In the Globe, a look at just how dire the rental housing situation is across the country. When will it be ugly enough for the federal government to pay attention?
It’s always a bit disconcerting to see my massive head on my Globe column. But at least it’s a nice picture – thanks entirely to my friend, photographer Kevin Gonsalves.
In the Globe: what are the links between gender and adolescent depression? Girls may be going through puberty earlier, and that poses risks to their mental health.
I was into avocados before they were cool.
I have loved their creamy, subtle flesh since I learned to pick the fruit from the tree in my aunt’s backyard in San Fernando. The Trinidadian world for avocado is “zaboca,” and I was well known to be a zaboca freak—obliging aunties coming to Canada would smuggle newspaper-wrapped booty in their giant suitcases. When guacamole came onto the food scene during my teen years, I adopted a tired, worldly attitude, informing everyone that “avocados” were nothing new. In reality, the appearance of $1 zabocas was a cause for celebration: I no longer had to convince my parents to stop by Nicey’s and shell out.
The little pear isn’t an exotic ingredient anymore. Since I was born with a guilty conscience, it weighs on me that my favourite food is now easy pickings. Zabocas have evolved from an occasional treat to an everyday food, one that’s in cheap sushi and expensive sandwiches, and one that’s impossible to grow within 100 (or 1,000) miles from my house. Each bite is a carbon sin. I used to be a second-gen kid longing for a taste of my childhood. Now, I’m just North American scum.
The lines connecting “ethnic” to “green” food are twisty. There are butchers trying to educate kosher eaters about avoiding factory farms, and there is halal vanilla made with propylene glycol, a known carcinogen. I once knew a born-and-raised Jain who had never eaten animal flesh, and had no urge to: he very regularly had cravings for his version of a Big Mac, which was basically bread, pickles and special sauce (McD’s charged him full price). The year-old FoodShare market at Jane and Finch sells bok choy and mangos as well as local blueberries. Oyster mushrooms look cool, but the reason Ontario farmers grow them is because they sell. Local is lovely and we’d all eat more organic if we could afford it, but catering to real appetites is the bottom line. Recently, I had a bang-up avant-Asian meal at Rocky Raccoon in Owen Sound, where a Nepalese chef using Grey County ingredients offered house-made naan topped with local butter, maple syrup and subcontinental spices. That meal help convinced me that giving up familiar tastes doesn’t always mean a loss. Sometimes, like in a yellow dahl soup made earthy and intensely oniony with wild leeks, it means a real, delicious gain.
I ate vegetarian for three years, and once asked my mother to find and buy me a chayote. I had no idea what it would taste like, but the fancy vegetarian cookbook I was reading told me I should be stuffing one. She came back from the store with three chayotes, and informed me that they cost $7. “When I was vegetarian, it was because I was poor,” opined my father, who grew up on a farm, walked to school without shoes, only ate meat at weddings, etc. I’ve noticed that lots of immigrants, regardless of birthplace, consider eating copious amounts of animal one sign that they’ve achieved the Canadian Dream. A cousin once made me a quick dish of curried potatoes when a family potluck turned out not to have one meat-free offering. One of my uncles couldn’t stop shoveling it back. “I’ve always loved aloo,” he said between mouthfuls, as if someone had been preventing him from eating it. In the rush to prove that he could eat meat, he had forgotten to consider whether he wanted to.
My zaboca consumption has stayed steady through recent price increases. I can’t imagine the dollar value that would make me swear off for good (though bananas are apparently now $9 a pound in Australia–global food definitely has a tipping point). I promise, though, that I’ll pause before my next purchase, and think about whether, just this one time, I can nourish myself another way.
This post is part of the Ethnic Aisle blogging project. If you’re interested in race, ethnicity, diversity and the GTA, check it out.
I’ve got 50 first cousins. Yeah, you read that right. As part of the Ethnic Aisle’s Pride edition, here’s a Q&A with Clyde, the only one that’s openly gay.
Was there an actual day that you came out to your parents?
There was. I believe it was 1994, I was 21. I came home from classes on my birthday, which is October 11, which is also National Coming Out Day in the U.S. Oprah Winfrey was having a special where she talked to parents who were dealing with the issues raised by their GLBT kids. I watched the program with my mom. Afterward, I turned to her and said “And you know I’m gay, right?” She sort of sighed and said “are you sure it’s not a phase?” I said no, and she said ok. I kind of left her there with that.
Two days later, I was hanging around with my sister, Suzanne, and late brother, Andy, and mom came up to me. She gave me a hug and said “I don’t care, I love you anyway. I’m glad you came out of the cupboard.” This became a huge lost-in-translation joke.
From Toronto Life, a Q&A with CBC reporter Mellissa Fung, who was abducted, stabbed and held captive in the Afghan desert for 28 days.
Young South African runner Caster Semenya is being treated with revolting indecency. It was revolting for Australia’s Daily Telegraph to get excited about its “scoop” without thinking about the human being whose most private self is being paraded for public comment. It’s revolting that people seem to think that “hermaphrodites” (a term that should be erased, forever) purposely disguise themselves to take medals away from the “real women” that deserve them. Everyone who has neglected to consider the person at the heart of this story needs to feel ashamed of themselves and then read Jeffrey Eugenides’ brilliant Middlesex, immediately. The fictional tale of a young intersex person in late ’70s Detroit, it’s an epic family saga, a rollicking ride through a juicy bit of American history—and a touching personal story that illuminates the emotional wreckage of being “different” in such an intimate way.
Sport officials have known that there are more than two sexes since as far back as 1932, when Poland’s Stella Walsh won the Olympic gold in sprinting before being “revealed” as having both male and female sex characteristics. More recently, Indian runner Santhi Soundarajan was stripped of her medal for “failing” her gender test after the 2006 Asian games—she’s come out in support of Semenya, saying that the humiliation she faced led to such severe depression that she attempted suicide. This isn’t a new situation, so I’m not sure why there aren’t rules about privacy and protocol, to stop young people’s hearts from being ripped out publicly, again and again.
I’m not a huge sports fan, but my youngest brother is, and he sent me a really smart email arguing against sex categories in sport. Here are some excerpts. Read and enjoy—and if anyone is aggregating pro-Semenya posts to encourage her in this very dark time: Caster, you were born to run. Do so with pride.
Guest post, by Mystery Brother
The whole point of sports (especially individual sports, and perhaps especially track and field) is to award people for having superior bodies. We all know that biology plays the largest role—comparing two athletes’ blood cell and fast-twitch muscle counts allows for a pretty accurate prediction of who’s going to win the race. For some reason, we celebrate their victories as if everyone was on an even playing field and there’s something special about their character that allowed them to win. We’re celebrating their superior bodies. but then we impose a random, arbitrary separation, where if your body is too good for the particular task you have to compete in a separate category.
The reason I think female only races/leagues, etc. make sense right now is because our socialization does not encourage girls’ participation in athletics to the extent that it encourages males. We’re not even rewarding the best bodies. Many people have noted that the female body is actually better suited for both long distance running, and kicking in football. Catharine Mackinnon has said she expects women to outrun men in marathons within a couple generations.
If we’re trying to reward the best bodies, the argument that “the average” man has more muscle than “the average” woman doesn’t make any sense—both men and women (and all people not so easily classified) are on a spectrum of athleticism, including things like testosterone levels, white/red blood cell counts, etc. It doesn’t make sense that men at the bottom of their bell curve are forced to compete against men at the top of the curve, but women at the top of their curve (who are superior to many men), can’t. (DB’s note: golfer Michelle Wie has chosen to play in men’s leagues—she hasn’t won yet, but she’s still trying) If we justify it based on differences in biology, we’re missing the point and ignoring the fact that sports are *trying* to reward superior biology.
There’s an amazing list of sports that used to be mixed sex (such as archery), until women began legitimately competing with men (and beating them, like Rusty Kanokogi, the Mother of Judo), at which point the sexes were separated. Often, the rules for the women league are altered ever so slightly, arguably just so comparisons couldn’t easily be made (think: WNBA playing with a different ball and shorter quarters; marathons being different lengths for men and women, etc.)
In a world with no sex classifications in sports, women will be properly recognized and rewarded for their achievements. More importantly, no one would be put throught the shit Caster Semenya is going through, ever again.
Is that head about being busy? Dunno. Point is, I’ve just started a gig at the Star, and the orientation is exhausting. As the actual reporting promises to be, as well.
So, here’s a weak post on what I’m thinking about. On my mind is: Caster Semenya, how wretched it is that we knew she might be intersex before she did, how devastating it is that she’s on suicide watch, how angering it is that people are acting as though “hermaphrodite” athletes are schemers who aim to rob “real” women of their medals. I’ve found Kate Bornstein on Twitter (and she read this blog, c-razy); she’s a longtime transgender writer and activist who has a lot of smart, touching things to say about gender and sexuality and how it affects us all, everyday. You should read her stuff, now.
I’m also thinking about tomato season, my favourite crop of the year. Yummy. You should make this drink and also a salsa where you roast about four medium sized tomatoes (heirloom is nice, but anything ontario is fine) and blend ‘em up with two cloves of garlic, two chipotle peppers (and some of the liquid from the can) and a pinch of salt, then stir in some coriander and green onion.
The salsa was a hit at a party I went to for the season final of True Blood, which was sadly pretty disappointing. It was awesome when SPOILER Sam ripped out Maryann’s black heart, though, even though I kind of liked her. Best line of the night goes to Jason – “If a tree falls in the forest, it’s still a tree, ain’t it?” But yeah, weak. SPOILER How boring that Eggs died. He never had a personality to begin with. We knew Maryann was going down, that dragged on too long. There should have been more juicy cliffhangers, says I.
I’m also sad that Lisa Ray has bone marrow cancer (I interviewed her once, ages ago, and she was completely lovely), and pissed off that environmental polluters (who have had a big part in raising Canada’s cancer rate from 1 in 10 in the 1970s to 1 in 2 today – stat from Wendy Mesley’s CBC cancer special about four years ago) are poisoning water all over the U.S. and everywhere.
Starting at a new yoga studio today. I already miss my old teacher, Kaya at 99 Sudbury, who was about the only good thing about that gym. She was awesome, but I’m sure this new spot has something to offer. Non-attachment, right? I like a hatha/vinyasa mix, lots of hip and hamstring work, challenging but not show-offy, with classes changing all the time, sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Not that I’m picky or anything. Downtown studio, suggestions welcome.
Ok, gotta run to stretching. Byeeeee.
I was in Chicago for the August long weekend and randomly happened upon their Critical Mass ride. It was so huge! And the city is so cyclist friendly! Bike lanes in the downtown core, imagine!
So it’s not surprising that it was the Chicago police, and not the Toronto police, that put out this video. It’s very educational, in both the good and bad sense: perhaps a bit unsophisticated, but very, very useful. Interspersed with horror stories by bike commuters and bike cops are voiceovers outlining the driving laws pertaining to cyclists. It’s not just annoying to turn right in front of a bike, park in a bike lane or squish a rider over to the curb, it’s illegal. The police officers in this video encourage their colleagues to enforce these laws—wouldn’t it be nice if the Toronto police did that too, instead of just busting cyclists?
The vid also admonishes cyclists to behave themselves too (I’ve been practicing my driving lately, and realized that not having a front light makes me an idiot). Sharing and caring: it’s time to go back to kindergarten, everybody.
Traffic Enforcement for Bicyclist Safety from Chicago Bicycle Program on Vimeo.
It’s remarkable to me how many brave individuals there are in this world who personally fight for their own rights and freedoms in the face of powerful injustice. Today, I’m talking about Saudi Arabian women’s rights activist Wajeha Al-Huwaider.
I only just learned about her—last Sunday, she wrote an op-ed in the Washington Post that I found on Feminist Looking Glass via Twitter. In it, she outlines the case for women’s rights in Saudi Arabia. Her arguments are succint and cogent, covering child marriage, polygamy, travel freedom (women aren’t allowed to cross borders without their male guardian’s permission) and the right to drive. Another topic she discusses is Saudi’s notoriously sexist divorce policy. Women need bureaucratic and religious permission to initiate divorce proceedings, while men can drop their wives by simply saying “I divorce you” three times. In fact, the Saudi government recently allowed a man to divorce his wife via text message. It’s tragically rare to hear female voices from these countries, so I highly suggest reading it yourself.
I’ll highlight a few notable moments from Al-Huwaider’s life. At age 7, she was beaten by a female teacher for playing soccer. She became a poet and journalist, writing about women’s rights and politics. In 2003, she was banned from publishing in Saudi’s Arabic and English newspapers; the next year, she received the PEN/NOVIB Free Expression award. An opponent of Saudi’s clothing laws, which require women to wear head-to-toe black abbayas in the sweltering desert heat, she staged a 2006 protest on the Saudi Arabia-Bahrain border. Dressed in pink, she carried a sign that said simply “Give women their rights.” She was arrested after 20 minutes, and held for a full day, released only when her younger brother agreed to be her guardian. More recently, she’s been purposely traveling to the border and attempting to cross without a permission letter. So far, she’s been turned away every time.
Here’s a translated video she made for International Women’s Day 2008, about the right to drive. In January 2008, the Saudi government promised to issue women driving licenses by the end of the year, thanks largely to a petition campaign organized by Al-Huwaider and another Saudi feminist, Fouzia Al-Ayouni. That promise has yet to be fulfilled, so this video is as quietly rebellious as ever.