McGill Tribune

An article recently published in Maclean’s magazine, titled “Too Asian?” has generated controversy by presenting non-Asian Canadian students and families as concerned about attending universities with large Asian populations. Campuses that have the reputation of being too academically focused at the expense of a robust social scene are negatively cast as “too Asian.”

While the article is light on political correctness—one high school counsellor says, “Asians are the new Jews”— its real flaw is the oversimplification and gross generalization of a minority culture.

But for the authors to boil the discrepancy down to Asian students as “strivers, high achievers and single-minded in their approach to university” and white students as “more likely to choose universities  build their school lives around social interaction, athletics and self-actualization—and, yes, alcohol,” is a comparison that unfairly promotes an “us versus them” mentality.

At other times, the article is grasping for straws to stir its drink. The authors write that “there is little Asian representation on student government, campus newspapers or college radio stations.” The University of British Columbia’s student life is cited as an example, where the student executive contains no Asian members for the 2010-11 year. I have a hard time believing the demographic makeup of one unspecified student body at UBC is representative of Canadian student life in general. It’s comical to think that a reputable magazine hires such nonsensical inductionists.

Reader response has not been surprising. The Chinese Canadian National Council criticized the Maclean’s article as “fear mongering.” One Toronto executive director of the council labelled it “definitely racist.” It also unfairly targets one visible minority group as cliquish when the problem of self-segregating communities is really an immigration issue. If there is a silver lining, it’s that the Asian Canadian community can use this opportunity to re-evaluate the group’s self-identity within a multicultural society.  

As “model minorities,” Asians have often been depicted in mainstream media as academic superstars who are hardworking and career-focused. My own parents, extended family, and friends of Asian descent have often embraced the virtues of being perceived in such positive light. Whenever I pondered if our group’s overachievement and success can sometimes breed backlash, my concerns were dismissed as foolish and illogical.

But living in an oblivious bubble is an unhealthy mentality that should be remedied. If there are members of another culture who are discouraged from attending a prestigious university because the high number of Asians presumably raises the curve, then we shouldn’t be afraid to examine the concerns. When Princeton sociologist Thomas Espenshade claims that Asian students require an extra 140 points on the SAT to have an equal chance at university acceptance as white students, we need to scientifically test and peer review the phenomenon, and if true, make the community conscious of it.  

The publication of “Too Asian?” and the subsequent outrage reminds us that it’s important not to sweep contentious matters under the rug. If some feel that Asian students are more socially challenged, that Asian students segregate into their own campus cliques, and that there is a correspondingly higher standard for academic success, then these issues should all be spotlighted for discussion, even if it makes us cringe.

I’ve also encountered those who are very cognizant of the repercussions of being a model minority. When I interviewed for Columbia University in my last year of high school, my Chinese-American interviewer and Columbia alumni bluntly asked, “There are so many qualified Asian candidates applying to Ivy League schools. Trip, what can you bring besides good grades and an affinity for the piano?” I proceeded to explain how impressive my bench press-to-height ratio was.

While most Columbia rejectees reluctantly attend New York University or Cornell, I was lucky to end up at McGill. And it seems the stars have aligned—I’ve even met a couple of Asian students here who are involved in student life, like to drink, and can interact with others without speaking Mandarin or Korean.  

Trip Yang is a U3 economics and psychology student, and can be reached at [email protected].

McGill Tribune

I didn’t know whether or not to buy a poppy for Remembrance Day this year.

In the Canadian consciousness the red poppy is a symbol of respect for soldiers, those who fought in wars from the First World War to the present day. The poppy, and Remembrance Day in general, reminds us of the sacrifices made for the freedoms that Canadians and others enjoy today. I accept this, but with a weary heart.

I believe there is a much darker, unspoken spectre of history with which we have to come to serious terms. Each November 11, I carry an unspoken feeling that the Canadians, or anyone else for that matter, who died in the First World War probably died for no greater cause. That’s around 60,000 soldiers, over half of those slain Canadians we memorialize on November 11. With that in mind, I don’t find Remembrance Day to be only a day of dignified respect, but also of tragic solemnity, where we must confront an unjustifiable loss. We don’t seem to acknowledge it explicitly, perhaps because it seems outright wrong to say. To hear the words at our Remembrance Day service that our soldiers “gave their tomorrow for our today” is emotionally moving. However, to examine what exactly half of our war dead fell for with a cold, objective view is quite another.

Taking Professor Peter Hoffman’s First World War history course last year made me question the real extent to which the sacrifices of Canadian soldiers contributed to anyone’s freedom. The reason Canada fought in the First World War was based on British interests in maintaining a certain balance of power, among other political goals. To add any moral significance to the war aims and motivations seems downright false. Additionally, the seeds of the Second World War were laid in the treaties that emerged from the First. Did those Canadian soldiers die making a sacrifice towards what they believed they fought for? We must contend seriously with the chilling idea that perhaps they just died horrific deaths, for no greater purpose than guaranteeing an even greater war two decades later.

What of the poppy? Isn’t it a symbol for all conflicts and sacrifices for our way of life? I understand that. But to me, it’s still a specific symbol of the First World War. It evokes foreign fields senselessly soaked with the blood of thousands of human beings, and represents one of the most horrific wars humanity has known. In Scotland, the poppy was popularized by a campaign launched by Field Marshall Douglas Haig, whom I don’t regard in his common image as a butcher, but under whose command a young man from my family died at Ginchy in the Somme. And for what? I’m entitled to question why we wear a symbol each November 11 that was popularized by the man who commanded while an ancestor of mine died.

I’m not alone in this skcepticism. The British journalist Jon Snow has refused to wear a poppy for public broadcasts before Remembrance Day, saying we can choose to remember (or not remember) in whatever way we like. I agree with him insofar as we have a freedom of expression, and those we commemorate died for us to have that right. The Guardian, commenting on Snow, made the point that in France, where the war struck even worse, few wear the equivalent cornflower, yet many still remember.

I bought a poppy anyway, and I always have. But I feel a strange curiosity towards the red plastic adornment on my lapel. Like any symbol, it will carry whatever meaning people choose to give it. For me, it represents sacrifice, and I just leave it at that.

Martin Law is a U2 history student, and can be reached at [email protected].

So McGill only got a B+ rating for sustainability. It’s not that bad, and considering all the other stuff McGill has on its agenda, it should be happy it was able to pull that off. I mean, McGill could be like those other universities that spend all their time in the library and go to the SEI office hours all the time, but McGill has a life, and it has other things to do. Really, a B+ isn’t that bad for McGill. At least it’s not one of those institutions where sustainability grades are all inflated just so the university can get into sustainability grad school. McGill cares more about being challenged and doing the best it can, and in this case, that was a B+.

James Hirsch

U3 political science and North American studies

I miss receiving invitations. Paper invitations. Invitations for everything. Birthday parties, pool parties, other parties. Those flimsy cards were a precious commodity in elementary and middle school. They’re now a relic of a time when people had to sit down and write by hand, and had to commit time, dedication, and care. Even if the penmanship was poor, it offered an authenticity that has recently given way to something more sterile. The culprit is, of course, Facebook.

I recently had to invite as many friends as I could to a play I’m performing in. The process of going through a list of friends to pick those I wanted to invite was frustrating to say the least. The prospect of simply “inviting all” became more appealing with every subsequent group of people I scrolled through. The worst part about knowing the “invite all” feature exists, and not receiving an invitation to a massive event, makes one feel even more left out of these social events. There’s something about receiving an invite of any sort that makes the invitee feel appreciated by the inviter. If someone took the time to click on your name alone, then there’s a wonderful sense of elation, especially if the event is small. But Facebook has simply made the process of staging an event a bore.

Using mass texting and mass Facebook invites as ways to contact people has negated the ever important aspect of having to invite a person while physically in their presence. These days, when I get invited to events, I feel less important and special than I used to. Although this may seem selfish and self-obsessed, I appreciate being invited to events in person. Even if I don’t attend, simply having someone take the time to invite to your face carries an element of real friendship. Seeing an invite, and then seeing that 400 other people have been invited to the same event immediately negates some of the connection you feel towards a person, and thus removes some of the excitement of attending. Lazy invitations make for lazy attendees, many of whom put “maybe attending” in an effort to placate those who made the event and sent out the invitations. What happened to RSVPing that you were coming, and then actually coming? Some try to escape this by texting their friends plans and event details, but these are immediately noticeable as mass texts: “Hey, come to our place Friday at 10” reeks of impersonality, and the least you can do is put “Hey guys…etc.” We know you’re inviting at least five of us with this same message, so lay off with the half-assed attempts at making them seem personal.

It’s easy to criticize Facebook, but by doing so we are really criticizing ourselves, as we have accepted this situation as the norm.

Yet the very nature of writing your friends’ names on that small line that read NAME, and penciling in your address and phone number, one card at a time, made your parties and events seem special, important, and even downright holy. Those cards took effort. Next time there’s a party, go to the dollar store, pick up a stack of those flimsy little cards, and send them to the people who most deserve a proper invite. Let’s bring the cards back: I, for one, miss them.

Saskia Nowicki

 Closing the fall season at Players’ Theatre, the cast and crew of Twelve Angry Men take on the daunting task of performing an American classic on the McGill stage. Based on the 1954 teleplay by Reginald Rose, Twelve Angry Men has been adapted twice for film, performed on Broadway, and the original motion picture was inducted into the National Film Registry of the Library of Congress. Director Natalie Gershstein’s production aspires to a realistic portrayal of this timeless account of 12 jurors deciding the guilt or innocence of a young man charged with murdering his father.

Set in a crowded and, at times, claustrophobic jury room, the play recounts a single juror’s stubborn refusal to succumb to the pressures of his peers in the decision over the murder trial. The action of the play revolves around the protagonist’s attempts to convince his fellow jurors to review the evidence presented, and revise their quick judgment of the case. His attempts to alter the group’s verdict are presented with both subtlety and complexity, focusing on the shifting dynamic of the group and the varied interactions between the 12 characters.

Twelve Angry Men is an important artistic depiction of the American judicial system that manages to resonate as well with audiences today as it did 50 years ago. The characterization of the many prejudices inherent in American society can be viewed historically as a commentary on McCarthyism, fascism, communism, or as a timeless indictment against all forms of bigotry. The piece’s message is perennial and it remains relevant in the face of social change thanks to its astute depiction of humanity.

The protagonist, Juror Number Eight (Rowan Spencer), distinguishes himself from the group with his deliberate aloofness and introspection. Although Spencer’s performance controls the stage, his talent lies in his ability to disconnect from the action and to lead the jury with reason. The group’s interactions are dominated by the bigotry of Jurors Number Three (Matthew Banks), Number Six (Alex Rivers), and Number Ten (Matthew Steen), whose aggressive views and unwillingness to engage in rational discourse eventually alienate them from the rest of the jury. However, the play’s true antagonist appears to be a stockbroker, Juror Number Four (Andrew Cameron), who coolly matches Spencer’s character point for point with reasonable dissent. As the play progresses. the more rational characters—Juror Number Nine (Gerard Westland), Juror Number Eleven (Martin Law), and Juror Number Five (James Kelly)—quickly line up on the side of the protagonist, while the rest of the cast—the Foreman (Leo Imbert), Juror Number Two (Richard Carozza), Juror Number Six (Max Lanocha) and Juror Number Twelve (Max Lloyd-Jones)—take longer to be convinced.

The comprehensiveness of the cast’s performance is remarkable, in particular its ability to represent a wide range of mannerisms and stereotypes. Gerard Westland is convincing in the difficult role of an old man, thanks in part to some great makeup. Also notable is the dynamism between several of the actors. The interaction between Juror Number Twelve, an ad man lacking in convictions, and Juror Number Eleven, a German immigrant with an outsider’s perspective on the situation, is especially enjoyable to watch, as is the strange alliance that forms between Jurors Number Three and Number Four.

The play’s staging adheres to Gershstein’s realist aims. The painted faux wood floor frames the action nicely, and frequent use of props, like two switchblade knives and an overhead projector, enhance the production. Lighting is used to focus the audience’s attention on the action when it shifts to the washroom, and when seated around the table the characters stagger their chairs and situate themselves so as to avoid blocking anyone.

Even with 12 actors in such an enclosed space, the play’s action manages to shift smoothly. While certain characters are speaking, others will mime dialogue, or position themselves to the sides of the stage. The careful realism of Twelve Angry Men is broken only a few times, in particular during one indelible scene where the characters turn their backs on Juror Number 10’s dogmatic monologue. The moment is blatantly theatrical, but the performance retains an overall realistic quality throughout.

Gershstein’s production of Twelve Angry Men is a thorough and methodical performance of the play that succeeds in capturing the impetus of Rose’s original script. Although this version doesn’t attempt any radical modifications, its critique of prejudice, reason, and persuasion in the judicial system remains relatable and necessary.

Twelve Angry Men plays from November 17-20. Tickets are $6. For more information visit ssmu.mcgill.ca/players/