But although they are usually presented as a power duo, they both have very strong individual presences, like little rebellions from only ever being seen as twins. Tegan presents as more outgoing, usually taking the lead during their famous concert banter. Sara is more reserved, always looking pensive. But their memoir High School reveals far more complex individuals: Tegan’s confidence comes with a deep desire to be heard and Sara’s distant tendency shows a rich but sometimes troubling inner world. So how to reconcile such different albums, eras, and people? Perhaps it is by making themselves relatable to so many – and especially to young queer fans – that they’ve been able to stay relevant for more than two decades now.

The best way to understand Tegan and Sara’s music is through their extensive discography – few pop artists have nine albums, which for fans serves as a sort of archive on the band’s growth. Their music should be looked at like a film in which you get to watch a character grow and navigate different stages of life. If you pay close enough attention to the sounds of each album, you can witness their coming of age, and maybe even yours too. You can hear the loneliness of young adulthood in So Jealous. You can hear deep longing and pain in The Con. You can hear them gain confidence in Heartthrob and the playfulness of self-discovery in Love You to Death. The band’s progression is filled with contradiction, showing how growing up is always messy. Their latest album Hey, I’m Just Like You is the perfect chapter-closer and a snapshot into their careers: all the songs on the record were written while they were still in high school, aided by the tapes that the sisters had gathered from friends and family. The most striking element from their newer and older songs is their willingness to look back to a painful, embarrassing, and formative era with compassion and vulnerability – reflection which they also do in their memoir. In an interview for The New York Times, they share their thoughts on the music from their teenage years: “It wasn’t rudimentary,” they explained, “There was something remarkable about what we were trying to say.” Tegan and Sara’s music flips the narrative that says that  teenagers cannot make meaningful art and encourages their younger fans to take themselves seriously in their passions.  

Although I love the songs that make me feel seen, their most interesting songs are the ones that I relate to the least, probably because they feel like possibilities rather than old stories. “I’m All Messed Up” is one of my favourite songs, especially when Sara sings it acoustically. The song has a very pop arrangement and feels more spaced out than older songs like “Soil, Soil” and “Hop a Plane.” The interjections punched in the background – Sara cries “go” and Tegan cries “stay” – have that undeniable entwined Tegan and Sara feel. It is in moments like those that their music feels the most special: when you see how they complement each other while being almost exact opposites.  

Tegan and Sara stand out not only for their musical achievements but also because they have always been subversive. Their musical influences are very clear in their early albums. They grew up in the nineties and were huge fans of Nirvana, Ani DiFranco, and The Smashing Pumpkins. They were out and had shaved heads, piercings, mullets, and tattoos in a time where women in mainstream music portrayed approaches to femininity curated to be heteronormative. Their queerness was shamed and ridiculed by homophobic and sexist press coverage, with articles calling them “tampon rock” and isolating their music from mainstream listeners. But part of their power has been in reclaiming the spaces they were relegated to. They have become cultural icons of the indie music scene as well as the queer community. Their music has been featured in major queer shows and movies like The L Word and Happiest Season. Even if Tegan and Sara’s look – and in many ways the style of their current music – feels less grungy now, this does not take away from their significance as queer icons. Rather, it is a testament to their evolution as artists and their willingness to explore spaces queer women are rarely allowed to, like pop music. For fans such as myself, Tegan and Sara opened new ways of gender expression, style, and queer desire which feel deeply foundational to my identity. When I was introduced to their music, for the first time in my life, I did not have to change the pronouns of a song for it to fit my own experiences.  I also found the curiosity to explore the style of clothes I wore, and to be more visible in my gender expression. By seeing them sing about their queer love and heartbreak I felt like I could imagine a life that was just as rich and full as the ones I was seeing straight people have. These may not seem like huge instances of self affirmation, but being able to fully relate to something without having to adapt myself to a heteronormative standard felt amazing. Tegan and Sara’s music feels like coming home, and they have built a community that is safe, and queer, and exciting. 

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At the epidemiological level, traveling poses several health risks, such as spreading the virus at the destination as well as in the country of origin after traveling. Traveling abroad to get a shot could be highly counterproductive and is evidence of privilege that may prove deadly for the most vulnerable communities. This is not only a matter of individual health, but also proof that you can buy your spot in the line through unethical means. As traveling during the pandemic has only been accessible to a small proportion of people who have the economic means to do so; unlike popular belief, the pandemic was not the great equalizer it was thought to be. More than ever, it is painfully obvious that healthcare is only guaranteed to those who will pay for it. The euphemistic term “vaccine tourism” hides the ugly truth of what it entails: cutting the line, overlooking the needs of the communities where vaccines are being administered, using the resources of a place you don’t contribute taxes to, and endangering vulnerable people who live there. 

The phenomenon also highlights larger problems with the way vaccine distribution is handled in the international community. Despite some efforts to guarantee access to the vaccine to countries in the Global South, rich countries are hoarding vaccine supply to the point that Canada has ordered more than enough to vaccinate its entire population five times, per the People’s Vaccine Alliance. This artificially created scarcity pushes people to try to get their hands on a shot by any means possible.

However, this logic can be misleading. While the issue of vaccine disparity is very real and mostly systemic, this does not absolve individuals from the responsibility of their actions. Furthermore, even if vaccines are available in countries like the United States, inoculations have not been equally distributed to Black and undocumented communities. In the US, people of colour are more likely to die from COVID-19. At the same time, Black Americans get vaccinated at half the rate as white Americans, so economic elites cutting the line are directly impacting the people that need it the most. 

After a year of uncertainty, the end of the pandemic is nearing. But unfortunately, how close we are to that end is still up to us, and vaccine tourism undermines the efforts and sacrifices of the people most at risk. 

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Although some people argue that content warnings give free passes for students to skip class (we’re looking at you, boomers), warnings are actually the best way to make sure all students can engage with the content of the class. Students are full and complex people, with lives outside of class, and it is unrealistic to expect students to hermetically compartmentalize their experiences. Trauma is not something you can just choose to ignore. 

I recently emailed a professor asking to have content warnings in lectures covering racism and other forms of oppression. I explained that being caught by surprise by a lecture that talks about these issues could potentially resurface previous trauma and subject students to reliving very painful experiences. The professor was very understanding and assured me he would include content warnings in the future. Professors want to listen to their students and make their learning experiences as inclusive as possible. 

However, despite good intentions, many professors still haven’t incorporated content warnings into their courses, probably not understanding their importance or even where and how to include them. This is partly due to the fact that McGill’s faculty has been historically white, male, cisgender, heterosexual, and able-bodied. Only 39% of surveyed faculty reported belonging to an ethnic, racial, or other minority group. This means that most of the faculty has the privilege to choose to be informed about minority rights, which is not the case for people who are confronted with the daily reality of oppression.  Students have the responsibility to contact their professors and ask to have content warnings. Recognize that racialized students, members of the 2SLGBTQIA+ community and neurodivergent students should not carry the burden of educating their white, cisgender-heterosexual, neurotypical professors and peers on top of dealing with trauma. Even if the types of trauma and oppression being discussed in a class do not directly affect you, you still have a responsibility to educate yourself about marginalized experiences that are not your own, listen, and notify professors and classmates when they cross the line.

It is crucial to create safe learning spaces where all students feel comfortable around their professors and their peers, and where they do not feel victimized by the content of the class. In many cases, sending out a polite email to the professor is enough. Here is a sample you can use to email your professors, either at the beginning of the semester or as issues arise. Obviously, the email can be adapted to specific circumstances, but it is key to explain why you feel it’s critical to have content warnings and be open to any questions they may have. If you want to make your pitch to professors impossible to reject, the University of Michigan published a helpful article detailing how and why professors should implement content warnings in course materials. 

Dear Prof. X, 

I hope you are doing well! I read over the syllabus and noticed that many of our lectures will touch on very difficult subjects that could potentially resurface trauma in some students. I was wondering if it would be possible to include trigger and content warnings at the beginning of lectures and in the syllabus in order to make sure all students feel safe and cared for in this class. The University of Michigan has an article explaining the importance of trigger warnings as well as how to include them in learning materials.

Thank you for your time and consideration, 

[Your name]

Contacting your professors and asking for content warnings is an important step towards building a safe and inclusive learning environment, and it proves to them and to your peers that you are engaged with what you are learning and that you are committed to your community. Speaking up is key to setting a precedent for being considerate of all students’ experiences, and shifting academia to be critical and empathetic. This should be at the top of all students’ and faculty’s agenda.

The article was updated on November 23, 2020.

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