According to Prof. Drip, the class will be exploring topics of dynamic masculinity, being a man in an age of complex identity politics, and generally, you know, guy stuff. When asked to elaborate what he meant by this last comment, Prof. Drip chortled scholastically and smiled that English Professor Smile (), “Oh you know, just really getting a chance to look at the male perspective. There are already a lot of classes that focus on the feminist angle, or the post colonial angle, or magical realism, and yet we don’t have nearly enough classes that take a direct look at what it is to be a man. I think students could really benefit from a class with such a focus.”

U2 English student Kevin Sykes was enthusiastic when asked what he thought of the syllabus. “I think it’s really great that Jerry is doing this class. You know, last year I took an 18th century literature class and it was like all women writers!” Kevin coughed erroneously. He then explained with all the sincerity of the average socially conscious hipster, “I was very surprised, because I didn’t think women wrote books back then, you know, because like, oppression, and all that. Not that I have anything against women’s lit exactly. I mean, like, Mary Shelly is pretty cool, and Jane Austin is hot but I’m really looking forward to a class that focuses on, you know, us mens’ point of view.”

The McGall Weekly had a chance to look at the proposed syllabus ourselves. When Prof. Drip was asked about the overwhelming fact that all the authors for his Men’s Lit class were White, he gave his infamous English Professor Chuckle (): “Well now that you mention it, so they are. I didn’t do it on purpose you know. It’s just that these are the authors that I studied in university, and I think that they all really have something important to say.” 

Karren Jackson, a U1 Literature student was also optimistic about the class. She told the Weekly that she’s “tired of literature classes which go over the same old minority narratives.” Karren was thoughtful as she sipped her starbucks Chai Latte. “Like, that stuff is cool, but what I’m really looking forward to with Jerry’s class is going back to basics, you know? Like, reading books by these white men really gives an inside perspective on what it’s like to be privileged? You know? I mean, it’s not really their fault.” When asked to elaborate what she meant by this, she twirled her naturally blond hair, deep in thought, finally replying “like they didn’t ask to be privileged, and it just doesn’t seem fair that we would throw out classics just because they don’t fit into what’s popular. I mean, postcolonialism is trendy now, but like, when it’s something new, then what? At least we’ll always have the stand bys to return to.” 

Prof. Drip wanted to emphasize that he is not racist, nor sexist. “In terms of exploring literary genres like modernism, it’s not as if I have anything against writers who aren’t white men, but those are the only people who really wrote in that style or who wrote well.” Apparently, in spite of his 30 plus years teaching English as a tenured professor at McGill, Prof. Drip has never heard of Virginia Woolf.

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You’re at Presse Café. You haven’t been there in months but they smile fondly at you and remember your usual order. They are kind, too kind. The posters on the wall are the same as you remember them, but something is off. You realize the models’ eyes are following you. No, that’s not it. They’re following whatever the man at the register is looking at. He looks at you, the posters look at you. He looks at the door, they look at the door. You tip well and resolve never to set foot in there again. 

There’s an intersection shaped like a parallelogram. You know the one. You look both ways, or rather, all ways. There are no cars as far as the eye can see. You step off the curb. Suddenly, cars are coming at you from all directions. You jump back from the reverse Bermuda triangle onto the safety of the curb. This has been a near-death experience. You are unfazed. 

You’ve been at Milton B. since midnight. Your Google Doc remains empty, though you have been working nonstop. The place crawls with cops. You glare at them. They order coffee. They are parasites. You go outside to get some fresh air and realize the sun is rising. It is beautiful. You are suddenly very tired. Your essay, which was due last week, can wait another day. 

“On a de tout, même un ami!” warns Jean Coutu. You wonder what it could mean. In your haste to catch the bus, you stumble. A man helps you up, you make eye contact. You realize it’s Jean Coutu himself. “Veux-tu être mon ami?” he asks. You try to run. His grip on your wrist is surprisingly strong. “Non merci,” you whisper. He disappears in a cloud of dust. 

You’re in the 25h dep. You ask the cashier when the 25th hour takes place. You’re joking, but their eyes go dark. You regret having asked. You wake up in a cold sweat. You check your phone. Your friends are worried about you. You’ve been asleep for days. Do not ask about the 25th hour.

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“Cultural queerness” refers to the performance of queerness as an identity or aesthetic without necessarily being queer. Cultural queerness has nothing to do with actual gender identity or sexual orientation, nor with allyship.

Simone Sanders (U1 Sociology) tells us about her refusal to give her sexuality a label: “Sometimes on TV ‘not liking labels’ is a euphemism for bisexuality, but I’m definitely not bisexual. I’m definitely more, like, I guess you could call it straight? But I don’t use that word, because I don’t like labels. Well, except for the ones on my Blundstones. I mean, have I dated a girl? Like, no. Do I want to? Not especially. But like, have I made out with a girl when we were both on molly? Yeah, of course I have. Do I want to repeat the experience? I mean, I’d definitely do molly again, if that’s what you’re asking. Point being, I don’t like labels.” Simone tweets exclusively about her deviated septum and the fact that she was once in a threesome with two men.

“Cultural queerness” refers to the performance of queerness as an identity or aesthetic without necessarily being queer Cultural queerness has nothing to do with actual gender identity or sexual orientation, nor with allyship.

The Gaily interviewed Tony Tabernac (U2 Anthropology) to get another perspective on being “culturally queer.” When asked for his pronouns, he told us: “we’re all one gender. The human gender.” Tony’s ex-partner later told the Gaily that Tony never once gendered them correctly over their six month-long courtship. When asked for comment, Tony genuinely seemed bewildered by the concept of nonbinary gender identities. “We’re all one gender,” he repeated with a bit of desperation in his voice. “The human gender. Right?” With a bit of research we learned that The Human Gender is the name of Tony’s mediocre indie rock band. He plays guitar, which explains why his black nail polish is chipped on only one hand. Evidently he hasn’t heard of top coat.

Bianca Bobbin (U3 Cultural Studies) is taking one GSFS class before she graduates at the end of the semester. While she’s yet to attend any of the lectures, she’s already found that she’s learning a lot about her own identity just by being enrolled. “Me and my boyfriend Scott (the one in the beanie over there) are totally queering heterosexuality. Have you heard of pegging? I learned about it from watching Broad City. Have you seen that show? It’s so good. Anyway, pegging. That’s some good shit.” The Gaily reluctantly agreed that yes, pegging is some good shit, but that we don’t quite see how the GSFS class led to this realization. “Oh, it’s because there was a reading about ‘queering heterosexuality.’ I didn’t, like, actually read all of it, but the abstract just really made me think about how you can be in a straight relationship but also in a gay relationship, because of gender roles. You know?” Bianca is one of those rare heterosexuals with an undercut, which, based on the amount of times she flipped her hair, is a fact that she wanted us to observe.

“Anyway, pegging. That’s some good shit.” -Bianca Bobbin

The post Being “Culturally Queer” appeared first on The McGill Daily.

We have to wonder what Big Suze’s intentions are with regards to her colour choices. What does bubblegum pink signify for her? Is it a reference to “millennial pink,” possibly an attempt to appeal to the youth at McGill? Maybe she is aware that the student body is largely opposed to James McGill and wants to demonstrate her solidarity with us.

Maybe the pink paint on McGill’s hat refers to the “pussy hats” of the neoliberal feminist movement. Is Big Suze a secret white feminist? Does she want to impose her political agenda onto our university’s namesake? Ideally, Big Suze would promote feminism on campus without romanticizing the racist colonizer that is James McGill. Do better, Suze.

James McGill was buried alongside his (male) accountant, with whom he also went on long vacations to isolated romantic locales. Maybe Big Suze is celebrating his queerness to make the university seem more progressive than it really is. Maybe she’s jumping on the academic bandwagon of “queering” discourse. If so, we condemn her actions as appropriative and insensitive.

We urge Big Suze to leave an artist’s statement next time she chooses to give a racist statue a makeover so that we know what she’s trying to say to us. Until then, we can only speculate about her true motives.

The post Big Suze Allegedly Strikes Again appeared first on The McGill Daily.

An anonymous source close to Suze tipped the Daily off to the fact that Big Suze’s stance might be more complicated than she lets on. We sent our investigative team to Big Suze’s office and they discovered something shocking: under her desk were multiple cans of green paint. Unfortunately, she reportedly burned off her fingerprints in 2012, so there is no way to prove whether or not she has touched the paint cans.

Later, during an unrelated enquête, the Daily’s investigative team found receipts in a dumpster outside James Admin, which showed the purchase of green paint several months ago, as well as yellow paint. We figured that someone was simply redecorating their home, but then we remembered that the statue of James McGill was recently painted yellow. We went to the hardware store that sold the paints and requested to watch the security tapes from the day in question.

As you may have guessed by now, Big Suze was the paint-buying culprit. Who’s to say if she painted both the statues? There’s still reasonable doubt that she’s innocent, but there’s also significant evidence against her. We wonder if she’ll strike again, and if so, where and when will she continue her crusade? All we know for sure is that vandalism is very bad, and that statues are apolitical and should be respected.

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It is summer in Hell, and everything is going to be okay.

From across the patchy field come peals of laughter. Full of mirth. Full of joy. Full of innocence. The SSMU babies are being promenaded across campus, clad in matching red vests straight off the runways of New York Fashion Week. While university students politely make plans to “get coffee sometime!” with people they haven’t seen since first year, the SSMU babies are living their truths. They’re not planning coffee dates with fake people. They don’t drink coffee. They’re all real friends. I saw an adorable miniscule girl ask an adorable miniscule boy if he would be her best friend. They were both wearing striped shirts. He excitedly told her yes, and started talking to someone else. She was not bothered in the slightest by his inattentiveness. She smiled to herself. I witnessed that blessed interaction with my very own eyes.

I envy the SSMU babies, I won’t lie to you, I envy the SSMU babies, I do! I envy the fact that they aren’t constantly sweaty. I saw multiple tiny cardigans. Cardigans! In early September! I like knowing that when one child bites another, there is a now a feud between their professor parents. I envy the fact that they aren’t left to their own devices, eating ice cream sandwiches for dinner. As an adult, I am allowed to do that. I have been doing that. I should stop, for my own sake. But I can’t force myself without the threat of outside consequences. Those tiny babies probably only eat nutritious organic food. Damn them.

Most of all, I envy that they have no responsibilities. They don’t have jobs. They don’t have classes to attend. There is no one relying on them. Well, no, that’s not true. I rely on them. I rely on them to remind me that youth is fleeting. Make the most of it, those children remind me. Skip my dad’s class. He’s boring. Spend your time making new friends and picking your nose.

That’s the point of SSMU babies. They exist to make summer more bearable and to remind us to go outside and pick our noses in the sunshine.

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