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Ask a Scientist, Private, Science & Technology

Space Crickets: Creative solutions to deep-space hunger

by Harrison Yamada on

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Landing a human on Mars remains the holy grail of the exciting 21st-century space science arena, with agencies such as the Canadian Space Agency (CSA) and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) investigating longer human-piloted space voyages. 

During the McGill Bicentennial Space Week last May, Julie Payette, former astronaut, former Governor General of Canada, and McGill BEng ‘86, commented on the logistical challenges of the hypothetical six-month journey to Mars.

“The problem with humans is they need air and they need water and they need food,” Payette said. “There’s no depanneur or 7/11 out there.”

Nourishing humans on long space voyages remains a conundrum. Thankfully, the Cricket Rearing, Collection, and Transformation System (CRCTS) team, led by recent McGill Bioengineering graduates Alexander Becker and Cynthia Hitti, has been investigating a clever solution. They are studying the feasibility of growing, harvesting, and turning crickets into powder in outer space to use as a food source. Becker and Hitti are contestants in the Deep Space Food Challenge, a contest held in collaboration between NASA and the CSA.

The competition tasked contestants with the creation of novel food production technologies that need little input, while maximizing safe, nutritious, palatable outputs that could be consumed during long space missions. Along with another McGill-led project, the InSpira Photobioreactor, CRCTS was one of 10 Canadian teams to advance to the semi-final round.

CRCTS uses advanced air filters, ultraviolet lamps, and vacuum systems to sanitize the air and completely isolate crickets from the human living environment. Preventing cross-contamination is paramount in space, where air, room, and food are finite, and critical mission infrastructure is fragile. 

“The biggest difficulty in producing food in space is how controlled any system must be,” Becker said. “Nearly all our technical challenges stemmed from the ways in which crickets would circumvent the barriers and safeguards we had put into place to separate the cricket environment from the outside world [….] The last thing we would want is to have crickets chewing through the wires powering life-support systems.”

Despite the challenges that come with controlling organisms as chaotic as crickets, the chirping critters are ideal candidates for extraterrestrial snacks. “They represent a source of protein that is more sustainable and requires far less space to produce when compared to traditional protein sources such as cattle,” Becker explained. 

According to the Food and Agricultural Organization of the United Nations, the protein yield for crickets is about 12 times greater than that of beef with respect to the amount of feed needed, with methane and physical space requirements paling in comparison as well. 

Crickets could one day become a more prominent source of sustainable food on Earth, too, with many African countries, such as Cameroon and Zimbabwe,  already practicing the culinary tradition. Becker described the crickets as being “not particularly needy,” with their main needs being food, water, and dark places to hide. 

After producing food samples for a kitchen-level demonstration and presenting their idea’s feasibility on Earth for their semi-final presentation, Becker and Hitti optimistically await the results. Should they be selected as one of four finalists to advance, they will receive a $100,000 CAD grant to build a full-scale rendition of their project. Becker reassured the Tribune that he and Hitti have no shortage of ideas for further innovation. 

“Crickets can be fed any number of foods and would be very happy eating table scraps and other food wastes. This is something we are actively looking into as an improvement should we move on in the challenge,” Becker said. 

This would allow them to simultaneously feed the crickets and help mitigate waste management problems in space. 

When asked how he feels about a future living in space and eating cricket-based food, Becker expressed optimism.

“Personally, I would love to go to space one day! As a protein supplement, I would be glad to eat cricket powder in my daily meals,” Becker said. “One of our favourite recipes involving cricket powder is a burger that we developed!”

Arts & Entertainment, Film and TV

Junk on Earth: A fun premise gone wrong

by Charlotte Bawol on

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If you are chronically online, odds are you have seen clips over the past few months of Diane Morgan’s character Philomena Cunk from the Netflix mockumentary Cunk on Earth. The most notable of these soundbites went viral on TikTok and features Morgan’s character asking Oxford art history professor Martin Kemp, “which was more culturally significant: The Renaissance or Single Ladies by Beyoncé?” The pre-release hype surrounding the series, which premiered Jan. 31, prompted great anticipation in me—so much excitement that I decided to become a television critic for a day. 

In five half-hour episodes, the show ambitiously promises to retrace the entire history of human civilization. Through interviews with academics and narrated walks across historical sights, our socially unaware, dim-witted narrator Philomena Cunk (Diane Morgan) ultimately failed to make me do anything but blow air out of my nose slightly harder than usual. 

My biggest gripe with the series is that the premise could have been better executed—instead, it just feels like a misspend of who knows how many millions of Netflix’s dollars. If only some of the money spent on shooting on location could have been invested in paying some decent comedy writers, I don’t think I would be here writing this review. A sizable gap in the humour comes from the time Cunk wastes asking guests idiotic questions. Before anyone argues that that is exactly the point of the show, I would contend that while there are some funny moments in the interviews, most of the segments are wasted on jokes that do not land. 

The Sacha Baron Cohen–esque humour that Cunk attempts is only funny in the context of secrecy and unassuming participants. Cunk on Earth’s version feels too scripted, and the expert reactions do not mesh with Cunk’s attempts at levity. This is apparent in the section on the Olympic games, where Cunk interviews Dr. Lindsay Coo, a senior lecturer in Ancient Greek Language and Literature at the University of Bristol. Cunk launches into a mini tirade about the audience at the first Olympic games being able to see “right up their (athletes’) bumholes” (since athletes were competing naked), to which Coo doesn’t really have any significant reaction. The lewd quality of this joke is the rule rather than the exception with the humour in this documentary. Perhaps the jokes might have landed better if the audience was better introduced to Philomena Cunk as a character, or if the expert’s reactions, while they were being interviewed, were less contrived. But, in its current form, the interviews feel like a repetitive misuse of audience time and expert talent.

The documentary reaches a point of diminishing returns with Cunk’s attempts at  situational humour. In the fourth episode of the series, “Rise of the Machines,” Cunk interviews Jonathan Ferguson, keeper of firearms and artillery at the Royal Armouries. She spends actual airtime asking him what would happen if she looked straight down the barrel of the gun, and very cleverly questioning the idea of the American Constitution protecting the right to bear arms—since bears don’t have arms (Philomena, we all heard this joke in 2006). In her full interview with Kemp, she asks about the “renaissauce”, and with medieval historian Laura Ash of the University of Oxford, about the “darkages” instead of the Dark Ages. For McGill students, Cunk reminds me of those peers in your lecture who just cannot help but annoy the class with their blend of confidence and stupidity, the ones that make you wonder, “are they actually still talking right now?” 

Some of the dry humour, however, did make me laugh. For example, Cunk describes the guillotine as “the most humane way to decapitate someone in front of a jeering crowd” and explains to her audience that Jesus Christ became a carpenter since he was named after the two words one is most likely to utter after hitting their finger with a hammer. From Jesus to Louis XVI, she runs the gamut of human civilization, as promised, but fails to touch on any interesting aspects. 

Ultimately, the heartening opportunity to produce something that is both educational and comedic was thrown away. Cunk on Earth is best consumed through shortened TikTok clips, as watching it in its entirety feels like a waste of time.

Off the Board, Opinion

Long live Herbert

by Lily Cason on

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Herbert came into my life sometime around 2018, a short, wilting thing from the reject corner at Home Depot. He led an unfortunate existence right from the start: About half of the people I told about him misheard me and thought I had named him “Pervert,” which… no. After some trial and error, I found him the perfect corner. I haphazardly installed a hook in my ceiling—which to my utter surprise has remained intact—and had a solid routine of watering and rotating him so all his leaves could photosynthesize. By the start of the pandemic, Herbert nearly reached the floor.

In January 2021, I came to Montreal after finally receiving my study permit, which, as many other international students know, was beleaguered by a toxic concoction of standard bureaucracy and the pandemic. Crossing the border in my parents’ car, Canadian officials peered into my many boxes—random mugs I had taken from home because I liked their weight, Birkenstocks that were deeply unnecessary in Canadian winter, books that I would probably never read, and a single struggling plant (hi, Herbert).

Full disclosure: Herbert had seen better days. The night before, I had mistakenly left him in the car in Upstate New York.  I was stressed about my move and forgot that below-freezing temperatures are not great conditions for a house plant used to a cushy life hanging above a radiator. By the time I discovered Herbert in the morning, most of his stems had frozen and turned a kind of limp, shit brown that was rather pathetic.

As it turns out, importing plants into Canada is subject to scrutiny. Upon inspecting my belongings, a rather dubious border guard asked, “Exactly why are you trying to bring a dead plant into Canada?” The clear implication was that I should surrender Herbert. I explained, somewhat embarrassed and to my mother’s great amusement, that the plant had been quite alive when my journey began two days prior and that I’d really like to keep him if at all possible, due to silly sentimental attachment. Upon interrogation, I assured her that the plant was, in fact, from Home Depot and not laden with any contaminated soil or invasive species. 

After about 45 minutes, Herbert was allowed into Canada. Once I entered my new apartment, he was placed on a window ledge and given a rather drastic haircut. Although nearly dead, there were about five small leaves that made the cut. 

This plant has seen a lot of my life—college applications, relationships, sick days, diagnoses, an ill-fated road trip, and now, my first apartment. Rather symbolically,  Herbert is like a cockroach: He refuses to die. I don’t say this lightly—I apparently lost my green thumb in the move and have systematically killed every plant I have bought since coming to Montreal (sorry, Linus II). Notably, Herbert never really regrew either; even after a repotting, much experimentation with light and water levels, and a consultation from my much more plant-trustworthy roommate, he totals about eight inches of foliage on a good day. 

You might be wondering what the point of this story is. So far, the takeaways have been that Lily gives her plants old man names and abuses them. While both things are true, it’s probably time to say something sappy. Herbert has taken on a comforting role in my life. I have always been someone who seeks constants in a world of unknowns, and his resilience has been unmatched. I take great pleasure in my routine of caring for Herbert and especially in getting to see a (now very) little green in the otherwise desolate Montreal winter.

God help me when this plant finally kicks the bucket.

McGill, News

Students press Board of Governors about divestment and student representation at community session

by Juliet Morrison on

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McGill’s Board of Governors (BoG) met on Feb. 8 for the first community session of the academic year. The community session, typically held once a semester, is the only opportunity for students to directly engage with members of the highest governing body of the university, who make decisions about McGill’s academic, financial, and business affairs. 

The community session was preceded by the BoG’s regular open session meeting, which featured reports from the Audit and Risk Committee, the Vice-Principal (University Advancement), as well as a presentation highlighting the Desautels Faculty of Management. 

Toward the end of the session, Students’ Society of McGill University (SSMU) President Risann Wright asked whether a motion could be put forth to accelerate the BoG’s review process on divesting from fossil fuels. 

“Three years ago, a decision was made to wait until 2024 to revisit the idea of divesting from fossil fuels,” Wright said. “I wonder if we might have a vote of the Board to see if we could push up or accelerate that timeline to revisit it now and to have the committee take a look at divesting from fossil fuels prior to 2024, given the increasing, consistent calls for divestment.”

Wright’s motion garnered support from McGill Chancellor John McCall MacBain, but prompted concern from BoG Chair Maryse Bertrand, who said it was unwise to make a decision about speeding up the review without consulting the Investment Committee, which would perform the assessment. 

“These are not costless decisions, there are tradeoffs and I think, as a Board, it is very important for us to understand what the tradeoffs are,” Bertrand said. “I can tell you that and certainly the members of the Investment Committee […]  would tell you that they have a lot of anxiety around exclusionary policies and constraints that impose on their ability to manage endowment funds to the best of their abilities [….] It’s a complex issue.” 

After a discussion and amendments, the BoG passed a motion to consult with the Investment Committee, senior management, and other parties first to see if an acceleration would be possible. The Chair is mandated to bring updated information from these consultations to the next BoG meeting. 


The topic of divestment continued at the community session. Emily Hardie, a member of Divest McGill and a U1 Arts student, asked the BoG why McGill had not divested yet, considering how other universities, including Harvard University and Concordia University, were in the process of doing so. 

“I would like again for the Board to reconsider divestment. If it’s not for the ethical argument, I’d say for the sake of your reputation,” Hardie said. “Why not make a plan for 2025, 2030 or make a plan for divestment today? You are a group of 25 people who have this responsibility to make this decision [….] McGill is behind the times.”

Students also brought up food insecurity, the mental health crisis on campus, and the limited student representation on the BoG. Out of 25 voting members, there are two spots for student representation: One for a member of the Post-Graduate Students’ Society and another for the SSMU president. 

Moment of the Meeting

Marc Weinstein, Vice-Principal (University Advancement) updated the BoG about his team’s strategy to secure donations to support the New Vic project. He noted that his team had hired an additional staff member to develop the university’s “narrative” around the project, which has been controversial due to outcry from Indigenous advocates who believe there are unmarked graves on the construction site. 

Soundbite

“Ultimately, [BoG] decisions are made in the long-term interests of the university. Students are probably only there for three or four years. You want an organization that has 200 years of history and wants to continue for the next 200 years to be governed by people who have both the current view […]  but also [those] who have their experience from McGill that have also garnered experience in industry and business.”

— Chair Maryse Bertrand on why members-at-large are disproportionately represented on the BoG compared to McGill students. 

Features

Tapping into my first love

by Michelle Siegel on

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I remember loving tap dance even before I knew what it really was. Even when I had only heard my mother’s animated description of how tap shoes had metal plates on their soles that I could make new sounds with, it was more than enough to draw me into an unknown world of movement, expression, and history. Something that I knew for sure, though, was that the people around me loved it. Some of my favourite memories with my grandmother are from when I would sit in the kitchen with her before Passover Seders, helping with some of the cooking prep, sorting out the teacups and saucers for coffee or tea—but most importantly, gleefully talking about the new steps I had learned in class that week or the last dance film she saw on Turner Classic Movies. Perhaps I already knew it then––tap would remain in my life in more ways than one.

Each step an archive 

Tap stands out from several other popular dance styles as a distinctly American dance rooted in histories of enslavement and cultural exchange. The style developed through the melding of several different styles, notably West African step dancing and Irish clog dancing. Until the late 20th century, most historians believed that tap originated from enslaved Africans and Irish indentured servants being influenced by each other’s dancing on Southern plantations. More research has suggested that tap was nurtured in urban environments where different ethnic groups congregated. Both narratives speak to tap as a genre created collectively through community formation and cultural expressions. For instance, juba, a dance from the Kingdom of Kongo that uses feet-stomping and arm-flapping, markedly influenced tap. During the 18th century, various states passed laws outlawing enslaved people from using drums, which were considered a dangerous form of communication that could be used to incite rebellions. Enslaved peoples employed juba and other forms of rhythmic physical movement as media of communication and to cope with the ongoing trauma of slavery. 

When I started taking tap classes early in my elementary school years, my teacher during the 2010-2011 school year, Maud Arnold, first taught the class about the history of tap dance. Beyond just explaining the history behind the dances she taught us, she also had us do weekly homework assignments where we would research tap videos and come to class prepared to discuss our favourite movements. When I caught up with Arnold, a professional tap dancer, choreographer, entrepreneur, philanthropist, and producer, she was touched to learn that I still remembered her assignments in such fond detail.

“I always wonder—like today, when I was teaching, I was telling the kids: Tap dance is an African-American art form. What is February? February is Black History Month, tap dance is Black history, period,” Arnold said. “And I’m always like, I wonder if they’re listening, I wonder if they care?”

A major focus of tap dance classes is undoubtedly teaching pupils new steps and routines. But ensuring that they learn the past that has been preserved in those tap steps invaluably works to contextualize and focalize the history of enslaved people in these lessons. Media that depicts African-American history often only sees their suffering as a worthy subject, obscuring their substantial creative contributions to American entertainment scenes and reinstantiating the centralization of whiteness in popular media. 

“Tap dance is extremely impactful and extremely powerful because it was born during a time of oppression, it was created by enslaved people—it carries so much more history and weight,” Arnold said. “You know, we’re lucky now because we can just do it for fun and express ourselves, but imagine a time in which this was the only way you could express yourself, the only way you could communicate with the people who were your allies or your friends.”

‘Nothing too weird’: Toward a more inclusive dance world 

Acknowledging that the different genres of dance are not just isolated art forms but tied to different cultures and specific histories allows dance to be seen for what it truly is—an intimate expression of emotion and experience. Montréal, arts interculturels (MAI), located on rue Jeanne-Mance, defines itself as a “strange beast” that is neither institution nor artist-run centre. In their primary mandate, they pledge to remain “an inclusionary, pluricultural, pluridisciplinary presenter” in addition to providing mentorship and fellowship opportunities for artists. Dance, to them, should represent multiple individual experiences and cultures, rather than just a set of steps and techniques to be perfected. 

Camille Larivée, executive and artistic director for MAI, explained in an interview with The McGill Tribune how the work presented at MAI stands apart from most institutional public performance spaces.

“The whole idea […] of traditionalist idea of dance as ballet and very rigid, I think more and more choreographers that come to the MAI challenge that notion of care in dance that you don’t really find in traditional, classical settings,” Larivée said.

Many shows at MAI portray the personal narratives of their choreographers, which explore different aspects of identity—race, class, sexuality, and religion, among many others—through innovative styles of choreography. 

“There’s nothing too ‘weird’ for us, […] there’s a lot of artists [who] will feel uncomfortable in other spaces, because they feel like they’re pushing the ‘weirdness’ a little bit too far and their ‘weirdness’ is accepted here,” said Jaëlle Dutremble-Rivet, head of communication at MAI. “The MAI is different in the sense that it pushes intercultural arts, so that falls under the umbrella of anyone who is marginalized by the system, be it access to grants, access to spaces, access to everything, basically.” 

The professional and academic institutions of dance are ruled by multilateral structures of hierarchy and privilege, which often fail to meaningfully support artists from marginalized communities—artists of colour, disabled artists, 2SLGBTQIA+ artists—and has historically excluded them from performance spaces.

“The dance world is really still privileged and white and not necessarily accessible in many ways. And when we talk about marginalized communities here it’s not just identity, it’s also intersectional,” Larivée said. “There’s people with different types of disabilities, people of colour, it’s not just ‘you’re one thing and that’s it’.”

MAI’s work has already shown that audiences want to see art that is expressive of voices other than white elites. 

“In that sense, we’re different, but in the art forms that are presented, a lot of the artists that are presented here, they’re picked up afterwards so, I guess Montreal likes weird,” Dutremble-Rivet said.

In May 2022, MAI hosted Ephemeral Artifacts, a show choreographed and performed by tap dancer Travis Knights that explored how the historical connections between jazz and tap dancing manifest through the physical self. The performance was explicitly framed through a non-Eurocentric lens, firmly centring Black culture and history in its meditations on both artistic mediums. Ephemeral Artifacts also made waves for its use of vibrotactile devices—specifically, a vibrating vest that would allow deaf and hard of hearing audience members to experience the feeling of tap steps in coordination with the visual aspects of Knights’ performance. 

Knights’ show challenges the typical bodies that we associate with dance and art scenes—both in performers and in audiences—demonstrating how interdisciplinary innovations in performance can bring dance to wider audiences, both in Montreal and around the world. Ableism and any kind of exclusivity in the dance world, Arnold asserts, is fundamentally opposed to her definition of the art: An inherently shared form of feeling. 

“What’s really exciting and special about dance is that it’s a universal language,” Arnold added. “And dance is for everybody: Even if you’re not [non-disabled], if you’re in a wheelchair, you can groove, you can move. We’re all born with a heartbeat, so we all have an innate rhythm, and dance is just a way to express that innate rhythm.”  

Seeing dance as a universal medium is especially important when considering tap as an African-American art form. Throughout history, the white powerholders that drive entertainment industries have pushed the false narrative that white stories and art are for all audiences, whereas Black art, even when commodified for the white gaze, is only for Black audiences—because they are deemed too personal, political, or just not art at all. The resurgence of tap in popular culture crucially demonstrates how the medium appeals to a wide array of audiences, and should be taught and understood for what it is—art. 

Dance, after all, has always been a tool that thrives in bringing communities together. For Chloe Nyiligira, U1 Science, her early experiences with both classical North American dance styles and long-standing work with traditional Rwandan dances helped shape her understanding of community and expression through dance. 

“In my culture, dance is a way of celebration, like in many other cultures. But what’s so interesting about it is that in any event, in any circumstance of life, there will always be a type of movement or dance associated with it,” Nyiligira said. 

“Even in mourning periods, sometimes, there are dances for that. I’ve always found that a bit perplexing at first, because I’m like ‘this is a sad thing’, but then, it comes from a place of wanting to celebrate the life of the person who passed, just to find the joy in any moment in life.”

From the stage to the screen 

Dance communities are ubiquitous anywhere you go in the world. Intercultural engagements with dance, like Nyiligira’s experience, can help broaden the boundaries of participation. While growing up and learning more ‘classical’ styles, Nyiligira was, for several years, the only Black student in the studio. When learning and teaching traditional Rwandan dance, however, she was able to work with other Black dancers, whom she considered “little sisters” to her. While tap and traditional Rwandan dances are specifically rooted in African cultures, they are in no way exclusionary—in fact, they welcome new audiences and are geared towards universal engagement and appreciation.

“From an outsider’s perspective, no matter what your background is, if you watch a dance from my culture, chances are you will feel very at home or very welcomed, and safe and sound,” Nyiligira said.

Although institutional privilege and exclusivity in the dance world still remain, social media has served as a conduit for the global dance community to grow further. Tap dance permeated through popular culture in the 20th century as a result of the popularity of movie musicals, but the development of the internet as we know it today largely contributes to how dance videos are created, consumed, and distributed. Dance challenges on TikTok have widened the dance community, but have also turned into another platform where creators appropriate and steal credit from Black creators for their work. 

“There are so many different niches in dance. I don’t mind it on social media—it’s important to share the meaning,” Nyiligira said. “It’s one thing to take a dance, but if you don’t know what it means, or the story behind it, or the credit, […] it takes so much away from it.” 

The history of Black creators and choreographers not getting proper credit for their work is a long and difficult one. When discussing the history of tap dance in film, Arnold mentioned her shock at speaking to someone who was only familiar with white tap dancers and didn’t know of its roots in African-American history. Popular film stars like Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, and Eleanor Powell are renowned for their dancing and immortalized through different dance institutions, yet the Black dancers who inspired and taught them the art died without even a fraction of the same recognition and acclaim. In 2021, TikTok personality Addison Rae appeared on The Tonight Show in a segment where she performed multiple popular TikTok dances, almost all of which were choreographed by young Black dancers, without crediting the original creators. 

Nevertheless, the online dance community has its unique beat, and Arnold is extremely familiar with and enthusiastic about it. She is a member of Chloe Arnold’s Syncopated Ladies, an all-woman tap dancing band started by her sister, Chloe, that has accumulated over 100 million views across all their social media pages—and was once reshared by Beyoncé. Maud’s dancing was also spotlighted in the 2022 Apple TV+ film Spirited, which her older sister choreographed.

While Arnold, Larivée, Dutremble-Rivet, and Nyiligira all had varying opinions on the role of social media compared to physical spaces in the dance world, they all believe that in-person performances create an irreplicable level of connection and engagement with audiences. 

“For me, it’s about being present. So, with COVID and in general with time on the internet, we have less concentration, we’re always moving and moving,” Larivée said. “And I do think that going to see shows and exhibitions like this is challenging us to rethink how we are with each other, and being there in the present, and putting all your energy into watching something, witnessing something, being one with the art.”

Perseverance of Black history and community

Regardless of the medium it is viewed through, tap dance can always be a number of things: Joy. Strength. Creativity. Expression. Continuing to teach not just the physical movements of tap dance, but its historical roots in African-American communities is vital so that we can continue to uplift Black art and experiences in the present. 

“When you give something no context, no history, you lose so much value,” Arnold said. “Even when I talk to my students now and tell them where [tap] comes from, they’re like ‘wow,’ they have no idea. It means so much more, it’s so much more impactful, and when you don’t tell the history of anything that you’re teaching, you lose a lot of the connection, you lose a lot of the pride for it, and you lose a lot of the community.”

Beyond just looking at the global history of Black oppression during Black History Month, we must acknowledge the sources of pride for Black communities—the amazing art, films, novels, exhibits—that highlight different manifestations and expressions of Black elation. Tap is just one of many. McGill’s Black Student Network (BSN) launched an Instagram story series titled “28 Days of Black Joy,” with each day of February spotlighting a different project or artist. One day highlighted where to watch Get on Up, the 2014 biopic of James Brown starring the late Chadwick Boseman, and another centred on FairyHair, a mobile hairstyling service in Montreal that specializes in Black hairstyles—to celebrate Black history, culture, and identity. 

Many people consider tap dance a lost art, or a style that is not as visible and popular as other classical styles—Arnold at one point referred to tap as “the step-child of dance.” But for me, tap is, and has always been, something that I associate with dance—and with history. The privilege in having the means to take dance classes, as well as the honour of having teachers like Arnold, who centred the history of dance in addition to the steps themselves, has never been lost on me. As long as we continue to discuss and teach the history of tap dance, it will never be truly lost.

McGill Recommendations, Student Life

“I can’t go on any more first dates!”

by Beatriz Neves on

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The red roses, the heart-shaped candies, the overpriced chocolate boxes, the cheesy Hallmark cards, and the pink helium balloons have already taken over the Dollarama shelves, which can only mean one thing: It’s February, Valentine.

Although it’s a great time of the year for love birds, the life of a single university student can feel almost as brutal as finals season. For those lonely souls, there is no other way around it than putting yourself out there and embarking on the awkward experience of a first date. More often than not, these situations can lead to a run-in with a bad first date after a lengthy study session, making you want to jump in a hole, but can also spark new attachments and insights. The post-COVID dating era also has reinforced the need to create genuine connections with people face-to-face––especially since we have been mercilessly denied it for the past years. 

So, to actually have a fulfilling first meeting, decide what you want to discover or find out about your date. Manuela di Pace, U1 Arts, explains that in her experience, she puts a premium on learning about her potential partner’s passions and ambitions. 

“I want to know what you want in life or what you aspire to. Another point is probably if the person is able to have deep conversations and has a good sense of humour,” di Pace said in an interview with The McGill Tribune.

If a good conversation is what you are looking for as well, try to avoid date locations where the focus will be on something else that could distract you both. A casual dinner, in these cases, can be a safe option, but make sure that you choose a place with character. That way, if there’s a weird silence, you can strike up a conversation about the place itself. Try out Snowbird Tiki Bar, Else’s, Damas or Karisma—locales packed with meaning. 

To relieve some pressure from the conversation, choosing to do an activity before or during dinner could help. Cinéma Moderne can be a great option where you can watch a good movie and grab something to eat in their café after discussing the film. The Randolph Pub is also a unique option, as you can eat and enjoy a fun board game in the bar’s relaxed and laid-back environment. You could learn more about how your date reacts when they lose or when you disagree on the most critical aspects of a film.

After choosing the right place for you, what to wear is another big question—an important tip is to keep your outfit consistent with your typical style. If not, it will probably be costly for you, in more than one way, to maintain that new style that you adopted just for the first date. Second, you need to know if they will like you for who you really are; that won’t be easy if you look like someone else. 

To make the situation feel as natural as possible, trust yourself. The cliché is a cliché for a reason: Being yourself is the sexiest thing you can be. 

Leane Zogheib, U1 Arts, explains that for her, the importance of authenticity holds true.

“The worst thing someone can do on a first date is to fake liking something that I like, or when they do something [that] they don’t like just to impress me.” 

There’s nothing more beautiful than a person talking about that one particular passion they have that makes their eyes shine. Though not everyone will understand your excitement for pandas nibbling on bamboo sticks, the right person will love this on you. 

In the end, you can still have a terrible first date that leads to something wonderful or an incredible first date that will die out after a while. There is no magic formula; the best we can do is be ourselves and hope the other person does the same. 

Sports

Spotlight on the Arctic Winter Games 

by Julie Ferreyra on

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After being postponed again in 2022 due to COVID-19 concerns, the Arctic Winter Games finally made their long-awaited return on Jan. 29 in Wood Buffalo, Alberta. Last held in 2018, the four-day culture and sport competition saw athletes from across the circumpolar region face off in over 17 sporting events.  

“All of the athletes were so excited to go to the 2020 games in Whitehorse. And then, you know, a week before we were supposed to go to these games, they were cancelled,” four-time Arctic Sports medallist Danica Taylor told The McGill Tribune. “[The cancellation of the 2020 Edition] was probably one of the most disappointing things most of us ha[d] heard in a while.”

The 2023 edition of the Arctic Games reunited over 2,000 athletes and eight teams: Alaska, Greenland, North West Territories, Yukon, Nunavut, Nunavik-Quebec, Northern Alberta, and the Sápmi region that stretches across Norway, Sweden, and Finland. For the first time since 1992, no Russian territory will be represented in the Games, as the International Arctic Games Committee suspended both Russia and the Yamal delegation in condemnation of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. The suspension prompted the 2026 Games to potentially be relocated to Yellowknife as Yamal is currently slated to host them. 

“If they are to come to Yellowknife, I just hope these games just get so much more exposure,” said Taylor, a Yellowknife resident herself. “I think these are one of the most exciting games to watch and to participate in.”

Among the 20 sporting events represented this year were biathlon ski, curling, ice hockey, and figure skating. The Games also featured an Arctic Sports category that included events such as Alaskan high kick, sledge jump, and knuckle hop. Many of the Arctic Sports find their origins in cultural practices, such as high kick, which originated from Inuit hunting. 

The Arctic Games are all about community and perseverance—values that are reflected in the Dene Games, an official event that was incorporated in 1990. Consisting of five events, the Dene Games are rooted in the traditional practices of Dene Nation, celebrating specific skills that demonstrate both strength and technical skill. Sportsmanship and camaraderie are at the heart of the Dene Games, and the concluding event, Hand Games, originates from the celebration of successful hunts.

“Carrying on the traditions is just so important,” Taylor said. ”It’s so great to go to these games and then have it all unfold.”

This year, Taylor competed in five Arctic Sports disciplines: One-foot high kick, two-foot high kick, arm pull, Alaskan high kick, and sledge jump, and medalled in the first three. 

Memorable moments from this year’s Games included the last participation of knuckle hop veteran Chris Stipdonk, who seized gold, and at 37 years old, decided to retire from competition. He established the world record in 2020 and again at the Indigenous Summer Games in 2022. Nunavut celebrated their first-ever gold medal in hockey, brought home by their U19 boys team. 

With over 2,000 volunteers and an emphasis placed on spectator participation, the support from those in the crowd was constant. 

“I think it’s such a great thing to, you know, have that support, not only from people from your contingent […] but from every other place as well,” Taylor said. “I know there were a lot of Greenlandic and Alaskan people watching and it was such a great feeling.”

When it comes to the future of Arctic sports, there are discussions of incorporating them into the 2027 Canada Winter Games in Whitehorse. Many participants and fans hope for them to be included in other international competitions in the years to come. 


“If that is to happen, these are great games to spread awareness of Indigenous cultures,” Taylor said. “I would love to see it […] show its debut at the Canada Winter Games, and also, I believe having them included in as many international sporting events would just show how unique these games are. I don’t think there’s really a sport quite like it.”

Laughing Matters, Opinion

How to sign a lease in 10 days

by Noa Garmaise on

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Now’s the time to look for living accommodations for next year—and, boy, is it stressful! Not every apartment will be right for you. Some will lack natural light, others will exclusively have windowless rooms, like a dungeon of sorts. Not ideal. That’s why I am pleased to announce that I have finally signed a lease (which was by no means an easy journey). It was so difficult that it made combatting hypothermia at Igloofest look like a walk in the park. But it’s how I met him. 

His name was Vito and he was giving us a tour of an apartment he was leasing. Yes, Vito is my landlord. I was with some of my best friends. He was with his closest confidante and arguably Montreal’s most eligible bachelor: Frank, the contractor handling the renovations in the unit below us. Sure, we bantered casually, but I could have never predicted the spark that would be ignited between us.

After the tour, my soon-to-be roommates and I headed outside and debated whether we could look past the minor rat infestation that drove out the previous tenants. That’s when my friend Suhani proposed the bet that would change my life completely. She told me, “if you can make Vito fall in love with you in 10 days and get him to lower the rent, we’ll all sign the lease.”

Little did I know that back inside the apartment, Vito was having a similar conversation with Frank. Later I would find out that Frank had wagered Vito the following: “If you can make the especially short, crazy-eyed one fall in love with you in 10 days, you can upcharge her on her lease.” The gears had been set in motion. 

In the beginning, we were always trying to trick one another. What did we know? We didn’t get each other yet. Vito took me to IKEA on our first date. As we strolled through a row of sensible desks, I mentioned how lovely it would be to get the apartment fully furnished at no additional cost. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and whispered, “the place is no longer utilities-included.” 

That day at IKEA, I felt our relationship shift. It was becoming real. He bought me IKEA meatballs and held my hair back when I immediately threw them up. I learned he was the most caring man I’d ever meet, and he learned that I have an aversion to ground beef. 

Before too long, Vito and I would regularly spend hours together scrolling through Facebook Marketplace. We wrote ads for his four-bedroom in the Plateau. Hand-in-hand, we would dream up how we could lie about the distance from campus and get away with it. We watched Property Brothers and joked about how they would never be as in love as we were. We were falling for each other. And fast.

Suddenly, I couldn’t bear to look into his sparkling, muddy eyes anymore. I needed to tell him the truth—that I’d been trying to get him to lower our rent this whole time but fell in love in the process. 

When I finally confessed, Vito admitted his own plot, too. Both upset, we agreed that if our love was meant to be, we would meet at the top of Mount Royal at midnight to sign the lease. If not, we would unfriend each other on Letterboxd and end this fever dream forever.  

Time stood still as I waited for Vito at the top of the mountain—kind of like how it feels when it’s the other person’s turn in Scrabble. I was prepared to leave when I finally saw him with a bouquet of roses and an envelope of lease papers in his beautiful hands. Forgiveness. We embraced each other and signed, gently weeping on each others’ shoulders and taking pictures of our respective IDs for security purposes. 

Without this unpredictable house-hunting experience, Vito and I would have just been two strangers at opposite ends of Milton-Parc, almost meeting, but never really seeing each other.

So basically, the place is a four-bedroom, one-bath. No extra cost for laundry and hydro, but we have to figure out WiFi.

Arts & Entertainment, Pop Rhetoric

2023 Grammys: Historic wins, disappointing losses, and spirited moments

by Naomi Gupta on

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Packed with A to Z-list celebrities, the 65th Grammy Awards  took place at Los Angeles’ Crypto.com Arena, hosted by comedian Trevor Noah for the third consecutive year. After the last few editions saw a disappointing mix of bad nominations and even worse wins (remember when Billie Eilish took home all four main category awards in 2020?), music’s biggest event boasted an exciting night of competition between chart-dominating artists and ignited a conversation about lack of diversity.

When nominations were announced, headlines buzzed over the contenders for top prizes. Despite some of Beyoncé’s past snubs, she took the lead with nine Grammy nominations in three of the four main categories, tying with none other than Jay-Z for the title of most nominated artist of all time. The singer won two Grammys for “Break my Soul” and RENAISSANCE, officially making history as the most decorated artist at the Grammys. Other groundbreaking moments included Sam Smith and Kim Petras’ Best Pop Duo/Group Performance win for their hit “Unholy,” making Petras the first transgender woman to be honoured with the award.

In response to criticism of the Recording Academy regarding the lack of diversity in award categories, nominees, and recipients, this year’s nominations suggested limited progress in a newer direction. The decision to introduce categories such as “Música Urbana Album” shows an effort to slowly address the assumptions that English music is the norm—as evidenced by the Grammy subtitle dubbing Bad Bunny as “singing in non-English”. Likewise, the Academy’s recurring pattern of relegating the work of Black artists to Rap/R&B categories, thereby excluding them from major, pop-focused categories, makes these efforts performative. 

Throughout the last few years, the Grammys felt more like a three-hour showcase of the same two artists sweeping through most, if not all, of the main category awards. Luckily, this trend was broken this year—most of the awards seemed evenly distributed amongst headlining nominees: Lizzo’s hit single, “About Damn Time,” won Record of the Year, and Adele’s “Easy On Me” was recognized for Best Pop Solo Performance.

However, the ceremony did not go without its usual snubs. Despite its absence from the Billboard Hot 100, Song of the Year went to Bonnie Raitt’s “Just Like That”—a surprising moment for Grammy viewers and the categories’ other nominees. Fans predicted Taylor Swift to have this award in the bag for her record-breaking track “All Too Well (10 Minute Version),” which would’ve made this her first-ever win in the category. 

The ceremony concluded with the night’s biggest award—Album of the Year. This highly-anticipated moment brought fans, quite literally, to the edge of their seats. A group comprising each nominee’s biggest fans took the stage in hopes of seeing their favourite artist awarded the top prize. Harry Styles’ Harry’s House won the award, and Styles delivered a tearful acceptance speech. He took a moment to thank his fans, family, and team before admitting how grateful he was, as “this doesn’t happen to people like [him] very often.” This particular line sparked controversy among Grammy viewers and sent the media into a frenzy. While some argued that this line referenced Styles’ modest upbringing and journey into the entertainment industry, others questioned the extent to which this was true, given that the music industry’s structure exhaustively prioritizes young, attractive, privileged white men.

Overall, the Grammys made for a highly entertaining evening, celebrating a diversity of artists and genres who impacted music in 2022. Although many don’t take the Grammys seriously anymore, the discourse it generates still has a lasting impact on the music industry. Considering its important media coverage and nationwide attention, the Recording Academy must continue to address  the structural inequities that fail music and artists time and time again.

Ask a Scientist, Science & Technology

Shining a light on a new breast cancer vaccine’s potential

by Raymond Tu on

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Most of us know the statistics associated with cancer. It has touched, directly or indirectly, almost every Canadian. But thanks to the relentless work of researchers, around two out of three patients diagnosed with cancer today will survive beyond five years from their initial diagnosis—up from 55 per cent in the early 1990s. The most recent innovations in cancer treatment have stemmed from immunotherapy, a fast-growing and exciting field of study for cancer researchers.

“Cancer immunotherapy unleashes the power of the patient’s own immune system. It is today considered the fourth pillar of cancer therapy,” Sonia del Rincón, assistant professor in McGill’s Department of Oncology, said in an interview with The McGill Tribune.

Recently, University of Washington (UW) researchers developed a cancer vaccine targeting HER2/ErbB2, a protein on the surface of tumour cells which affects one in five breast cancer patients. The vaccine was shown to have minimal side effects, like fevers and fatigue, while generating a significant immune response in the non-randomized trial.

William Muller, a professor in the Department of Oncology and renowned investigator of the HER2/ERbB2 genes in breast cancer, explained in an interview with the Tribune that the paper is a phase I trial, or a safety trial, that looks specifically at a safe dose range and adverse effects.

“The concept of vaccinating patients against specific tumour targets has its roots in the early 90s when Thierry Boon’s group identified the first human [tumour] associated antigen called MAGE-1,” added del Rincón, whose lab studies novel therapies for melanoma and breast cancer.

Vaccines generally work by training the body’s immune system to recognize and attack a foreign body, called an antigen. One such antigen is the spike glycoprotein, found on the surface of the COVID-19 virus. However, because cancer occurs when our own cells grow uncontrollably, specific proteins like MAGE-1 or HER2 that are overexpressed on the surface of only cancerous cells, must be targeted. “The target [of the UW breast cancer vaccine] is unusual in that it’s the intracellular domain of HER2, which is normally not presented on the surface,” Muller said.

The outcomes that the UW researchers reported are also promising because their breast cancer vaccine did not lead to any adverse effects.

“Researchers of the study did not report any severe side effects associated with the DNA vaccine,” del Rincón said. “Patients receiving other types of immunotherapy can be at risk for severe immune-related toxicities.”

Patients enrolled in the study had an 80 per cent five-year survival rate, compared with the expected 50 per cent for patients with stages III and IV breast cancer. Of course, there is still work to do before this treatment could become widely available. The true efficacy of the approach will come from phase II and III trials,” Muller said. 

When it comes to cancer research, only 25 per cent of phase II trials and 40 per cent of phase III trials succeed. Phase II trials are meant to further study a vaccine’s safety and evaluate its effectiveness, while phase III trials are meant to compare the medicine to the best treatments we have today, also known as the gold standard. 

Dr. Nora Disis, the lead researcher from the UW breast cancer vaccine team, explained in the most recent episode of Freakonomics, M.D. that the rapid development of mRNA vaccines against COVID-19 was in large part because its safety profile in innumerable cancer patients had already been defined.

Whether this breast cancer vaccine or other vaccines under evaluation will change the landscape of cancer therapeutics remains to be seen. But, while the Emperor of All Maladies carries on its reign of terror, cancer scientists and oncologists, like del Rincón, Muller, and Disis, continue to pursue the disease with fervour.

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