Vieth tweeted images of the signs and shared their frustration with what appeared to be the University’s “re-gendering” of the washrooms. 

“It just feels exhausting,” Vieth told the Daily. “[It’s] par for the course; yet another reason why I don’t feel comfortable accessing services at McGill. It’s a joke at this point.”

Vieth spoke with the Union for Gender Empowerment (UGE), who raised the issue with Kathleen Bateman, Associate Director of Health Promotion and Outreach at the Wellness Hub. Mo Rajji Courtney, Outreach Coordinator for the UGE, said that the new signage was “at best, confusing for trans and gender non-conforming students, and at worst, hostile.” 

Bateman explained to Rajji Courtney that the “re-gendering” had been an oversight. “People, likely janitorial or other staff, were given these signs and were told [to] put them up at their discretion. There were no formal decisions made,” Rajji Courtney shared with the Daily. 

McGill’s Media Relations Office confirmed that the signage has since been changed. “High traffic buildings have signage installed in common spaces […] indicating distancing, direction and other safety measures in relation to COVID-19,” the Office stated in an email exchange with the Daily. “The gender-neutral bathrooms in the Brown Building have not been re-labeled, and there are now gender-neutral signs, which have been replaced this week.”

More than just an oversight

“The disturbing thing is that McGill didn’t print out any COVID-specific all-gender signage,” Rajji Courtney tells the Daily. “We now know that the University didn’t make any decisions to re-gender the washrooms, but it still looked like it had. There’s a fear in that.”

All-gender washrooms tend to be much safer spaces for trans and gender non-conforming people, they explain, because it allows these students to avoid the harassment they often face in gender segregated spaces.  

“This oversight demonstrates that the University didn’t think of their trans and gender non-conforming students when making the signage. They didn’t think of our needs, or of how [the gendered posters] would make us feel,” says Rajji Courtney. “Afraid and excluded – those are not feelings that any student should have to [face] when they’re just trying to go to the bathroom.”

“As an institution, McGill continues to fail trans, non-binary, and gender-nonconforming students,” adds Vieth. 

“When someone makes a complaint, or an article comes out, McGill administrators are quick to say it was a one-off thing. But it’s not just a mistake, or a surprise that comes [out of] nowhere. The transphobia within McGill is systemic; I don’t read instances like these as “mistakes,” but as the predictable result of a lack of care for [these] students. For all its talk about “wellness,” what would happen if Student Services decided to prioritize the wellness of all students, including the transgender, non-binary, and gender-nonconforming members of the McGill community? What if supporting us wasn’t seen as optional?”

Advocating for change

According to Rajji Courtney, McGill does not have a standardized process to help students voice their concerns and advocate for accessibility. Students can instead reach out to the UGE for support via email, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or through a contact form on their website. “It’s our job to make sure that McGill is a trans-inclusive environment,” Rajji Courtney says. “That’s what the UGE aims to do.”

Vieth tells The Daily that while they aren’t optimistic that change will occur at the University anytime soon, their frustration is “based in a kind of optimism about what kind of place McGill can be.”

“I truly believe that McGill could do better, but I also believe that [the University’s] track record shows that it doesn’t want to. And until that track record changes, we’ll be stuck talking about trans people being able to use the bathroom in 2021.”

“It is up to all of us, especially allies, to make noise when we see trans-exclusionary practices at McGill, even if it’s just an oversight,” adds Rajji Courtney. “That’s the only way we can push McGill to become actively trans-inclusive, instead of allowing the University [to make] trans students an afterthought.”

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Many students, however, report difficulties accessing and using OSD services. The Daily spoke with students who have faced a number of these barriers.

The Registration Process

To register and receive accommodations with the OSD, students must provide medical documents that meet specific criteria, including a diagnosis, according to provincial law. Students report facing financial, language, and other barriers when trying to acquire this documentation, which can only be provided by certain types of medical professionals.

Emma,* a second-year student who experiences chronic migraines, explained that the OSD did not accept paperwork from her doctor at the Wellness Hub. “They were like, ‘we need you to go to a neurologist.’ I did go to one back home, but I can’t reach them [now] because I don’t have a phone that can call [my home country], and they don’t have an email address.” Because Emma’s neurologist is in a different time zone, and the OSD only provided her with paperwork in English, the process was made even more difficult for her. 

Leila,* a fourth-year student, shared her frustration regarding the OSD website’s unclear registration instructions. “I asked my therapist to fill out the OSD referral forms so that I could get accommodations, as per the OSD website. She filled out the documentation based on an existing diagnosis, and recommended that I also get tested for ADHD, since she can’t diagnose me for that. When I brought the forms to my appointment, I asked if I could get subsidized testing for ADHD. The OSD said they only subsidize testing for students if they don’t already have a diagnosis, so I [didn’t qualify] for the subsidy. If I hadn’t provided documentation with a diagnosis, I could have possibly gotten tested at the centre. There is no clear information on [the OSD website] about subsidized ADHD testing. Had I known, I would have done things differently. ADHD testing is very expensive.”

“To make a four-year long story short, the OSD refused [to register] me because I have […] above average grades.”

While Leila said she regrets bringing medical documents to her appointment, GC,* another fourth-year student, shared the trouble they have had accessing the OSD without documentation. “I’ve been emailing various people since the start of the semester [to ask] what I should do to get [documentation] and a diagnosis, and so far it’s just been a lot of cancelled appointments due to my lack of [documentation] in the first place.” 

Yara,* a student in the School of Social Work, mentioned a similar incident: “one of my classmates [was registered with] the equivalent of the OSD in CEGEP, but because she did not have an official diagnosis, she [couldn’t receive] any help in university.”

After going through what they described as a slow and confusing registration process, fourth-year student Tessa reports being ultimately turned away from the OSD due to perceived lack of need. “To make a four-year long story short, the OSD refused [to register] me because I have […] above average grades.”

Many students felt that communication from the OSD during the registration process was unclear. “Trying to get a diagnosis, or knowing who at McGill will give [you] one is really hard – everyone seems to [direct you to] a different person, [and each person] wants a different type of referral,” GC told the Daily. Tessa echoed this concern: “I basically had to get three forms filled out because they either kept giving me the wrong one, or [the one I needed] kept changing.”

Accessing Accommodations 

According to students interviewed by the Daily, there has been a significant decrease in note-takers, whom the OSD now refers to as “note-sharers,” in the last few years. “Half of my classes don’t have note-takers. I have one class, I think, that might have [someone], but they’ve only uploaded four files since the beginning of the semester,” Emma mentioned. Students attribute this lack of note-takers to decreases in payment, and the OSD’s final decision to stop paying note-takers entirely last fall. “There were definitely more notes [for] classes when I was in my first year, back when note-takers were paid,” shared Lynne,* another fourth-year student. 

Students also noted that the accommodations that the OSD provided for them weren’t always the ones they needed, citing a lack of personalized learning plans. “My diagnosis determined which accommodations I [received]. Instead of basing them on what I actually needed to learn [better], [the OSD] automatically selected the accommodations that go with my diagnosis,” explained Yara.

Emma had a similar experience: “I have noise and light sensitivity, and for some reason, they have people coming in and out [of the OSD exam centre] constantly, and they shuffle papers the entire time. There was so much noise that I was like, this doesn’t make any sense. It was what I was trying to avoid [by taking my tests] in a smaller room.”

Yara mentioned that accessibility can depend on which professors students have class with, rather than on the OSD and the accommodations they provide. “Honestly, my professors were more accommodating than the OSD. And if I have a professor [who isn’t] accommodating, the OSD is not going to stand up for [me]. I’m really lucky to have professors who want to help me.”

Miranda, a student in the Faculty of Science, said that she finds the process of signing up for accommodations for exams and tests difficult and inefficient. “If I’m doing a quiz, I don’t find it worth it to go through [the entire process] to get my accommodations, even though I would really benefit from having them,” she stated. “It shouldn’t be this hard to be accommodated.”

Students also shared issues they’ve had when receiving the accommodations they are registered for. Miranda recalled an instance when her accommodations were not properly recorded by the OSD. “I start writing my calculus exam assuming that I have the accommodations that I signed up for – 50% extra time. So, I plan for a four-and-a-half-hour exam, but 15 minutes before the three-hour mark, they tell everyone [in the OSD exam centre] that we have 15 minutes left. I raise my hand, and I [explain my accommodations], and they say no, you do not get extra time. And I say, that’s not true, I signed up for it. And they say, no, you’ll be finished in 15 minutes.” Lynne once dealt with a situation similar to Miranda’s – though they registered for their accommodations in advance, the OSD did not notify their professor prior to the exam. 

Moving forward

Students have expressed a desire for clearer communication from the OSD. “I think it would really help to have a [clearer] list of steps for students [to register]” said GC. Lynne added that they would like the OSD to “communicate better with [students] about what’s happening, and about how things are going to work.”

In addition to giving students accommodations, the OSD provides McGill faculty with resources regarding classroom accessibility and Universal Design for Learning; these include webinars, a faculty guide, and a COVID-19 FAQ page for instructors. According to Teri Phillips, Director of the OSD, there were “approximately 830 clicks/views” of these tools in September and October 2020. These statistics do not specify, however, whether these are unique page views, nor whether they are from instructors. Phillips stated that while the OSD “encourage[s] faculty […] to take advantage of all the services and supports [they] offer,” only “some areas, such as the Faculty of Science, have mandated Inclusive Assessment Design” for remote learning. This gives professors the option not to implement UDL in classrooms. “Professors forget about us,” Miranda told the Daily, referring to students with disabilities.   

“There are ableist persons everywhere,” they stated. “We must fight ableism in academia.”

Jonathan Sterne, a professor in Communication Studies, highlighted the challenge that the McGill community is facing in adjusting accessibility measures to remote learning. “Moving online means we are figuring a lot of things out again. Students are re-learning to be students, profs are re-learning to be teachers, and whatever accommodation schemes we had for classroom settings may not be the right ones for online learning.”

Professor Sterne also stressed the importance of accessibility on an institutional level, stating that, “one thing the University could do better is educate people about disability. There’s still a lot of ignorance and stigma in our community.” 

Another faculty member, who asked to remain anonymous, echoed this idea, while indicating the larger issue at hand. “It is not the OSD’s [role] to teach the professors [about] Universal Design for instruction. [The OSD] does not have the human and financial resources to assume that duty. The University should [under]take the social responsibility of educating everyone on ableism, and how to put an end to it.” 

“There are ableist persons everywhere,” they stated. “We must fight ableism in academia. That is the challenge.”

* Names have been changed to preserve anonymity.

This article was updated on November 26, 2020 to include comments from the OSD.

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It’s the second Friday since the World Health Organization (WHO) declared the outbreak of COVID-19 to be a pandemic, and Bird is in her living room, performing for a virtual audience on Instagram. She isn’t supposed to be home. Fans had expected to see her play a rescheduled show at Shepherd’s Bush Empire in London, but the UK has called for the cancellation of all mass gatherings. Bird has invited her fans to this virtual gig instead – she’s hoping to raise spirits. “It’s a little bit nerve-racking,” she admits as the livestream begins. Comments flood the lower half of the screen: a chorus of heart-eyed emojis and preemptive song requests. “Don’t be nervous, we love you!” someone replies.

Bird sits on a piano bench, holding a sheer white guitar. Her long brown hair is loose and disheveled, and she’s wearing jeans and a bright orange sweater instead of her usual “power jumpsuit” performance attire. Her guitarist and partner Luke Prosser sits on the back of a couch to her right, and a bookshelf behind them displays a small record collection. “Ready?” she asks Prosser, and they open the set with Bird’s 2018 breakout hit “Lottery” from her EP Something American.

Bird is a skillful guitarist, and an even better storyteller. She sings about betrayal, conveying a scorned woman’s rage and heartbreak for an invisible audience. Any indication that she is nervous disappears; Bird’s voice is crisp and self-assured. The virtual crowd sings along with her and Prosser by typing lyrics out in capital letters. One fan jokes: “I left Hozier’s livestream to watch yours lol.” 

When Bird launches into “I Get No Joy” from her self-titled debut album, she showcases her unique blend of roots rock, country, blues, and pop. Her voice alternates between her composition’s softer, stripped-back verses, and the harder, raspy, punk-ish choruses. Bird’s lyrics are rapid-fire and explosive: “Psychotic, hypnotic, erotic; which box is your thing?” she asks playfully. Then, she yells “What do you need?” into the camera. As a young female artist, Bird is both unapologetically angry and joyful, an extreme combination that resonates with the heightened collective emotions of the pandemic-world. Bird’s virtual crowd thanks her, admitting that they “needed this today!” One fan even reveals that they are “recovering from covid, and your singing is helping lift my spirits.”

Between songs, Bird and Prosser get closer to the phone to engage with the audience. “I hope we’re all feeling okay,” says Bird. Her face fills the entire screen. “I know we’re all feeling a little anxious at the moment.”  In a time when people must increasingly use FaceTime to maintain human connection, Bird’s virtual concert feels more like a private video call with a very talented friend. Bird takes song requests from the crowd, and then accidentally drops her phone on the floor. She bursts out laughing. Above all, this new way of sharing “live” music is extremely personal. Virtual concerts bring together hundreds of people in isolation, yet every fan is now in the front row of the show, and every show is in a space that the artist considers home.

Bird and Prosser play a few more upbeat originals from Jade Bird, switching up their instruments with virtuosity. Bird alternates between her piano and her guitar to accompany herself, while Prosser joins her on vocals, guitar, and a bluesy harmonica. They perform an exciting cover of Son House’s “Grinnin’ In Your Face,” and then a stripped-down cover of Radiohead’s “Black Star.” Fans swoon as Bird and Prosser lock eyes to harmonize on the lyric “What are we coming to?” Someone in the audience gushes: “God you two are so adorable.” 

The highlight of Bird’s Friday night set comes at the very end. Accompanied by Prosser’s melodious piano chords, Bird performs her ballad “Something American” to finish her 45-minute set. When she belts the lyric “we’re all reaching for something American,” her voice fills with anguish. She stops watching her virtual audience, and for a moment, she is alone in her living room. “I can feel you’re lonely,” she sings in a tender almost-whisper. It’s a moment of respite. The crowd sends Bird a series of multi-coloured heart reactions. They drift upwards on the screen in a steady kaleidoscopic stream.

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On the opening track of Not Waving, But Drowning, Carner has fallen in love, and he’s ready to move “out the south, out the house,” but “never out of touch” with his mother. “Dear Jean” is his “Dear Mama” moment. Like Tupac, Carner praises his mother, rapping with a mid-tempo flow: “I had a dream and it came true / And I can only blame you.” Carner then allows Jean to respond on the album’s final track “Dear Ben” – a master class in vulnerability. Over the same bright piano melody as “Dear Jean,” Carner’s mother reads out a poem she’s written about her son’s childhood, and reflects on the loss of his stepfather. “Wait until the world hears this!” Carner tells her in the track’s outro. Then, if you’re paying attention, you can hear the rapper kiss his mother on the cheek right before the music ends.

Despite the positive outlook musically embedded within this new chapter, Carner doesn’t shy away from sharing his struggles. Many songs on Not Waving, But Drowning revolve around feelings of alienation and insecurity. “I’m lost / Still / Wondering my cost” he admits on “Still,” and then again in the hook of “Looking Back,” a song that explores Carner’s mixed racial identity. “I’m thinking that my great grandfather could have owned my other one,” he writes. “And yo, that shit is weird.” Most tracks are piano-led and feature minimal percussion. This stripped-down feel, along with Carner’s signature spoken-word delivery draws attention to the personal nature of his lyrics. Carner could almost be sitting beside you on his living room sofa, confessing all his darkest fears.

“It’s Coming Home?” is a centering moment for the album. Captured by Carner’s mother on the night of England’s penalty shootout victory in the 2018 World Cup, the recording features the Coyle-Larner family’s banter over the sound of a television. The track goes silent twenty seconds in, until it explodes with astonished cheers – a loud, overwhelming instance of pure joy. This small victory matters, even though England goes on to lose the World Cup. After listening to Carner struggle with feeling at home in the world, to hear him holler with delight is an emotional experience. Above all, Not Waving, But Drowning is a celebration of hope – a sonic reminder to “leave everything in yesterday,” (“Ottolenghi”) and to keep going despite your losses. And when Loyle Carner wonders if the “blazing sun” will ever shine again, you believe that it will.

The post Loyle Carner is Letting You In appeared first on The McGill Daily.

But this isn’t a love letter to television. On August 10, 2018, the “dark comedy” Insatiable premiered on Netflix. The series is about a high school student named Patty (Debby Ryan) who loses 70 pounds by having her jaw wired shut, after being punched in the face by a homeless man (Daniel Thomas May) who was trying to steal her food. Yes, you read that right.

It gets worse: the “new” Patty seeks revenge on anyone that’s ever bullied her. She decides to compete in beauty pageants, and teams up with Bob Armstrong (Dallas Roberts), a pageant coach disgraced due to a false accusation of sexual assault and pedophilia. If Patty is crowned Miss Magic Jesus, then Bob can earn back his good name. Which is, of course, just what we need in the era of #MeToo — a narrative that not only mocks sexual assault, but that also features a redemption arc for the alleged assaulter.

I could go on, but I wouldn’t know when to stop. Insatiable is fuelled by jokes about being closeted, about fatness, statutory rape, and racism. In response to the claim that these jokes are meant as satire, critic Linda Holmes writes: “Insatiable is satire in the same way someone who screams profanities out a car window is a spoken-word poet.” And author Roxane Gay tweets: “Satire isn’t a free pass for bullshit.”

The series was panned by critics, and it maintains a low 11% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. An online petition urging for a cancellation from Netflix began circulating as soon as the trailer for Insatiable premiered in July 2018; this petition has now accumulated over 235, 000 signatures.

And yet.

Despite the backlash, and much to my personal dismay, Netflix renewed Insatiable for a second season on September 12. Millions of dollars will be invested in more regressive and hateful material.

Insatiable is but one example of the harmful content that Netflix continues to greenlight. I felt the same outrage when the network renewed 13 Reasons Why, a series about teen suicide and rape that doesn’t explicitly address mental illness (don’t even get me started on that school shooting plot!). I felt it when I tried to watch The Kissing Booth, Netflix’s sexist disaster of a romantic comedy, and when Sierra Burgess is a Loser not only romanticized catfishing, but also featured an unsettling scene with a non-consensual kiss, and another where a character pretends to have a disability.

Insatiable is but one example of the harmful content that Netflix continues to greenlight.

Even more frustrating is the feedback on any negative review of this type of content. Articles about Insatiable have received comments like, “Don’t like it… don’t watch it. Too many big babies out in the world. Boo hoo” and “if you were slim you would be less angry.” You know, dismissing claims of fatphobia with some more fatphobia. Worst of all, I find comments from viewers who say that these negative reviews are what draw them to the series, that the controversy is responsible for the creation of an active fanbase.

This idea — that when writers call out harmful media, they allow it to take up more space in the world — makes me feel powerless. How do I talk about the things that hurt me without drawing more attention to them? Does criticizing harmful content inevitably encourage hate-watching?

I started watching Insatiable because of the lack of accurate fictional narratives about people living with eating disorders. I believe in the importance of telling these stories, but they must be told with respect and compassion for the people who live them. Though producer Lauren Gussis claims to have based Insatiable on her own experience with binge-eating and mental illness, she has not considered how her work might affect a broader audience. Insatiable may have been cathartic for her, but it was painful for many others who were hoping to connect with something meaningful.

How do I talk about the things that hurt me without drawing more attention to them? Does criticizing harmful content inevitably encourage hate-watching?

And when showrunners respond to valid criticism, it’s always with the same excuse: they are very sorry that their art has hurt people, but at least we’re now discussing important issues. 13 Reasons Why creator Brian Yorkey believes in graphically depicting traumatic incidents because “talking about it is so much better than silence.” And Insatiable’s Lauren Gussis says that her intention in making art is to “spark conversation through satire and comedy. Because then at least people are talking about it and not brushing it under the rug, and airing it out.” She also feels that growth “comes from discomfort and pain.”

It doesn’t have to. At least, not from the way in which Insatiable and 13 Reasons Why use discomfort and pain. While both these showrunners’ intentions seem noble, they don’t diminish the harm that this art has caused. There are other ways to break down stigmas. We can make room for thoughtful and nuanced conversations around social issues the way that One Day at a Time, Crazy Ex- Girlfriend or My Mad Fat Diary make it happen: with humour, sensitivity and empathetic honesty.

The reboot of One Day at a Time addresses racism, LGBT experiences, and mental illness through the portrayal of a Cuban-American family. Crazy Ex-Girlfriend tackles feminism and mental illness through satirical Broadway-style musical numbers, and My Mad Fat Diary succeeds where Insatiable fails — the British series is a raw look at the life of a 16-year-old girl who struggles with coming to terms with her eating disorder and related mental health issues.

So, where does that leave us with harmful media? What do we do when all the petitions and negative reviews in the world can’t stop the renewal of a series like Insatiable?

This isn’t a love letter to television; it’s a call to stop amplifying bad content. I acknowledge that perhaps that’s exactly what I have done by writing this piece, but while I have provided a list of harmful material, I have also offered relevant alternatives. Don’t hate-watch harmful content. Doing so gives a series the viewership it relies on to get renewed. Don’t make Insatiable your guilty pleasure.

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