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In the heart of the city, while more than 385,000 South Asians go about their lives, the University of Toronto (U of T) has quietly set a precedent. Amid the clamour for social justice and equality, U of T’s teaching assistants have negotiated with their union to include caste as a discriminatory practice—a move that has slipped under the radar of mainstream Canadian discourse.

Along with U of T, the Canadian Union of Public Employees – 3902 Unit 1 also became the first union in North America to add caste as a protected category, according to organizers. Caste is a traditional social hierarchy and restrictive practice based on birth or traditional occupation, ingrained in some societies, particularly in South Asia, that dictates a person’s social status and opportunities. With 2.6 million people comprising 7.1 percent of the population, South Asians represent the largest visible minority in Canada, according to Statistics Canada.

U of T’s decision sets a precedent for other institutions to follow suit, marking a significant moment in Canadian anti-caste activists’ ongoing struggle for inclusivity. “Your proposed amendment to Article 4 of your Collective Agreement includes caste as a category to be protected from workplace discrimination, harassment, coercion, interference, restriction, or any other practices prohibited by law,” said a bulletin from CUPE during the negotiation phase. “This demonstrates your ongoing commitment to fighting against oppression and recognizes that many students and education workers within the University of Toronto are impacted by caste politics and caste-based discrimination in their workplaces, classrooms, and communities.”

“This creates an inclusive and equitable environment and campus for all; that is our larger goal,” said Shibi Laxman Kumaraperumal, a fourth-year PhD scholar at U of T’s History department,teacher’s assistant, and union-side bargaining committee member who pushed for the amendment. “By doing this, we are actually beginning anti-caste conversations in the university environments in Canada. We encourage other trade unions to take it up as well.”

While many in the community are pleased with this step to curtail discrimination, that doesn’t hold true for everyone. Efforts to incorporate anti-caste measures in various North American jurisdictions have faced opposition from some Hindu organizations, which argue that such measures could lead to Hinduphobia. The term “Hinduphobia,” as outlined in petition E-4507, tabled at the House of Commons in December 2023 and meant to specifically address and define the discrimination faced by Hindus in Canada, refers to prejudice, discrimination, or hostility toward Hindu people, culture, or religion, including the association of casteism with Hinduism.

The U.S. has seen initiatives to combat caste discrimination, notably in Seattle, Washington, which became the first U.S. city to prohibit caste discrimination in 2023. Some members of the diaspora resisted, though, and they also resisted the introduction of an anti-caste discrimination bill in California, expressing concerns about the implications for the Hindu community.

Similarly, in Canada, some Hindu groups have called for a Hinduphobia bill, arguing that caste discrimination is not prevalent and that legislation against caste discrimination could unfairly target the Hindu community. Still, across the country, jurisdictions are taking steps to combat caste-based discrimination. The Ontario Human Rights Commission recognizes it now. Similarly, the city of Burnaby, B.C. voted unanimously to include caste as a protected category in its code of conduct, and Brampton, Ontario’s city council voted unanimously to take steps to add caste-based discrimination to its anti-discrimination policy.

It’s a more complex issue than it seems, and initiatives to combat anti-caste discrimination in Canada and the U.S. are in the early stages. But the efforts being made at U of T point to the need to unpack it, and to implement change at an institutional level.

Tamsyn Riddle was excited to start her university courses in 2015. At the University of Toronto, where she majors in diaspora and transnational studies and minors in equity studies and political science, her academic successes would be appreciated in a way that they weren’t at her Peterborough high school. Plus, she could be a part of Trinity College’s elite culture, where many students dream of someday becoming prime minister.

But that excitement quickly dissipated in her first year, when Riddle says she was raped by a fellow freshman student at a quad party hosted by the college. She reported the incident to the school, having faith they would help her. Instead, the school spent more than a year on an investigation that let her accused assailant walk free.

Now, Riddle is trying to enact change. On April 4, 2017, she filed a human rights complaint against the school. The complaint outlines “[discrimination] against Ms. Riddle based on sex by failing to properly investigate and remedy the assault that she experienced and by failing to provide Ms. Riddle with a safe, discrimination-free learning environment.”

Riddle made her complaint public, sharing it at the Silence is Violence press conference “Survivors Speak Back: Confronting Sexual Assault at the University of Toronto” this April. There, she told media that she loved Trinity College and the University of Toronto, and it was hard for her to believe that the school loved her back as a survivor of sexual violence.

Riddle filed the complaint after the school took 16 months to finish an investigation into her and another student’s sexual assault allegations against a first-year male student. “The human rights complaint is for me, but it is also about changing the institution,” Riddle says.

U of T has not commented on Riddle’s case specifically in the media. “We can’t comment on the specifics of individual cases,” University of Toronto director of media relations Althea Blackburn-Evans told This.

In spring 2015, when Riddle says she was assaulted, she told a friend. Her friend knew someone who said she was assaulted months earlier by the same man. Riddle and the other woman reported their cases to school officials together. Riddle then heard her options. She could report the case to police, but there could be potential drawbacks, such as retaliation by her assailant or disappointment in police actions. Riddle was already aware about institutional rape culture and victim blaming in the state’s justice system and was not planning on reporting to the police before these comments.

Instead, Riddle decided to proceed with a hearing through the university. In a hearing, a school administrator decides what the process will look like and what evidence will be admitted. Because Riddle would be considered a witness to an alleged crime, she would not get a lawyer—but her alleged assailant would, and she could be cross-examined. In January 2016, Riddle received correspondence from the school that they were proceeding with a hearing. She tried to prepare for a hearing mentally and emotionally, educating herself on policy. But she says it was hard for her to keep focus on her studies with such uncertainty around her.

As per the university policy at the time, interim measures would be in place for a year: The accused could not lead any school clubs, join any Trinity College clubs (though any outside of the college were considered fair game), live on residence, take the same classes as Riddle, or eat in the dining hall. He also had to see a counsellor. Despite these measures she still saw him around campus.

After months of waiting, the hearing never came. On August 29, 2016, Riddle was informed that the university had settled the case with her alleged assailant and his lawyer. The resolutions the two sides had come to were deemed confidential.

Over the summer of 2016, while the school was dodging her calls, Riddle joined the University of Toronto chapter of Silence is Violence (SiV). The survivor-led group, according to its official site, “aims to radically alter the culture of institutional violence on university campuses across Canada.” Members of the group—Jassie Justice, Mira El Hussein, and U of T chapter founder Ellie Ade Kur—sat with Riddle when she announced that she was filing a human rights complaint. It was the first time Riddle says she found a sense of community on the campus since her assault.

In January 2017 universities and colleges legally had to make changes in accordance with Bill 132, Ontario’s Sexual Violence and Harassment Action Plan Act. The bill states that with student input every college and university must have a sexual violence policy that sets a process for how the school will respond to such incidents and complaints. But U of T’s policy—along with the policies of other schools—has been criticized as confusing. Riddle describes the language used in the 13-page document as vague. “If you are reading through it as a survivor, you would get tired,” she says.

The school, however, says students were part of the process to create the document. “I can tell you that we’ve been consulting with our community—including our students—very broadly over the last couple of years to develop our new sexual violence policy,” Blackburn-Evans told This.

Riddle’s recommendations in her human rights complaint are clear: She wants improved communication, timelines on action, automatically giving academic survivors counselling and help, and legal counsel for sexual assault survivors. “I’m looking for the university to start seriously addressing sexual violence,” Riddle said after announcing her filed complaint, “in a way that shows that it sees itself as being accountable to survivors at this institution.”

Nonetheless, Peterson fights hard for their attention. During his lectures, he paces around the room, his voice fluctuating in tone and dynamic as he waxes theoretical on a string of elaborate hypotheses. He likes to sporadically lock eyes with individual students in the first few rows, approaching them swiftly and raising his voice to get his point across. In one moment he’s dissecting the philosophy of Carl Jung, and in the next he’s reciting the contents of a dream he had the previous night (an incoherent recollection about posing as a Vitruvian man when suddenly the room fills with snakes). “Your mind is a very strange space,” he once told his audience, mid-ramble. “The minute you give it an aim, a genuine aim, it’ll reconfigure the world within keeping that aim—that’s how you see to begin with.” Most of his students let the statement pass, immersed in their social media pursuits.

It isn’t until class wraps up that Peterson becomes the centre of attention. The 54-year-old packs up his belongings and navigates past the foot traffic toward a clear space in the outside corridor. Instantly, eight students line up to speak with him. A short, bearded man, no more than 21 years old—perhaps one of Peterson’s students, perhaps not—shakes his hand vigorously. “I just want you to know how much it means to me, what you’re doing,” the man says. Peterson nods, and wishes him well. A similar exchange transpires with the next three students in line, keeping Peterson in the hallway for the next 10 minutes. These are the Peterson followers, the devoted fans that have emerged on campus to support his ideas.

Earlier in the school year, he turned heads after publicly declaring he would never use gender-neutral pronouns. He rejected the notion of a non-binary gender spectrum, and openly criticized Bill C-16, a federal bill tabled in May 2016 that would amend the Canadian Human Rights Act and Criminal Code to include discrimination on the basis of gender identity. He equated the requests of transgender and non-binary people to use pronouns other than “he” or “she” with the suppression of free speech, asserting that his refusal to use such pronouns could land him in hot water with human rights commissions. While many condemned Peterson’s controversial claims, he was simultaneously rewarded with a swath of devoted fans both in Canada and abroad—some of whom even show up in his weekly classes.

Mari Jang, a neuroscience and bioinformatics major at U of T, is one of them. She had only heard Peterson’s name in passing before he made headlines, but now she attends his Thursday lectures regularly. Jang finds Peterson to be a very compelling speaker. “You feel like you’re talking to a human being, and not some foreign entity standing up at the front of the classroom spitting out lecture material at you.”

Many of his fans would agree. Online, praise for Peterson’s speaking abilities seems endless. His YouTube videos receive tens of thousands of hits; more than 200,000 people were subscribed to his channel at the time of publication. Images of Peterson looking thoughtfully into the distance, accompanied by a quote of his in cursive text as though he’s Mahatma Gandhi, circulate regularly within right-wing online forums. An entire subsection of Reddit, a massive online forum, is dedicated solely to Peterson jokes.

Historically, university campuses have served as a space where authority is challenged and met with protest, often from a liberal vantage point. But Peterson has become something of a folk-hero for students opposing what they see as a status quo of liberal discourse on Canadian campuses. As “safe spaces,” “trigger warnings,” and perceived identity politics play an increasing role in student politics—what an article on American university discourse in The Atlantic once referred to as the “coddling of the American mind”—room for discussion on sensitive subject matter is seen to have come under threat. Many students have sparked a movement that’s centred itself on the value of free speech—a fundamental right that Peterson and his fans alike say has been suppressed. In turn, campuses have become battlegrounds, pitting left-leaning students against their far-right counterparts and resulting in ugly spats that teeter on the edge of hatefulness.

***

In the mid-afternoon of October 11, 2016, a large group of students gather on the steps of Sidney Smith Hall, packing in front of the building against one another’s knapsacks. It’s just one week after the release of Peterson’s initial YouTube series, and a rally has broken out to defend Peterson’s controversial claims.

The gathering attracts both sides of the disagreement—the leftie students furious with the havoc Peterson supporters had unleashed, and the supporters themselves. Lauren Southern, a former commentator for right-wing news organization The Rebel Media, known for a stunt in which she received a doctor’s note stating she was male by pretending to identify as transgender, showed up. So did the Black Liberation Collective (BLC), fundamental dissenters of Peterson’s claims. Eventually even Peterson himself ventures outside Sid Smith, greeted by a mixture of jeers and applause. When he tries to speak to the crowd, he is drowned out by a white-noise machine that a counter-protester has hooked up to a speaker.

It’s not long before ad-hominen attacks and bursts of violence break out across the rally. A man wearing a Hells Angels jacket is isolated by police. Another man shouts, “We need more Michael Browns,” referring to a Black man shot and killed by police in Missouri in 2014, at the group of counter-protesters—suggesting more members of the Black community should be slain. A member of the trans and non-binary community smacks Southern’s microphone from her hands. By the end, a man claims to have been briefly strangled by another protester before campus police came to break it up.

In the aftermath of the heated protest, Jang decided to make a Facebook group to promote free speech on campus. She worried that many who opposed Peterson’s beliefs wanted to censor him entirely. For years, Jang worked as an interpreter for North Korean refugees, where she heard harrowing stories of the consequences the country’s laypeople would face should they say the wrong thing. Obviously, she said, Canada is nowhere near the dystopian reality of North Korea, but “one of my biggest fears is living in a world where freedom of speech is questioned.” Her experiences informed her need to defend free speech, and seeing Peterson’s willingness to defend his own motivated her to do the same.

A screenshot from the SFSS Facebook group.

Jang opened Students in Support of Free Speech (SSFS) to anyone who believed in Peterson’s right to speak his mind, whether they agreed with him or not. Almost instantly, the group gained hundreds of members. They consisted primarily of U of T students who gathered online to laud Peterson’s bravery, vigorously reminding each other of free speech’s intrinsic value in a democratic society. They praised Peterson for his brilliance and showed disdain for his dissenters—“radical leftists,” “social justice warriors,” and “the regressive left,” as they called them. (Peterson did not respond to requests for comment from This.)

The Peterson story embodied the clichéd narrative of the valiant professor fighting solo against an amorphous horde of radical, irrational college students with nose rings—and it quickly drew in students at other universities. At the University of British Columbia, the UBC Free Speech Club emerged, declaring their commitment “to cultivating an open dialogue on campus, where arguments are made with wit and reason rather than rhetoric and personal attack.” One day after Donald Trump’s election as U.S. president, about a dozen members of the club held a “coming-out party,” setting up a table outside the student commons and donning red “Make America Great Again” hats. Three hours south of UBC, the University of Victoria’s Students for Free Speech and Accountability came to fruition; within 24 hours of its inception, founders had to deny allegations that they were affiliated with neo-Nazi organizations. The groups remain niche—neither tops more than 600 students at universities with undergraduate populations well over 10,000, and their gatherings primarily remain online.

The bulk of their discourse appears to situate them in opposition to “social justice warriors”—a derogatory term to describe those who lean left and are outspoken about issues of race, gender, and sexuality. They oppose what they see as identity politics, and—as testament to their widespread adoration for Peterson—they champion the need for public debate rather than polarized silence. For dissenters, that debate is often reviled as hateful.

And hateful it became. In the months following SSFS’ inception, dialogue among its members turned from the usual Peterson praising to a mixture of sexism, anti-Semitism, transphobia, and particularly rampant xenophobia. The group attracted not only U of T students but also Facebook users in rural America sporting Make America Great Again hats, in support of President Donald Trump, in their profile pictures and images of Pepe the Frog, a cartoon that has been appropriated as a mascot for racist and sexist ideologies, as their cover photos. “Women are offended to know their place, which is to take care of children develop raise and hold families together,” wrote one member. “I present you with something whose threat to science is even more cancerous than creationism: postmodern feminism,” wrote another.

Nonetheless, the administrators held fast to their convictions—the members would not be banned, nor would their posts be removed. “There are many nasty things from both sides in the group, but that’s just a reflection of where our society has progressed,” SSFS vice-president Geoffrey Liew tells me over the phone. “This is a space where we can actually confront those different views instead of segregating them off into different spheres where people don’t come into contact with them.”

The group’s public relations officer, Chad Hallman, tells me he much prefers arguing with someone’s outlandish opinion rather than silencing it. “There are some pretty despicable views toward certain groups,” he says. “But when there is backlash [to those views], and people see how overwhelming [the backlash] is toward that individual spreading hate, that’s more reassuring than just deleting a post.”

The standards Hallman and his group uphold are not completely far-fetched in a larger educational context. The university has long been a site for the free exchange of ideas, and debate is encouraged among students, viewed as an opportunity to learn and grow intellectually. But as human rights commentator Steven Zhou notes, the university is also positioned as a microcosm of society at large—and when certain beliefs infiltrate campus, it’s a signal of changes to come outside of school boundaries. “The campus propaganda is a sign that this wave has reached an outer fringe of the right wing that’s looking to regain a certain kind of footing among the youth,” Zhou writes for CBC, referencing the widespread appearance of white nationalist posters on campuses across the country.

A screenshot from the SFSS Facebook group.

In early December, just two months after its inception, administrators abandoned the Facebook group, sensing that a U of T-only group would be more effective in defining the boundaries of discourse. The group quickly went the route of Holocaust denial. “Yall [sic] realize the six million number is bullshit? ” one member asked. “More Jewish propaganda trying to draw Goy sympathy.” Meanwhile, at the University of Calgary, the right-wing Wildrose Club on campus came under fire after circulating an email to its members reminding them that “feminism is cancer.” In the UBC Free Speech club Facebook group, one member asked that everyone please “keep the ad-hominen attacks to a minimum.”

***

In mid-November 2016, when it seems as though the Peterson controversy has hit its inevitable tipping point, the University of Toronto hosts a public debate on Bill C-16 between Peterson, U of T law professor and director of the Bonham Centre for Sexual Diversity Brenda Cossman, and Mary Bryson, a professor of education at UBC. It is intended to bring the controversy’s opposing dialogues into contention. But by its end, everyone’s pre-established notions are only reaffirmed. Peterson calls human rights tribunals “kangaroo courts” that should be abolished as fast as possible. Cossman rebuts that all human rights are about is respect and dignity; if you can throw a bit of kindness on top, even better. Bryson says Peterson’s videos provide a fabulous case study in the cultural production of ignorance in an age of reactionary populism. Peterson adds that the “political-correctness police” have brainwashed everyone. There is little consensus.

But following the debate, Bryson, who identifies as non-binary and uses the pronoun they, received extensive online threats targeting their gender identity. “The best part about you being a dyke bitch, this shit dies with you, you fucking nasty subhuman piece of trash,” said one message, delivered through Facebook. In the comment section of an article by Christie Blatchford in the National Post, one person wrote: “Things like Bryson remind me of the repulsive, repugnant creatures Clint Eastwood had to deal with and eradicate in his Dirty Harry series.” (Bryson declined to speak to This for matters of safety.)

A Facebook message to Bryson following the debate.

Such instances of bigotry on campus are not confined to the Peterson controversy, but have rather expanded to form an uptick in discriminatory sentiment among many university students. “White Students Union” posters were discovered on York, Ryerson, and U of T campuses last fall, depicting two white men posing stoically in front of the CN Tower. The group responsible for the posters lists “organiz[ing] for and advanc[ing] the interests of Western peoples” as a mission statement online. Other posters reading “Fuck Your Turban” were found on the University of Alberta campus. Anti-Muslim and anti-gay graphics accompanied posters on McGill campus with “Make Canada Great Again” emblazoned as the headline.

When outgoing vice-president, university affairs of the U of T Students’ Union Cassandra Williams expressed anger over the swath of threats made toward Bryson, she was met with a distressing response. “If a trans person puts themselves out publicly, then they can’t expect to not experience violent harassment,” someone told her.

“I think that’s kind of what the culture is right now,” Williams says. “There’s an expectation that it is fair, or justified, or it’s ‘just the way things are,’ that a trans person, should they choose to speak out in defence of themselves in their community, should they choose to just be visible or have a high profile, is bringing that sort of harassment or violence upon themselves.”

If human rights commentator Zhou’s theory that the campus signals change for society at large is true, the treatment of Peterson dissenters like Williams is a troubling sign: It suggests a level of comfort to express such hateful ideology. “That some of the more extreme and explicit forms of this rhetoric are being found on campuses is alarming,” Zhou writes. “It’s a sign that whoever’s responsible is looking to young people for a response and to campuses as a possible setting for mobilization.”

Countering the values of Peterson and the SSFS administrators, Williams participated in #NotUpForDebate, a protest of the forum between Peterson, Bryson, and Cossman, on November 19. “Debating whether or not different classes of people are deserving of equal rights… has always been happening with marginalized groups,” Williams, who identifies as trans, explains. “By saying that these things are not up for debate, we’re saying, ‘Look, we’re here, and we’ve always been here,’ and just [by] virtue of being humans and by virtue of us being members of society, we have, automatically, the expectation of equal rights and the expectation of freedom from discrimination.”

SSFS public relations officer Hallman fervently disagrees with #NotUpForDebate: “If there was one thing that we could do to really de-escalate the general situation, it would be to bring it more toward the space of dialogue and discussion.”

***

In recent months, Peterson shifted the arena of his discourse from U of T to a number of other universities—receiving predictably mixed reception in turn. In mid-March, he stood outside a lecture hall at McMaster University, surrounded in equal part by admirers and protesters. It was a relatively warm day for the season, and the afternoon oxygen appeared to have effectively energized both sides of the campus debacle.

“Shut down Peterson,” chanted the protesters in unison, clanging on pots and pans as they worked to drown him out.

Peterson, red in the face and unwilling to back down from a fight, vociferously reprimanded them. “You, like it or not, only have the interests of your group,” he shouted back. “And the world is nothing but a battleground between groups of different interests!”

Video clips of Peterson’s rather unflattering altercation with the angry protestors would later circulate the Free Speech clubs’ Facebook groups.

“These leftists are some of the worst activists I’ve ever seen,” wrote one. “I really wish I was back in school to fight back against these degenerates,” wrote another.

The noise peaked. Peterson lost his train of thought. A woman in front of him appeared to ask a question, but his response was drowned out by the surrounding chaos.

Eventually, both sides went home.

This article is written from the standpoint of a clinical psychologist working in the area of trauma, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), mood and anxiety disorders, and that of an independent scientist who has spent the last decade addressing the issue of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, and 2-Spirit (LGBTQ2S) youth homelessness. In addition to our professional work, we also come to this from our personal and political standpoint as a queer, trans-allied woman and a queer, transgender (trans) man.

University of Toronto professor and clinical psychologist Jordan Peterson has been making headlines after publicly vocalizing his refusal to address his transgender and gender non-conforming students and colleagues with gender neutral pronouns, including the singular “they” or “ze” or “zir,” as alternatives to the binary “he” and “she.” He views anyone balking at his refusal as an infringement on freedom of speech and, in his opinion, contrary to scientific research on gender identity. He has also expressed concern that his refusal to address individuals with their self identified pronouns could put him at risk of being prosecuted for a hate crime under the proposed Bill C-16 and the Provincial Human Rights Code.

Bill C-16 proposes legal and human rights protection of transgender and gender diverse people across Canada. This means that the Canadian Human Rights Act will explicitly protect people from discrimination and hate crime on the basis of gender identity and gender expression.

The University of Toronto recently decided to allow Peterson his request for debate regarding this legislation. It is our opinion that this decision, under the guise of allowing “free speech,” puts the health and well-being of trans and gender non-binary students and faculty at risk, rather than supporting their rights for self-expression.

Suggesting that someone’s identity is not real and should not be acknowledged in language is not an issue of free speech, but rather an issue of wilful ignorance and marginalization. Not everyone’s gender identity is congruent with the sex they were assigned at birth, and not everyone’s gender identity fits neatly into the gender binary of “male” and “female.” Peterson has stated: “I don’t know what the options are if you’re not a man or a woman,” and “It’s not obvious to me how you can be both because those are by definition binary categories.”

People identify in many different ways, sometimes in ways that may not be “obvious” to us, which does not mean that a person’s gender identity is not real or should not be respected. It is not up to any of us to decide which name or pronoun a person identifies with. Respecting a person’s name and pronoun is not a complicated matter, nor should it be up for debate because a person’s name and experience of their gender are fundamental to a person’s identity. When we ignore someone’s name and pronouns and opt for our own, we do not acknowledge the individual’s identity as real or authentic. In doing so, we reject their truth and replace it with our assumptions. We imply that their sense of self-worth and safety in the world is not important to us. Such attitudes give rise to an insidious but powerful type of stress for the individual, which activates their threat system and negatively impacts wellbeing—including their physical, mental, and emotional health.

“Minority stress,” or the chronic stress associated with attempting to cope with a variety of chronic factors related to one’s minority status is related to decreased psychosocial functioning. Elevated stress caused by the layering of minority stress on top of all the other stresses that an individual experiences in their life, particularly university students who have shown to be at increased risk for various mental health issues (such as stress, anxiety, suicidal thoughts), could exceed one’s ability to cope. This compromise in one’s ability to cope negatively affects performance, such as learning. It also negatively affects mental health in the long term due to the cumulative impact of this stress over time, erodes resilience, causes emotional fatigue and exhaustion, compromises coping, and can pose a risk for developing mental disorders and even increase the risk of suicide.

Trans and gender non-conforming individuals frequently experience stigma, discrimination, unemployment, homelessness, mental health issues, and face major barriers accessing trans competent physicians and counsellors. A high proportion of young people experiencing homelessness have been kicked out of their homes simply for coming out as LGBTQ2S—25 to 40 percent of young people experiencing homelessness in Canada identify as LGBTQ2S. Many of these youth are denied the most basic needs and rights, not only by the people that are supposed to love them the most, but also by support services that are meant to provide support and safety to all young people.

Discrimination, stigma, and the institutional erasure experienced by trans and gender non-conforming individuals in many institutional settings leads to elevated rates of mental health difficulties and suicidal risk. Transphobia has also been shown to be a major risk factor for suicide.

A mental health professional, and particularly a university professor, should be held to a standard by virtue of their authority and power in creating a cultural context, in recognizing the complex interplay of these stresses for the individual. There exists a high duty of care to the students he teaches and serves. It is incumbent on him to treat people with dignity and respect, set a strong example of inclusion, and create an environment that reduces stress.

As a university professor, it should not be so difficult to comprehend that gender identity is deeply personal and people have a right to choose how they identify their gender, name, and pronouns. Creating a culture of acceptance leads to greater affiliation and has positive impacts on mental health, coping, resilience, growth, and—of particular relevance to a university professor—learning.

Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR) is held annually on November 20, as a day to memorialize transgender people who have been killed or have died due to transphobic hatred and violence. Every year, there are new names added to the memorial list of trans people who have been killed globally as a result of their gender identities. TDOR also raises public awareness of the violent reality that so many trans and gender non-binary individuals face on a daily basis.

This year, the day before we commemorate the trans and gender non-binary lives that have been lost over the past year as a result of transphobic hate, the University of Toronto will be hosting a debate on “free speech” and Bill C-16 with Jordan Peterson. It is absolutely unfathomable that a university as highly ranked and respected as the University of Toronto would risk the psychological, emotional, and physical safety of a large proportion of students and faculty and risk its own reputation by welcoming a debate on transgender and gender non-binary identities by providing a platform to an individual who is not even an expert in gender studies, sexuality, human rights, or law.

On November 20, we encourage you to take the time to honour the lives of those who have been lost as a result of transphobic violence and hatred, and to learn more about how you can help put an end to obvious and subtle forms of transphobia. Unfortunately, transphobia is an everyday reality for far too many people and it is harmful to them psychologically, emotionally, and physically.

We know that creating a culture of acceptance leads to greater affiliation and positive impacts on mental health, coping, resilience, growth, and learning. The language we use to acknowledge the reality of another human being, such as using appropriate pronouns requested by an individual is but one example of how we can increase social inclusion. Research has shown this to represent an “intervenable factor,” substantially reducing the extremely high prevalence rates of suicide ideation and suicide attempts among transgender people. As a country we are heading in a very positive direction with recent efforts by our Justice Minister Jody Wilson-Raybould to introduce legislation that will ensure Canadians will be free to identify and express their gender as they wish while being protected against discrimination and hate. As Minister Wilson-Raybould has said, all Canadians “should feel free and safe to be ourselves.”

In the spirit of being free and safe to be ourselves, in the words of non-binary identified University of Toronto professor Dr. A. W. Peet, “Gender identity of real life people is actually not up for debate.”

As of Sept. 11, Toronto police decided an online poster’s request that feminists be shot at the nearest UofT women’s studies classroom wasn’t a credible threat. Still, campus security was increased and the police investigation is ongoing. For those who aren’t familiar with the story: A user going by “Kill Feminists” posted this threat, and others, in BlogTO comment sections. CUPE 3902 with University of Toronto Education Workers called the threats beyond abhorrent, “As many of you will know from the Provost’s earlier message, public threats have been received at the University of Toronto. We can add the detail that these were gendered threats made specifically toward women and feminists.”

In further response, CUPE 3902 Women’s Caucus also held a demonstration against gendered violence—and in support of feminism. The event gathered over a thousand supporters on Facebook, and the physical turnout was impressive. After the demonstration the women’s caucus posted to the event page, Some of our favourite moments came from seeing folks who were nervous to come to the rally really get into chanting, dancing and shutting down the roads.” To the organizers, it was a chance to expand the conversation about gendered violence on campus, yet others have criticized the action, saying the threats was blown out of proportion.

Marcus Gee wrote an article for The Globe and Mail, published last Wednesday, headlined “Why U of T’s reaction to online threats was excessive—and unavoidable.” “It is sad to see a proud public institution devoted to the pursuit of reason let itself get so rattled by such a puny thing as an online posting, however vile,” Gee wrote, referencing  the increase in security, the demonstration held on September 14th, and the cancellation of some gender studies classes.

But is it really absurd that people were scared? That women and girls reported feeling unsafe? As Gee himself pointed out, this threat reminded people of the 1989  Montreal Massacre, in which Marc Lépine walked into a classroom at L’École Polytechnique and separated students into two groups: men and women. He declared his hated of women and began shooting the women. He then shot and stabbed women before shooting himself. A note he left behind listed the names of prominent Canadian feminists he intended to kill.

There is still the lingering idea in our society that online comments and discussion are entirely divorced from “real life.” Now that everyone and their grandmother is online in some way, online socializing is indeed real life. Maybe this specific poster did not mean to shoot anyone, but with the wide audience reached through the internet, it’s entirely plausible such comments could be the encouragement and validation for another Marc Lépine. The “big deal” made by police and campus security can send the message that women and girls are, in fact, people whose lives are worth something.

A former This intern, Hillary Di Menna is in her second year of the gender and women’s studies program at York University. She also maintains an online feminist resource directory, FIRE- Feminist Internet Resource Exchange.

While I’m a sucker for any leftist symposium, I felt a wave of disappointment as the panelists began entering the room. The majority of them were white. Of the 12 speakers, only four were women, all of whom were white.

The reason for my disappointment? Well, here’s a conference about Canada’s foreign policy, particularly our interference in South America, with several discussions about neocolonialism, and there is a largely white panel. I’m hearing talk about embracing a transnational perspective, when the speakers are anything but transnational.

I speak for many leftists of colour when I say that I’m tired of leftist discourse being dominated by white academics. Because leftist ideologies often take an anti-colonial, pro-marginalized voices stance, it’s a shame, to say the least, to see few marginalized voices actually being represented in academic left discourse. This is not to say that there is a lack of people of colour in leftist circles, but simply that our voices often take the backburner in favour of white academics with high-flown university-style rhetoric that greatly alienates the poor and oppressed that we leftists claim to stand for.

On top of that, there was one point where a few of the panelists discussed the extent to which we can call Canada an imperialist state, how imperialist it is, and how long it has been this way. While the panelists did all agree that Canada is an imperialist state, I couldn’t help but secure my face to my palm. The question of how imperialist Canada is or how long it’s been an imperialist state is a redundant one for more marginalized folk. We see no need to debate on naming Canada an imperialist state, when our very realities are a testament to this. We do not have the luxury of debate; we live the consequences of Canada’s imperialism every day.

There was even a point where one panelist said that Canada has been an imperialist state since World War II. World War II? Seriously? Canada’s entire history has been an imperialist one. It’s been an imperialist state since 1867. It’s roots, it’s creation into this constitutional monarchy we call Canada is entirely imperialist and colonial in nature.

Though I enjoyed much of what panelists were talking about—especially appreciating the presentations by Nikolas Barry-Shaw, Dru Oja Jay, Alyson McCready, and Jamie Swift—the lack of diversity only reminded me of the bigger picture of a divided left overwhelmed by the voices of immensely privileged people.

The right has a stronger sense of unity that leftists have not yet achieved. Despite my unapologetic identity as a far-left individual, I stray from Marxist circles, knowing that misogynistic white males so frequently bombard them. I’m cautious among other feminists, knowing that so many subscribe to a feminism that is trans-exclusionary, sex-worker-exclusionary, and utterly Eurocentric.

The left seems more united on economic issues like higher taxation and greater social services, but struggling to be cohesive on social issues. If academic conferences can not include professors, scholars, journalists, and activists who have personally felt oppression, than the larger leftist movement will never follow suit.

Roberts’s readings are both original and politically engaged. She deftly combats charges that Rohinton Mistry’s refusal to represent his “host” country in spite of the accolades it’s bestowed upon him—to “pay up”— makes him a bad guest. Drawing parallels between Mistry’s representations of political disenfranchisement in India and his public excoriation of cuts to social-welfare programs under Mike Harris’s “Common Sense Revolution,” Roberts makes the case for the political efficacy of a cosmopolitan citizenship that stands in two places at once.

Digressions like Roberts’ discussion of the idiosyncrasies of Canadian film distribution in her chapter on Carol Shields are less carefully considered. And provocative as the book is in tracing the delicate steps of writers such as Michael Ondaatje, granted honorary citizenship for works that needle the nation now hailing him as its own, its shifts from literary analysis to reception history can be jarring. Still, this is an important study—a smart look at border-crossing books about border crossing that is attentive, as Roberts says about Yann Martel, to the “radically simultaneous” potential of Canadian identities.

Kay Kritzwiser, a feature writer assigned to the Globe and Mail’s weekend supplement, The Globe Magazine, had never heard of Marshall McLuhan when, on a mid-November morning in 1963, her edior, Colin McCullough, asked her to write a profile of him. She visited the Globe’s library and took away a Who’s Who entry and a few articles about the University of Toronto English professor. One, a profile by Kildare Dobbs published the previous year, compared a conversation with McLuhan to a trip to outer space. “In orbit with him one looks down to see the comfortable world of familiar facts diminished to the scale of molecules; long vistas of history yawn frighteningly…”

Kritzwiser, who regarded herself as a woman with her feet on the ground, thought it sounded like a carnival ride. She read on: McLuhan’s first book, an eccentric intellectual critique of advertising and society called The Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man, had been published in 1951 to good reviews and weak sales. His second major book, The Gutenberg Galaxy: The Making of Typographic Man, had been published in the fall of 1962 and widely reviewed both in Canada and in prestigious international publications, and had won that year’s Governor General’s Award for non-fiction. Nevertheless, McLuhan was, for the most part, a high-brow academic whose challenging ideas on communications and media were confined mainly to university campuses and a few industry and government organizations. In the fall of 1964, he was two years away from the mega-celebrityhood that his theories in part addressed.

At that time, almost all female reporters were forced into one of two stereotypes: those who specialized in women’s page fare (weddings, fashion, cooking tips) and the so-called “sob sisters”—reporters whose great journalistic achievement was the use of sympathy to coax family photos from grieving widows. Kritzweiser fit into a third category that might be classified as post-emancipation and pre-feminism: independent, determined career women actively competing with their male counterparts (at half their salaries) who nonetheless saw no irony in backing up serious reporting and research skills with a feminine flair. They were the precursors of the liberated, college-educated go-getters who began pouring into newsrooms in the mid-1960s.

A Regina native, Kritzwiser was recruited by the Globe in 1956. A year later, she had established herself as one of the paper’s senior feature writers. In his 1999 memoir, Hurly Burly: A Time at the Globe, Richard J. Doyle fondly described Kritzwiser in a passage that also revealed an attitude toward women shared by many of his generation:

The lady knows how to bat an eyelash, swivel a hip, show off an ankle or arch an eyebrow. A rustle of silk announces her arrival, a breathless voice begins the interview, a laugh like [Lauren] Bacall’s punctuates the questions. Tiny gasps greet the most mundane of responses to her guileless prodding into the dark recesses of the hapless fellow on the other side of her notepad.

Until the interview appears in print. “Did I say that? I didn’t admit… but if I did… why did I tell her about… Who does she think she is?”

Kritzwiser’s writing reflected Doyle’s modernizing of the Globe in the 1960s. Although most of us take it for granted today, at this time people were just beginning to realize that objectivity, a goal of news reporting for decades, was seen as too confining to cope with the complexities of modern life. Features were longer than a conventional news story and had a beginning, middle, and an end; readers who devoted time and attention to them expected some interpretation, not just a recitation of facts. Pierre Berton and a handful of others had turned out these kinds of features from time to time since the 1940s, but now they were becoming accepted practice. And it was the only approach that had a hope of making sense out of a figure like Marshall McLuhan.

“How do you do, Professor McLuhan?” Kritzwiser said, stepping into McLuhan’s cramped, shabby office on the U of T campus. Considering McLuhan’s published statements about how the electronic media were killing print, it was hard not to notice the books: shelves groaned with them, they were piled high on tables and the floor, and they spilled out into his secretary’s tiny alcove.

“How do you do,” said McLuhan, standing up behind his desk and indicating a chair. Kritzwiser sat down, crossed her legs, and placed a notebook on her knee.

Like most things she did when working, Kritzwiser dressed for effect; this morning she was wearing her beautifully tailored grey wool suit with the pearl-white buttons and a stylish grey felt hat. She was a short, trim woman with a sunny personality and plain, boyish features. On most occasions she seemed entirely at ease, a function, in part, of several years spent in amateur theatre in Regina, which she regarded as excellent preparation for interviewing. She drew a cigarette from its package and politely asked McLuhan whether he had a light.

He was a tall, lanky man, his thinning grey hair swept straight back, handsome in a distinguished way, she observed. He wore a russet-coloured Harris tweed suit and, as he leaned forward in a courtly gesture to light her cigarette, she noticed his relaxed stance, the angular lines of his free hand on his hip, index finger pointing downward. Then he sat down and lit a thin cigarillo.

Kritzwiser was a social smoker. Cigarettes, to her, were mainly aesthetic, a prop, part of a formality that relaxed both interviewer and interviewee in the days before antismoking sentiments came to dominate Canadian society. Her brand was Sweet Caporals, not for the taste but for the red filter that approximately matched her lipstick.

McLuhan, she knew, had been born in Edmonton and brought up in Winnipeg, so they chatted about the West. McLuhan had no idea how to make small talk—he described it as “a world without a foreground, but with the whole world as a background.” Then he began a discourse about how the industrial revolution was symbolized by the extension of feet into the wheel, the knight-in-armour into a tank. Next the earth’s curvature was discovered, which led to the invention of modern media.

“Today, the central nervous system has been extended outside the body through the age of electricity,” he explained, smoke forming a nimbus around his head. “Literally, our brain is now outside our skull. We’re lashed around by the fury of these extensions. It’s like a spinning buzz-saw. It’s not known where the teeth are but we know they’re there.”

It didn’t take much to get McLuhan started, and he was warmed up now, his voice purring on eight well-tuned cylinders while his thoughts wound circuitously through a maze of theories, many related to a work-in-progress that would be published, a few months later, as Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. Kritzwiser’s pen darted back and forth across the page in an effort to keep up. McLuhan was incredible; he spoke in what sounded like feature-story paragraphs, although following his train of thought was like trying to scoop up a puddle of mercury. It was, she thought, as though he simply hadn’t stitched together all the loose ends yet, as though he was feeling his way toward a new philosophy, like a blind man acquainting himself with a new neighbourhood.

An exhilarated Kritzwiser arrived back at the office. In today’s world, where computers are not just in most homes but now ubiquitous in the palms of millions, it’s hard to remember that 50 years ago McLuhan’s ideas—about a “global village” and a computer-driven medium of communication that sounded a lot like the internet—might as well have been science fiction. “I don’t know what I’ve got,” she told her editor, “but I do know a man has pulled aside a curtain for me. I don’t know what I saw but I know I glimpsed the future.”

Later she read over her notes. The story hadn’t gelled yet, she thought. She was still looking for what she called the “moment of truth,” that dramatic scene or anecdote or object that symbolically captures the essential theme of a story. But what was the theme? So far, Kritzwiser had a professor in a book-filled office and seven pages of notes that included references to Ezra Pound, James Joyce, Baudelaire, and Flaubert, as well as cryptic phrases (even though they were in her own handwriting) such as “in a non-specialist society, relevance will be our business.”

The following Saturday, she arrived at McLuhan’s rambling two-storey home in the Annex district of Toronto, a few blocks north of the U of T campus. There were bicycles on the front porch and inside the homey smell of a baking pie filled the air. McLuhan, in a rumpled flannel shirt and casual slacks, looked like a homebody sitting in his chair beside a crackling fire with his legs stretched out. He was talking to a friend who worked at the Royal Ontario Museum about a lecture he was scheduled to give the following week.

“TV is tactile,” McLuhan was saying, rubbing his fingers together as though he were feeling silk. “The eye has immunity to radio…”

But Kritzwiser’s attention was captured by a carved wooden slab of a mask hanging on the wall. Was it Greek? She was interested in Greek and Roman mythology and her instincts told her she had found the symbol for her story. On January 4, 1964, her article, bearing the title “The McLuhan Galaxy,” was published.

On the fireplace wall of the Herbert Marshall McLuhan home, a giant wooden mask broods over the living room. Visiting children swarm up the chair beneath it to stroke its satiny furrows. It is a mask of Tiresias, the Theban of Greek legend who saw Athena bathing and was struck with blindness when she splashed water in his face. Through she repented, Athena was unable to restore his sight. Instead, she gave Tiresias the power of soothsaying. She opened his ears so that he could understand the language of the birds. She gave him a staff with which he walked as safely as a sighted person.

Six foot tall and lean, Marshall McLuhan, an internationally known expert in the new science of communications, casts a shadow like a television tower on the University of Toronto campus… But in his home, sprawled beside the fire, the mask of Tiresias above him makes a provocative comparison. For McLuhan’s new global reputation as a communications authority credits him with the power to see as few do, to hear a new language and to walk confidently in the strange and frightening world of the electronic age.

It was not Kritzwiser’s best story. McLuhan was both charming and hard to pin down, and her profile was overly flattering. Some of McLuhan’s ideas were summarized but they weren’t critically analyzed, nor was Kritzwiser particularly well qualified to do so. Few reporters were at the time, but she might have included one or two of the critics of McLuhan who thought he was a self-absorbed crackpot whose theories lacked intellectual rigor, or more often simply lacked a point. The closest Kritzwiser came to representing that view was through an unnamed faculty member who said he admired McLuhan’s ability to challenge tradition but admitted he left his seminars “with a thundering headache.”

Her story was otherwise typical of how daily journalism usually dealt with McLuhan in the mid-1960s. The opening was revealing. The key phrase was the reference to McLuhan’s ability “to hear a new language and to walk confidently in the strange and frightening world of the electronic age.” Aside from tying neatly into the Tiresias myth, it reflected the accepted wisdom among mainstream journalists that the electronic age was to be feared and mistrusted. Since the public had as much trouble understanding abstract subjects involving science, physics, and technology as the press had writing about them, most stories focused on a person. The mid-1960s was a time of accelerated change, and McLuhan seemed to offer an accessible link with the future. A Canadian, he was emerging as an internationally acknowledged “expert”— which lent him credibility—but he was also easily portrayed as a literary invention: an ivory-tower egghead who might be a genius, an adventurous non-conformist who, against all odds, wasn’t a young, bearded, wild-eyed revolutionary. Instead, he was a respectable family man with six children, and it was as easy as it was natural for Kritzwiser to “humanize” him near the top of her story by presenting him in a Norman Rockwell–like setting where Corrine McLuhan, “wife and mother, calm, handsome and dark-haired,” appeared as “the pivotal force in the McLuhan galaxy.”

Sometimes the mainstream media seemed like a three-ring circus, with a few big attractions on the front page (or leading the TV newscast) and plenty of sideshows to ensure there was something of interest for everyone. Even papers like the Globe or the New York Times, with their well-educated readers and lofty reputations, still had to entertain as well as inform. A few months later, when McLuhan’s Understanding Media was published, The Globe Magazine ran a critical review by Lister Sinclair in which he declared, “He has become a writer and he can’t write. He has become an authority on communications and he can’t communicate.” Many academics agreed, and if the debate had been confined to the insular world of university scholarship, today McLuhan might be an obscure curio of the ’60s. But instead, he became even more popular and controversial; a “McLuhan story” had increased in value because it was viewed as entertaining, which resulted in more coverage.

By publishing Kritzwiser’s respectful profile, the Globe introduced McLuhan to an elite audience and acted as a stamp of approval, signalling to timid editors of other papers that McLuhan was important. Over the next few years, the momentum grew. Articles were written about him in virtually every major North American publication, including the New York Times, Playboy, Time, Life, Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Saturday Night, The New York Review of Books, The New Yorker, and the New York Herald Tribune. (Which, in November 1965 in its weekend magazine, New York, published Tom Wolfe’s legendary profile of McLuhan that posed the Wolfian question: “Suppose he is what he sounds like, the most important thinker since Newton, Darwin, Freud, Einstein, and Pavlov, studs of the intelligentsia game—suppose he is the oracle of the modern times—what if he is right…?”)

As McLuhan had written, the medium is the message. That meant new technologies, from television to computers, were revolutionizing human consciousness and altering the context of communications, but it could also be summarized as content follows form. The properties of the medium were more important than the information it conveyed. Still, even many scholars had trouble following his train of thought, so, in 1964, the job of communicating McLuhan and his ideas fell to journalists like Kay Kritzwiser who focused on the most accessible information—and left the theories to the future in which we live.

Lauren Kirshner is a very talented young writer. I first met her in an undergraduate workshop I gave at the University of Toronto in 2003. She was such a natural that I submitted one of her stories to Barry Callaghan’s journal Exile. When she read at the launch of that issue, I remember how nervous she was—but she persisted and triumphed. I was thrilled when our jury selected her as one of the seven students admitted to our MA Program in Creative Writing in 2005 and when Margaret Atwood chose hers as the manuscript with which she wanted to work. Lauren went on to publish the collection of stories she completed as an integrated novel titled Where We Have to Go. In 2009, she was named Best Emerging Author by NOW Magazine. In 2010 she founded Sister Writes, a writing program for marginalized women in Parkdale and Toronto’s downtown west end. On her web page she explains: “Creativity builds confidence. Women learn how to represent their stories and interests through writing, becoming active and positive participants in their communities.” There are so many fine young writers whose work I admire and wanted to select for this issue, but I chose Lauren as exemplary because, as a writer, her impulse is to give back.

The Ugly Building

Illustration by Peter Mitchell.

There once was an apartment building and everybody who lived there was ugly. The building was 100 years old but looked much older. Developers wanted to demolish it, but it was historical so they couldn’t, and the City did not know what to do, and they had other worries anyway. The building was simply called Ugly Building. Crows shat on the windows constantly. They did so nowhere else. Mail carriers Frisbee-tossed mail onto the lawn, then ran like children. When garbage workers picked Ugly Building’s bags off the curb, they made a big show of plugging their noses and pretending to faint. Rats dragged pieces of cheese from Ugly Building and between chomps told stories about the ugly people. All of the stories began, “Those people…”

Those people took up too much space. Those people hassled bus drivers. Those people stole. Those people lived 12 to a room and started fires. Those people died young. Very few knew the ugly people, and even fewer had seen them up close, but everyone who was threatened had expertise. There were op-eds, lunch ’n’ learns at the university and a documentary about ugliness on the loose. But in truth the ugly people hardly ever left their building.

They had no reason to stay out. They did lonely and challenging work for people who did not know their names. In stores, banana peels were placed under their feet. Waiters circled their tables blind. When they went to see films, the projection stopped. Nobody would date them. As a result, the ugly people became self-sufficient. One ugly guy planted food gardens. One ugly woman baked bread. Another ugly guy made shoes, many sewed, and the young ugly people helped the old ugly people set up email accounts. The accounts received poetic letters from Sierra Leone requesting help with money transfers, and new-release bulletins from iTunes.

Yet despite their industriousness, loneliness and dissent grew among the ugly people. They couldn’t date each other, since they found each other ugly, too, and their friendships became strained because they felt they were being judged by one another. Some wanted to disguise their ugliness and break out, but others laughed and called them imbeciles. It was so bad that former friends would not sit next to each other and respected elders kept in their earbuds while others made impassioned pleas. Nobody wanted to work. Crops began to die and the water was shut off. Fearing a crisis, the ugly people called a meeting.

Facing away from each other in a circle, the ugly people wept. They got high. They did a choral reading of The Duino Elegies. One ugly woman suggested they teach the public who ugly people really were, but an ugly guy rolled his eyes and said, “Haven’t you seen the documentary?” Again nobody knew what to do. They sobbed. They got higher. They silently read the works of Tennessee Williams, which only made things worse. But then, another ugly guy rose from his seat and shared an idea. He said they would not wait to be recognized and let in. They had already waited too long—and for what? Instead they would bring the world to Ugly Building. They would build a series of Experience Rooms.

“Oh, can it, you’re high!” one ugly person shouted. But the rest of the ugly people listened.

The next day, the ugly people drew up plans for their Experience Rooms, to be installed in the unused top floor of the building. Each person would have one room to simulate an experience they were missing out on. They spared no expense of imagination or currency to build the rooms. They brought in grass and the Alps and poems and fruits that filled the hallways with pink aromas. And as they worked together sawing and watering and building, the Ugly People began to smile. Two weeks later their rooms were done, and it was a sight to behold, how with bits of shaken-up dreams and stolen nature, they had brought the outside in.

In the Hills Are Alive Room, one ugly guy pedalled a minty Schwinn over the hills from The Sound of Music, and Julie Andrews kissed him and the whole room sprouted edelweiss. In the No Nervous Breakdown in Grad School Room, an ugly woman lay on a silky sleigh bed made from the Bodleian library, and her dissertation was an éclair iced with Sylvia Plath’s laughter. Another ugly guy, who had spent many New Year’s Eves in the emergency room to avoid being alone, built a Love in Scrubs Room where as doctor he administered strawberry sprinkles and red wine and tickled his sad, meek patients—ugly people volunteers—until they shone like rainbows. The ugly people loosened with joy. The old people ate strudel with Julie Andrews. Everyone was still ugly, but a glow emanated from beneath their ugliness. One day in the middle of winter, a mail carrier saw edelweiss blooms falling from a window and, certain he was busting a grow-op, dialled the police, who tried but found nothing criminal. However, word travelled fast and the next day a long line of guests appeared at Ugly Building begging to use the rooms. The guests were not ugly, and were anxious about how to speak to ugly people. They smiled too much, concealed their jewellery in their sleeves, and pretended to have lots of ugly friends. They refused to leave until they were admitted. Flattered by their persistence, the ugly people let the first 24 guests in, and offered them pleasure for two hours.

But after two hours, the guests refused to leave. They took off their clothes and occupied the rooms like elephants, wiping themselves with books and giving Julie Andrews so much tongue. They took photos of the ugly people eating, going to the bathroom and sleeping, using increasingly tinier cameras. Days passed. The guests had fits when the ugly people tried to remove them, threw down money, and begged for more time. They called their friends and joyfully screamed, “It is so ugly here, you should see it!” and hung up. After a few weeks they quit their jobs and their blogs went dead. They started sleeping on the lawn and the mail carrier thought they were junkies and threw airmail on their heads. Many forgot how to speak. They just went around saying “doe a dear” and when they stopped recognizing themselves in the mirror, they put flowerpots on their heads, and banged into each other and fell down.

The guests were in no state to live their own lives. So while they pedalled to the Alps of the moon, the ugly people left Ugly Building and went to the homes of their guests. There, they lay in basement rooms and held hands, telling jokes and stories into the darkness to keep from being scared. In the morning, when they turned on their TVs, they saw Ugly Building. It was burning. The guests were yelling into the camera but they could not be understood. So the ugly people switched off their TVs. Then they went to their doors and locked them.

On May 26, the Conservative government announced the tabling of the Safe Drinking Water for First Nations Act. Brought to the Senate by Indian Affairs Minister Chuck Strahl, the Bill would place the same federal standards for drinking and wastewater on First Nations reserves that are already applied to the rest of the country. As it stands right now, provincial and territorial water regulations don’t extend to reserves, and federal regulators have not stepped in.

The announcement has shone light on a generally ignored issue—water standards on reserves in Canada are far too low.

According to 2008 reports, approximately 2,145 of 89,897 homes on reserves have no water service and 4,668 have no sewage service. Health Canada reported that as of May 31, 2010, 118 reserves lived under boil-water alerts.

Dr. Cynthia Wesley-Esquimaux

“Northern communities are suffering the most when it comes to access to potable water,” said Dr. Cynthia Wesley-Esquimaux, assistant professor of Aboriginal Studies at the University of Toronto and a speaker at the Canadian Water Summit to be held on June 17. “When you force people into housing, because they can no longer access the land because of mining interests and everything else, then that means you have to be able to create a provision for them to access water, but the government hasn’t done that.”

Like so many of the issues surrounding First Nations in Canada, access to safe water can be boiled down to territorial rights. The treaties that were negotiated between First Nations and the Government of Canada in the late 19th and early 20th centuries gave First Nations jurisdiction over their reserves. However, several contemporary land claims have alleged that corporations and townships are infringing upon those treaties, and are polluting water supplies in the process. For example, the Tsuu T’ina Nation and Samson Cree Nation launched a claim regarding Alberta’s Water Management Plan for the South Saskatchewan River Basin, as they felt the Alberta government did not adequately consult with or accommodate them when they began to make development plans. On April 28, that claim was dismissed by the Alberta Court of Appeal.

In addition to lacking proper regulations and infrastructure, Dr. Wesley-Esquimaux explains that the people responsible for operating these water systems often don’t have proper training, causing the water systems to go down with some frequency. The government then has to fly thousands of gallons of water into these remote communities, leading to huge costs. According to 2008 reports, 62 percent of First Nations water operators were not certified.

Dr. Wesley-Esquimaux is wary of getting too excited about Bill S-11. “The biggest barrier has always been the battle between the federal and provincial governments and payment. So we will see what happens. It is a very good start to an age-old problem, and maybe this time it will work. It will definitely need to be watchdogged, though.”