Facebook & Feminism

Betty Freidan’s 1963 book The Feminine Mystique asserts that society requires women to define themselves by their husbands and family. During this Second Wave of feminism, many women broke out of the domestic sphere, both literally (by getting jobs, sharing housework) and symbolically (not taking their husband’s name). Despite this progress it appears, according to Katie Roiphe writing on doublex.com, that social networking sites may be causing women to revert back to being defined by their family.

“You click on a friend's name and what comes into focus is not a photograph of her face, but a sleeping blond four-year-old, or a sun-hatted baby running on the beach...Where have all of these women gone?” writes Roiphe, describing the majority of profile pictures of mothers in my friends list. I did a little Facebook statistical analysis and found that almost two-thirds of my friends who are mothers, have a picture of their child in their profile picture. Compare that to a little over a third of fathers who include a photo of their child in their profile photo. And this analysis did not involve the number of banal status updates some of my friends write about toilet training, eating habits and first steps.

Now before I am branded anti-child, let me say this: I understand that we tend to talk about what is important to us and what we deal with on a daily basis. If I was dealing with spitting up babies and squealing toddlers, kids would probably be an oft-visited topic of conversation for me. And of course, if I had a kid, they would be pretty close to the centre of my world, just like I was for my mother (Right? Right, Mum?). But just like my mother, I think I would have other interests outside the sphere of family, and my child and husband would not define who I was. According to Roiphe: “One’s children are of course an important achievement, and arguably one’s most important achievement, but that doesn’t mean that they are who you are.”

But here’s the difficult dichotomy within feminism: we strive for equal rights and the freedom to define ourselves how we see fit. So if a woman wants to take a great interest in the domestic sphere, free of societal pressures and expectations, what does it matter? If she just birthed a child of her loins and she wants to put a photo of him or her on her Facebook page, who cares?

Roiphe:

Many of these women work. Many of them are in book clubs. Many of them are involved in causes. But this is how they choose to represent themselves. The choice may seem trivial, but the whole idea behind Facebook is to create a social persona, an image of who you are projected into hundreds of bedrooms and cafes and offices across the country. Why would that image be of someone else, however closely bound they are to your life, genetically and otherwise? The choice seems to constitute a retreat to an older form of identity, to a time when women were called Mrs. John Smith…

It might be a bit difficult to project what book you’re reading or what cause you’re involved in through a profile photo. It is a small part of the whole Facebook page. And certainly the mothers in my friends list have other dynamic aspects of their personalities that are evident in their Facebook activities.

We need to validate archetypically female spheres: because of the whole uterus set up, women give birth to babies and due to their functioning mammary glands, tend to be the primary caregiver, especially in the first few months of infancy. Having and caring for babies does not mean women are sacrificing gains made during feminism’s heyday. However, being aware of what has gone before is essential. The Feminine Mystique illustrates a cultural shift in America where women were defined by marriage and family, yet many yearned for more. Nowadays, marriage and family may play a large part in women’s lives, but it doesn’t define them the way Friedan observed in housewives of the 1950s.

And here’s the proof: to the best of my knowledge, every single mother on my Facebook friend list is educated and employed. Thanks to feminists before them, they broke out of the domestic sphere with aspirations to higher education and careers. Some have kept their last names. I bet a few of them even let their husbands do the laundry.

Now if we could get some photos of that on Facebook…

The Elf Is Just Not That Into You

So, I avoided the cliché of going to see He’s Just Not That Into You with a huge group of girls by going with my happily married friend Michelle. Two things:

1. At the end of He’s Just Not That Into You, the adulterers are punished by being alone. This seems a simple solution to a complex set of feelings. I am certainly not excusing adultery: I’ve had the chance to be the other woman handed to me on a two-timing plate on a few occasions and have declined each time because of my respect of this institution I’m not entirely sure I buy into. But I cannot accept this simple-minded answer that humans must fit this monogamous model and should be punished for any aberrant behaviour.

2. The conversation that Jennifer Anniston had at the wedding with the Wiccan? Yeah, I’ve basically had that exact conversation. With a guy wearing a feather in his hair. We talked fairies and elves and sprites (he was into Celtic mysticism). When I asked what category I fell into, he asked what I felt I was. I said I felt like an elf. And so he said I was an elf.

A 9-Year-Old’s Guide to Love

Could a 9-year-old boy from Colorado have all the answers about how to get a girl? Alec Greven thinks he does.

After watching how boys and girls interacted at recess, he wrote a brochure entitled How To Talk to Girls, aiming to help some of those inexperienced third-graders get some play. His suggestions are much more innocent that a dating manual like The Game, but are they valid in an adult world? Well, let’s just say I’ve field-tested a few in my lifetime.

(All quotes have been taken from Zosia Bielski's article the Globe and Mail.)


“Class clowns: Turn normal. Less jokes, no jokes during class. Then you might get a girl.”

FALSE. This is the best way to get a girl. Make her laugh and you’re 38% cuter. A friend of mine was into this really cute boy, but then she got to know him and her jokes fell flat on him and he had no comebacks. Boring.

“The shy guy? They probably want to copy someone that they think is cool except it can't be a class clown or somebody that's power hungry.”

FALSE. We can spot a fake a mile off. We usually refer to them as “slimy” or “trying too hard.” A friend of mine, who I dated for, like, a minute, is like this. He has an idea of how he wants the world to see him. If he’d just relax into himself, he’d be fabulous.

"You also have to be aware that girls win most of the arguments and have most of the power. If you know that now, things might be easier."

FALSE. I may be alone on this one, but I think the age-old assumption by brow-beaten men that there’s no point in arguing with a woman and cow-towing to whatever she says (“Yes, dear”) is slightly misogynistic. It implies that there is no need to enter into a dialogue and listen to her reasoning. It’s just easier to shut her out and do what she says, because what she actually thinks doesn’t matter. I want my actions and motives questioned and I want to arrive at a mutually desirable conclusion.

"If you like a girl, comb your hair and don't wear sweats. You don't have to try too hard, but just try to look kind of clean."

TRUE and FALSE. You have to look good for the first date or two, true. And you should shower on a daily basis. But then it just doesn’t matter after that if she likes you. One guy I dated spent 90% of his time with me in sweats and once arrived at my house after the gym sans shower.

“[Pretty girls are mean because they] think they're all important and proud and they're worth more than other girls.”

TRUE. Unfortunately. We are a society obsessed with beauty – a society made up of biologically driven individuals out to get the best genes for our offspring. Pretty girls are treated differently by people and some come to act like they’re worth more than other girls.

Sorry, Alec. Despite a publishing deal and a movie deal, it looks like your advice doesn’t quite cross to those of us able to vote. But hey – this kid’s got another 25 – 30 years before he achieves male maturity. We’ll see how well his theories apply then.

Blue Box Blues

Is the city of Toronto really this stingy?

City officials are planning to crack down on people scavenging recyclables from blue bins. According to Toronto's Solid Waste Department, once the blue bin and its contents are curbside, the whole kit and caboodle is city property and they don't want anyone sorting through it.

You see, the city makes quite a bit of money off our aluminum cans ($2000 per tonne). Fair enough, but are these scavengers nicking empty pop cans? Anecdotal evidence (in the form of a couple of neighbourhood characters armed with shopping carts of varying constructions) shows that the scavengers are looking for wine and beer bottles. A cartful of finished Merlots and Tempranillos can net a tidy sum, especially in affluent neighbourhoods like mine where homeowners spend a lot on alcohol and can’t be bothered to make the trip to the Beer Store to return bottles.

(In the Beach, where I live, there are two LCBOs within walking distance of a large number of residents, including myself; however the Beer Store is a farther trek and therefore requires a bit more forethought than my usual, “Am I out of rosé? I think I’m out of rosé… I’ll just duck in for a bottle of rosé.” If the Liquor Store took back bottles, I could employ the empty one in, full one out method, based on the cold beer out, warm beer in method of university bar fridge drinking. But of course, the rosé bottles add up and require a large, strong bag in which to carry them, and a vehicle in which to transport them when there are too many in my kitchen cupboard not to be ashamed about.)

Why shouldn’t we let the enterprising unemployed continue with the sifting? Clifford Orwin compares it to the “biblical practice of gleaning”:

Leviticus 19.9 commands leaving the corners of one's fields unreaped so the poor can harvest them: One should never enjoy one's abundance to their exclusion. Similarly, I leave for the poor 20 cents of the value of every bottle of wine I buy. Collecting the bottle is their form of gleaning, and like gleaning in biblical days, it takes considerable labour.

There was a time when a city councillor wanted to ban panhandling: they found it somehow offensive, the homeless and unemployed sitting and begging for money. It annoyed people to be asked for money, to be reminded that we live in a many-tiered society, despite our many social nets. Why can't they get a job, asked some rather unempathetic citizens of our city.

Well, some have found jobs – jobs that don’t bother anyone (someone complained about the noise of scavengers, but give me a break – the industrial lawnmowers that rage at 8 o’clock in the morning outside my window are way worse) and help to support the province’s bottle return programme.

The City needs to stop worrying about who is returning my empty bottles of rosé and start worrying about more pressing issues.

Battle of the Single Broads: Elaine vs. Carrie vs. Bridget

Three iconic singletons have emerged in popular culture over the past 15 years: Elaine Benes from the sitcom Seinfeld was the first. She kept up with her male friends, dating as many men as Jerry dated women; never placed too much importance on whatever man she was with; and entered (and lost) The Contest. She was intelligent, self-sufficient and witty. When Seinfeld ended in 1998, it paved the way for Carrie Bradshaw, the fictional sex columnist (based on real sex columnist Candice Bushnell) in the HBO series Sex and the City. Carrie dated far and wide, placing importance on finding a good man, but even more importance on a great pair of shoes. And across the pond in Britain, Helen Fielding was creating her heroine (and coining the term “singleton”), Bridget Jones, through a series of columns appearing in The Independent, which were fictionalized into the 1996 novel Bridget Jones’s Diary. Bridget Jones was a fumbling London thirtysomething trying to navigate her way through the dating scene, avoiding all "fuckwittage" and losing a few pounds along the way.

But how do these three women compare when lined up against each other? How do the major arenas of their lives measure up?

JOB:

Elaine: Writer for J. Peterman catalogue (after a turn at Pendant Publishing and personal assistant to Mr. Pitt), which she clinched just after meeting Peterman in the rain and describing her shirt: “This innocent looking shirt has something which isn't innocent at all. Touchability. Heavy, silky Italian cotton, with a fine almost terrycloth like feeling. Five button placket, relaxed fit, innocence and mayhem at once.”

Carrie: Sex columnist for New York Times, sometime freelancer at Vogue; lives her fabulous life and gets paid to write about it.

Bridget: In the first book, Bridget has an office job at a publishing house where she sends flirty emails to her boss, Daniel Cleaver (see Significant Relationships, below). In the second book, Bridget Jones The Edge of Reason, she becomes an on-air personality who attempts such stunts as parachuting into a pig sty and sliding down a firehouse pole, ass-to-camera.

FRIENDS:

Elaine: Apart from the obvious Jerry, George and Kramer, Elaine has some girlfriends out in Long Island who keep entreating her to “come and see the baaayyy-bee”.

Carrie: Solid as a set of Manolo wedges in bright summer colours; Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte have been by Carrie’s side since the beginning.

Bridget: Sharon (Shazzer), Jude and Tom are always happy to drop everything and meet Bridget in the pub for more than 14 units of alcohol and several cigarettes, despite any New Year’s resolutions.

SIGNIFICANT RELATIONSHIPS:

Elaine: Puddy, the face-painting, eightball-jacket wearing lug who Elaine is constantly breaking up and getting back together with – one time, both events happened on a single plane trip; another time Elaine got back together because she needed a bureau moved.

Carrie: Mr. Big is the one man that Carrie keeps coming back to, even when she’s committed to a live-in relationship with Aidan (who we all know is just too simple and too easy for Carrie). At the end of the series, Carrie ends up with Mr. Big. In the big screen version, after two painful hours of breaking up, she ends up with him. (Seriously, in real life, girlfriends would never let their friends go back this many times to such a waffle-weave man.)

Bridget: The first book starts out with Mark Darcy, in a cheesy Christmas jumper, being a bit rude to old Bridget. Then she gets caught up in the romance of bad boy Daniel Cleaver (who also happens to be her boss). As is to be expected, Bridget makes nice with the dashing Mark Darcy by the time he’s ready to wear his cheesy Christmas jumper again.

LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION:

Elaine: She is always in search of the perfect apartment in Manhattan, even considering Jerry’s apartment.

Carrie: She rented her apartment in New York for years, choosing to spend 40 grand on shoes instead of a down payment. She eventually buys her place, with a little help from her friends, after breaking up with Aidan.

Bridget: Lives by herself in a small flat in London, well-stocked with granny-pants and by the end of it, Mark Darcy.

CATCHPHRASE:

Elaine: “Get out!” (followed by a voracious push)

Carrie: Any age old question that attempts to understand men.

Bridget: “Fuckwit.”

Pretty Things

It was a repeat episode of The View today (I could tell by the mugs) and Barack Obama was the guest. As would be expected, conservative Elisabeth Hasselbeck grilled the Democrat candidate about his relationship with his pastor, Jeremiah Wright, who once made “incendiary” (Obama’s word) comments about the September 11th attacks:

We have supported state terrorism against the Palestinians and black South Africans, and now we are indignant because the stuff we have done overseas is now brought right back to our own front yards. (For a clip, click here)

These comments, which I completely agree with, were seen as unpatriotic and therefore Obama, whom I suspect secretly agrees with Wright, had to distance himself from Wright or face irrevocably damaging his campaign. The problem with American politics is that they place patriotism above all else: above rational thought, historical mistakes and personal freedoms. It’s that mentality of you are either with us or against us; there is no in between and certainly no room for debate. Obama, who represents (or at least, at one time represented) so much hope for the future of American foreign policy, cannot publicly agree with the idea that Americans can commit whatever atrocities they see fit in other countries, but absolutely can’t understand why others would want (and indeed plan and execute) to do the same.

But I digress. What struck me was that one of the women (I think it was Barbara Walters) stumbled a bit over paying Obama a compliment: she wasn’t sure if she should say how attractive he was. But she did, he accepted it with laughter, and the discussion moved to politics, which was Obama’s reason for being there.

Feminism has made some impact on separating women’s looks from what makes up their personality in that the women of The View were afraid to comment on Obama’s attractiveness (surely this is good, showing that there is no double standard?). Making any kind of comment on Hillary Clinton’s appearance would be seen as offside – but is that because she is not an overly attractive individual, therefore we can easily concentrate on her areas of expertise?

Julie Couillard, whom Heather Mallick describes as “the beautiful woman who had the bad judgment to date the ex-foreign affairs minister Maxime Bernier,” spent a lot of time in the news - not just for exposing Monsieur Bernier, but for exposing the top swell of one of her breasts. The Canadian press couldn’t get past it, as Mallick points out later in her column: “a trio of female Globe and Mail columnists…attacked Couillard for her breasts, her fragrant beauty and her insistence on defending her dignity as a woman.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: someone’s attractiveness is a big part of who they are. Sometimes it's what they're known for (models come to mind), sometimes it's part of what they're known for (Belinda Stronach, some might say). It's easy to see attractiveness as part of a man: Obama is a great orator, he seems to be quite good at the political game and he’ll already have a passport if he makes it to the White House (Georgie Boy did not. In fact, only something like 10% of Americans have a valid passport). But Obama is also pretty good-looking. The women of The View could pay him the compliment and then move on to what he was there for.

But when it comes to women, it’s a bit sketchier. Couillard (and indeed, other attractive women who have other things going for them) was not given the same courtesy that the women of The View gave Obama. Her beauty and sexuality were what was focused on in the media, instead of her reason for making headlines. It's silly to assume we do not notice (or judge) a person by their attractiveness: many psychological studies have proven otherwise and at the end of the day, we just want to procreate with genetically superior people. But someone's attractiveness is only a part of what they have to offer.

A Few Things

I’ve been away – both literally and figuratively. And this step back into bloggery may be brief, and for that I apologize – I just can’t seem to kick my writer’s arse these days…

Cheese, Please

Last week, Quebec announced it will allow its fromagers to produce raw-milk cheese, aged under 60 days, breaking from a continent-wide ban on unpasteurized cheese. It's something to do with harmful bacteria that the New World sees as a health risk in cheese ripened in under two months, even though many gastronomes maintain some cheeses reach their peak within a month, those pesky bacteria actually contributing to the taste and texture of the cheese.

The French (and other Europeans) have been enjoying these unpasteurized cheeses for centuries with no ill effects. In fact, pregnant French women have no restrictions on these types of cheeses, unlike us hyper-sensitive North Americans who ban brie and other foodstuffs like sushi from expectant mothers (despite the identical argument that Japanese mums-to-be have eaten raw fish for centuries). North Americans freak out during pregnancy (just recently I witnessed a pregnant woman hiding the fact she was drinking Coke from her husband), yet once these precious packages are born, they allow them to ride in big yellow school buses on the highway with no seatbelts (another WTF?!?! of mine, but that’s another post).

And A Four-Day Work Week, Too

In a bid to save energy, Nova Scotia Energy Minister Richard Hurlburt has suggested that government employees work only four days a week. Employees would work four 10-hour days and have a three day weekend, reducing the number of vehicles on the road and possibly the amount of power used in government buildings. The set up is about to be test-driven in Utah, starting on Monday. Although this seems like a good idea to a holiday-loving, easily-adaptable singleton like yours truly, there are issues arising in Utah around childcare, second jobs and night school.

All of this is untroubling to me, as I sit in the middle of my zero-day work week, annoyed that the Liquor Store will be closed tomorrow and the beach will be overrun with hard-bodied and flabby tanners alike. I also await the second round of my long-weekend-pot-smoking neighbour whose fumes waft through my flat only when the rest of the world has Monday off. While the workaday world looks forward to these summer long weekends, us teachers just wish they'd be over. Thank god those Americans will be starting their four day work week tomorrow and there will be a new episode of The View.

Street Meat, Diversified

Saying street food vendor to any Torontonian will conjure images of drunk and hungry club-goers, huddled over their hot dog at 3 in the morning; or Bay Street types grabbing a quick lunch between meetings. Say it to a New Yorker and the smells of pretzels and roasted peanuts fill their olfactory memory, the confluence of the foods' aromas contributing to that signature New York scent. Say street food vendor to a Parisian, and they will tell you about crepes, frites, tartiflette, baguettes - the list goes on - all available should you find yourself peckish on the banks of the Seine one sunny apres-midi.

But in Toronto, we're stuck with hot dogs, the only variability being offered through the vinegary toppings at the side of the cart.

Even England, once famous for its lack of imagination (and taste in general) when it came to food, is home to one of the best little creperies I've ever been to. Located in Hampstead Heath, I twice waited over half and hour in line for a chocolate and banana crepe, and each collation was well worth every minute in that queue.

Now the city of Toronto is considering allowing a greater variety of food to be sold from street vendors, so we can compete on the world stage of street meat. Cleverly titled Toronto A La Cart, the city is asking you what you'd like to be able to buy whilst eating on the run.

Take the survey and vote for everything from crepes and corn on the cob to roti and samosas.

And when this all goes through city council, I'll see you on the corner of Adelaide and John at 3 in the morning, bleary-eyed, but happily eating a chocolate and banana crepe.

Single Self-Importance

I am often asked why I don’t have a husband/boyfriend and, when my answer is not satisfactory, the asker subsequently makes a list of possible men with whom to set me up. Of the few set ups I have actually agreed to, they have only served to illustrate the very reasons why these men are still on the market.

My singleness makes people slightly nervous, worried that they are missing something truly horrific about me, not immediately visible, that precludes my settling down with anyone (something they have obviously missed in their single male friends). They figure there must be something wrong for me not to be attached by this point – perhaps a deep-seated psychological neurosis that I have never dealt with, or an innate bitchiness and inflexibility that only comes out behind closed relationship doors. I obviously have some serious self-help to undertake before I am able to enter into a healthy partnership.

Years of Oprah, self-help books and popular psychology have taught us single women that we cannot find love until we really love ourselves. We won’t be able to be with someone else until we are happy with being by ourselves. And we should expect and demand a person who is up to the high standards that we set for ourselves.

But is it possible that some of us have gone too far? Do we think so highly of ourselves that no one can measure up to the inflated vision we have of ourselves? Do we love ourselves so much that there is just not enough love to go around another person? In the immortal words of Elaine Benes: “Is it possible I’m not as attractive as I think I am?”

We don’t want to share ourselves with just one guy – who would be worth it? We have so much to offer, with our superior intellect, preternatural beauty, and mastery of sports, cooking and carpentry. All of this greatness would be wasted on a guy that probably is not even capable of fathoming the extent of our amazingness. Only Leonardo da Vinci would start to figure out that there was something unbelievable about us, and he’s been dead for ages; plus we would probably get annoyed with his backwards notes scribbled on the back of invention blueprints: klim teg ot enog.

So where does this leave us narcissistic, over-confident girls in search of a free-loving polyandrous society? It leaves us with friends who scratch their heads as they try and think of a suitable match for us, trying to figure out what exactly it is that is wrong, all the while never realizing that the fatal flaw is our refusal to settle for anyone that isn’t as goddamn wonderful as we are.

(Thank you to Sarah, the inspiration for this piece, who suggested that perhaps we lean toward arrogance in our dealings with the mere mortal males in today’s dating scene.)

Baby, You Can Drive (in) My Car

A few weeks ago on CBC’s Metro Morning, Andy Barrie interviewed Rajat Suri, a university student who came up with an application for the social networking site Facebook which matched people up into carpools. Suri said he got the idea while driving in Toronto and looking at the thousands of cars carrying only one person.

Barrie noted that despite government funding, public awareness campaigns and carpool lanes, “I nevertheless find it difficult to get people – maybe your generation is changing – to give up the private space the car represents to them.”

I'm not sure that generation is changing, and the value of that private space is only increasing, especially as our cars become more and more like our living rooms, traditionally spaces for relaxation and socializing.

It started with cup holders – cars began to double as kitchen counters where we could multitask by eating and travelling at once. Then the suspension had to be improved so the drinks in the cup holders wouldn’t spill as you sailed over potholes and rumble strips. Vehicles got bigger: SUVs, their size marketed as essential for transporting all your sports equipment, were never really used for ferrying about surfboards and crampons over rough terrain. So all that cargo space was replaced with more heated, captain’s chair-style seats (no doubt with cup holders in the armrests) throughout the vehicle.

Then came the TV/DVD player to complete the transformation from means of transport to space of complete comfort. Who needs a living room now? Just transplant the family into the car, stick in Over The Hedge and set the car’s climate control to whatever temperature suits you.

And how often do you invite random strangers into your actual living room in the name of traffic reduction and environmentalism?

Maybe it’s time to start. There are still a few wrinkles to iron out with carpooling – timing can be an issue for some people – they may leave the house at a specific time in the morning, but can’t commit to a set time for the way home. Women especially will incorporate errands into their drive home (one stat has women making 4 stops to men’s one while out in the car), so some people may not want to sit in the car outside while their driver pops into the grocery store, post office, daycare and LCBO.

Despite many people’s misgivings and lack of flexibility around their cars, Suri’s idea seems to be working. His Facebook application has been used by over 300 000 people, whether they want to get downtown to work every morning, or travel to Montreal for the weekend.

The Africentric School Debate

This past Tuesday, I tuned into the Toronto District School Board’s meeting where Trustees and the public debated four strategies that a TDSB committee had come up with to address to needs of black students, 40% of whom are dropping out of Toronto schools. Of the four strategies, the one that stirred up the most debate (and passed by a much smaller margin than the others) was the one recommending a Program Area Review Team be formed to propose the program and operational model for an Africentric Alternative school, slated to open in September 2009.

One argument against an Africentric school is that it harkens back to segregation: the separation of blacks and whites in American society between 1876 and 1965, after the abolition of slavery and introduction of Jim Crow laws. The argument is invalid in our current context since the separation of the races in antebellum Dixie was legally enforced, whereas an Africentric school in Toronto is non-mandatory and open to all.

The fundamental idea behind this school is diametrically opposed to black schools in the Southern States during the Jim Crow era: African-Americans were put in their own schools so whites wouldn’t have to interact with them. There was an overt value put on a person based on the colour of their skin: Rosa Parks had to sit at the back of the bus, moving further back if a white needed a seat. The Toronto Africentric school is focused on a disadvantaged group whom the TDSB is somehow failing and through curriculum, culture and African-Canadian role models, the school hopes to improve the success of this group.

In his article in Saturday’s Globe and Mail, Jeffrey Simpson questions how well Ontarians will receive a black-focused school when the Conservatives campaigned on their platform of funding for religious-based schools and fell flat on their faces:

Ontarians did not favour the Conservatives’ arguments because most voters instinctively or explicitly believed that in an increasingly multicultural and pluralistic society, schools should be one of those places for community, or what has become known as “inclusiveness.”

Yes, that is what schools should be, but not necessarily what they are. And while faith-based schools would focus on the teachings of a specific religion, there is no evidence to indicate that the educational needs of Jewish or Islamic or Buddhist students are not being met. We do, however, have a glaring statistic of 40% that points to a need in the black community, a need that members of that community have asked for.

But is it fair, you ask? I refer you to a quote from Richard Lavoie, a famous American Learning Disabilities expert: “Fair does not mean that everyone gets the same thing; it means that everyone gets what they need.” Is it fair that my brother gets to wear glasses and I don’t? Of course it is – he gets what he needs to be a productive member of society (who doesn’t bump into chairs and walk into walls).

It may sound radical, but why not give this demographic what they need in order to be successful at school, regardless of whether or not it is “fair” to other groups. Black students do not see themselves reflected in the curriculum or in the people that stand at the front of the classroom. The Toronto District School Board already has other Alternative Schools aimed at students who cannot function in the regular school system. There is also the First Nations School of Toronto, serving a perhaps the most disadvantaged group in Canada.

Trustee Sheila Ward got quite uppity at criticisms of the First Nations School, saying it was wonderful and they were making great gains, when in reality this is not quite the case. (I speak from experience, having shared a building with the school). The school has some dedicated people working really hard to make positive change for students, but it is also working against so many social and institutional factors that are constantly getting in the way.

And this is where we have to see an Africentric school as only part of the solution. Trustee Stephnie Payne made the salient point that schools are only part of a student’s life and that good parenting is what is really needed (she, incidentally, voted against the Africentric school). Jeffrey Simpson makes the same point in his piece:

The much more frequent explanations for poor student achievement, for blacks or any other group, have much less to do with curriculum than factors over which schools have little control: dysfunctional families, troubled neighbourhoods, few roles models (absent fathers), poverty, gangs or, in a few immigrant communities, attitudes toward education (especially for females) that are not easily reconciled with mainstream Canadian ones.

With only six hours in a schoolday to remedy social inequities, teach empathy and respect of others, fix general societal problems, tend to the pastoral care of our students, and - oh yeah - teach them stuff, schools can’t offer the only solution.

But we can offer part of the solution, so why not try it? The status quo is not working. Schools need to do whatever they can to foster the success of all students. Let’s see what happens with this Africentric school. Let’s hope it helps someone in that 40%.

Some Things

I have just finished reading Heather Mallick’s Pearls in Vinegar, written in the style of a Japanese Pillow Book, a form which appears to be a few paragraphs on a variety of sometimes-connected topics. Inspired by the short, non-committal bursts of writing commenting on everyday life, I thought I might take another stab at blogging. I was getting quite sick of seeing that tomato zombie guy every time I forlornly returned to my blog, only to remain witless and wordless.

On Reading

At school these days, we teach children when to abandon books (as part of a larger plan of teaching reading behaviours). While reviewing the reasons we might not finish a book (words are too hard, topic is not interesting, you don’t like the author’s style of writing), I realized that I rarely abandoned books. I would plough through novels, intent on finishing them, but missing large sections as I read the words on the page, but really didn’t take in what was going on.

And so I abandoned several books: Sister Crazy by Emma Richler, On Beauty by Zadie Smith (however I do plan to come back to this one), Snow Falling on Cedars by Joseph Guterson (okay, I abandoned this one awhile ago) and The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins (although this was a forced abandon, as it was due back at the library and unrenewable). I was beginning to worry that I had lost my taste for fiction (and that non-fiction was just a repetition of the same facts and ideas about teapots in space, extended to 400-odd pages) and that being drawn into a good book was out of reach.

Luckily good old Ian McEwan stepped up in the form of a phone call from the library saying that it was my turn to read On Chesil Beach, which I’d put a hold on back in July. Wanting to keep up a run of good books, I went out and bought Anil’s Ghost by Michael Ondaatje, an author I can always rely on to bring a density of thoughts, images and meaning to a single sentence. The ending, which I read on a terrace in the Cayman Islands, had me gazing out to sea for a good ten minutes after I closed the book.

Cayman Americanization

I spent the week after Christmas in the Cayman Islands with my cousin and his girlfriend who now live out there. Having visited several Caribbean Islands in the past (and having not been out of the province for a year and a half), I was looking forward to a change of scenery, some fried plantains with rice and peas, and a whole lot of sun.

And while I got these wishes, I also got a lesson in Americanization. Though a British territory (and populated by many ex-pat Brits), the main port of George Town is set up for foreign workers as well as the daily onslaught of Cruise Shippers, who must line up like cattle to get on and off their ships. There are several Burger King and Wendy’s outlets as well as higher end restaurants (with higher end pricing) offering middle of the road Italian and seafood options. It took a trip into West Bay, where many locals live, to find a place that would actually serve me rice and peas.

And the bars along the main drag, though frequented by some Caymanians and some Jamaicans (who make up about 20% of the island’s population), were staffed and patronized by Australians, Kiwis, Canadians Americans and Brits, all playing the likes of Bon Jovi and Prince, with an NFL game on TV in the background. It felt like my undergrad years, with the heat turned up.

Getting asked out via email

I’m trying to figure out if this is a new low or high in my dating career. The uncle of a kid in my class asked me out via email. His sister-in-law (the kid's mom) suggested it, saying I was a lovely person (possible high); however, going on just this recommendation, I wonder about his standards (possible low). A fellow teacher did some detective work (by asking the sister of the kid in my class) and determined that the uncle is getting a bit chubby and lives in a messy house. I declined politely. He could have been that tomato zombie guy.

We’re Goin’ Str--king!

Earlier this month, police in Britain sought an order prohibiting serial str--ker M--k Rob--ts from taking his clothes off during public events. Roberts, who has an impressive 380 str--ks under his unnecessary belt, has run naked across the playing fields at most major sporting events: the FA Cup final, Wimbledon, Royal Ascot and the Superbowl in 2004, which already had its share of exposed bodies (thank you, Janet & Justin). Funny that the nipple slip was much more scandalous than the starkers Brit taking to the field for the second half.

The judge in the case denied the order, saying "What Mr Roberts does may be annoying but, in my opinion, it does not amount to antisocial behaviour." Writing in the Guardian, Zoe Williams earlier this month asked whether or not the very definition of antisocial behaviour is being annoying. But is the brief diversion of a str--ker running across your view any more annoying than a rain delay at Wimbledon? And really, you’re there for a show – a str--ker is just an unbilled act.

Williams also wondered if str--king was an act of male aggression or “as taste-free but innocuous as a cucumber sandwich”?

Male nudity can harbour aggression when the nakedness is sexualized and imbued with power – I’ve been on the unintentional viewing end of several public masturbators (mostly in Italy, though some in France) and certainly felt quite uncomfortable and intimidated in those situations. But when it comes to running naked in front of thousands, pursued by beefy security guards, I’m not sure Roberts’s display was about male aggression. By being naked, he was stripped bare, defenseless. Many prisoners throughout the shady human rights parts of history were kept naked for this reason.

When you watch the reactions of the spectators during a str--k, they don’t seem to be offended or disgusted, a point that Williams indicates in her piece. Someone running naked before thousands is humourous, light-hearted. People (the American public, specifically) seemed to be more shocked at Janet Jackson’s nipple being exposed than Roberts’s half-time show. Is there a difference between male and female public nudity?

Er-ca R-e famously str--ked at Twickenham in 1982 during an England vs. Australia rugby match. She was only topless, but her spectacle made her £8000 in modeling and television appearances afterward. Was this because she was female and her sexuality was commodified, or was it because she was female and str--kers are generally male, making her an oddity?

I've never seen a real live str--ker, but I've watched with great captivation the people who rushed the field after Toronto FC's first win at BMO Field. It was at the end of the match and provided a tempered end to a tense and exciting game. I watched the rushers, probably about 8 in all, run onto the field and dodge the security guards who tackled them like linebackers, the crowd cheering the more agile of the runners. And I have to say, that brief and unexpected spectacle was better than any nipple-slip half time show the Superbowl could provide...

Stop Interrupting!

I had a conversation with a friend of mine last night about the drastic change in the amount of time I spend on the internet these days as compared to just two years ago. I can’t even think what I did pre-2003 when I didn’t have either a computer or an internet connection at home.

It is widely accepted that we’re living our lives online more and more (my previous post about web communities discusses this), from banking to information retrieval to social networking. I have a daily roster of websites and e-mail addresses I absolutely must check to feel that I am up-to-date in my life. My three e-mail addresses make three different sounds to alert me of any incoming mail, which I check promptly. And my cellphone makes a pleasing little bling-bling sound with every incoming text message, the tone filling me with joyful anticipation (Oooo! Who could this be?!) every time it goes off.

In this month’s The Walrus magazine, John Lorinc writes an article about how all the technological distractions in our society are actually making it difficult for our brains to function effectively.

To illustrate the main idea of the article: as I (try to) focus on writing this blog post, I have already had two email alerts and one phone call. For the two links above, I navigated away from my Word document and onto the internet to search for the links. Lorinc asserts that these interruptions, though minor, actually have a complex process in our brains:

“When multi-tasking, the brain’s executive processor performs a two-stage operation: the first is ‘goal shifting’ (e.g., shifting from editing a text file to checking e-mail), and the second is ‘rule activation’ (turning off the learned rules for editing on a word processing program and turning on the rules for managing the email program that’s being used).”

These shifts of focus in our brains take a significant amount of time, and when added up over weeks and months, can affect productivity. Joshua Rubinstein, a psychologist interviewed for the article, notes: “Multi-tasking may seem more efficient on the surface, but may actually take more time in the end.”

So slow and steady does win the race, it would seem. Then how do we slow down and ignore distractions in an interruption-dense, fast-paced world?

I think learning to ignore alerts, be they ringing phones or e-mail beeps, until a more appropriate time is one way. The phonecall I ignored while writing this blog post came just as I was in the middle of a thought and I knew if I stopped to answer, I’d lose it. (I did, however, jump up to check the call display, to see who it was.) I have really only realized recently that one doesn’t have to answer a ringing phone (especially if one is in the middle of a particularly intriguing plot point while viewing Lost).

I am also learning that I live a life where very few emails are so pressing and time-sensitive that I need to read and respond to them immediately (unless maybe if it’s someone offering Toronto FC v. LA Galaxy tickets). In fact, I’ve become so good at not RSVPing to invitations over email, that I’ve acquired a bit of a reputation among some of my friends.

And on MSN Messenger, an instant chat programme which allows you to type instant messages back and forth with your contacts online, I have permanently set my status to “offline”. I found if I was listed as “online” I would get several people messaging me with non-essential chat – yet another interruption when working at my computer. (Both the email and Messenger examples lead on to the question of online etiquette – how do you politely decline a Messenger conversation and how long is it appropriate to take to reply to an email?)

The ability to prioritize tasks is a hallmark of a good multi-tasker. So perhaps now the multi-tasker needs to slightly hone that skill to prioritizing their attention to communication input – do I really need to read that email right now? Is that text message going to be vital to my task at hand?

And as for me and my mild internet addiction, maybe sometimes I will sleep my computer, switch off my cellphone and float back to those pre-2003 halcyon days when the only alerts I would hear would be the slap of the newspaper at my doorstep or a soft knock on my door.

Don't Wanna Be an American Idiot

I am guilty of falling prey to the beguiling allure of absolutely shit TV. I watched the first season of Canada’s Next Top Model. I got caught in the roadwreck that was the beginning of American Idol this year. I even caught myself lingering on a Best of Jerry Springer special, watching in horrified fascination the multiple bust-ups that broke out over numerous bleeped-out screaming arguments. And that was in 2006.



But I couldn’t watch Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader? beyond the first show. Neither could Heather Mallick, it seems.

The show pits tertiary-educated individuals against a “class” of 5 grade five students. The aim of the well-mediated and incisively edited show is to make fun of the adults, who have great difficulty with America’s 5th grade curriculum. But this is nothing new – we make fun of the stupid and their sage comments regularly: the character Vicky Pollard on Little Britain and the show Talking to Americans with Rick Mercer are two examples. The documentary Stupidity looks at a culture with access to education and knowledge, but chooses ignorance.

Mallick asserts that the show has taken a new turn in the bankability of stupid: there is lots of money to be made off stupid people (she cites the London Sun, a British tabloid, as a moneymaking example), and there are lots of stupid people to make fun of, but Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader? makes money off making fun of stupid people. Follow?

This is where I disagree with Mallick. The show is so carefully mediated that you would think the contestants are reading from a script. They um and ah, and talk through what little they remember of the subject from grade school. The external monologues build up the dramatic tension to maddening heights while we sit on the edges of our armchairs, wondering if the Harvard grad is going to know how to find the area of a triangle with a height of 6 inches and a base of 2. And just when they settle on answer c, the host takes us to a commercial break and we throw our arms in the air along with the well-educated plonker who really isn’t sure if the answer is 6, but man, winning fifty grand would be good…

Mallick worries that we will be caught in this stupidity cycle: “It's a circle of government and industry working in tandem: the Bush Administration guts the American education system, which makes Fox programming attractive to larger numbers of people, who are then ridiculed by people like me, but now also by Fox itself.”

But can the American education system be that bad if every single one of the kids on the episode I watched got every single answer right? Perhaps it is a case of the kiddies being immersed in the curriculum and remembering what they’d learned a few weeks prior, whereas the adults have not used the formula to calculate the area of a triangle since grade 10 math class.

Or maybe this interminable stream of reality shows is our culture sluicing out the last of a stupid generation, wiping the slate clean for the next generation of kids (not one of them left behind).

I’ll end with an anecdote from Rick Mercer’s Talking to Americans to illustrate my point: when asking an American woman her thoughts about grade 7 students not being able to find their home state on an unmarked map of Canada, she answers without a beat, while her son, aged 8 or 9, holds a quizzical look on his face for several seconds before announcing, “Hang on - Canada has provinces!”*



* the clip is right at the end, but the video is worth the 7 and a half minutes...

Good Beer, Good Craic

Today is St. Patrick’s Day, a day where the non-Irish among us like to dress up in silly leprechaun hats, drink green beer and dance to the Pogues. Those of us with true Celtic heritage turn our noses up at these gaudy commercialized traditions (only because we’re draining the last of our pint glass, in anticipation of the next one being poured). So in honour of this most hallowed of holidays, I present you, dear reader, with 13 facts you may not have known about Ireland:

1. St. Patrick’s Day is a public holiday on the island of Montserrat in the Caribbean, as well as in Newfoundland and Labrador. (Why? Why are we not getting Monday off here in the anti-Irish totalitarian state of Ontario?)

2. The Guinness Brewery in Dublin pays 45 Irish pounds a year as part of its 9000 year lease. (Not sure what happened when the euro became currency.)

3. Ireland is the most successful country in the Eurovision Song Contest, winning it seven times.

4. Donegal Bay has some of the biggest waves in Europe and Bundoran, a town on the bay, has recently hosted European Championship surfing competitions.

5. It is thought that the word “quiz” was invented by Richard Daly in the 1830s. The Dublin theatre owner bet that he could make a nonsense word familiar in 48 hours. Daly told his employees to write the word on walls all over Dublin. (There is some murkiness here: some etymologists maintain the word was already in use at the time. Most agree that “quiz” did not hold its current definition until later on that century.)

6. The Irish scientist John Tyndall was the first person to explain why the sky is blue. (answer here)

7. The tune of “The Star Spangled Banner” was written by the (blind) Irish harpist Turlough O’Carolan.

8. Muhammad Ali’s great grandfather was born in Ennis, County Clare.

9. Aran Island sweaters (those woolly, off-white pullovers) have distinctive “family weaves,” developed so if a fisherman drowned, his washed-up sweater would confirm him as dead and not missing.

10. The 15 main railway stations of Ireland are named after the leaders of the 1916 uprising.

11. A Eurobarometer survey has listed Ireland as the nation with the highest rates of binge-drinking in the EU.

12. Muckanaghederdauhaulia in County Galway holds the title of Longest place name in Ireland.

13. Residents of isolated areas in Ireland will soon be able to take advantage of free shuttle buses to take them to and from the local pub, paid for by the Irish government. (This sounds too good to be true, but I guess we should never underestimate the luck of the Irish, or their resolve to go for a couple rounds of drinks.)


Slainte!


Sources:
www.ireland-fun-facts.com
www.wikipedia.com
blogs.guardian.co.uk
www.bbc.co.uk

Categorizing the Quiz

So, I’m a bit of a trivia aficionado. Maybe it comes from my competitive nature, maybe my slight bent toward intellectual snobbery, but wherever it stems from, I do enjoy a good quiz night.

As you’ll find in a previous post, I cut my teeth in the quizzes of East Sussex, honing my craft in the suburbs of Sydney and am now at the top of my game at the Duke of York in Toronto.

Or so I thought. After a brief hiatus from season 5 of Pubstumpers (because I, like other mammals, go into hibernation mode in the snow and cold), I was back to parade my prowess with a slightly shuffled team.

We quickly realized that this was not to be the night of domination I had expected. But happy to enjoy a few drinks and the quizmaster’s repartee, I settled back and did a little social analyzing of the crowd. I have categorized trivia participants into the following groups:

GRAD STUDENTS

And Grad student types. These are people whose lives are based around knowledge, albeit quite specific knowledge. But people who enjoy being in school for a good percentage of their lives probably have a fairly good general knowledge base, too.

EX-PATS

I have no history on the pub quiz, but I’m pretty sure it started in Britain. So any Brits that are far from home probably find comfort in the basement of a pub, beer served by the pint, and a couple of geography questions. I counted 3 English accents this past Tuesday.

TWENTYSOMETHING GIRLS

I do not mean to dismiss or denigrate this trivia demographic – I’m sure some of these women are here for the intellectual stimulation. But I have it on good (bartender) authority that a lot of the ladies present come for the aesthetics of the quizmaster.

RANDOM FRIENDS OF STEPH

I’m always trying to add new people to my team. I have a core group of friends who refuse because they don’t think they’re any good at general knowledge, to which I say: the last time you were called on to produce random facts was when you played Trivial Pursuit at age 14, and of course you weren’t going to do as well as your 30-year-old self who has taken Modern Western Civilization, watched a few more National Geographic shows and dated a guy with an unusual interest in comic books and/or an extensive record collection.

Next week. Next week I will break 80.

You Might As Well Skip Lavalife When...

There was a Seinfeld episode where Elaine breaks up with a man she's dating because he failed to use an exclamation mark in a note relaying a phone message about the birth of her friend's baby. I, myself am prone to overreactions at the flagrant misuse of grammar and have been known to apologize for a date's inability to spell common words before apologizing for his inability to be respectful and caring. However, I have never actually broken up with someone over punctuation.

I have, though, been guilty of breaking up with people over ridiculous reasons. Purely for your enjoyment (and not your psychoanalysis, thank you very much), here is a list of five boys (names have been changed) and the arbitrary reasons why I elected to discontinue the "relationship" (using a variety of break up strategies about which I have previously written).

1. Chet, from Ottawa, was driving us downtown and failed to stop behind a streetcar that was letting passengers off, eliciting a loud streetcar honk and several angry faces as we whizzed by. I know, I know - he was from Ottawa, but we're not talking rational explanations here. Someone could have died.

2. Another time, when I was gesturing to the lake with my arm (we were romantically strolling along the beach), Pablo reached up and took my hand so that we were posed in an awkward hand-holding arrangement. I brought our linked hands down, casually extricated myself, and promptly implemented the phone-call fade away strategy.

3. Boris's bald head would not stop sweating for the entirety of the date and he actually had to go and wash it twice.

4. Bobby thought it appropriate to stick his finger in my mouth whilst I was mid-yawn for a second time, even after I had previously requested that he not place his digits in that vicinity (in quite a nasty manner, I might add).

5. Randy, a recycled high school boy, showed potential until he asked for change (and I'm talking the silver kind) after we split the bill at dinner.

And one wonders why I'm still single...

You Know It’s Time To Join Lavalife When…

Have you heard of this SIMS video game? It simulates the day-to-day life of virtual characters that you programme into your community. You get to make decisions about when they eat, sleep, read, exercise and brush their teeth. You also have to take time to have fun - there is a fun level bar that goes up and down on the game screen.

So here’s the thing. A little over a year ago, two of the girls in my class asked me who I had a crush on. At the time, I was smitten with a boy called Ben, so named him. Unbeknownst to me, they had inputted him as my boyfriend into their SIMS world. Well, yesterday they announced that in the SIMS world, I had just had a baby with Ben (to whom I had been married for a year). I asked them what my job was and they told me that I didn’t have to work because Ben paid for everything. I just read and did fun things like go on vacations.

How bad has it gotten when your virtual self is doing better in life than your actual self?

Acceptable Bullying

I watched the documentary Spellbound with my grade 4/5 class the other week, a movie about several kids competing in a spelling bee. One of the boys profiled in the film elicited quite a reaction from several of the older boys in my class. They laughed at the boy’s mannerisms, mocked the way he laughed and called him “the geeky kid.” These are students who have participated in various anti-bullying programmes and workshops throughout their school careers, as well as being in classrooms that promote empathy and community.

But they still found it socially acceptable to denigrate and belittle someone they considered weaker than themselves (in status and in physicality) in front of their classmates and teachers. My colleague quickly stepped in and took the opportunity to analyze and criticize their behaviour, but it made me think about the acceptable forms of bullying that seem to cropping up in the popular media these days.

Take American Idol, and the caustic condemnations that Simon and Randy so flippantly cast upon the hopeful contenders, too cockeyed and tone deaf to realize they’re being slammed until half-way through the tirade. The three judges consistently dissolve into fits of derisive laughter, to the exclusion of the befuddled cantor, who just stands, the unfinished lyrics hanging heavy in the air. People are made fun of for their looks (“you look like one of those creatures that live in the jungle with those massive eyes”), their voices (“I’m not being rude, but…that was appalling”), and their exit strategies (“other door”).

The recent furor over bullying on the British reality show Celebrity Big Brother shocked audiences, spurred discussion in British parliament and peppered the newspapers of India. The collusion of Jade (a previous Big Brother contestant) and other housemates against Bollywood star Shilpa Shetty had more than a whiff of racism, Shetty being referred to as “the Indian” and “Shilpa Poppadom”.

And the public mudslinging that has gone on between Rosie O’Donnell and Donald Trump in the papers and on television is yet another example of adults reducing themselves to schoolyard name-calling, the nadir for me being when Trump used O’Donnell’s sexuality as an insult.

So, why are the people who make media decisions sanctioning these public displays of harassment? Why are well-adjusted adults reducing themselves to petty smear tactics, trotted out for all the world to see?

I think this is another trough in the sea of reality TV shows that push the envelope. Just as the full-on brawls on Jerry Springer were a draw, the viewing public enjoy a bit of nasty verbal repartee at the expense of those somehow deemed less than us.

The good thing in all of this is that a lot of television viewers don’t seem to be standing for it. Channel 4, who broadcast Celebrity Big Brother in Britain, received over 30 000 complaints to the British broadcasting watchdog Ofcom. Carphone Warehouse, a major sponsor of Celebrity Big Brother, withdrew their sponsorship of the show after the offensive footage was aired. And there has been public condemnation of the over-the-top insults on American Idol.

These shows and public figures are presenting bullying as an acceptable way to gain and display power. They make it easy for us to dismiss "the geeky kid" or the bad singer or the person that is culturally different from us. How can we expect our children to operate in a civilized, empathetic manner, when all around them are examples of adults bullying each other?