per- and I would never cut them out of my life completely, especialsonal attachment to us, they would try harder to understand ly considering how I’m able to connect with men of colour and what we were talking about. We invited them and they re- queer men over race and sexuality (which are parts of whole spected our boundaries. They listened instead of talking; they other safe spaces). offered up anecdotes when they knew they weren’t Overall, it’s not very important to me to have to talking over anyone. It’s not hard for cis men to have that kind of connection with all my friends. coexist with women who are trying to learn I grew up in a suburban Ontario town, so most more about themselves and each other. But of my friends are white, cis, and heterosexevery now and then, a cis guy would stop ual; lots of them are men. For me to grow, Separating from the by the meeting just to yell insults in through learn, and move past my anxieties, howevsources of anxiety in your the door. As the club got bigger, we found er, especially the ones that have to do with that the best and most productive meetmy gender and body, I need to distance life makes the probability ings were the ones that were comprised of myself from cis men. When I stopped seekof positive self-reflection mostly, or all, cis women and trans folks, ing the validation of men and refused to let and growth much higher. them co-opt spaces that were not meant for because we could speak without fear of our conversations being stepped on by cis men. them, choosing instead to dedicate myself to The purpose of the club slowly shifted from feelcreative, insightful, and compassionate women, ing like we had to educate men, to understanding I changed for the better. When I spent more time that if they wanted to learn, they could do it on their with girls and women and less with cis men, I found that own—our time was better spent sharing stories, being honest, I was laughing louder, speaking my mind more often, and even and opening up without worry. sitting more comfortably. I made myself stronger by giving myIt took me a long time to realize that discomfort around self a break from exhausting spaces where I’m either stewing in cis men stems from the fact that the overwhelming majority angry and uncomfortable silence or feeling forced to educate of them make me feel terrible about myself. They are typically people. Now, I find it a lot easier to co-exist with people who the people who judge my body and put me down when I try have privileges that I lack. to speak out about something important. On micro levels, a Safe spaces made up of cis women and trans people still single body-shaming or even sexually-charged comment might constitute big parts of my everyday life, and I’m going to ennot seem so bad. Try getting them all the time for years and sure it stays that way. Unlearning all of the shame that was cast years, though—it all adds up to something unbearable. The on me is a continuous process, but these safe spaces are the same goes for the amount of times that men have flat-out ridi- places that I feel like myself—beautiful, kind, and motivated; culed me for having an opinion. Some men grow up to realize intelligent, confident, creative, and witty. that they just can’t do that to people, but honestly, a lot of them You are not entitled to every space on Earth, and neither never do. am I. While some trans people are comfortable in spaces with Distancing myself from that did nothing but good for me. cis women like me, they wouldn’t want me to insert myself into The importance of a safe space is so underrated. Separating a safe space for trans people—nor would I ever attempt to do from the sources of anxiety in your life, and being surround- so. Even though I am South-Asian and racialised, I would not ed by a group of people who have been through the same demand a spot in a safe space for black people, because the things you have and who understand your worries, makes the experiences of all racialised people cannot be homogenised. probability of positive self-reflection and growth much high- I would never co-opt a safe space for people with disabilities er. You can say things out loud without worrying about how under the guise of wanting to learn more about living with a the cis men around you will respond. Empowerment is tough, disability—I can do that on my own time. If your argument and it cannot happen in the company of the very forces who against safe spaces is “How are privileged people supposed cause you to need empowering in the first place; liberation, to learn about their privileges?” then you are overlooking the self-confidence, and compassion are fostered in a space where wealth of information that already exists for you to learn from. you can feel unashamed and unafraid. Sometimes, the mere You can go find it for yourself instead of forcing marginalized presence of certain people can impede your growth. They can people to be your teachers. be kind, funny, and smart, but it doesn’t change the fact that Safe spaces are not created to segregate populations; they they bring privileged attitudes with them that you really need a are created to resist hegemony and foster intra-community embreak from sometimes. powerment. If I hadn’t made the active decision to resist misogIn my experience, cis men have largely been the group yny in my life by creating a safe space for myself that distanced of people that make me feel uncomfortable, objectified, and me from its perpetrators, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

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strength is being comfortable in your own skin.

By Genevieve Wakutz

Campus Safety: UofT â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s handling of sexual assault reveals the cracks in our academic system

By Clarrie Feinstein & Erik Preston Photography by Genevieve Wakutz

“Were you drinking? How much do you remember from the night? If you initially said yes, then wasn’t that telling him something?” These were just some of the questions Ellie Ade Kur, a current UofT PhD student and co-founder of UofT’s Silence is Violence, was bombarded with when she reported her sexual assault. “I was shut down really quickly.” Approximately one in five women will experience some form of sexual assault in college or university, and often the assailant is someone the individual already knows; the notion of the attacker being an unknown person is less common. Academic institutions have a reputation to uphold, and it is in the interests of the school to protect their image. The university has faced a great deal of criticism in recent years regarding the way it handles sexual assault. The process to file a complaint at UofT is extremely difficult, and some would say purposefully so. “My case was particularly violent, and I did not want to sit down with my attacker and go through the mediation process.” Kur’s story, like so many others, reveals the problematic climate of sexual assault cases, which is one rife with victim blaming. A complainant can enter the room with the certainty of their convictions regarding the incident, and leave the room feeling blamed and doubtful of their own experience. “It’s skillfully done.” Kur leaned forward, her language sharp and clear. “As soon as a student dissents, they are persuaded to not report. What sets me off is my students coming to me now and telling me years later that they are experiencing the same problems I faced in undergrad.” Kur had a concerning and unproductive meeting with Sexual Assault Counsellor Cheryl Champagne, yet she emphasized that Champagne is a product of the broader issue of how UofT deals with sexual assault. Lisa*, a University College student, was sexually assaulted by a fellow male student in early 2015. After a few counselling sessions, Champagne recommended various types of action that Lisa could take, from going to support groups to seeing therapists or taking legal action. However, Lisa felt that the procedure to legally report her assaulter was too arduous; the idea of repeatedly telling strangers of the incident was not an appealing step forward. “I was torn about taking action,” Lisa explained. “There are some days even now when I think, should I report it? But then I decide not to. I don’t regret not reporting him but it’s a difficult situation... he’s in my program.” Recently, UofT has mobilized discussion on consent culture, changing the dialogue that occurs during Frosh Week. Lisa, who was a Frosh leader this past year, said the consent discussions were beneficial. However, she believes that campus culture around sexual assault and violence still needs to change. “The whole idea of ‘it gets better’ needs to

stop. That’s not necessarily true; you carry it for a long time.” Lisa and Ellie are part of an epidemic of students who must face the bureaucratic dealings of sexual assault procedures at academic institutions. The Toronto Star released an article in 2014 that surveyed Canadian universities on how they handle sexual assault. Only nine out of 100 universities had a clearly defined sexual assault policy. For most universities, the sexual assault policy is part of the Student Code of Conduct. Currently, UofT does not have a singular policy on sexual violence. The Star article states “Universities are in denial about the extent of sexual assault.” For decades, many students have felt their voices are not being heard and their concerns not taken seriously on sexual violence on campuses around the country. It begs the question: what is the university doing to support victims of sexual violence? UofT’s Current Policy “Stage 1: Both parties take part in individual discussions with the Sexual Harassment Officer. They may also meet each other, in the Office, to talk about the matter with each other and the Officer. The Officer acts as mediator in these discussions. The complainant and respondent may agree on a resolution at this stage.” This quote is taken directly from UofT’s Policy and Procedures for Sexual Harassment, which has not been updated since 1997. Section 29 of the current policy gives survivors two courses of action: informal resolution and mediation only; or informal resolution and mediation and, if necessary, a formal hearing to follow. In these informal resolution meetings, complainants are required to sit down with the respondent to the claim and attempt to come to a mutually agreed upon resolution to the situation with the Sexual Assault Officer. Only if these sessions fail is the claim then to proceed to a formal hearing. For most students, Stage 1 isn’t even a viable option, and it’s obvious why. In 2015, 137 informal complaints were brought forth, with 22 formal complaints being filed with the sexual harassment office. From these formal complaints, only three went to criminal trial. Twelve of these cases resolved at Stage 1 through mediation. None of the cases resulted in any suspension or expulsion of respondents. Adding to the problems stemming from the policy is the requirement that complaints be made within six months of the incident, or, exceptionally, within the past year. Champagne has the final say on whether the individual cases are exceptional or not, and if they can proceed after the six month deadline. Another student, Sarah*, described the process of filing

complaints at UofT as unaccommodating. “In the university system, you are asked to recount your story, but with the current policy the difference between confiding in a counsellor to receive help versus launching a formal complaint is unclear. What tends to follow is a sequence of shuttling and referrals to different offices, which is frankly discouraging and exhausting, particularly for someone that has just experienced a traumatic event and is being asked to talk about it over and over.” Again, we had to keep asking questions. Is this dated policy all UofT has? How is requiring survivors to sit down with their respondents an acceptable course of action? Why has this policy not been updated in almost 20 years? And will it ever be? These queries arrived at an opportune time. This past February (2016), the Presidential and Provostial Committee on Prevention and Response to Sexual Violence (formed in 2014), released a recommended policy that UofT could potentially adopt.

co-founded the Committee on Prevention and Response to Sexual Violence, which comprises a tri-campus membership of students, faculty, and staff. The committee was “tasked with establishing a set of recommendations to prevent and respond to sexual violence at the University of Toronto.” They consulted with over 25 student groups and distributed an online survey to 170 staff and faculty members and students. Additionally, they had recommendations from individual student groups such as Thrive UofT and UofT Students Against Sexual Violence. The report outlines in detail various recommendations, the main ones being: • Creating a tri-campus Sexual Violence Centre, which includes support beyond the campus hours of 9 AM to 5 PM and an inventory of existing community partnerships and resources to be conducted • Creating a singular policy on sexual violence with a clearly defined no-tolerance claim, as well as a review and revision of the policy procedures in the Sexual Harassment Policy and Code of Student Conduct • A university-wide education and training program, which includes prevention programs, educations for faculty and staff to make appropriate referrals

Recommended Policy Professor Angela Hildyard (Vice-President Human Resources & Equity) and Professor Sandy Welsh (Vice-Provost Students)

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to students, and professional development for those who receive disclosures A continual reviewing of procedures with a climate survey to be conducted regularly to reflect the campus communities’ needs

issue. However, these figureheads do not have the best track record with student groups, and while the report is a positive step forward, many student organizations and initiatives are hesitant to sing its praises.

Student Response to Recommended Policy Professor Welsh recognizes the problems that many complainants must face during the reporting process. “Underre- Reaching out to various student groups who contributed to porting of sexual violence and people feeling comfortable the recommended policy, UofT Students Against Sexual Viocoming forward are real issues, and there are barriers in lence, a group founded by Celia Wandio, provided importplace. Some of the work we need to do is make sure we do ant critical and reflective feedback on the report. the best job of making it very clear that we know where stuEnxhi Kondi, a member of the group, discussed the pros dents should go if something happens to them.” and cons of the recommendations. “As a whole, the report is What is noteworthy is an active engagement in the re- an excellent response from the administration to most of the port on diversity and equity, as many organizations have criticisms and complaints that students who were consultnoted that groups of people, including women who expe- ed had about sexual violence on campus. The report goes rience further levels of oppression, are less likely to report. even further than the role of complainant and emphasizThe university needs to connect with other community orga- es an equal procedural field and safeguards for both comnizations and centres to focus on marginalized groups in the plainant and defendant, which legitimizes sexual violence trans and LGBTQ+ communities, as well as people to the same degree as other crimes.” of colour, as they suffer higher rates of sexual While the recommendations received a nod assault and are less likely to report. of approval in certain aspects, there was sigProfessor Welsh commented on this by nificant controversy with the consultation saying, “The issue of diversity and equity of student groups. Kondi explained that Underreporting of sexual the committee faced numerous accusais a key principle at the front of the report.” She continued, “Researchers said tions of lacking inclusivity and transviolence and people feelit is a core principle for the work that parency during its consultation period. we do in all the arenas at UofT. It is enIt also failed to effectively disseminate ing comfortable coming suring that we reach out to local coma survey, ultimately reaching only a forward are real issues, munity organizations who can provide minimal number of students (less than and support diverse groups. And that and there are barriers in one percent of the student populace). the people that will provide services at “With unsupported claims that the place. our university have the training they need committee included broad representation to understand and respect diverse groups of of all affected parties, this report should be our community. Our policies and training are seen at best as a stepping stone,” she comkeeping that very much in line.” mented, “and at worst as a failure at ameliorating The central aim for a new policy is transparency. The anti‐sexual-violence culture on campus. What this report lack of transparency under the current system is a major misses the mark on is preventative measures and, most imfactor when discussing under-reporting. By formulating a portantly, actually changing campus culture regarding sexclearly defined procedure and allowing easy navigation of ual violence.” resources for all students to understand and be aware of, Kur stated that CUPE3902, the union representing conreporting would be more accessible and less intimidating. tract academic staff at UofT, was not asked for consultation, However, some students believe that the barriers instigated and the Graduate Students Union (GSU) was given one by the policy discourages survivors from reporting. “UofT to two weeks to respond and provide recommendations. focuses their attention to the new centres, arenas, and nice “Some of the groups have been working for years on this buildings to present this image. If it’s known that there are issue and how to address it. Then, all of a sudden, they are students reporting sexual assault, they’ll lose that sponsor- given a couple of weeks to pull something together. It’s just ship,” Kur said. “As I said before, if you dissent you’re shut telling of the administration.” down—if you report or encourage it, you’re dissenting.” The student groups’ discontent is apparent, as the surWhen asked to comment on why UofT has not updated veys, meetings, and consultation they have conducted over or created a singular sexual violence policy, Professor Welsh the years are sidelined. “This report is written by a commitwasn’t forthcoming with details. “This is the time we are tak- tee made just over a year ago,” Kur remarked. “All of a suding to update these policies so they [reflect] what our cam- den they consult student groups, which have been around pus community needs right now.” Yet, hasn’t this been an for years dealing with survivors, and sideline the survivors issue on campus for decades? While a report is acceptable by making them a group to consult with, instead of actual on paper, it does not imply action taking place on campus. policy makers. They should be at the forefront.” UofT President Meric Gertler and Vice‐President and Professor Welsh responded to the stated student conProvost Cheryl Regehr have commented that they will thor- cerns by saying, “Here at UofT, we are very aware of the isoughly review the recommended policy and engage with sue of sexual assault and about student health, their mental the community to “improve” UofT’s response to this critical health, and their academic career, and we’re working hard

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to do what we can do to improve things [...] our report was very clear that we had a lot of work to do. Our students were saying, ‘This is a problem, this is an issue,’ and we’re clearly focused on continuing to [make] the changes that we need to make. The student voice is central to moving forward with the policy, and their input is key.” From the responses of student activists and administration, it is clear that both do not see eye‐to‐eye on the issue at hand. The opposing narratives reveal a contentious and troubling aspect in the relationship between UofT administration and its students.

port. They also found that in terms of response measures, the current counselling setup at Vic was considered “very insufficient,” due to its appointment‐only structure. As a result, establishing access to email, phone, and online chat communications to crisis response is a key measure laid out in the recommendations before it is presented to the Board of Regents for approval. Also suggested in the report, for the Burwash guest room to begin to function as a “cool-down space,” which students could use to talk and recover in times of crisis, before seeking further help. Kelley Castle, Dean of Students at Victoria College, has shown a keen interest in the issue and helping to What about Vic? stimulate change at Vic. Although the Dean’s office initially came out against the focus groups, they have since Outside of the discussed policy framework at UofT, the come around after recognizing their importance. “The fofragmented nature of the university adds another layer of cus groups, which are student-run and student-filled, are complexity to such a contentious issue. The colhelping my office to figure out what we can do that lege system at UofT leads students to largeare things that students think they need, not what ly identify with their respective colleges we think students need,” Castle said. When and use college resources as opposed asked about the feasibility of access to the to those of the university at large. SexBurwash guest room as a safe space for ual violence is handled at the UofT survivors, she said that “having access to A shift in the culture at administration level, and for several resources on weekends and after-hours universities, including good reasons. It is understandable is essential [...] as far as what kind of Vic, needs to accompany that differing sexual violence poliafter-hours resources are needed […] I cies across each college would inmean, we don’t get calls every night.” any policy if real change evitably lead to problems. Efforts have been made to help is to occur. As VUSAC Equity Commissioner stimulate dialogue around the subject Claire Wilkins told us, “When you’re through the Dean’s Office and their “Ask, dealing with sexual assault, you don’t Listen, Talk” campaign at Vic. Dean Castle want to be tossed from person to person, said the goal behind the campaign is to “try to [and] you want to deal with the solution in the get people to understand that they can talk to us and most healing way possible.” She stressed that this was the they can talk to each other.” Through posters around cammain issue expressed toward the ways that sexual vio- pus and awareness efforts, students have access to more lence has been handled at college level, particularly at information on the resources available to them in times Victoria College, and the main motivation for the sexual of need. “But it is difficult when it isn’t student facilitated violence focus groups, the only wholly student-run focus to actually get students to genuinely feel like there is a groups at UofT. conversation available,” Wilkins said. If you were to ask nearly any student at Vic, you While all of this talk surrounding awareness camwould likely find that few students know what the existing paigns and policy recommendations is positive and repprotocol for dealing with sexual violence is. As Wilkins resents a resurgence in conversation surrounding the isstressed, “We wanted to work towards establishing a pro- sue of sexual assault and sexual violence, we should be tocol that students know about before seeking help [...] mindful of the fact that they are simply just that—awarewe wanted to think about what we can do to make Vic- ness campaigns and policy recommendations. A shift in toria College support more visible and more accessible, the culture at universities, including Vic, needs to accomand less logistical.” pany any policy if real change is to occur. Wilkins and VUSAC Co-President Gabriel Zoltan-Johan are in the process of developing a report to be pre- Next Steps sented to the Dean’s office in the near future, which will include student testimonies, as well as policy and proto- Universities are marketed to incoming and current stucol recommendations. Zoltan-Johan offered insight into dents as safe, inclusive environments, which will allow some of the recommendations that are to be laid out in students to grow and excel as intelligent and capable inthe report. dividuals. The University of Toronto is no different in this He stressed several key themes that the protocol rec- regard. ommendations are to include. “Bystander intervention is If the recommended policy moves forward, it would a really big point that our focus group [focused on], and be an improvement on the sexual harassment policy that that it should be done for all student leaders, all Frosh is currently in place. However, the aim of this article leaders, and all Frosh,” he said, echoing the recommen- has been to highlight the systemic problem of reporting dations of the Presidential and Provostial Committee’s re- through administration, which, students have disclosed,

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did not support their best interests. Even if the policy were to go through, would the culture around sexual violence change? Would survivors be encouraged to report, and would UofT support this completely? These are all questions that cannot be answered at this point in time. What is known is that the dialogue is moving and the awareness around sexual violence is becoming more prevalent. For the recommended policy to really effect change on campus, it needs to be accompanied by a change in culture surrounding sexual violence. The conversations occurring between students, their administrations, and the activism that accompanies it signify a step in the right direction, but there is a long way to go. At UofT and Victoria College, there is an apparent conflict of narratives dealing with how UofT handles sexual assault. The root of the problem for under-reporting at universities needs some sort of response, and if one delves deeper into the issue, the answer is not appealing. Students need to come before UofTâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reputation. If this is the root of the cause, UofT has a lot to answer forâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;not just for the faculty, students, and staff, but most importantly for survivors who urgently need the justice they deserve. The administrations need to be reminded that this is an issue that must be addressed and solved. If the entire student body is to feel safe on a fundamental level, it can no longer be ignored. Safety is the ultimate goalâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;one we are slowly inching toward.

High school gym revisited personal narratives, a philosophical-feminist tie-in, and a surprise Marxist twist Written by Miranda Alksnis Illustration by Julian Battersby Morris

I, bookworm, somehow made the Grade 9 field hockey team despite never having played team sports in my life. I was afraid of the ball, of the opposing team, of messing up, of my own teammates and coach. I improved a lot, but by the end of the season I was a resigned, defeated wreck. In my one year of senior field hockey, I became so unhappy that I was relieved to injure my leg—an excuse to not participate the following year. It would have been easy and understandable for me to reject sports from then on. It was a surprise, then, to learn that I didn’t HAVE to be bad at field hockey. When left to my own devices on intramural teams, I discovered that I was actually okay—even had the ability to become good. But who could have told me? It wasn’t that I had no potential; I had just never played before. No coach is encouraged to see athletic talent in someone like me, much less acquire the tools to nurture that talent. The attention of the coach and the approaches that drove other students to excel in the sport made me quail and mess up. Some students need compassion and encouragement instead, or any number of different approaches. There is a deeply entrenched notion (which gym class perpetuates) that someone is either physically capable or mentally intelligent, and that the two are mutually exclusive domains. But that is not the case.

I am in the process of changing my relationship to field hockey and to my body. I want to grow and to see it as a game of one, where I push myself to the limit no matter what psychological or situational factors at play. I’ve become more comfortable moving and speaking confidently, and at expressing my gender. I’ve done this with the aid of philosophy. Philosopher Iris Marion Young tied the Heideggerian concepts of presence-at-hand and readiness-to-hand to the feminine experience of the body. It’s the notion that if you’re forced to consider, scrutinize, and be made conscious of it, it is harder (perhaps impossible) to use your body in a seamless, unconscious fashion. Reading this philosophy of embodiment, and being surrounded by female friends in Annesley Hall, changed my relationship to my body. I tried relaxing my body and mind while taking free hits in field hockey—something I’d previously found very difficult because it is a precise, individual activity where screwing up is very visible. But when I relaxed, my hits were suddenly near perfect. Young further argues that women specifically have an arrested experience of their bodies because they’re made to consider their bodies as aesthetic objects and objects intended for (often masculine) consumption. I’ve found this to be true for myself: I was an awkward

self-esteem John: Some days I still obsess and criticize and cry about my body. I am slowly learning to remind myself that…complete physical perfection or peace is a remnant idea of a deeply pathological relationship I once had with my body. Grace: In high school, I thought I was fat. My body is no longer just my appearance—it’s my strength and ability, and lets me enjoy wrestling, dancing, Nia classes, and weightlifting. I have moments when I’m happy with how I look, moments I feel defensive, and moments I hate it. If I find myself in the gym, I’ve done or am about to do something positive about how I look and feel. Liv: I hate my boobs, but don’t know if it stems from me wanting to avoid being gay because I’m insecure or if I’m just not a boob-wielding female. Being in university and being friends with non-binary people makes me think about it more. I’m more okay with who I am now, but [I] don’t try to define it either. TL;DR: Christian high school gym class fucked me up, and I'm gay and insecure.

Alex: It’s only recently, through dancing, that I’ve been able to [get] past my fears and become comfortable and confident again about moving my body. John: Physical practices are fundamental to maintaining my mental health and exploring who I might be if I show my body compassion. Hoop Dance has been a physically educational and transformative tool. You can aggressively throw enormous amounts of energy into a hoop, but you will always have to catch the energy you put into it. You can experience your connected mind and body. Anna: I started doing yoga after the end of a traumatic relationship that left me feeling disassociated from my body and mind. My classes are mostly women of different abilities and ages. There is no competition, scrutiny, or anger over mistakes. There is gentle encouragement to love and respect my body and its boundaries. Embracing this helps me feel at home in myself. Grace: One thing that helped a lot was wrestling. The first day I ran the slowest laps, moved the least weight, and took a long time to learn the moves. I came back the next day just to prove I could do better, and continued for the next eight years. Wrestling normalised a variety of body types; the only thing that mattered about your weight was whether you would make the cutoff for your category.

physical practices teenager, uncomfortable with my changing body and the possibility of looking or behaving masculine, wary of touching others inadvertently, and of taking up space. A heightened awareness of my body and gender made it hard to play sports successfully. People of all different kinds of embodiment have found this to be true for them as well. So it’s understandable that so many experience their bodies in this arrested way. Gym class serves as a magnifying glass for individuals’ relationships with their bodies and physicality. The function of their bodies is scrutinized by their peers, teachers, and themselves, literally evaluated during a time of growth that occurs before they even learn to inhabit their newly altered bodies. Is it any surprise that gym class hurts more than it helps? It is clear that gym class, at best, represents a squandered opportunity to do something about serious problems young people face, and at worst, actively harms students and reinforces harmful behavioural and gender norms.

So what’s going on? Why is gym class so deeply useless? It involves learning only a wide enough variety of sports to know that you are, once again, bad at something, never staying on any one activity long enough for it to become a skill. Gym class curricula could, hypothetically, allow students to choose a physical practice from a tradition they find fulfilling or entertaining and pursue that for several years—long enough to become good at it. Why don’t we do this? The problems with gym class don’t stem from gym alone. Gym, and other courses are modeled after survey courses like history and English because public education in North America was conceived with a specific intention and after a specific ideology—to allow more of the population to gain the skills and mentality needed to enter the industrialized workforce. Even teaching resembles the industrialization process, wherein every step is compartmentalized, depersonalized, and mass-produced. Gym class is

gender Lachina: The danger [in change rooms] was precisely due to the assumption that gendering spaces renders them safe—safe enough not to need any other precautions, despite the staff’s explicit knowledge that several students were extremely violent, and that I was prone to attack. Anna: I love to be outside and enjoy my body’s ability to carry me places. Those experiences make me love my female body, because I’m not thinking about what my embodied experience as a woman is “supposed” to be, i.e., something that is supposed to be pretty and sexy to others.

a litmus test for the physical ability of a person to join the industrial workforce. It is preoccupied with instilling these values in students when they examine themselves and their physicality. It’s abundantly clear that high school itself does not serve the needs of students, nor does it care about student success. Teachers enforce notions about grade distribution curves that assume some students will fail, and no effort is made to implement curricula or practices that will correct these trends when there is increasing evidence that such correction is possible. Gym class is

a particularly interesting example because, with a new capitalistic value placed on intelligence, neither failure nor success is regarded as significant. The class is simply a useless breeding ground for abuse. Public school does not foster critical thinking and self-knowledge because it was not constructed to do so. It teaches adherence to authority and enforces normalcy; no effort has been made to restructure education to resolve these systemic issues. Clearly, the problem reaches deeper.

gym class Liv: In gym class it was always weird because, as a gay person, I was always worried that my friends would treat me differently, which made me more aware of nudity and stuff. Ninety-nine percent of my friends were bigoted Christians, and I just got used to having to be simultaneously me and not me. That made me super nervous about being gay. Sonia: The hardest part was how easy it [was] to directly compare yourself to other people, since you [were] able to kind of quantify your athletic ability. It suck[ed] having everyone know that you are bad at something. I still hate exercising in front of people now. Anna: The competitive focus in gym classes resulted in me being always picked last and despised by teammates. It was a toxic environment and ended up being another space for my body and femaleness to be scrutinised. The fact that I “proved” gendered expectations that girls were useless in sports made me hate my girl-ness even more. Alex: I don’t think I was good or bad, but the pressure made me worse. I remember clearly having to shoot [a] basketball in front of the whole class, and someone kept telling me I sucked while I was being evaluated... It made me feel awkward toward my body, not wanting to move it, and fearing others' opinions. I felt so uncomfortable that in the last year of high school I just decided to stay on the bench the whole year. John: High school gym class was hellish. I had very little understanding [of] or respect for my body. I was very depressed, and also suffered from severe physical self-consciousness. Gym class saw me being physically dominated and psychologically overwhelmed. I was bullied frequently over my physique and passivity. I did not feel like a man or a body or anything, really. I felt pretty amorphous. Lachina: I cannot remember a more dangerous or unpleasant environment than my elementary school gym class. Being transgender, I was relegated to the boys’ change room, where I was on many occasions harassed and attacked. I did not ask to use the girls’ change room; there were no allowances for transgender students. The sexual assault I remember took [place] with numerous classmates around, who did nothing. I told nobody, as previous reporting [had] never improved any aspect of the situation. KZ: Yeah. Gym class was as uneventful as my sexual orientation.

Girl Girl in in the the band band Written by Susannah McKenzie-Sutter Photography by Genevieve Wakutz Modelling by Taylor Lindblad The summer before I moved to St. John’s, Newfoundland, was the summer I was a fiddle player in a folk band. I had plans to start at Memorial University’s School of Music in September for violin, something that both excited and terrified me. I was invited to join the band by a workmate, a guy a few years older than I was, someone I was pretty well acquainted with. He had written the outlines for a collection of songs and wanted a full band to jam them with. I was pretty nervous at the first band practice. I was the only 17-year-old girl in a group of 20-something guys who already knew each other. The conversations revolving around beards and home brews were conversations I had little to contribute to, but as we continued to meet up and practice the songs, a sense of warmth and camaraderie started to grow. We all contributed to the songs’ harmonies, textures, and layers in an incredibly raw and fluid way. Band practice every week became something I couldn’t wait for— it was a lighthearted and comfortable place to pull notes out of the spheres and make music sound beautiful. In June of that summer, we started recording the songs

to produce a full-length album, a totally foreign and exciting project for me. We also started to play some live shows in local bars. The first few shows were a blast. There was something so thrilling about showcasing all of this originality. There was also something thrilling about the guys buying me a drink or two while I still held an underage status. Then, one of our shows ended in an upsetting way. We went on without a real sound check and this particular bar didn’t have the best space for sound to begin with. Our group leader was controlling the soundboard and mics, and when I told him I couldn’t hear my violin, he dismissed it. After a few more songs some guys in the bar came up and told us to turn up the fiddle. The band leader still didn’t do anything about it. I played the whole 45-minute set knowing no one could hear anything I was playing. I felt that night like I was on stage to be the token visual of “the girl” playing the fiddle. I felt stupid the whole time on stage. After the show one of the other guys in the band asked if I was okay. I told him how I felt; he sympathized and said he’d watch out for that kind of thing. He also said he would talk to the band leader.

We played some more shows that summer and continued recording. I learned quickly that I had to be twice as loud as the guys in the band to be heard. Bar owners would try to make me pay cover if they didn’t think I belonged in the band. “Are you sure you’re part of this band, sweetie?” one bouncer asked at the door while I held a violin case. A sound guy at another show set up my mic close to the front of the stage saying, “Baby always has to be in the front.” So many of these people in positions of the slightest power viewed me as a girl musician; girl first, musician second. Gender took precedence. I moved to Newfoundland and started school that September—a big adjustment. I started learning from professional musicians, both men and women, who worked incredibly hard to get to where they are now. My current violin professor, Nancy Dahn, is a graduate from some of the top music schools in the world: New England Conservatory, Juilliard School, and the Cleveland Institute. She is constantly touring the world in her critically acclaimed duo ensemble, Duo

Concertante, and teaching at Memorial because she loves teaching. Nancy is one of the most hardworking and talented musicians I have ever met; she also possesses one of the most respected and powerful voices in the university’s music faculty. That summer was one of the best summers of my life. I made some of my best friends in that band, friends I still hold dear. I learned how to throw my voice in a room full of men who don’t listen. I also learned that there are some men who will use the weight of their voices to speak up for women who are dismissed, ignored, and degraded. There are always going to be people who see you as a woman before they see you as a musician, and there are always going to be people who make degrading comments in an attempt to undermine your craft. If you are confident in your art, people will forget the source of the sound. If they don’t, they are sad, small people intimidated by the art you project. The next time your violin mic is turned down so low it’s inaudible, walk over to the PA and turn yourself up.

hair-itage Written by Cara Schacter Illustrations by Greta Pylypczak

I was eight at Jewish summer camp when the girls in my cabin threw a waxing party. I opted out. Still, when I got home, I told my mom something would have to be done about my leg hair. Hair removal was happening, and it was happening now. My mother, determined to keep my body as intact as possible, for as long as possible, proposed bleach. A year later, I returned to camp with white leg hair. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. “It makes your legs look tan,” hairless Jessie Weinstein assured me. “I can’t shave either,” hairy Eden Sher confided. “My mom says I need leg hair for warmth.” The subsequent summer, after much maternal cajoling, I graduated to Veet—a chemical depilatory that smells like a mistake. It’s terrifying. You smear a cream on your legs, let it sit, then wipe it away and watch the strands slide off your skin. Three years after that formative waxing party, I was given my first razor when terminally homesick Emma Silver left camp early. Upon her departure, high off the prospect of reuniting with her gerbil, Emma generously divided her possessions among the remaining bunkmates. I wrote home about my blue Venus Breeze razor. My mom responded via fax: “DO NOT SHAVE ABOVE YOUR KNEE.” “Always, always go in the opposite direction of hair growth.” Syd Siegel, a competitive volleyball player with a cartilage piercing and invisible braces, agreed to teach me to shave. “Slice it at its root,” she said. We were annihilating the opponent. “It’s like flank steak—you cut against the grain, always go against the grain.” Syd was all about beef. Her family had a house in the Alps that I assumed, somehow, informed her knowledge of steak handling. After we shaved our shins, Syd showed me how to manoeuvre delicately around the ankle and knee: “The dips are where people get lost.” One time, a woman who had climbed Everest did a PowerPoint presentation at school. She

talked about the danger of crevice crossing. People get lost in dips all the time. “It’s kind of weird,” Syd said, “but sometimes I shave my big toe. I have three or four hairs there. Check yours.” I crouched down to check my toe. I had a couple of long, dark hairs. How long had they been there? Two summers later, with the encouragement of Adina Levine, I shaved above the knee. (“Okay, but moms always say not to shave above your knee. It’s their version of ‘Hello.’”) I shaved all the way up my thigh. It was invigorating. My counselor—a 16-year-old with a long-term boyfriend and a Costco box of tampons—a capital-W woman, to be sure—taught me that after you shave, you moisturize. This is it, I thought. I’ve done it. I am Woman; feel my thigh. Finding oneself is a process of elimination, of excavation. Is it merely coincidental that middle school is marked by 1) a heightened pressure to find oneself, and 2) the tendency to over-pluck one’s eyebrows? It’s hard to know who you are, easier to determine what you are not. I have come to know myself as I have come to know shaving: slowly, in small upward strokes. Hair removal is revelatory. You see things you couldn’t see before. Of course, hairlessness is not a determining factor of womanhood. While hair removal may reveal the self, it doesn’t create it. A waxing place on Bloor offers an array of bikini wax styles. Their “menu” ranges from the time-honored “Landing Strip” to the lesser known “Martini Glass” and “Postage Stamp.” But most significantly, according to their site, “If you’d prefer to get creative, you can have a little something shaped into a design all your own.”

A rose by any other name Written by Angela Sun Illustration by Seolim Hong

I have a copy of Angela’s Ashes somewhere in my room. Unread. It wasn’t until junior high that I discovered there were other students who shared my last name while surreptitiously looking through the attendance sheets I had volunteered to take down to the office. They weren’t in the same classes as me so I never got the chance to meet them. I’m pretty sure we were not related. There were two other Angelas in my grade in high school, but no “Angela Sun.”

I still remember the exact moment I decided to call myself “Angela.” I was in Grade 3, and my teacher had just announced to the class that Stormy would like to be called “Anastasia” from now on. This was my chance. I raised my hand. “Um, I would like to be called Angela from now on too.” My teacher, Ms. O’Connor—possibly one of the most kind and understanding teachers I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing—said patiently, “Anastasia is what Stormy’s parents call her at home. Do your parents call you Angela?” Stormy added helpfully, “Yeah. My real name is Anastasia. Stormy is my nickname.” But it was too late to back down now, “Yes. My parents call me Angela.” No, they didn’t. Stormy looked furious that I had stolen her thunder (pun very much intended).

If you Google Angela Sun, the top result is always “ANGELA SUN: Investigative Journalist. Sports Broadcaster. Documentary Filmmaker. Adventure Traveler.” The most famous Angela Sun is this sportscaster, host, and filmmaker who has appeared on NBC, MTV, ESPN, Yahoo! Sports, Tennis Channel, and Fox Sports, among others. She graduated from UCLA and studied abroad at the University of New South Wales in Sydney. She speaks Mandarin Chinese, Spanish, and German. According to her Maxim photo-shoot interview, she likes to hang with the boys but does not want to be one of them. She doesn’t really care about looks but is impressed by intellect, charm, and humour. Her mini-documentary about the “changing status of women in China” that’s available on YouTube is worth your time.

Angela is not my first “English name.” It’s not even my second. Before I even had a reason to rename myself, a friend of the family decided to name me “Jennifer” because it sounded similar to the first character of my Chinese name. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how odd this was considering that he spoke Mandarin and could pronounce my name perfectly well. A year later, a teacher from my elementary school started calling me “Rosie” after I played a curtseying rose in that year’s garden-themed spring musical. I had to practice that curtsey over and over again until I could do it without toppling over. Roses are still my favourite flowers. I don’t remember why I chose the name Angela, but I have this vague memory from Grade 2, when another teacher remarked that one of the characters in the story we were reading had a pretty name. But I think the name was “Susan,” not Angela.

My friends and family have known me as “Angela” for 17 years now. This one time my mother and I had lost each other in the supermarket but I found her by tracing her agitated yells from two aisles over. She started with my childhood nickname, then switched to my Chinese name, and then finally, in a desperate Mandarin accent, “ANNN-ge-la.” I couldn’t tell you which name she uses now. To my ears, they all sound the same in her voice.

I’ve always been aware of the existence of other Angelas in the world. One of the first books I read and reread was I Am Angela by Holly Keller. The woefully sparse Amazon description writes: “The unpredictable Angela experiences several pleasant—and not-so-pleasant—surprises when she gets lost on a Girl Scout outing, walks four dogs, and arranges a science exhibit at school.” Maybe I got a kick out of reading about someone who had the same name as me. Maybe sharing a name encouraged me to search for similarities between myself and the Angela whose stories got to be published in a book.

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Angela Sun is a Michigan State University Computer Science senior who won the National Center for Women & Information Technology Collegiate Award last year for her study on battery drain in smartphones. Dr. Angela Sun works for the Seattle Children’s Hospital, specializes in pediatrics and biomedical genetics, and has glowing patient reviews. Angela Sun is a doctoral candidate from Stanford in Educational Policy. Angela Sun is the chief of staff to the President of Bloomberg, L.P.

...maybe it’s because I have this weirder idea about how all these Angelas are like alternate versions of myself. 42

and was a senior policy advisor to the deputy mayor of New York. Angela Sun is a student from Vancouver who spoke about “the staircase of oppression, a model that was created to explore the roots and effects of discrimination” at TEDxKids@BC. I wonder if Angela Sun the psychologist and I would’ve been a good therapeutic fit. Would it be weird to see a psychotherapist who has the same name as you? Or maybe we would bond over the fact that our name was trapped between two cultures. I think about how I am proof that the idea that we are a “model minority” is a myth. Angela Sun spent the last eight years of her life trying to complete an undergraduate degree. Angela Sun spends too much time on the internet reading celebrity gossip and updating her social media accounts. Angela Sun finally traveled by herself for the first time last March. Angela Sun is fat and not just “overweight for an Asian.” There’s a joke in here somewhere. **

Outside my immediate family there are probably only two or three friends who’ve seen my Chinese name and even fewer who can pronounce it properly. The choice to use a more “Western-sounding” name is not uncommon if you attended a school with a lot of first-generation Chinese Canadians. Our names seem to pose a particular phonetic challenge for those who are unfamiliar with tonal dialects. It can be hard for English-speakers to slide their voices into unfamiliar crevices when they are used to communicating in monotones. I still wince whenever my white boyfriend attempts to pronounce my name, and he’s saying it with love. The second character of my name, if pronounced phonetically in its English iteration, sounds an awful like “shoes.” Shoes are gross and sweaty and stinky. This is perhaps not the best when you have a talent for attracting bullies. It can be hard to speak a name that has no use for an alphabet. An English word contains an average of 4.79 letters. An aphorism can be symbolized by a single Chinese character. Some things will always be lost in translation. I am still mad at UofT for cutting a character out of my Chinese name. If a Chinese name is three characters long, the first name is actually comprised of two characters. A middle character is not a middle name. To not include my second character is like calling someone “Ma” instead of Mary. I want to throw up whenever I receive an email from the professors who do not know me as “Angela.” **

I disliked my Chinese name for a long time because it sounds like a traditional “boy’s name.” It isn’t melodious or lilting, but straight and striking. It was a constant reminder that I was always forced to play tomboy Sailor Jupiter during playground role playing games because I was never pretty enough to be Sailor Moon. On a good day I was allowed to be Sailor Mars. Fortunately, I grew out of this. My father, the oldest son in his family, wished for a son of his own, but all he got was me.

I thought I’d feel a bit creepy researching the online presence of all the Angelas. But I don’t. Maybe it’s because I just read what was publicly available. Look, if it’s Google search-able, it’s public. Maybe it’s because I have some weird idea about how, just because we have the same name and are Westernized women of East Asian descent, we are connected somehow. That there is some common experience that we hold betwixt and between women with a Christian name of Latin origin and a Chinese last name. Maybe it’s because I have this weirder idea about how all these Angelas are like alternate versions of myself. That if I had taken a different turn somewhere, I could’ve been a sexy sportscaster who makes documentaries about how plastic is destroying the earth. That I could still become someone else if I really wanted to. I don’t know. Maybe.