Archive for Cameron Ainsworth-Vincze

In a new course, a Montreal professor equates devotion to the Habs with religion.

Almost every religion has its sacred places of worship. For Tibetan Buddhists, it’s the Jokhang temple at the foot of Mount Gephel in Lhasa; for Hindus, the shrines of Varanasi on the Ganges River in northern India; and according to one professor, the Bell Centre in downtown Montreal for the pious and devoted followers of the Montreal Canadiens.

The idea that the Canadiens are a religious institution, with the Bell Centre serving as its cathedral, came to Olivier Bauer, a theology professor at the Université de Montréal, as a “divine inspiration,” he says, when he first arrived in the city to teach at the faculty of theology and religious studies in 2006. He decided to write a book to explore the subject, The Religion of the Montreal Canadiens, that coincided with the team’s 100th anniversary last year, and he started a course on the subject to further examine Quebec’s century-long bond with the city’s legendary hockey club.

Bauer, who was born in Switzerland and played goal when he attended the Université de Neuchâtel, has some overwhelming evidence to support his assertion. “It starts with the jersey,” he says, “which is often referred to as la Sainte-Flanelle, the Holy Flannel.” He then points to the media and general public in Montreal who often assign religious names to certain players: Guy Lafleur was affectionately known as le Démon Blond (the Blond Demon); Patrick Roy was St. Patrick—until demanding a trade in 1995 got him labelled a heretic; and Carey Price, the team’s young goaltender, is hailed as Jesus Price. The mercurial Andrei Kostitsyn is Frère André.

And who might be God? “Maurice Richard, for sure,” says Bauer, and “Don Cherry is Lucifer because real Habs fans don’t like him. But if they want to be honest, they have to admit that he brings light to the dark world of hockey.” The fans, meanwhile, are the “priests celebrating the liturgy,” some of whom climb Saint Joseph’s Oratory on the northern slope of Mount Royal before important games to pray.

Bauer’s inaugural class last year drew theology students in the pastoral stream along with hard-core Canadiens fans. Taught in three parts, its first section addressed relics. As an example, Bauer points to Maurice Richard, considered by some to be a sort of divine entity possessed of healing qualities. Legend has it that a mute man began to speak after seeing Richard score a goal. The second segment looked at rituals, including whether or not there are similarities between a Canadiens game and a religious mass. (Apparently one student thinks so: he showed Bauer a picture of his living room complete with an altar adorned with pucks, red candles and a miniature Stanley Cup. A seat from the old Montreal Forum is his chair of choice when watching playoff games.) The final section addressed certain pastoral questions, such as: “If I’m in charge of a religious community, how do I deal with the Habs religion?” Assignments ranged from studying media coverage of the team and examining religious metaphors, behaviours and ethics, to drawing links between these religious elements and devotion to the Habs. When the course starts up next semester, Bauer wants to bring in guest speakers to share their own ideas about the Canadiens religion. Don Cherry is tops on Bauer’s list of potential candidates.

Surprisingly, Bauer doesn’t ascribe to the religion of the Montreal Canadiens, despite promoting its existence. “It is a very tribal religion and could be a violent religion because if you are a fan of the Canadiens you have to hate the Bruins or the Leafs, and I don’t think that is a value that religion should promote,” says Bauer, who before coming to Montreal worked as a Protestant pastor in Washington. “I think religion is love and it’s important to remember that you play with someone, not against someone.”

Set for release next month is Bauer’s latest book, A Theology of the Montreal Canadiens, in which he further explores the unfavourable aspects of the Habs religion. In addition to its tribal nature, Bauer feels that it’s too exclusive because only fans who can afford the pricey tickets can attend games, and average players are largely ignored. He also thinks it plays too much into human frailty. “Fans think that performing some rituals will convince God to do exactly what they want,” says Bauer. “I prefer to let God be free to surprise me and give me what I really need.” In June, Bauer will present a paper in Buffalo at an international scholarly conference, Hockey on the Border, where he will argue that the province’s passion for the Canadiens walks a fine line between faith and idolatry.

As for the Canadiens biggest rivals, the Toronto Maple Leafs, Bauer says the faith of their followers is being tested as the team approaches a 43-year Stanley Cup drought. “Cheering for the Leafs,” he adds with a devilish laugh, “is like going to church when you know there is no God.”

Tough. Challenging. Rewarding. That’s student life at the Royal Military College

At precisely 7:30 on a cool, damp morning in late October, moments before the sun begins its ascent into an overcast sky, the Parade Square on the campus of the Royal Military College in Kingston, Ont., is filled with about 1,000 cadets wearing camouflage uniforms. They are aligned in a giant U formation, and in the middle stands their cadet wing commander, 21-year-old Nicolas Bouchard, a fourth-year chemical engineering student and army combat engineer.

“I’m throwing you a challenge,” says Bouchard into a microphone. “Anyone who gets either a 95 per cent average at the end of the semester, or anyone who gets 500 on the next PPT [Physical Performance Test], will have an award created in your name.” A hush falls over the cadets. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Bouchard continues, “but I believe that’s what Russell Crowe really meant [in the movie Gladiator] when he said, ‘What you do in life echoes in eternity.’ ” The speech ends, but a buzz filters through the crowd. At RMC, cadets are used to big challenges, and this one is no exception.

Just getting into the college is difficult. In any given year, the 39 Canadian Forces recruitment centres across the country receive as many as 1,500 applications for the Registered Officer Training Program (ROTP); only about 300 make it into the college. Applicants need at least a 70 per cent high school average, although most have an average greater than 80. And they must successfully complete a series of aptitude tests, interviews and medical examinations. Being well-rounded is also imperative. “A person who has a 95 per cent average but never had a part-time job, played a sport or had a hobby will really struggle here because they have never multi-tasked,” says Commodore William Truelove, RMC’s commandant, who is the head of the institution.

Anyone who makes the cut had better not expect a laid-back transition into university life. Before classes begin in the fall, all first-year cadets take part in their first military training exercise: a three-week boot camp. If you hail from Ontario or the West, the training takes place at RMC; those from Quebec and the Maritimes travel to the Canadian Forces Leadership and Recruit School in Saint-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Que., which also serves as a preparatory school for Quebec students who want to complete their first year of CÉGEP and then attend RMC. “The boot camp is a bit of a transition, to say the least, if you just came from sitting on your couch,” notes Bouchard, who was born in Summerside, P.E.I. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.”

Upon arrival, cadets have their hair cropped, their cellphones and computers taken away, and their civilian clothes exchanged for military fatigues. Each day brings intense physical training exercises and lectures designed to teach the basics of military life and the officer-like qualities needed to be an effective leader and comrade.

They are also introduced to an idea that could one day alter, or even end, their lives: unlimited liability. “It means you agree to go off and serve your country at the risk of potentially losing your life, as some of our countrymen have done,” says Truelove. “Over the next four years, and through their summer training and courses, you instill in them that reality.”

Before you apply to medical school, spend eight hours in this doctor’s shoes

By the age of three it was apparent that Telisha Smith-Gorvie would become a doctor. Growing up in Winnipeg, one of four sisters, little Telisha would mix household items into margarine jars, then place them in the freezer overnight in hopes that they would turn into a magical remedy that she could use to treat an illness. Today, Telisha is more often referred to as Dr. Smith-Gorvie, a 28-year-old, fourth-year resident in the emergency wing of St. Michael’s Hospital in downtown Toronto. It’s shortly after 4 p.m. on an early August afternoon, and her eight-hour shift has just started.

She pulls a yellow hospital gown over her clothes, straps a medical mask around her head and enters Room 5 of St. Mike’s major emergency ward. Inside, doctors from the intensive care unit and internal medicine are tending to a man in his late 30s who is dry heaving violently. He was en route to the intensive care unit after being brought in with severe breathing problems, but in the past few moments his symptoms have worsened to the point where he may need to be intubated—a process that involves inserting a plastic tube down the throat directly into the trachea to protect the patient’s airway while providing a means for mechanical ventilation. He frantically sways from side to side on the bed, struggling to inhale while constantly lunging forward as the doctors attempt to restrain him. Smith-Gorvie hovers at the foot of the bed staring at the heart monitor over the patient’s left shoulder, ready to help out with the intubation procedure if needed. And then the man’s symptoms abruptly subside and the doctors and nurses gently lie him down to rest. Smith-Gorvie realizes that her presence is no longer needed and leaves the room. “They have enough people in there,” she says. “I’m not totally sure what the problem is. Might be an asthma attack or an infection of some sort.”

As a fourth-year resident doctor, Smith-Gorvie is hardly ever on the periphery. In the first two years of her five-year residency program she, like all other resident doctors across Canada, worked under more senior residents and full-time staff doctors to learn the ropes. But as a senior resident, she is responsible for running the department under the supervision of a staff emergency doctor, and she handles her own patient load while working side by side with more junior resident doctors, helping them develop their skills.

To get to this stage of her career, Smith-Gorvie put eight years of university education under her belt—four years of undergrad and four years of medical school—followed by this ongoing residency experience. She did a bachelor of science in microbiology at the University of Manitoba, graduating with an average of between A and A+. She stayed on to pursue her MD. And when Smith-Gorvie graduated in the spring of 2005, she moved to Toronto after one of her tutorial leaders at U of M suggested that it was a great place to begin a career. “I spent the first 25 years of my life in Winnipeg,” she says. “I love the city, but I wanted a change.”

After exiting Room 5, Smith-Gorvie walks toward the main desk of the major emergency wing, and sits down with first-year resident Dr. Albert Allen to review the status of patients who have recently been admitted. His shift ended 20 minutes ago and Smith-Gorvie needs be brought up to speed before he heads out. The first case is Margaret (first names only are used throughout this story to protect patient privacy), a 58-year-old diabetic with a history of strokes. Allen ticks off her symptoms: weakness in both legs, blurry vision, sore throat, loss of voice. He then reviews her medical history. Margaret has high blood pressure and cholesterol levels, and just three weeks ago suffered a stroke. Her symptoms began to worsen at around noon today. Allen does most of the talking while Smith-Gorvie listens. She then asks for Margaret’s electrocardiogram (ECG), which traces a person’s heart rate to pick up abnormalities, and probes him about Margaret’s trouble with her vision. “Is she having problems seeing out of both eyes, or just one in particular?” Allen is unsure. “Let’s go see her then,” says Telisha, quickly rising. She heads toward the end of the emergency department, where Margaret is lying on a stretcher in the hallway corner, her husband by her side. Allen follows close behind.

When they arrive, Smith-Gorvie introduces herself and begins conducting tests. “How many fingers am I holding up,” she asks, repeating the test on each eye, and varying the number of fingers in front of Margaret’s face. Allen peers over Smith-Gorvie’s shoulder, listening and taking notes. Margaret looks frail and tired and her replies are barely audible, forcing Smith-Gorvie to lean in close. The patient’s husband adds that the blurry vision has been happening off and on for about four days. The two residents consult and they decide that Margaret should be sent upstairs to radiology to have a CAT scan. The CAT scan could show if there is any damage inside the brain that might have resulted from a new stroke. But as Smith-Gorvie discusses with Allen as they walk away, since Margaret is recovering from a recent stroke, and it’s not her first, the CAT scan may not be able to distinguish between old and new damage.

Top law students are supposed to want to end up here — yet many wonder if in doing so, they took a wrong turn

It’s nearing 10 p.m. one humid evening in late August when Debbie answers her office phone. We’ve exchanged nearly a dozen emails and voice messages in the span of a week, trying to find a time for us to discuss her life as a first-year associate on Bay Street. I’ve reminded her that our talk will be brief: 15 minutes, 20 at most. As soon as she picks up, it’s clear that I’ve caught her at a bad time. Her words are abrupt, her language laden with cursing and papers are heard rustling in the background. We reschedule, again, allowing her to return to another late evening. “I’m going to be here all night,” she says. “Sometimes I really hate my job. You can quote me on that.”

Debbie (not her real name; all names of associates in this article have been changed) is about to complete her first full year in corporate law at a large, downtown Toronto law firm. On a busy day, she bills between 10 to 15 hours, depending on how many files she has on the go and how much work she receives from those above her. But billable hours, the measure of lawyerly output at a firm, don’t come close to covering the total amount of time she spends in the office. She estimates that for every eight hours billed, she is actually at work for 10. In an average week, she usually bills around 45 hours and is in the office for about 60. Her target at the end of the year — as is the standard for most first-year associates working on Bay Street — is around 1,700 billable hours. To reach that goal Debbie often works weekends. From January to March this past year she worked parts of every weekend, except two.

Although Debbie enjoys the work and points out that it is “insane how much I have learned in the past year,” this wasn’t exactly her ideal career path when she entered law school. “I, like everyone else who goes to law school, thinks they’re totally not going to Bay Street.” Debbie wanted to be a social justice lawyer and do “good things for the world,” she adds, but felt intimidated talking in front of people and wasn’t keen on the adversarial atmosphere of the courtroom.

Bay Street, in contrast, presented a vast array of opportunities, including exposure to different aspects of the law, an abundance of training and articling positions, and, of course, a very handsome salary once she became an associate. This past year, Debbie earned roughly $95,000 for her efforts. “We get paid very well. It’s not entry level,” she says. “I do remind myself when I am working long, hard hours that I am being compensated for it.”

So are her colleagues on Bay Street. According to figures provided by ZSA Legal Recruitment, a national recruitment firm, first-year associates at large Toronto firms can expect to take home $90,000 to $105,000, plus annual bonuses of up to 30 per cent. (See accompanying table, p. 60.) Most of those first-years pulling down this kind of money are, like Debbie, still in their 20s. And those high starting salaries are on an upward escalator. By the third year, compensation jumps to between $110,000 and $127,000, plus bonuses. By the fifth year, it’s $130,000 to $190,000. Make partner a few years later, and you could be pulling in double or triple that amount.

That’s clearly part of Bay Street’s attraction. Compensation is well above the average, even for lawyers. According to ZSA, associates at large firms in Ottawa or Edmonton are paid $40,000 to $70,000. Lawyers at small firms in those two cities may earn as little as $30,000. And in Atlantic Canada, associates at large firms make less than $50,000 in their first year.

But money isn’t the only reason Debbie is working on Bay Street. She says that she is gaining valuable experience, has a great working relationship with most of the people in her office and, above all, finds the work to be interesting most of the time. “That’s an important thing in a career because you’re going to be doing it for however many years,” says Debbie. Yet there is one major drawback of the job that she is having difficulties with — a lack of control over her personal life. “I can make plans and try to organize my week in a certain way but everything can change in a day, in an hour,” she says. “If things need to get done urgently, it means plans are changed at the drop of a hat and staying until midnight to work.”

That lack of control is echoed among lawyers across this country. According to a 2005 survey of more than 1,400 lawyers released by Catalyst, a research and advisory group formed to support the advancement of women, 84 per cent of women lawyers and 66 per cent of men said they would move to another firm if it offered an environment more supportive of family and personal commitments. The study also found that 81 per cent of women and 67 per cent of men would jump ship to have more control over their work schedules. And while 44 per cent of women said they would move to another firm for greater advancement opportunities, a far greater number, 66 per cent, said they’d switch firms if it allowed them to work fewer hours. (Men, in contrast, were equally likely to choose between moving for career reasons and moving to reduce their hours.)

For Karen, a mid-level associate who has worked for two Bay Street firms since graduating from law school, that lack of control, along with other negative experiences, has become too much. She’s leaving Bay Street for the public sector. “I have come to realize that I just don’t like working in a law firm,” she says over the phone while driving in rush-hour traffic. “I don’t like the billable hours structure. I find it extremely stifling … and so claustrophobic.” Karen enjoyed her articling year — the training year that all Canadian lawyers undergo between finishing law school and being accepted as a full-fledged lawyer — but everything changed once she was hired on as an associate. “The competition aspect of it kicked into high gear once we became associates. Then you really had to prove yourself.”

What Karen says she encountered was a cutthroat work environment and a job that demanded long hours. She also felt pressured to continually endear herself to certain senior staff members. “I’m not very good at the politics of working in a firm. It’s a skill that you really have to learn,” she says. Midway through her second year it became evident that she wasn’t a proper fit with the firm, and they mutually agreed that it was best for her to leave.

Karen’s second job on Bay Street has unfortunately proven to be just as unsatisfying as the first. This time around the most difficult hurdle has been her dealings with one particular colleague. “She has been so miserable to me since the day I started and has been undermining my work, been competitive about the files that have come in, and I know has never hesitated in giving negative feedback about me to the other lawyers,” she says. “It is a big part of why I’m leaving.” Karen hopes a job in the public sector will mean a little more flexibility for her lifestyle, and a more supportive atmosphere. “That is my priority, along with not spending 99 per cent of my time at the office.”

Some schools serve up fine dining. And others? Well, not so much.

Shortly before the University of Manitoba’s Pembina Hall opened for dinner one evening last spring, Matt Soprovich led a group of students in a march to the steps of the U of M’s administration building. Wearing T-shirts emblazoned with the letters “F.U.” (Food service Unfulfilled) and carrying empty dining hall trays, they wanted to deliver a message: they were sick and tired of the food. “Students tell me, ‘Hey Matt, I got food poisoning the other day… I vomited a dozen times this year,’ ” the third-year political science student shouted into a microphone to an audience of about 50. “For $400 a month, we deserve more.”

In the days following, things appeared to change for the better. “At the next couple of dinners they brought out a really nice spread with a buffet and they had this chicken with a splendid sauce so wonderfully prepared,” he recounts. “That lasted about a week.”

To underscore the seriousness of his cause, Soprovich conducted a survey asking students to rate the food, and published the findings in an 11-page manifesto entitled The Aramark Manifesto, named after the university’s exclusive food provider. Of the 45 people who took part in the survey, 20 said they had experienced symptoms such as nausea, lethargy, diarrhea and vomiting. To make his case with senior university administrators, Soprovich invited them to lunch — in the dining hall. They all declined. “Sorry, I have another engagement,” wrote the provost and vice-president academic, Robert Kerr. “However, I hear the food is pretty good and have done the residence visit before so do not really need to test it. Enjoy your lunch.”

Griping about the quality of university food is nothing new, and it’s hardly unique to the University of Manitoba. The annual Maclean’s Guide to Canadian Universities has been conducting a “campus confidential” survey for the past 10 years — asking student newspapers, clubs and union representatives to describe what’s hot and what’s not at their respective universities — and complaints about cafeteria food are as commonplace as the mystery meat served in many a dining hall on Sunday nights.

At Brock University’s DeCew dining hall in St. Catharines, Ont., the menu is worthy of a place of honour in the fast-food hall of shame. The lunch choices one day in September: hamburgers, cheeseburgers, grilled cheese sandwiches (“Texas toast”) and hot dogs, all served with French fries. There are also bean and beef burritos, cheese ravioli, brown beans and baked Mexican rice that all wither under infrared heating lamps and taste chalky and overcooked. There’s pizza. And the day’s special: chicken tinga with vegetables. It resembles a papier mâché project and tastes similar to one. “It’s not horrendous but definitely not amazing,” says Julia Falcone, a first-year child and youth studies student who is lactose intolerant and often feels bloated at the end of the day. “Some days I just eat salad and rice,” she adds with a fleeting smile. For some students who have only been eating the food for a couple of weeks, the menu is already becoming a point of frustration. “It doesn’t taste good, it’s so full of carbs and they never switch it,” says Meagan Sanchez, a first-year psychology student. A quick look at the menu on the university’s website confirms Sanchez’s assertion. Hamburgers, hot dogs and pizza are daily staples, served for weeks at a time. Healthier options are also limited. The salad bar is tiny and filled with tomatoes that aren’t yet ripe, snow peas that are turning brown, and a pasta salad swimming in mayonnaise. There are also a few frightening pieces of fruit: a clutch of bananas nearing the end of their lifespan and apples covered by a mysterious white coating.

“It’s not in keeping with current thinking in terms of nutrition,” says Rosie Schwartz, a registered dietitian and author of The Enlightened Eater. “Nowhere near it.” A student needs a balanced diet that includes protein, vegetables, whole grains and low-fat dairy products because “food is supposed to provide fuel and give you energy to think and be active,” she says. “When you’ve had a huge portion of fries and a cheeseburger, you’re not going to the gym an hour later. You’re going to feel too lethargic to do it.”

Brock University is by no means the only institution that is failing to serve up satisfactory meals. Student testimony from the campus confidential surveys indicates that cafeteria food at the University of New Brunswick, Acadia University and Université Laval lacks variety; the food at the University of Winnipeg and Ottawa is in desperate need of spicing up; York University students want healthier alternatives; the food at the University of Lethbridge is uninspired; University of Alberta and St. Thomas University students have few vegetarian options; cafeterias at Queen’s and Laurentian University lack selection; and Nipissing University’s food is considered expensive and simply unappealing. At some schools, like Ryerson University, the problem isn’t so much the actual food but the schedule and availability of it. The main food service location in Jorgenson Hall closes at 6:30 p.m. between Monday and Thursday, and during dinner several of the main counters are empty or closed for the day. “It would be nice to eat when you want instead of sometimes rushing,” says Lindsay Jennings, a first-year fashion and design student. No wonder an army of hot dog vendors surrounds the campus.

Yet some universities are striving to offer variety while promoting healthy eating habits. The University of Victoria opened a 197-seat vegetarian/vegan restaurant in 2004 called Village Greens after demand for such meals rose dramatically. Heather Seymour, the university’s food service coordinator, says it has enabled her to offer students healthier food products. “Instead of cheddar process, I can use natural cheddar. Instead of that crappy shredded lettuce, I can use lettuce leaf filets.”

The University of Guelph has also been singled out as one of the leading institutions in the country when it comes to student satisfaction with food. At the Creelman Market Place at the north end of the campus, a cafeteria inspired by the Marché restaurants, the food is as pleasing as the internal layout of the facility. One evening earlier this year, students could chose from an eclectic list of items, including BBQ pork ribs, roast potatoes, baked salmon, beef bourguignon, roast lamb, a 6 oz. steak, a quarter chicken and two types of stir-fries. The salad bar offered everything from yellow peppers, cucumbers, celery and radishes to freshly made Caesar salad and couscous. The fruit stand included watermelon, honeydew, grapes, pineapple and sliced grapefruit, not one item of which was remotely close to expiring. “Our goal is to provide what mom and dad would offer,” says Paul Clark, head of food operations at Guelph University, who estimates that 40 per cent of the food served is made on site. “The food is made in-house so that we don’t get it frozen in a box and just drop it in a deep fryer,” adds David Boeckner, the university’s executive director of hospitality services. Although some students consider the meals pricey, many are thankful for the healthy options. “I love the food,” says Kalie Woodcock, a first-year arts student. “If it’s going to be healthier for me, I’ll pay for it.”

Changes are occurring at other institutions as well. McMaster University recently opened Bridges Café, a cafeteria that caters to vegetarian, vegan and religious diets. At St. Francis Xavier University, a PowerPoint presentation is used at the start of the academic year to educate students about their meal plan, nutritional signs are posted near serving counters to encourage healthy eating habits, and surveys and meetings with students are conducted routinely to elicit feedback. “It’s about listening to what students want,” says Kuli Malhotra, manager of conferences and food services at St. FX. “That is the key objective.” This fall, the University of Toronto became the first university in the country to commit to serving some locally produced items in its cafeterias after teaming up with Local Flavour Plus, a non-profit group that promotes responsible food production in Ontario. Under the agreement, the university has started purchasing some of its milk, fruit, vegetables and other products from farmers and food processors that use few or no pesticides and antibiotics.

On some campuses, students have grown so tired of waiting for their administrations to act that they have initiated their own food projects. At Concordia University, a group of students founded the People’s Potato, a vegan soup kitchen that serves about 300 students each day of the academic year. The Midnight Kitchen project at McGill University, also a vegan soup kitchen, serves 100 to 150 dishes a day. And the food is not only healthy, it’s cheap. Students can make a donation or eat for free. “People have told me they came to the university because of the Potato,” says Benoit Desgreniers, one of the Potato’s full-time staff members.

Perhaps disgruntled students at other universities will take note and begin developing their own food initiative programs. Hopefully their cafeteria food hasn’t made them too lethargic to spring into action.