When I was in fourth grade, I missed almost a year of school. My classmates were simply told that I was sick, and they all wrote kind letters wishing me a speedy recovery from my ambiguous illness. Few would have guessed that it was not my physical health that was keeping me out of the classroom. I was too anxious.
Even though I was not in school for several months, I was doing a lot of learning. For instance, I learned that I had Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I received cognitive-behavioural therapy (CBT) and for many years I took the anti-depressant Paxil. Eventually, I was well enough to return to school and thank my classmates for their letters in person.
Today, I no longer take medication and I am quite practiced at handling my anxiety. Yet, one of my newest and most reliable anxiety management techniques was not prescribed by a doctor, or learned in a CBT session.
Rather, it comes from the world of conceptual art.
In conceptual art, ideas take precedence over aesthetics. A representative work is Catalysis, a series of performances from the early 1970s by Adrian Piper, which I studied last year in an art history course. Each performance involved Piper distorting her physical appearance and violating certain social norms in public.
In Catalysis I, for example, Piper soaked her clothes in a mixture of vinegar, eggs, milk and cod buy levitra liver oil for a week, and then wore them on the subway during rush hour. For Catalysis IV, she travelled around New York City with a large red bath towel bulging out of her mouth.
If these acts seem disruptive and confrontational, that was Piper’s intention. As a black female, Piper was already accustomed to being treated differently based on her body. The artist hoped to provoke a complacent public and force people to be more conscious of how they react to “otherness.”
I have never walked around with a bath towel stuffed in my mouth, but I do think of Catalysis sometimes when I experience mild social anxiety. When my jokes are met with silence, for instance, or I misuse an ungainly, pretentious word like “potent” in a class discussion, I imagine that I am a conceptual artist like Piper. I focus on the idea that both my gaffe and people’s responses are part of an elaborate performance art piece.
Obviously, reflecting on conceptual art is not a solution for severe anxiety, or other serious problems related to mental illness. Far superior resources are available at the Student Wellness Centre. Yet, I genuinely find that playing pretend in this way can occasionally help to quell some of my social anxiety and embarrassment.
Conceptual art is often denigrated as frivolous or foolish. Indeed, some may dismiss Catalysis on these grounds. These people might be surprised to find out that Piper also has a doctorate from Harvard University, where her supervisor was the legendary political philosopher John Rawls.
To me, however, my relationship with Catalysis absolutely affirms the value of conceptual art. Piper’s work has changed the way that I see the world around me, and I don’t think that there is anything more one can ask from a piece of art, be it a painting or performance.
Conceptual art is powerful; that’s one claim I am not anxious about making.
A front-page editorial from the Nov. 10, 1939 edition of The Silhouette discussing Armistice Day and the conflict of the day: WWII. (Click to enlarge.)
One of the tensest moments of my first year at McMaster didn’t happen when I was writing exams, or fighting with my roommate, or handing in a late assignment. It happened on Nov. 11 when I was sitting in the basement lecture hall of Togo Salmon.
The professor was lecturing straight through the 10:30 a.m. class. When 11:00 a.m. rolled around, the time traditionally reserved as a minute of silence in respect for those affected by war – through combat or collateral, a student raised her hand. “Shouldn’t we stop lecture for a minute right now?” she said, and outlined her case: that would be the most respectful thing to do.
There was a long, awkward silence. Then, the professor said no. I don’t remember her reason; it was long and convoluted, and very passionately against recognizing the moment. But then the student argued back, and more students jumped in, until finally, several minutes past the 11:00 a.m. mark, the room lapsed into 60 seconds of awkward silence.
While that particular minute was spent more in embarrassed quiet for the uncomfortable circumstances than in thoughtful contemplation, it has come back to me every November since, as I dwell on war and peace, Remembrance Day, poppies, and everything this time represents.
The squabbles of that morning seem petty in comparison to what it was viagra jelly like to be on campus in the war-torn days of yesteryear.
There was a time on McMaster’s campus when the impact of war was not a once-a-November focus, but rather a daily occurrence. Old Sil headlines from World War II call for blood donors during a European shortage. In desperation, they appealed to women to donate, as men were traditionally the exclusive donor group.
One front-page article from Nov. 3, 1944 warned that the military status of all male students would now be checked, and “every student must have on his person at all times either a postponement, a discharge, or a rejection paper.” If it was found that any men were “unable to produce these necessary qualifications, their names will be turned in to N.M.R.A. immediately. Within a few days they will receive their military call-up.” (The N.M.R.A. was the National Resources Mobilization Act, which recorded and policed conscripted Canadians for military service at home and abroad.)
The paper from that time period is also peppered with lists of fallen alumni and students. It serves as a sombre reminder for all we take for granted today as students.
For the first time in several years, I’ll be in a position to actually attend a Remembrance Day morning ceremony. But if you’re in lecture (and whether or not your professor pauses), at work, at home or elsewhere, I still encourage you to stop what you’re doing for a moment. Not to glorify war but to be thankful for all that we have today, the people we owe that to, and what we want tomorrow to be.
Bahar Orang
ANDY Editor
I remember when I was sixteen years old, I heard “I Kissed a Girl” on the radio for the first time. As I danced around my room, I felt confused. Katy Perry sings, “I kissed a girl and I liked it, I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.” Katy’s voice was a little raspy, a little deep. It could potentially pass as a male’s voice. I tried to piece together this love triangle between the singer, the boyfriend, and the girl who had been kissed. I instinctively tried to neatly fit the song into a heteronormative storyline. I eventually gave up and thought, maybe I’m missing something. Maybe I’ve heard the lyrics wrong. Maybe it’s like that time I thought generic viagra cheap Wyclef was singing, “she make a man wanna see spandex” to Shakira, when he was actually singing, “she make a man wanna speak Spanish.”
Looking back now, well – what in the actual fuck? The fact that I had a very liberal family, that I was quite open-minded, that I hated when people said, “that’s so gay,” that I had gone to the Toronto pride parade since I was a little girl – none of this meant anything in that moment of truth when the song came on. I did not resist, nor was I even aware of, the sheer oppressiveness of heteronormative culture that still permeates pop music.
I can now recognize this grossly problematic oversight on my part, but I am no less confused about “I Kissed a Girl.”
On the one hand, it does offer something alternative to the love stories of mainstream music. Most of the he’s sing about the she’s and most of the she’s sing about the he’s. And even when people do covers of different songs, they’ll be thoroughly committed to every last note of the original song – except for those pesky pronouns. They’ll adjust them so that the he’s and the she’s still “match up.”
But the song describes an extremely sexualized encounter. It is sensual and erotic and focused entirely on her lips and her soft skin and her cherry chap stick. There is no depth, she even admits that she doesn’t know her name and it doesn’t even matter. She describes their kiss as wrong and naughty and dirty. Was this just Katy’s attempt to tantalize a male fantasy? Does this then just perpetuate the eroticization or exoticisation of queer relationships? Was it just an attention stunt on Katy’s part?
And yet – can we ignore or discount the broad and blurred spectrum of human sexuality? Maybe Katy simply does prefer a long-term relationship with her boyfriend, and just likes feeling up other girls. Should we deny her the right to feel this way and express this perspective? Is it helpful in a broader cultural context that eliminates, and subjugates queer identities? Or does the song just propagate stereotypes? And does it make any difference that the song is fun and catchy and I still like dancing around to it in my room?
And if we move away from the content of the lyrics – what about the singer? A white, presumably “straight,” Katy Perry playfully singing about a lesbian experience – is that okay?
And to that end – what position do I have in this discourse, as someone who has never kissed a girl – do I have any position at all?
This idea of who can speak for whom only gets more complicated as we move forwards a few years in the pop music timeline and think about Macklemore. I firmly believe that “Same Love” is a beautiful song and I find it more moving every time I listen to it, but it still begs the question: what does it mean to have three white people (Amy lambert, Macklemore, and Ryan Lewis) – two of whom are straight – be the voice and the rallying point of gay rights in hip-hop? Is it unfair that white people get mainstream recognition for talking about homophobia in hip-hop, when queer hip-hop artists of colour are routinely ignored? And all that being said, is it still nonetheless helpful that these ideas are actually present in the billboard charts?
Maybe all these things can be true at the same time. Maybe we can answer ‘yes’ to all these questions even when the answers directly contradict each other. Either way, I’m still waiting for a pop song that somehow manages to address all these issues.
I write this as a cisgender, heterosexual, white woman who has never known what it is like to face hate for what I look like, how I identify, and who I love. I acknowledge that I’m writing from a position of privilege, and do not claim to speak for or represent McMaster’s queer community.
Recently, I went to an LGBTQ+ focused event for the first time. Never before had I been in an environment where my sexuality was a minority, and where I couldn’t identify with the lived experience of most of the people in the room. I felt awkward about it. I was uncomfortable with occupying queer space. It reminded me that this, in the tiniest possible way, is the daily experience of marginalized queer folk. And I think being reminded of my own privilege in this way was a really healthy thing for a straight white girl.
Learning to be an ally to and within the queer community can start with being present and acknowledging and reflecting upon one’s own privileged awkwardness in order to show support and solidarity. And there’s no better week than next week to start that journey.
From Nov. 4-8, 2013, McMaster will be celebrating MacPride, the week-long celebration of the Mac LGBTQ+ and trans* community put on by the Queer Students Community Centre.
Major events include Tuesday’s MacPride March at 2 p.m. outside of Commons, Wednesday’s Steel Cut Queer Movie Night at The Factory Media Centre (228 James St. North) at 7 p.m., and Thursday’s Drag Show (time and place T.B.A.).
If you’re a tentative ally, know that you’re encouraged to participate. Anyone and everyone is welcome to attend. There are some things you can keep in mind over the course of next week (and beyond), though, in order to be a particularly effective ally.
Make a point to consistently check your privilege and be aware of the bias and perspective it gives you. Don’t try and speak for the community you’re advocating for; this week is about celebrating their voice, not yours. Own up to your mistakes as you make them, and don’t be defensive if others point out your shortcomings. Try your best to create community and support systems by speaking out against oppression when it’s the right time for that, but more often just being quiet and listening to oft-suppressed queer voices.
There’s even Ally Training happening on Wednesday at 1:30 p.m. in MUSC 213 (registration required) to aid in this process.
I am not trying to make Pride week about viagra pfizer canada allies. It’s not. It’s about celebrating the LGBTQ+ community at McMaster. Allies can be part of creating space and platforms for LGBTQ+ voices, but they’re not the focus and by outlining positive allyship I’m not trying to make them out to be.
I am by no means particularly good at being an ally. I don’t know that anyone would claim to be. Rather, I would say that I am constantly learning, trying, supporting, and growing. And really, that’s what I’m encouraging in others.
I’ll see you at the march.
Bahar Orang
ANDY Editor
This Halloween I’m dressing up as Amy Winehouse. I experimented for a long time before finally mastering the hair. I tried several different techniques and experimented with several different household objects before settling on a loufah, which I will shove beneath a thick lump of hair. I also plan to don the thick black eyeliner drawn from tear duct to hairline. I’ll complete the look with her many tattoos drawn all over my body. When people ask me what my costume is, I’ll respond with very, very bad renditions of “Valerie” or “Back to Black.” It will all be part of a larger costume - the 27 club - musicians who died at a startlingly young age. There will be a Kurt Cobain - with shaggy hair and an oversized 90’s plaid shirt. There will be a Janis - complete with fuzzy locks, hippie pants and large round glasses. And there will be a Jimi Hendrix - with a fake guitar and a brightly coloured vest hanging from his torso.
One particularly crude friend insisted that we add a second layer to our costumes, which shows how each musician died. She got really creative and (in very poor taste) suggested that my Amy Winehouse interpretation include white make-up powder somewhere on my face. We decided against it.
As we brainstormed more possibilities for our costume, we started realizing how utterly strange it was that all of these fantastic, ground-breaking musicians all died at the same age - at a young, awfully specific, but still very random age. When I imagine myself at 27 - I imagine that it’ll be at the peak of my life - I will be a fully formed human, an inspiring artist, I will have mastered things, I will have loved and lost, I’ll be as good-looking as I’ll ever be. I don’t imagine that I’ll be on a stairway to heaven.
I’ll reach that age in a few short years - to imagine dying at 27 is terrifying, unjust, surreal. And these musicians - all of them brave, beautiful, and talented, makes it even more scary and unfair. It’s also decidedly spooky. My friends and I have only covered a few of the club’s members. The club’s Wikipedia page includes quite a long list of musicians who died at 27 - from Chuck Barry to viagra 20mg for sale Brian Jones. The artists span many generations and musical genres.
And all of them were supposedly found with white lighters in their pockets - just three years shy of 30. It’s weird.
Perhaps some higher power is calling it to our attention - perhaps someone or something is saying - look at what’s happening! Take notice! Open your eyes to these problems - problems of drug abuse, suicide, and celebrity culture - look at what you’re doing. You silly humans!
We have responded with a group Halloween costume. I will sport an orange loofah in Amy’s honour.
Bahar Orang
Senior ANDY Editor
This is a very quiet film. Most of the story is told through careful glances, silent movements, and even an inaudible whisper at the end between Bob and Charlotte. Everything is undramatic but still feels fragile.
Both of them are adrift in different age-specific life crises, and the bond they form is based on shared feelings of displacement and dissatisfaction in their lives. I don’t feel that Coppola ever tries to analyze or unpack these characters. She only finds honest ways to show two people who are bored and restless, and we never find them boring. I could identify with both of them. Charlotte, the young woman who doesn’t know who she is supposed to be – and even with Bob, the older man who is lost and weary.
Despite an intimate kiss at the end, in the middle of the Tokyo streets, they aren’t lovers. The physical attraction between them doesn’t really matter. Their friendship is a kind of nothing – talking, laughing, lying down beside each other – but the longing and the loneliness of it all is so relatable that each time I watch the film I feel strangely fulfilled by the end.
Cooper Long
Assistant ANDY Editor
He spies the audiobook case on her cluttered hotel room table and picks it up. “Whose is this – A Soul’s Search: Finding Your True Calling?” he asks.
Suddenly, her smile vanishes. “I don’t know,” she answers, with a playfulness that does not match her darting, downcast eyes.
Even though he cannot see her face, he senses her embarrassment and masterfully pivots the conversation. “I have that,” he says.
She laughs. “Did it work out for you then?” she asks, beaming.
“Obviously,” he quips.
This exchange between Bob (Bill Murray) and Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) occurs at the midpoint of Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation. To me, it is the linchpin of the entire film. In only five shots and five lines of dialogue, Coppola defines the ineffable bond between her two protagonists.
Although they attempt to stifle their feelings with alcohol, cigarettes and karaoke, Bob and Charlotte are profoundly aimless. Her vulnerability and self-doubt are exposed when Bob spots the audiobook case. Yet, rather than questioning Charlotte or changing the subject, Bob outs himself as similarly adrift.
Bob and Charlotte’s mutual ennui binds them together, and I would argue that this type of willingness to appear vulnerable in front of another person is essential for deep and lasting friendship off screen as well.
The tenth anniversary of Lost in Translation’s release is an admittedly esoteric topic for an entire issue of ANDY. Indeed, I sometimes questioned whether Sofia Coppola’s accomplishments truly warrant such a retrospective. Certainly, there are many other young writer-directors with similarly sized, but perhaps more consistently impressive filmographies. Paul Thomas Anderson, Jeff Nichols and Ramin Bahrani come to mind.
But then I think back to Charlotte’s face in the scene that I just described, and how the essence of an entire relationship is inscribed in the rise and fall of her lips. If one scene can define a film, then one film can certainly define this issue.
The recent mess in the Faculty of Business that has resulted in the suspension of five professors is shocking for the high-profile nature of the situation, while simultaneously being unsurprising for the issue that it’s over. The hostile work environment described in the documents that have been released so far concerns differing opinions over who is worthy of tenure and leadership positions: those with doctorate degrees or those without - but with extensive industry experience.
The faculty feud is indicative of two things: one, that bullying, infighting and plotting are not left behind at high school graduation; and two, that the debate between higher education and work experience is not over, and is worth revisiting.
As upper-year students begin submitting their applications to Masters programs, post-grad college programs, second degree programs and continuing education, questioning – in our personal lives – what the DeGroote professors questioned becomes an important conversation to have with ourselves.
With the job market becoming ever more competitive, many students are turning to post-grad studies as the inevitable next step. Friends of mine in this position are either uncertain about what they want to do so they figure more schooling will give them answers, or they know what they want to do but are convinced competition is too fierce to get anywhere without more education. Maybe this is an appropriate approach. But maybe it’s not.
As I begin to search for jobs for when my time here comes to an end, I’m repeatedly reading about the amount of years in the field that companies are looking for. A degree, from a variety of potential programs, is required – but it’s not the emphasis and it’s non-specific.
I’m currently trying to decide if I ought to go back to school – do a post-grad college certificate and amp up my credentials – or just try to directly enter the working world. If the turmoil in DeGroote can be any lesson to me, perhaps I should just try my luck with finding a job and focus on industry experience rather than more years of theoretical knowledge.
Easier said than done, of course, when you need experience to get a job and you need a job to get experience. Still, perhaps more students will start choosing job experience to precede their names, rather than more letters to go behind them.
Cooper Long
Assistant ANDY Editor
It is probably unreasonable to expect major change from a TV show once it has been on the air for several decades. After all, the producers are not going to add a laugh track to National Geographic, or a rapping grandmother to Meet the Press.
Nevertheless, it seemed possible that the recent season premiere of Saturday Night Live could mark a meaningful shakeup in the show’s 39 year history. Three of SNL’s most popular and long-running players (Bill Hader, Jason Sudeikis, and Fred Armisen) departed at the end of last season, and Seth Meyers relinquished the head writing position that he has held since 2006.
Unfortunately, any hopes for a reinvention were dashed even before the first obligatory game show parody. SNL remains as stubbornly mediocre as ever.
First of all, the cast still doesn’t look representative of the people you would expect to see walking down the street outside SNL’s New York studio. To replenish his ensemble, series-creator and executive producer Lorne Michaels hired five virtually indistinguishable white guys and one woman. Of course, new cast members should be hired based on their abilities, not their race. It just seems hard to believe that Michaels’ nationwide talent search yielded five performers who can only be told apart by their haircuts.
The musical performances on the premiere were also typically thin sounding and poorly mixed. Arcade Fire debuted a hypnotic new track from their upcoming album, Reflektor. Yet, it sometimes seemed as if all the instruments were being played from inside the same glass booth where band member Régine Chassagne was briefly imprisoned.
Even the sequencing of sketches felt particularly routine. Jay Pharoah played President Obama in the customary ripped-from-the-headlines cold open, before disappearing for the remainder of the episode (another example of the show’s diversity problem). Then, as usual, all the strangest sketches got dumped after 12:30 AM, by which time the writers must assume most of the audience is asleep.
Despite all these flaws and missed opportunities, however, I still plan on watching SNL regularly this season, as I have for many years. Most weeks I find SNL disappointing. But I will always love the idea of SNL.
To me, there is something irresistibly compelling and romantic about the very notion of a live sketch series. I love the idea that every week there is a madcap team of writers crammed in a room together, feverishly pitching taxidermy jokes and arguing about whether they can say “toe blasting” on television. Indeed, this concept is so appealing that it served as the basic premise of 30 Rock for seven seasons. Saturday after Saturday, my fantasy about the fun and excitement involved in making SNL overwhelms my frustrations with the actual content of each episode.
Michaels himself even hinted at this appeal in a recent New York Times interview. “I think there’s something about what it’s trying to be,” he said. Even though, he admitted, “It will never get there.”
I am not merely trying to justify a guilty pleasure. Indeed, I think that this same distinction between concept and execution can be applied to all entertainment. It is possible to savour the idea and creative process behind a piece of pop culture, even if the final form falls short of that potential.
It may take SNL another 39 seasons before the sketches match the brilliance and promise of the show’s concept. Even so, I will keep staying up late on Saturday night until they do.
As anyone who knows me well can attest to, I have an inexhaustible, uninhibited, all-consuming desire to travel. And while my modest means can’t currently match my wanderlust, I am determined to see the world – sooner rather than later.
So when I read about the recent tragedy in New Zealand, it hit close to home. As you can read in detail on A5, recent Mac grad Joanna Lam and her boyfriend Connor Hayes lost their lives in a freak accident on a beautiful Fox Glacier highway, when it appears that a sudden landslide sent their rented car over a cliff into a river, and their vacation prior to starting new jobs to a horrible end. So far, only Ms. Lam’s body has been found.
It’s stories like that that make me wonder. Make me anxious to travel, to explore, to go on adventures.
It’s not just sudden natural disasters; it’s Kenyan mall shootings and London bus bombings and Boston Marathon terrorism that make it easier and easier to find excuses to retreat back into the comfort of home and the safety of the familiar.
Contrast that with the international study/volunteer abroad fair held in the student centre atrium on Monday. There’s a wealth of opportunity at McMaster students’ fingertips, be it in the form of eight-month exchanges to summer abroad research scholarships to even part-time campus jobs to put towards a post-grad travel fund. I have yet to meet a person who has said their travels were time and money ill-spent.
It is through travelling that we learn the most about other people, other places, and most importantly, ourselves.
If I had never gone to Europe, I wouldn’t know what it feels like to sip beer in a real German biergarten (table dancing and all), or to sit spellbound as Judi Dench commands the London stage, or to lay in wonder in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.
I also wouldn’t know that I’m capable of taking planes and trains in foreign countries on my own; of getting lost where no one speaks English and finding my way; of realizing that if I save and plan and just go, I don’t have to wait for anybody - I can make my own adventures.
Like Joanna Lam, I’m a recent Mac grad. I’m also in my early twenties. And I have often talked with my own boyfriend (who patiently humours my itch to travel) about spending time in Australia and New Zealand, and seeing all the wonders of that amazing corner of the world. In some ways, that couple could have - or could be - us.
But thinking like that is no way to live. Certainly, travel requires one to be savvy, street-smart and to plan for the unexpected. Travel also requires one to let go of the fear of fate.
While I cannot speak for Ms. Lam, I would bet that she wouldn’t advise her McMaster peers to stay home and let the world pass them by.
Neither would I.
If you pause for a moment in the middle of campus at around half-past the hour mid-day, McMaster is a sight to behold. Thousands of students of every gender, ethnicity, religion, sexuality, nationality and personality possible will flood past you.
It’s a far cry from who composed the student body when McMaster first came into being. Who we were in 1887 versus who we are today is vastly, wonderfully different. Yet unfortunately, our motto, that short little phrase chosen for its efficacy in encapsulating the beliefs and ideals guiding an institution, has not changed since those early days.
The McMaster motto – written in Greek – reads, “Ta panta en Christoi synesteken” which translates to “In Christ all things hold together” or “All things cohere in Christ.” While this may have been appropriate when McMaster was first established as a Christian college, this faith-focused motto does not reflect the non-denominational academic environment of our campus today.
It was back in 1957 that the University became a private, non‐spiritual institution, dissolving formal ties with its Baptist roots. And yet despite McMaster’s religious birth, as University President Patrick Deane identifies in his open letter to the McMaster community, Forward With Integrity, “The purpose of the institution from its inception [was] through education and research to develop and realize the potential both of individuals and of society at large.” This principle, which McMaster has so wonderfully achieved, is secular, academia-centric and entirely unrelated to religious practice.
I mean no offence to McMaster Divinity College, the Religious Studies program, or any Christian students, staff or faculty. Rather, I feel it would be more in line with their religious values to foster a community of inclusively through religious diversity and the creation of a motto that speaks to what truly unites the McMaster community: a passion for learning and the pursuit of knowledge.
Change could easily be made, although stubborn bureaucrats will say otherwise. Perhaps Latin students and professors could create several new potential mottoes upon which students and faculty would vote. The favourite would be instated as the official new motto of the University.
The current crest is printed on Mac paraphernalia, looms large over Council Chambers where countless critical decisions are made, and is even the major image on McMaster’s Wikipedia page. This continued presence of a religious motto on Mac’s symbolic brand is simply unacceptable.
A change to McMaster’s motto would be a statement that the University is a community that welcomes all peoples to join together in pursuit of excellence in research and academics.
Now that would move us forward with integrity.
