Author: Youmna El Halabi

Categories
Music

El Dorado concert movie review

Shakira - El Dorado

Shakira, you truly are the golden one

It’s no secret that we all have – whether we like it or not – a favourite musician we dub a guilty pleasure. No matter how music savvy we claim to be, there is that one rapper, pop icon, or country singer we grew up listening to, and cannot for the life of us let go of.

In my case, it’s a 5’2 Colombian icon, who goes by the name Shakira. When I was nine years old, I would hide in my room and replay the quintessential song of the 2000s, “Whenever, Wherever” with its iconic music video to replicate Shakira’s exact moves. My dream was to attend one of her concerts and watch her front-and-centre.

So when she announced her El Dorado world tour, I was over the moon. Finally! My childhood dreams would come true … until they didn’t.

Life got in the way, and I was not able to attend any of her shows, be it the Montreal concert, or the one she had in Lebanon. Imagine my frustration, knowing I could have been present at both shows, only to attend neither. Eff my life, eh?

Luckily, this woman goes above and beyond for her art and her fans. On Nov. 13, a one-night-only screening of her world tour was shown worldwide, and I had the greatest pleasure of attending it.

The thing that always fascinated me about Shakira was her voice. I’ve come across a lot of people either criticizing it for being “weird,” or making fun of it because she sounded like a goat. I would quote them directly, but we’re no longer friends, for obvious reasons. 

Shakira has what is called a coloratura contralto, a “unique and versatile vocal styling that incorporates a yodelling-like technique as well as Arabic influences,” as described in divadevotee.com. Convenient, if you think about it, considering she is half-Lebanese.

The thing is, before I knew what any of this technical talk meant, I always used to draw comparisons between her voice and belly dancing. It astounded me how – similar to the undulating of her hips when dancing – the uneven sounds she would make when singing (and I don’t mean this in a bad way) would take me on some sort of trip. Weirdly, whenever I would listen to her music, I would find myself “riding a wave.”

In El Dorado, the fans are shown the many sides of this pop-culture icon. Shakira is, in every sense, a devoted artist. Although the concert seems to have an effortless, party-like atmosphere, the movie shows that behind-the-scenes, the singer has calculated every bit of detail, from the smallest false note to the ethereal lighting, to make sure her fans come out of the concert hall satisfied. A committed performer in every form, Shakira is not one to take her craft lightly. 

Some would remember that various concert dates were postponed due to her falling ill and losing her voice. She describes this period of her life in the movie as “one of the hardest things she’s ever had to go through.” She also stated that her voice defines who she is, and to lose that would mean to lose herself. Luckily, all worked out for the best, and nothing derailed her from putting on an amazing show.

Vibrant, colourful, fun, and transcendental, Shakira’s concert is the embodiment of who she truly is as an artist, and warrants the name “The Golden One.” 

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Opinions

Note to Shelf: My Jane Austen Experience

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an alarmingly high number of readers have gone through at least one of Jane Austen’s novels. 

In fact, it is a moral imperative to read at least one of her books in your lifetime.

Austen is known as one of the most revolutionary writers of English literature, not only for being one of the few female authors of her time, but for exposing the many struggles women face in society. Despite all her stories ending in matrimony, she makes sure to focus on the importance of romance, understanding, and a person’s good nature in any relationship.

I honestly feel like a fraud writing about Jane Austen, when I’ve only read two of her novels, and gagged through the other four, but hey, it’s my column *kid shrug.*

I have been a book-devourer for the past 10 years, and have only read Northanger Abbey, and the ever-coveted Pride and Prejudice. 

How monstrous do I have to be to gag through Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, and Persuasion? I’ll tell you why: I started with her best-seller.

Reading Pride and Prejudice at 14 was a bit of a hassle — but then again, every book I read at that age was tough to get through. I wanted to improve my vocabulary by reading classics, and hone my English skills. Thing is, by doing so, I missed out on actually enjoying the story and characters, and ended up hating the novel.

Two years later, it was assigned as a reading  for a class, and by then I was actually excited to read it again — and it did not disappoint. From the obvious dream-boat that is Mr. Darcy, to the ever-so-popular, snarky, tenacious, and spirited Elizabeth Bennet, this book easily became one of my favourite classics to date. I find myself reading it over and over again every year, because nothing compares to the fluttering butterflies that Austen’s descriptive passages incite in me — from Darcy’s enamoured gazes, to his devoted and loving words.

Having enjoyed this novel so much the second time around, I decided to broaden my Jane Austen library and purchase all of her books. Unfortunately, none of them had the same effect. Northanger Abbey came pretty close, in spite of Austen’s blatant criticism of gothic literature, an unsurprisingly favourite genre of mine, but the other four were a nightmare.

Persuasion was too confusing, Mansfield Park a dreaded bore, I didn’t even make it past the first chapter of Sense and Sensibility, and Emma really infuriated me. 

As cliché and untruthful as this might sound, I think my downfall was starting at the top of the pyramid instead of working my way up. What do I mean by that? Pride and Prejudice is known for putting Austen on the map as one of the most renowned authors in English literature. This is why it is present in most school curriculums. Although it isn’t her last book, it is, in my opinion, her finest work. Some would disagree with me, claiming Pride and Prejudice to be overrated and basic. Perhaps they’re right, and I’m wrong, but again, it’s my column, so *hush.*

Word of advice to ye who chooseth to venture into the realm of Jane the Austen: maybe leave Mr. Darcy for last.

 

Photo by Laurence B.D.

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Opinions

Miley, did Louanne take your place again?

There are times when people go through personal experiences, and an impulse takes them to share it with their entourage.

Private people like to keep it in their circles. Some seek professional help if the experience was traumatic. Writers bleed onto paper, journalists publish columns, and philosophers pass them on as social theories.

Public figures take it to their social platforms.

In some cases, the latter deems it fit to impart wisdom after a personal epiphany and claim to have life altogether figured out. Amongst those people is Miley Cyrus.

I grew up obsessively watching Hannah Montana. I remained a loyal fan when the media published stories of a Disney girl gone wild and borderline insane in 2013.

“She’s just doing her own thing after Disney screwed with her identity for a decade,” I would say. “Leave her alone.”

But the little self-revelatory moment she shared on her Instagram story a few weeks ago made me lose all respect for her.

“I was just being like, I don’t know, hardcore feminist vibes and just not allowing anyone in, but now I am,” she claimed in an Instagram live with her new boyfriend, Cody Simpson. “There are good men out there guys, don’t give up. You don’t have to be gay, there are good people with dicks out there, you just gotta find them. You gotta find a dick that’s not a dick, you know what I mean?”

For someone who has spent the last decade honing an image of herself as a queer woman, Cyrus sounds pretty damn ignorant. Using pure homophobic lingo that has been directed towards lesbians for years on end, she completely dismisses the fact that attraction to the same sex is not a choice and is completely natural. Moreover, she further feeds into this “man-hating” image feminists are still trying desperately to debunk, by using her innate hatred over her previous partner and projecting it everywhere.

(Kindly read this in a mocking tone, if you please.)

“I know, I always thought I had to be gay, because I just thought like, all guys were evil, but it’s not true. There are good people out there that happen to have dicks,” she said, “I only ever met one, and he’s on this live.”

Listen, Miley, honey.

We’ve all been there. We’ve all had horrible experiences with men, and sworn them off for good, jokingly saying we should just “turn gay.” We’ve all projected and manifested anger because our past relationships have been unfulfilling, toxic, and terrible. Most of us have the luxury to not be public figures, and say them on a fun night out with close friends. But neither are right. Especially not from a person who has been so vocal about LGBTQ+ rights and identifies as queer. Especially not when people from this community are, to this day, being persecuted for who they love, or when queerness is still put into question. Especially not when so many outlets out there have the ability to educate you on this matter.

Part of me understands where she is coming from. Getting out of a tumultuous 10-year relationship with, I guess, “an evil guy” can be tough. And when you find someone who is able to fix those broken pieces, it takes all your might not to shout it to the world and show it off.

And all of that is allowed.

What isn’t allowed  is to further sexist and homophobic discourses that have always been targeted at queer women. Love who you want to love, but don’t claim to have found all the answers just because, to quote you, “there are good dicks out there.”

 

Graphic by @sundaeghost

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Opinions

Diary Entry: An Immigrant’s Prayer

I can’t sleep without gritting my teeth.

My mind is racing, traveling miles away.

I can’t focus on anything but the constant rapid beating of my heart.

This sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach hasn’t left me for over a week.

This constant anxiety seems to never leave me.

Nothing holds my attention anymore.

I haven’t had a decent work day in over eight days.

I seem to be existing rather than living.

 

What is wrong with me?

Why does my daily routine suddenly seem so exhausting and futile?

I hear nothing — not even the sound of city streets, nor the sounds of my supervisors urging me to get myself together.

If I close my eyes, I can picture it perfectly.

Flying colours of red and white, the green cedar standing out. The ground vibrating as the dabké nears the corner. Exhausted chants of revolution filling my eardrums.

A single tear escapes my eye. I don’t want to be here.

Montreal is now at its most glorious days, with fiery replenishing colours invading its every corner. And all I want to do is throw myself into the burning fires of the Lebanese revolution.

As the clock struck midnight on Oct. 17, my spirit answered the long-awaited call for riot — seeming to forget where it actually was.

No responsibility seems too dire, no task too urgent — nothing matters but the uprising in my native country.

I know I should be stronger than this. I know I should be mindful of my surroundings. I know now is not the time to long for home.

Yet more than ever, the pull is strong.

The ache in my heart is unbearable.

My people are tired, my people have had it.

They took to the streets, and said “no more,” and with that made all my lost hopes soar.

It wasn’t three weeks before I was asked if I had witnessed any change in Lebanon’s youth, and if I anticipated any sort of uprising. I had chuckled dryly, and shaken my head. “Not in my lifetime,” was always my answer.

And I was never happier to be proven wrong. And god knows I love being right.

So hear a broken immigrant’s prayer:

Do not let your foes fool you once more.

Do not let them lay further traps.

We are now louder than ever before, and hold the whip on their fear.

Fight, and rise from the ashes of corruption, my beautiful phoenix. It was long overdue.

 

Photo by Laurence B.D.

Categories
Student Life

An Arab’s Ode to Coffee

Graphic by @sundaeghost

“Mama, did you stop drinking coffee when you were pregnant with me or my sister?”

“No, but I should have, look how you two turned out.” 

Hi, my name is Youmna El Halabi, and I’m addicted to coffee. Cue the unanimous chants one gets when at a self-help group.

In pop-culture terms, if Spencer Hastings from Pretty Little Liars and Lorelai Gilmore from Gilmore Girls were to have a love child, it would be me.

However, these shows always emphasized on the amount of coffee consumed, whereas yours truly focuses more on the quality of this bitter, yet indispensable beverage.

Growing up in a Lebanese household, the smell of Arabic coffee was ever-present. And let me tell you one thing: one rakwa (coffee pot for Arabs) is worth 10 of your Americanos, and might just teach you a thing or two about good coffee.

As per my introduction, I genuinely believe my love for coffee is hereditary. Although she might deny it if you ask, my mother is just as bad as I am, if not worse. You know how lent is supposed to be a time where you fast on one thing that brings you joy? You can bet my mother never fasted on her morning coffee. Why? “I just can’t handle the headaches.” But god forbid I go over my three-cup-a-day limit. Mothers are weirdly paradoxical.

But I can’t say I don’t understand where she is coming from. Whenever someone claims to have stopped drinking coffee, boasting about how much it improved their quality of life, I applaud them for taking these steps — because I could never do it.

Sure, the possibility of waking up in the morning without a headache, or any other obvious signs of caffeine dependency, sounds delightful. It might even sound like heaven to some.

But what about the old saying about not knowing what ‘good’ is until you’ve seen the ‘bad’? What could possibly be better than the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning, or afternoon caffeine fixes when you’ve struck out during an assignment? The warmth you’re filled with as you sip that hot liquid full of ephemeral productivity and energy?

Coffee might come in all shapes and forms, and I am not about to call out anyone who enjoys sipping on caramel frappuccinos throughout the year, but fellow coffee connoisseurs will attest to the fact that those unicorn drinks never satiate us. To put it plainly: coarse and black, or don’t even bother.

 

Graphic by @sundaeghost

Categories
Student Life

East Coast Coffee Madness comes to Montreal

The Coffee Festival started at 9 a.m. and went on past mid-day. A number of independent and branch coffee shops were serving coffee, namely Kittel Atelier de café, ZAB café Le Brûloir, Café Pista,Pilot Coffee Roasters, Structure Roasters, Detour Coffee Roasters, Traffic Coffee Crew and Quietly Coffee.

1. On Oct. 19 and 20, East Coast Coffee Madness (ECCM) held its fifth Coffee Festival at the Centre des Sciences de Montréal. The ECCM’s Facebook page states the event is for the coffee community, built around the vision “Meet + Learn + Grow.”

2. A number of coffee shops opened stands for festival goers, making coffee in all shapes and sizes.

3. “My heart rate’s speeding up, I should stop. Oh look! Another coffee stand!” Eight Ounce Coffee/Café 8 oz. is one of the 21 other coffee shops to have a stand at the fifth Annual ECCM Festival.

4. Caf, non-fat, decaf, filter, espresso — you name it! If it’s bitter, warm, and caffeinated, the Coffee Festival had it.

5. The Coffee Festival started at 9 a.m. and went on past mid-day. A number of independent and branch coffee shops were serving coffee, namely Kittel Atelier de café, ZAB café Le Brûloir, Café Pista, Pilot Coffee Roasters, Structure Roasters, Detour Coffee Roasters, Traffic Coffee Crew and Quietly Coffee.

 

Photos by Cecilia Piga

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Opinions

Writing is not a job, it’s a way of life

On a cold, autumnal weekend, I curled up on my couch, hot chocolate in hand, ready to watch Eat, Pray, Love. Based on Elizabeth Gilbert’s bestseller, it’s the story of Gilbert herself – played by Julia Roberts – in a borderline existential crisis, unhappy in her marriage, unsatisfied with her personal life, struggling to find herself. Ultimately, she buys three tickets to Italy, India, and Bali to get a new perspective.

Personally, I have always been a fan of the “Eat” part of this movie. Watching Roberts down all the carbs Italy had to offer is all the spiritual journey I need in my life.

However, in that first part of her quest for self-discovery, there is a scene that has always bothered me. A simple detail that may have gone unnoticed by most.

Roberts’ character is having lunch with some friends when they start brainstorming words to describe the various cities they’ve been to.

“Stockholm?”  “Conform.”

“New York?” “Ambition, or sut.”

“Rome?” “SEX!”

Then one of her friends asks her what she believed to be her word. After a few musings, she confidently states, “my word is writer.”

“Yeah, but that’s what you do,” her friend tells her. “It isn’t what you are.”

Liz quietly chews her food and ponders that thought, while I got ready to hurl my mug at the TV screen. If I were Elizabeth Gilbert, as soon as he had uttered those words, I would have put down my fork, stared straight into his eyes, and said:

“Have you ever woken up from a restless night because thoughts were being translated into words, and you just had to get them out? A feeling so strong that the need to find a pen and paper seemed paramount? The words escaping you; your hand moving so fast that your writing would be unintelligible to anyone but yourself? Have you ever felt a lump form in your throat, and nothing could appease it t, but to bleed on paper? Have you ever been in a place so captivating that you just had to describe it down to every single detail, because pictures could never express how it made you feel? Has a thought ever crossed you, and made you reach for your bag, cursing to yourself when you realize you’ve forgotten your notebook at home? Have you ever smiled at the simple sound of how a word made you feel? Until you’ve felt the pain of not being able to pour your words on paper, until you’ve laid your soul bare between the pages of your notebooks; until you’ve felt the magic in your fingertips as you type or write your words, you don’t get to tell me writing is just a job. You don’t get to tell me it doesn’t consume every fibre of my being. Because you don’t question an athlete’s love for a sport. You don’t put in question a musician’s passion, or a painter’s consuming art. So why do you question a writer’s?”

 

Graphic by Victoria Blair

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Opinions

Note to Shelf: God Golly, Miss Holly

There aren’t many readers who will admit to preferring the movie version of a book they read. In fact, it is more often frowned upon. Words can never translate perfectly on screen; no matter how great the team you assemble is.

There are times when films are simply inspired by the books, borrowing snippets here and there, creating their own plot-lines and endings, making it impossible for us to choose sides. Simply because they are not the same.

Take Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s for example. WARNING, spoilers ahead.

Most people forget that one of Audrey Hepburn’s most popular films was actually based off Capote’s complex work of literature. And when I say complex, I don’t mean the novel is hard to read or decipher. I mean it has layers. Or rather, Miss Holiday Golightly has layers.

Hepburn fans and movie lovers know Holly Golightly as a lost, witty, and coquette little girl who struggles to find herself a home. That is, as many Hollywood clichés go, until she falls in love with Paul Varjak, and shares a passionate kiss in the rain, finally letting go of her fear of commitment. The movie is an ode to all commitment-phobes, with Paul’s infamous speech to Holly, calling her a coward because she’s afraid to let herself go; to love and be loved. A speech that does not occur in the book.

People, myself included, often prefer the movie because of its lightheartedness and fairytale ending. Because we don’t want to watch Holly struggle anymore. Because we need to believe that things end well, even the most improbable ones. We anxiously wait for Hepburn to find Cat in the last scene, because we need that reassurance that not everything, or anyone is lost forever.

But that is not the case for Capote’s Holly.

In the novel, Holly never finds a home and remains a lone wolf. Or as she so poetically dubs herself, “a wild thing.” And though she often relishes in that aspect of herself, she lets her guard down with the narrator, with that infamous telling line: “it’s better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear.”

In the novel, Holly never finds her cat, and there is no Paul to sweep her off her feet, kiss her under the rain, and tell her he wants to love her. The narrator does dote on her, but there is no telling it’s in a romantic way. He cares for her, and her approval, because she appears to be this cool, racy girl; with a mysterious past, a wild present, and a constant fear of the future.

Where Hollywood’s version of Holly is a coquette glamour girl, Capote’s Holly is a mess, and, for lack of a better word, sometimes a bitch. She has no regard for anyone but herself, because she has never known peace, love, or comfort. And those are hard things to come to terms with when reading the book; which explains why Hollywood resorted to a happier version.

Most of the books I read leave me with a sense of warmth. But Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s left me with an uneasy feeling in my heart, and a cold shiver down my spine. And made me wonder whether most, if not all of us, have a little Holly Golightly with the mean reds inside of us.

 

Graphic by @sundaeghost

Categories
Music

Heather Ragnars sings the stories that are too hard to tell

Photo by Britanny Clarke

There have been many debates throughout the years concerning whether an artist should be separated from their art. In Heather Ragnars’ case, however, doing so would be stripping her music from its essence.

Ragnars is a Concordia student of Icelandic origin, currently pursuing a degree in Music Studies, after completing a BA in Psychology. She moved to Montreal when she was eight years old, after spending most of her childhood in Maddison, Wisconsin.

She also happens to be a verified Spotify artist, and a frequent performer at The Wiggle Room on St-Laurent Boulevard. Just recently, she performed a collection of new songs in a show called “Your Money is Not a Gift,” a 1950s/60s-inspired Burlesque show.

Ragnars was raised by opera singers, and was taught the piano at age five. However, such a classical upbringing did not stop her from interpreting the standard musical pieces the way she believed would sound better. 

“I could sing before I could talk,” she proudly said. “I often wanted to change the classical pieces I would learn, and my dad would always tell me not to, but I would go ‘well, wouldn’t it sound better if I played it this way?’ and so it wasn’t long before I started writing my own music.”

She describes the writing process as such: an idea comes to her because there’s something she needs to say to someone but can’t, because it is a difficult conversation. Either it can’t be said, or it’s too hard to say.

“It just comes out like that, and it’s usually not something very pleasant,” Ragnars said. “Hard to say but needs to be said. Some people would maybe think [the song] is empowering or negative. The feeling that I describe might be ephemeral, and it might be something is long-lasting.”

Her music is extremely personal, a sort of musical diary if one would choose to describe it. Her website best describes her songs as “heartbreaking, yet barefaced accounts of the many things we think but don’t say.” 

Some of her musical influences include The Supremes, motown music in general, Etta James, Billy Joel, and Cat Stevens. She is also inspired by contemporary artists like the late Amy Winehouse, Lana del Rey, and The Weeknd.

Ragnars’ show, “Your Money is not A Gift” was inspired by a song she wrote under the same title. Despite having a 60s theme – something she is quite taken by – the song is also a recollection of a time when someone tried to buy her off with gifts and money – things that don’t come for free.

“The song felt relevant to that whole idea ‘are housewives getting a free payout from their husbands?’,” she said. “I’m really fascinated by vintage, the aesthetic, because it also has an economic importance to it. The idea that the woman takes care of everything in the home, looking good while she does it is something that fascinates a lot of people, because the housework never ends. So why not take the housewife as she is, and put a little sexy in it too? Maybe these wives were fulfilled, and maybe there weren’t, but they spark a lot of mystery and fascination.”

 

Photo by Britanny Clarke

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Opinions

Oh my sweet, broken home

It is no question that Lebanon prides itself for being a land based on paradoxes.

Where the government forces its people to travel to Cyprus for civil marriage, but never bats an eye at nightclubs closing at 6 a.m. Where religion and politics are – quite literally – the two nesting pillars, and are more often than not interchangeable. Where our greatest accomplishments consist of being among the top 10 party cities, and breaking the Guinness World Record for the biggest hummus plate.

I love my birth country more than anything in the world. Despite all its flaws and political turmoils, I remain the devil’s advocate. However, there are certain things I will never be able to overlook, nor defend; and that is the Lebanese population’s innate racism and intolerance.

On Sept. 20, Lebanon’s Minister of Education Akram Chehayeb took to Twitter to discuss the Near Eastern country’s refugee crisis.

“Despite all the challenges, we will not allow any student to remain outside of school in Lebanon, whatever his nationality, and we will endeavor to ensure a comprehensive and just education for all,” his words read. “The human right to education is a sacred right guaranteed by all international conventions and laws.”

Such an accepting statement did not sit well with a number of people, and was followed by an overtly racist, some would call ‘nationalist,’ caricature. OTV, a Lebanese broadcasting channel, shared a cartoonist’s take on Chehayeb’s words. The drawing shows two Lebanese students walking to school, only to be greeted with a sign that roughly translates from Arabic to: “We apologize, the school is full of Syrians, Palestinians, Indians, (an offensive word for Black people), Ethiopians, Bangladeshis.”

The Daily Star reported that the cartoon has been removed from OTV’s socials as of Monday, with no response from the channel about the backlash.

It’s no secret that Lebanon has had its fair share of conflicts from the influx of refugees, due to the many strifes the Near East has had to face over the years. Not to mention the unresolved Civil War issues, placing the country in a devil’s palm, where the people live in imminent fear of it happening again. Suffice to say, a country with a pint-sized territory of 10,452 square km bites off more discords than it can chew; and for inexplicable reasons, remains hungry for more.

One thing I have learned since moving to Montreal is how similar we all are once we get over our differences. At times, I have more in common with a Syrian or Palestinian citizen than I do with a Lebanese one who has lived their entire life in the same country as I. I even go as far as relating to many Latinos about similar childhood moments, mostly ones relating to parental disciplinary methods. Because globalization has enabled us to look beyond one’s nationality, and realize that no ethnicity is better than others – especially not ethnicities that live so close together. 

As the years go by, I don’t believe the sentence “I am not racist, but” should be tolerated anymore. It is not acceptable to follow antiquated ideals of favouritism, and elitist attitudes, where one believes themselves to be better than others.

I grew up in an environment where institutionalized racism was ever-present, but was taught to treat everyone with respect and kindness. I’ve outgrown, and educated myself out of that innate racial bias, and I am only 22. What’s your excuse?

 

Graphic by Victoria Blair

 

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Opinions

Different sizes lead to a chaotic mindset

From the ages of 10 to 20, nearly every woman I met would comment on my appearance, either praising me or hating me for having a slim figure. As the years went by, such comments were oftentimes followed by orders to eat more, or overt criticism of my “chicken legs.”

As the media became more inclusive, slogans like “REAL women have curves” and “men like something to grab onto” were all over my feed, planting the seeds of my body dysmorphia.

I by no means claim that curvy, busty girls have it easy, and skinny girls are the new victims. I am simply one of the hushed voices sharing my experience. I cannot tell you how many times I tried to share my own bodily insecurities, only to be shut down because “I was lucky enough to have been born with a fast metabolism.”

The thing is, I was never satisfied with my body. I never wanted a thigh-gap, nor for my ribcage to show. The negative comments affected me because I wasn’t at ease in my own skin. I looked up to women like Shakira, Beyonce, and Monica Bellucci; forever wishing for an hourglass figure like theirs. I didn’t like my elongated, skinny legs. I, too, fell for the real woman ideal.

So I did everything I could to try to bulk up, and for the past six years, I have tried every carb-loaded diet I could find to gain as many pounds it would take for me to look curvier. It took me six years to be able to look in the mirror, and be somewhat satisfied with the woman staring back.

Almost a month ago, yours truly spent an insane amount of money at a monetary sinkhole called WINNERS, as a sort of “retail therapy.” Among the many knick-knacks I purchased were two pairs of pants, both different sizes, and both fit me perfectly. One pair was a size 4, the other a size 6, and to add to my confusion, I was walking around in size 8 jeans. I understand a woman’s weight fluctuates between one day and the next, but this was just mind-boggling, and certainly didn’t appease my mind.

Such retail “mishaps,” if we wish to call them, are not uncommon. Every woman I have had the pleasure to converse in such topics with shared the same problem, and the majority of them suffer from severe body image problems.

I would also like to mention that I absolutely do not think such issues are limited to the female population, and acknowledge that men also deal with the same demons.

Earlier this year, 18-year-old Chloe Martin shared a picture of seven pairs of jeans on Twitter, all size 12, looking entirely different, with a caption that reads “Incase you’ve ever wondered why women get so frustrated with our clothing sizes – every pair of jeans pictured, is a size 12.

Doug Stephens, founder of Retail Prophet, a website discussing retailing, business and consumer behavior, told today.com that Martin’s photo is “also indicative of the fashion industry’s pervasive and unhealthy attempts to tell women how their bodies should ideally be proportioned.”

I would like to think that one day, we will all overcome this constant obsession with our figures, and be able to live our lives without this crippling anxiety of fitting into one given size. Unfortunately, all I can do is hope.

 

Graphic/photo by @sundaeghost/Laurence B.D.

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Opinions

Religion and sexuality in the workplace

Ideally, a person’s qualification for any job would be limited to their aptitude and general attitude towards the workload. In a perfect world, the only thing an employer should consider before hiring you is your ability to do the job.

Unfortunately, this is not a perfect world and we are not perfect people. Against our better judgment, we rely on appearances, religious beliefs, sexuality, and overall social norms to determine a person’s character. As we progress, however, the best of us choose to educate ourselves and overcome social biases. The best of us grow out of superficial moulds and strive to judge by a person’s actions if they should be trusted or not. But that is not the case for most of us.

A few months ago, some would say discriminatory actions were taken in Quebec when the government passed Bill 21; a law reprimanding people for their religious garments in the workplace, under the pretext that it is respecting the province’s laicity.

As if to join hands with their Canadian neighbours, a HuffPost article reports that the Trump Administration is imploring the Supreme Court to legalize firing someone based on their sexual orientation.

“In an amicus brief filed Friday, the US Justice Department argued that a trio of cases set to appear before the Supreme Court this fall should be used to limit Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which prohibits discrimination because of sex,” the article read.

The Justice Department’s reading of Title VII recalls that “sex,” as written in the Civil Rights Act, is not intended to allude to one’s sexual orientation which, in their book, means that the law shouldn’t be used to protect LGBTQ+ workers.

“The original bill didn’t define “sex” as a term, and the Trump administration is now using that ambiguity to argue that lawmakers’ original intent focused solely on protecting women’s rights,” wrote the HuffPost.

In Quebec, the Montreal Gazette reported that teachers are struggling the most with Bill 21 and are having a hard time transitioning from a tolerant environment to a limited one. It is stated that no articles of faith – kippahs, turbans, or hijabs – are allowed during the hiring process, and those already hired are allegedly not granted higher positions.

Nadia Naqvi, a science teacher at St. Thomas High School in the West Island, recounted to the Gazette how her five-year plan to move into administration now seems like a distant dream.

“I know I have a lot of leadership qualities,” said Naqvi.“I know I have a lot to offer my school board… but I’m stuck. If that’s not the definition of a second-class citizen, I don’t know what is.”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember anybody’s sexuality, let alone religion get in the way of anyone’s job. In my personal experience, I have seen practicing Muslims during Ramadan work twice as hard as usual; and one could barely feel when they would take a small break for their daily prayers. And since when does being part of the LGBTQ+ community inhibit one from doing their job correctly?

But I can see how loving the same sex, or choosing your own gender could deter you from your workload. Can you imagine how much time, effort, and patience it would take to justify your sexual preferences to other people? And let us not even get into the time-consuming act of debating Islam with people who have taken one sentence from the Quran out of context and made it their weapon of choice when arguing.

But I can totally see how loving the same sex or choosing your own gender deters you from your workload. I mean, can you imagine how much time and effort it would take to justify it to other people, because it’s their business, too? And let us not even get into the time-consuming debate on Islam, at the workplace, with people who have taken one sentence out of the Quran, out of context, and made it their choice of weapon when arguing. Yes, these are most definitely valid reasons.

The way I see it, the only time religion or sexuality disrupts working environments is when other people aren’t minding their own business.

 

Graphic by Victoria Blair

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