If they had 10 million dollars

“I’d create a couple permanent forest fire behaviour field research sites in Canada’s boreal forest and start several experimental burning programs. Add wildfire monitoring equipment (infrared cameras, etc.), helicopter time and about a decades worth of grad students and post-docs and I think forest fire science would be in great shape.”

Mike Wotton, Faculty of Forestry

“This would be like winning the robot lottery! My group would use the funds to aggressively develop and implement more intelligent robotic helpers to assist people in the areas of elderly/hospital care, emergency-response, exploration and security. These robots can help improve our quality of life and assist with dangerous and/or stressful tasks in ways never imagined before.”

Goldie Nejat, Department of Mechanical & Industrial Engineering

“I would use it to establish a network of atmospheric observatories across Canada. These would be equipped with state-of-the art equipment for studying the issues of air quality, climate change, and ozone depletion. I would start with a major expansion of the capabilities of the University of Toronto Atmospheric Observatory.”

Kimberly Strong, Department of Physics

“To extend my research on the diversity and evolutionary history of tapeworms that parasitize sharks and rays, I would purchase equipment (e.g., microscopes, DNA sequencer), conduct surveys to reveal marine diversity and tapeworm life cycles, and endow undergraduate, graduate, and postdoctoral research at the Royal Ontario Museum.”

Claire Healy, Department of Ecology & Evolutionary Biology

“The big dream: Use it as seed funding to attract donors to build a new building for the excellent researchers we have in the Department of Cell & Systems Biology, who are currently spread across two buildings, including the dated (and dilapidated) Ramsay Wright Building.”

Malcolm Campbell, Department of Cell & Systems Biology

“That’s easy! I would use it for a clinical trial. My dream is to see if low glycemic index foods would prevent type 2 diabetes and heart disease—that would probably cost more like $30 to $40 million but $10 million would be a good start!”

Tom Wolever, Department of Nutritional Sciences

Frosh weak

On the first day of frosh week back in September of 2005, I was scared shitless. On the second day of frosh week, I was discouraged and embarrassed. By the third day of frosh week, I was bitter, lonely, and drunk.

Those three days set the tone for my first year at the University of Toronto, courtesy of the New College Frosh Committee. Coming to U of T from another country without knowing any other students was intimidating, but I hoped (as I know so many other eager 18-year-olds did) the week-long process would help me meet interesting people, become familiarized with the campus and its resources, and introduce me to a variety of things that the city had to offer. In reality, it did none of the above.

Frosh week is a tradition that has often been saddled with negative connotations (hazing, alcohol poisoning, and general feelings of isolation are pervasive). Yet I was shocked at how unbelievably awful the events planned for the week were, especially considering I had just forked over $100 for this purportedly valuable experience.

I remember being cajoled into some sort of foot race, forced into the repeated shouting of “You can’t spell suck without UC!” and being taken to a ladies-night bar on Richmond Street where the DJ asked all the women in the audience to expose their breasts in exchange for free T-shirts. We nary set foot in Hart House, Robarts, the Athletic Centre, or even the campus Clubs Day, as these activities were deemed not “New College focused” and therefore irrelevant. My leaders did not show us any Toronto neighborhoods other than the clubbing district, did not take us to any restaurants with menus extending beyond pub grub, and never once mentioned any of the live music, film, art, or sporting events that are part and parcel of Toronto. But hey, they rented us a bounce house. It was then that I realized that university wasn’t just like high school; it was actually much, much worse.

Nearly everyone I’ve met at U of T has a frosh-week horror story, and many are far graver than my indulgent gripes about the lack of vegetarian food and feeling socially rejected for not having enough “Gnu-pride.” Nonetheless, frosh week continues to abound each September, with the colleges reaping in funds from befuddled first years who just want to know where Sid Smith is. But it doesn’t have to be this way.

Different universities across North America have orientation programs that extend beyond the mundane. Some colleges have focused on using frosh week to jump-start students’ brains by exposing them to a variety of workshops that are both compelling and educational. Bard University in New York state enrolls its freshmen in a three-week-long seminars, where they address topics like censorship and bilingualism in small discussion groups. OPRIG at York University now provides an alternative to the traditional frosh week with “Disorientation,” a series of workshops on topics like sexual identity, socioeconomics, and the environment. Some workshops are even held off campus, at downtown cafes.

While certain frosh weeks are impressive for their educational abilities, others are designed to showcase career options and future opportunities. While my frosh group didn’t come within a 20-foot radius of U of T’s Career Centre, frosh at New York University in Manhattan take a course called Career Reality 101, where they visit the offices of Google and the studio at the Food Network, along with 248 possible locations to choose from. On such excursions, students are exposed to a variety of work environments and get to interact with the staff of different companies and organizations.

There are also frosh programs that are so imaginative and unique that they can spark inspiration in the harshest of cynics. Swarthmore University’s 2008 program included a series of free yoga and tai chi courses, as well as organic and nutritional meals (to avoid the treacherous Frosh 15). First-years at the University of Pugent Sound in Washington state have traditionally had the option of completing a three-day hiking and camping trip through the woods, where small groups interact and learn from one another.

The secret to a successful orientation is variety; not all students will be comfortable or interested in every activity. Perhaps that was what was so disappointing about my frosh experience: the lack of options wound up making me feel inadequate for not being psyched about a possible water balloon raid on the engineering building. Keeping frosh week under the jurisdiction of the colleges hinders students’ experiences rather than expanding them. If frosh week was under the U of T umbrella, we could cater events to a larger variety of interests. What I wouldn’t have done for a tour of Kensington Market, or an Intro to Dostoyevsky reading group, but I would have settled for nearly any activity that didn’t involve a human pyramid.

The inherent problem with frosh week at U of T—and perhaps especially at New College—is that it treats its participants not as young adults, but rather as obnoxious, unimaginative children. The university then expresses shock when many of its students spend first year binge drinking, failing their courses, and generally resenting the institution itself. Only in fourth year have I shaken off the bitterness of frosh week—and the generally hopeless residence experience it foreshadowed—and actually started to like U of T.

We’re starving!

It’s a typical weekday afternoon. You have a few hours to kill between classes, and heading home seems like a waste of time and money. In your early morning haze, you’ve forgotten to pack a lunch. You end up at the Robarts cafeteria. The stir fry is soggy and gelatinous; the pizza is lukewarm and heavy; the salad is pale brown and limp. Buying a sub could take longer than your commute. The staff range from standoffish to hostile, when they aren’t pointedly ignoring you. You leave $8 poorer, hungry, or both.

You are not alone.

On February 10, UTSU hosted a wide-ranging student forum called I F*ing Hate This School. There were few points of agreement, but a hearty round of applause made one thing clear: if there is anything that U of T students fucking hate, it is the food on campus.

Defend the University College cafeteria if you will, schlep to Wymilwood for a fresh sandwich, or grab a cheap and tasty roti at Diablos. Bring your own tupperware to The Hot Yam, a regular free vegan lunch at the International Student Centre. But when it comes to the central, Aramark cafeterias like those at Robarts, Sid Smith, and Gerstein, no one is a fan. Here at The Varsity, we think it must be possible to build a cafeteria where lunch is easy on both your wallet and your preference for realistically textured food. We set out to find more successful models.

An industry trade mag, somehow delivered to our office, offers few solutions. Well-meaning articles discuss environmental sustainability, but the featured recipe is inexplicably called “Kentucky/Indian Fusion: Hot Brown Entree.” The ads are revealing. A stodgy looking off-brand burger franchise boasts, “students will love our big taste—you’ll love the big profits.” Bear Naked, a line of environmentally-conscious granola recently acquired by Kellogg, promises that students are willing to pay extra for natural products, so you can “grow your sales the all-natural way.”

Maclean’s rates cafeterias across the country, but has yet to publish a really positive review. One of their writers, Nicholas Kohler, has developed a flare for disgusting metaphors, at one point comparing lasagne noodles to cadaver skin. For fresh ideas, we had to look further afield.

With more than 20,000 students, lots of commuters, and a central campus that bleeds into downtown, the University of Edinburgh is not a bad model for U of T. The administration-run cafeterias are horrendous, but the student union manages an extensive parallel service that any Canadian student could envy.

The union occupies no less than four large buildings on campus, each housing an array of pubs, cafes, and restaurants. Alcohol sales subsidize the food, which keeps prices at student level in a city where restaurants are about twice as expensive as Toronto.

The food isn’t perfect, and none of these outlets are more than a five-minute walk from the tastier sandwich shops and cafes that surround campus. But they stay in business, thanks to low prices and great atmosphere. The campus pubs face the stiffest competition, with dozens of cheap and local alternatives just off campus, but still do roaring business on the weekends. Edinburgh’s project is only possible because the university cedes substantial responsibility, and plenty of space, to the student union.

“At Edinburgh the university tends to recognize that students know what students want,” says student union president Adam Ramsay. “Democratically owned student services employing professional managers are a real win, for students and the university.”

While it makes sense that student control can improve campus food, we don’t necessarily have to be in charge. At St Olaf College in Minnesota, where the food is ranked fourth out of 368 colleges by The Princeton Review, a humble bulletin board makes all the difference.

“When you leave our servery we have a big giant cork board with comment cards,” says Peter Abramson, general manager. “We probably get 40 or 50 a day, saying, the oatmeal is too salty, or Jane was mean to me at the green station.” This is a college with only 3,000 students. The staff write responses on the cards and post them for students to read. “There’s a real dialogue that we try to keep up.”

At U of T, some of the residences maintain food committees that give their kitchen staff feedback, but there is no meaningful dialogue between students and Aramark. In any case, it’s tough for subsidiaries of big contractors to respond to requests.

This might be why Aramark and Sodexo, infamous for feeding prison inmates and students around the world, are rarely well-reviewed. (Urbandictionary.com offers some concise criticism.) But not all contracting companies are created equal. St Olaf works with a Bon Appetit, a small catering company that hires chefs with real culinary training, and then gives them some power.

“Somebody like Aramark or Sodexo, they have a book that says, here’s what you’re going to run next week, here’s who you’re going to buy it from, and here’s how you’re going to make it,” says Abrahamson. In contrast, he writes each week’s menu from scratch, after consulting with local suppliers about what is fresh. Bon Appetit sets general guidelines: their schools can’t use MSG, trans fats, or high fructose corn syrup. They must prepare bases like soup stock from scratch.

Bon Appetit has two schools in the top five of Princeton Review’s rankings, but a disproportionate number of successful cafeterias are run by university employees, not outsourced as they are throughout most of U of T. Bowdoin College, in Maine, is run in-house by people who have been with the school for as long as 35 years. Bowdoin employs its own butcher, and bakes from scratch on campus. It has some of the best cafeteria food in the United States.

“The dining hall becomes a social hub for the college, so the administration have continued to support it,” says Michele Gaillard, in charge of the operation. “We have a good budget that allows us to make a big investment in our staff, whereas a lot of colleges have either a very small staff or a not-well-trained staff.”

Great food can build community, and that might be just what U of T needs to integrate disaffected commuters in search of the elusive “student experience.” At the University of British Columbia, Sprouts, a student-run cafe and co-op, is building a movement with 75-cent coffee, soup, and home-baked bread. Heather Russell, who works at the volunteer-run centre, describes the rest of the UBC campus as “a food desert.”

“What we try to create is more of a community than anything,” she says of Sprouts. “It’s about having a place for people to go that’s affordable and has good food if you forget your lunch.”

Sprouts sounds a bit like U of T’s now-defunct Radical Roots, a vegan student co-op that used to serve cheap eats to a packed room every weekday at the International Student Centre. The cafe was suddenly shut down by the administration in the fall of 2006.

“The thing that made Radical Roots really unique was that it was a community,” says Agata Durkalec, who dedicated four years of her life to the project while an undergraduate at U of T. “The lines between the people that went there and the people that worked there were really blurry—we all felt like we were all on the same team. I think that a lot of people really appreciated that, and would not be able to get it in any other student space or any other food service provider on campus now.”

In recent years, the university’s approach to food has been more about building revenue than community. In 2008, cafeterias at U of T lost money. But starting in 2009, according to a report presented to the University Affairs Board last year, that should change. By 2010, the report predicts that 13 per cent of food and beverage revenues will be profit, effectively subsidizing the residences and Hart House. By 2013, ancillary services—parking, residence, and food—are predicted to bring in a profit of $1.3 million for the university. This is a somewhat unusual approach. While Bowdoin makes a profit from its food services, the other universities we surveyed aim to break even feeding their students.

In continental Europe, food is more likely to be subsidized. In Berlin, the state-sponsored Mensa cafeterias dish up veggie-friendly meals on the cheap. Danny Auron, a U of T grad and Osgoode Law student who spent last semester studying in Amsterdam, discovered a similar system.

“They had a cafe called the Atrium that served lunch and dinner at deep discount prices (a big bowl of soup was around 80 cents) and the food was good enough to make it into a ‘cheap eats’ guide book or two on the city,” says Auron. “The school provided a place for good, affordable food right in the middle of campus, and attached it to an area with tons of seating for eating, studying, and meeting.” It may not be fancy, but 80-cent soup beats cadaver skin lasagne any day.

The Same Thing Twice

If asked to pinpoint the glory days of the student movement, one might refer to the politically charged 1960s and 1970s as a particularly high point, when student groups were a vocal, and integral, faction of the era’s prevailing youth movement. Things have changed, with a greater sense of disjuncture and apathy taking hold of the student psyche. In Ontario, we can’t even hold claim to a united student movement.

It is probably fair to assume that the average University of Toronto student has never heard of the Ontario Undergraduate Student Alliance. OUSA is comprised of member groups from seven Ontario universities, but U of T isn’t one of them.

Since its formation in November 1992, media outlets have depicted relations between OUSA and the Canadian Federation of Students—to which the various U of T student unions do belong—as strained at best, combative at worst, and uneasy in general. When I launched into researching this article, I didn’t expect to find the story of a disjointed student movement whose two groups have more in common than anyone—including the parties themselves—may fully realize.

The saga begins nearly two decades ago, when all Ontario student groups fell under the jurisdiction of a branch of the CFS called the Ontario Federation of Students (now CFS-Ontario). Then came war.

“One of the inciting events at the local and national level was the first Gulf War,” explains Paris Meilleur, who served as OUSA’s president during the 2006-2007 academic year. “There was a sense that both the provincial and federal student organizations that existed at the time were taking positions on international affairs and a series of issues that weren’t directly related to the experience of students on campus.”

In the events that followed, members from various student groups approached the OFS to table a discussion about raising tuition. In their criticisms of OUSA, members of the CFS consider this a turning point in the establishment of a fundamentally divergent, and flawed, approach. As Meilleur concedes, “It’s not something I agree with, but it’s something that they were interested in having a discussion about.” At any rate, the moment proved vital: when the OFS halted the conversation, the dissenting student organizations started their own group, a proto-OUSA, in protest.

According to Meilleur, the permanence of the initial splinter group was neither intentional nor anticipated. “There was full expectation that the processes would change and that there would once again be a united student movement,” she says. “But that never happened.”

In 1994, two years after this informal alliance established itself, the group became federated. OUSA was officially born. As Meilleur describes it, “Different people will tell you different things about why [the groups] remained separate. I think you could argue that at a certain point personalities began to take over, relationships weakened, and there was sort of a strengthening of OUSA. There was a sense that this was more than just about one issue, but a different kind of approach to politics.”

This difference in approach is radical. While OUSA rarely opts to take part in such traditional forms of protest as demonstrations or rallies, the CFS logo has become analogous to images of tuition fees protests and “calls to action.” What the CFS views as its grassroots approach to student issues has been an ongoing source of criticism from outside organizations and media, especially since the Federation positions itself as an activist group rather than a governing body.

CFS-Ontario chairperson Shelley Melanson is cautious when confronted with such allegations. “It’s probably irresponsible to suggest that we’re bureaucrats because it would suggest that there’s this massive administration behind the CFS,” she says, choosing her words carefully. Though Melanson is the mouthpiece for CFS member-students in the province, she hardly speaks with the sort of loose cannon abandon one might expect from a student group whose most recognizable feature is arguably their opinionated fervor. She’s all business, peppering her phrases with “quite frankly” where another person might say, “um.”

I am surprised when Melanson does not jump to defend against the accusation that the CFS is a group of “student activists.” She seems more comfortable with the idea of portraying the Federation as a mobilized student movement than an administrative unit.

UTSU VP external Dave Scrivener, who serves as liaison between CFS-Ontario and the University of Toronto division of the Federation, is also leery of formalized designations. The morning after I speak with him about the university’s role in the CFS, he sends me a polite email requesting that I not refer to the CFS as a student “government.” This, he informs me, would paint an entirely skewed picture of that which the Federation—and, by association, the University of Toronto Students’ Union—seeks to accomplish. While I agree to abide by this request, I am admittedly taken off guard. If the CFS and its member-groups don’t govern, what exactly do they do?

Scrivener breaks it down. “At a U of T level we mainly focus on Governing Council and administrative bodies with lobbying, but we also participate and work on some more externally-focused lobbying, and sometimes, if we think it’s useful or necessary, we might take it to the Federation and see if other student unions across the province also want to work on a similar campaign.” He goes on to explain that that all campaigns involving the CFS are ones that a student union, or people involved in a student union, brought forward in a meeting. When he cites the current Drop Fees campaign as a prominent example, I realize the distinction: student groups do not view themselves as governing bodies, but as task forces who work in cooperation with governing bodies in order to pursue their own agendas. As Shelley Melanson describes it, they are simply “nothing more than students across the province who have decided to work collectively to advocate for post-secondary education issues.”

The approach of the CFS, within Ontario and throughout Canada, has three pillars: research, lobbying, and mobilization. It is that third and final component that most markedly separates the tactics of the CFS from those of OUSA.

At the core, OUSA views itself as a lobby organization. “I would argue that the approach of OUSA is that working with government, no matter who that government is, is always the best approach,” says Meilleur. “[OUSA believes] that it’s never appropriate to burn bridges and that it’s really appropriate to try to engage with decision-makers at their level. So that means, yes, having idealistic proposals, but also having ones that are really practical, and implementable, and pragmatic. There is a real focus on building relationships with government, with other stakeholder groups, building legitimacy within a sector.”

Through OUSA, student involvement in the decision-making process occurs through a streamlined approach built into the organization’s system of operation. As OUSA executive director Howie Bender explains, the organization’s goals are based upon a combination of research and student input. “We have a board composed of one member from every campus, so it’s one school, one vote on our board,” says Bender. “We also have a general assembly that gets together twice a year that sets the direction for the organization.” The general assembly, Bender explains, is the group’s highest decision-making unit. For every 3,000 students a member-campus counts in its student body, that campus is entitled to one assembly delegate. It is within the context of the general assembly that students are given the opportunity to discuss policy, direction of lobbying, and campus issues that fall within the realm of OUSA’s core targets: accessibility, affordability, accountability, and quality. According to Bender, the discussions that take place in the general assembly will provide direction for the board which, in conjunction with the executive office, will pursue the interests of what students have asked for.

The CFS also views itself as a member-driven student lobby group and cites similar targets. The CFS, however, integrates the role of what Dave Scrivener describes as “campus mobilization” into the process. This is where student marches, rallies, and sit-ins come into play. “I don’t know how effective lobbying can really be in changing a government’s mind if you’re just showing up in a suit and tie every couple of months to give a position paper,” says Scrivener, who explains that, through the mobilization process, “you’re actually forced to take [issues] back to your membership. It allows and empowers the average person who’s on campus to get involved in a campaign.” This, says Scrivener, is the fundamental advantage of the CFS approach, and, by association, OUSA’s major flaw.

When asked for a response to this criticism, current OUSA president Trevor Mayoh is unflinchingly frank. “I think in certain ways [the criticism] is fair, to be perfectly honest. I am the chief advocate and representative of the organization. I am a student. But I don’t spend my entire year on campuses meeting with students and telling them about the issues. I don’t. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think it’s the best use of anybody’s time.” Mayoh explains that OUSA gets its direction from its steering committee. The committee members are then charged with the task of “empowering, advocating, informing, and soliciting information from fellow students.” As Mayoh puts it, “We get our direction from students. Our steering committee members, not the organization, are charged with empowering, advocating, informing, and soliciting information from students. The organization is then charged with taking up [the students’] direction and what [the students] want to see, and then putting that in operation.”

Despite differences in methods and rhetoric, it is difficult to pinpoint a strong divergence between OUSA’s goals and those of the CFS. Says Shelley Melanson: “I think that fundamentally, all students want to see a high quality, properly publicly funded post-secondary education system, and I think that it’s in the best interest of students to work collectively together to win those goals.”

Mayoh concurs. “We definitely do have different strategies and I’m not saying one is more right than the other, they’re just very different. We ultimately do have the same goal: we’re both advocating for a better higher education system in the province.”

Comparing the two groups’ victories proves as challenging as trying to distinguish between their separate goals. Point by point, their official statements read almost identically. When asked for examples of recent keystone accomplishments, members from both groups cited the 2004-2006 tuition freeze and the 2001 tuition cap as fruits of their respective group’s labours.

“We both did contribute to the system,” admits Mayoh. “I think by [the CFS] having the grassroots model and getting students involved and politicians actually being able to see that students care and aren’t apathetic, along with our having students on the inside, in Queen’s Park, meeting with [politicians] and giving them actual policy recommendations, is useful.” Mayoh concedes that the methods of the CFS and OUSA are complementary to one another, “whether we realize and like it or not.”

Melanson acknowledges that, ideally, the two groups would be reunited as a single, cohesive student movement. “I think that we’re most effective when our voices are united and we’re working together. No one’s going to deny that we’ve had difficulties here in Ontario. No one will deny that we’ve faced tuition fees increases. But, quite frankly, in this province the student movement isn’t united. Where we are united, we’ve been able to win victories and sustain them for a number of years.” When I ask Melanson if she thinks this ever will happen, she is somewhat optimistic: “I think that eventually we will see a united student movement, but that’s going to require students wanting to come together and work through democratic structures to provide the kind of advocacy that our students need.”

Realistically, it seems as though this kind of reunification can only occur if both member groups are willing to compromise. At this point, however, both OUSA and the CFS are strictly abiding by their own terms.

“Study-what-you-want” Studies

For first-year students unfamiliar with fields of study other than the old-guard standards (English, History, and Political Science), interdisciplinary programs are the unknown entities of the course calendar. They are in essence, degrees comprised of courses in multiple disciplines, and allow students the freedom to choose a more unique path on the road to their undergraduate degree.

It’s often claimed that U of T treats students like numbers, shuffling us in and out of large programs that make us feel anonymous. Even worse, these programs are full of frustrating prerequisites and course requirements that often turn what should be an enlightening academic experience into a four-year series of hurdles.

Many students feel confined to large programs because they get the most press, but the university’s multitude of interdisciplinary programs proves that other, more progressive options exist—you just have to look a little harder in the course calendar to find them.

In many cases, students stumble into interdisciplinary programs once they realize that the specific courses they’re most interested in fall under a certain lesser known area of study.

This was the case for second-year student Rachel Lissner, who says that her major “was originally Middle Eastern Studies and Politics, and I realized that all the classes I was taking [fell under] Jewish Studies. I like the fact that there are no strict requirements—I don’t have to take particular classes to be a major or a minor. It’s something I’m generally interested in, and it’s flexible.”

The very nature of interdisciplinary studies implies taking courses across numerous disciplines, and the breadth of available classes is the primary draw.

“I’ve switched my major three times,” says fourth-year Canadian Studies student Alixandra Gould. “So I’ve taken courses in a lot of different departments. I chose Canadian Studies because it would allow me to combine courses from many disciplines. So it’s good for people like me who don’t have a streamlined, very specific area of study that they’re interested in.”

Smaller class sizes are another aspect of the programs’ appeal. Many of the classes are seminars capped at approximately 25 students, so by the time they hit their upper years, students can expect to see a number of familiar faces.

Not only that, Lissner confirms that the Jewish Studies program offers what most students believe is a myth: professors who know their students by name.

“They’ve started the Centre for Jewish Studies, and it’s all this one professor, Hindy Najman. She’s amazing—she comes to events, and she contacts students to talk about [the program]. And Professor [Adam] Cohen, who runs the art club, helped me [to organize] my plans to study abroad.”

Lissner stresses the value that certain professors can have when they dedicate themselves to such a specific field of study, and such a small group of students. “If they weren’t there, I’d feel like it was a totally different program,” she says.

However, given that they offer students an innovative educational experience, interdisciplinary programs face unique challenges. Fourth-year student Chloe Richer describes the difficulties faced by Urban Studies students when attempting to create a social atmosphere. “There are only 150 students in the program, and with such a small number, you’re less likely to get a lot of students to come out. We had a sustainability forum in January that we [put on] with the Civil Engineers Club. We had a ton of engineers, and barely any Urban Studies students.”

Gould suggests that the very nature of the programs’ setup forces students to be transient. “I don’t really feel a sense of a cohesive student body in the program, maybe even less so because it’s interdisciplinary and students can take courses in so many different departments. It’s not really a home of its own.”

The university has attempted to provide a home by hosting small interdisciplinary programs at individual colleges, presumably for administrative purposes. The programs are listed under a college in the course calendar, which makes them appear less accessible, despite the fact that anyone can take them.

And for all their charms, even small interdisciplinary programs can’t escape the maze of bureaucracy that terrorizes students into keeping silent when faced with an academic issue.

“There’s a myth among these smaller programs that they’re more accessible,” says Gould. “U of T has this reputation for being this huge institution where it’s impossible to talk to someone in the Political Science department because it’s so huge, and the belief is that smaller programs aren’t like that. I found that that’s not actually the case. I’ve had more trouble reaching people at the Canadian Studies department than any other department at U of T. It’s like there’s a man behind the curtain. I’d like to just walk into his office, but you can’t get to this person, and there are all these people in the way who prevent you from doing it. So that’s a little weird—and stressful.”

While nearly everyone feels lost at some point in their undergrad life, it’s much easier to feel like a castaway in a large program. At this age, we’re all a little selfish, and the U of T you want is, in all probability, not the same sparkling ideal shared by the dude sitting next to you in POL103.

Interdisciplinary programs, while still very much a part of the whole, offer students a progressive alternative that best suits individual academic desires. They’re a rare opportunity to explore what might otherwise be unavailable options. And increased choice is always something worth looking into.

Walk On

The flaneur, as conjured by the French poet and decadent Charles Baudelaire, is the consummate pedestrian, a perfect idler, and passionate spectator. As one who strolls the streets, drinking in the city, driven by wanderlust, and utterly stress-free, the flaneur sounds like the exact opposite of the 50,000 students who bounce purposefully from Bloor to College, from Spadina to Bay. The buzzing St. George campus, a microcosm of Toronto, reflects the city’s potential and its challenges: a large and diverse population who know little about each other, keep to ourselves, and feel lost outside our own neighbourhoods, should we venture out at all. We have places to be and papers to write. We do not have time to, as Baudelaire put it, “set up house in the middle of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite.”

Landing at U of T is like going down the rabbit-hole into Wonderland, if you get over the initial disorientation. The vast campus is a headache to navigate for newcomers, and unnecessarily so. Recall your first days here, or the number of times puzzled visitors have stopped you for directions, only to find you’ve never heard of “79 St. George Street, Part A.” The U of T website does offer a searchable campus map, along with a map of where to find food, though at press time the wireless hotspot map is down. If you know where you have to be beforehand, do your homework, and keep your nose to the campus map, you’re usually set.

That kind of painstaking preparation doesn’t make for adventure, or for a welcoming atmosphere. As a public space within the city, U of T should be accessible to students and civilians alike. A few small additions can go a long way: posts that point the way to major hubs, as they do at UTSC; street furniture to take advantage of wide open spaces; more big maps on street corners; signage to guide pedestrians to buildings whose locations don’t match their street address.

By upper year, most students can get from A to B. “I’ve discovered shortcuts,” says Rachel Anderson, who has worked as a patroller for three years, closing buildings, and ushering out dawdlers. Her walkabouts have made the campus a lot smaller: “When I was in first year, it was such a mission to get from Sid Smith to Vic.”

A taller order is feeling like you belong on campus—all of campus. We learn by going where we have to go: to lectures, labs, and tutorials, to the hallways and classrooms we know. It’s easy to stick to paths forged by necessity, to find watering holes nearby and to defend them. The walls sheltering the Munk Centre from the rest of campus might be forbidding to outsiders, but they provide a cocoon for the tight-knit community of grad students who live there. Faculty and college lounges encourage the small-town vibe that more intimate universities foster, where everybody knows your name.

A home base, whether by academic department or college affiliation, is essential to putting down roots on campus. But if students stop there, we never get to experience the advantages of a big school that bleeds into downtown. The university, like the city itself, provides space for people to commingle, says Frank Cunningham, a philosophy professor and a senior advisor at U of T’s Cities Centre. “Anonymous recreation,” he says, “allows people to spend time with others who aren’t necessarily their family and friends.”

Ideally, public space allows citizens of all stripes to socialize and exchange ideas. In practice, our centuries-old campus doesn’t exactly offer equitable access. For students with a disability, confusion is compounded. Joeita Gupta, who has a visual impairment, says she has trouble making her way around poorly lit buildings, especially when there is no Braille on anything. “Not many places are wheelchair accessible—general accessibility is quite a problem,” she says, adding wryly, “it’s difficult to get to theAccessibility Office at Robarts. It took me a couple of tries.”

While construction shows visible effort—build more wheelchair ramps, build a new student centre—Gupta says the U of T administration’s attitude needs fixing up, too. “How campus space gets to be used, and who pays for the campus space, reflects on the priorities of the university administration,” she says, citing the Centre for High Performance Sport, an elite training facility that will be built on Devonshire Place, as an example of misguided priorities. Gupta is an exec of the Association of Part-Time Students, whose office will be demolished to make way for CHiPS. “Should the university be making a commitment to high-performance sport or its students?” she asks.

As undergrad enrolment skyrockets, U of T is running out of real estate. For students’ day-to-day lives, overcrowding has never been more apparent, especially for those who stick to their quarters. Cunningham, who has been a prof here since 1967, never felt uncomfortable anywhere on campus. “I could count on having a lot in common with people I ran into,” he says. “Any two profs any place in the world are going to have an enormous amount in common. We can grouse over deans and presidents.”

Students also have something in common, but that ensconced feeling can take a long time to develop. “The first two years are extremely overwhelming. You don’t know where you’re going all the time and almost intimidated to go anywhere else but where you have to go,” says Sarah Patton, now in her fourth year studying Geography and Urban Studies. Sarah adds she wouldn’t imagine going to a library other than Robarts, or another college café, because she doesn’t officially “belong” there. More greenery and hangout areas for commuters, she says, would give her a greater sense of belonging.

It helps to have the keys to your own little piece of U of T. Gayathri Naganathan, president of the Tamil Students’ Association, spends a good chunk of time at the club’s office in the Sussex Club House at 21 Sussex Ave., which hosts over 50 student groups. Late Wednesday evening last week, she and a dozen others were holed up there, prepping for the next day’s rally. “The office is always accessible even when other campus buildings are closed, and it’s a welcoming and familiar environment,” says Naganathan. “I feel at home in certain parts of campus, but this was a feeling that I’ve had to cultivate over the last couple years. It has more to do with the people I spend time with than the space itself.”

According to Cunningham, it’s easy to feel comfortable here, provided you have an at-ease mindset. “If you approach the campus like tourists approach trips, it will never become familiar to you,” he says. “Public places are places where you should be able to go without any particular purpose.”

Upper-year Urban Studies students I interviewed also brought up the prospect of places that don’t serve a direct function. “More neutral places, in buildings that aren’t specific to colleges or faculties, might encourage more blending,” says Stephanie Valente.

“The space at U of T, because it’s so busy, is heavily programmed,” Benjamin Sulky adds.

“So much space is crowded,” Isabel Ritchie chimes in. “The cafeteria feels busy, people are moving in and out […] What we need are generic spaces with some sort of appeal for people, flexible spaces that still can draw people in.”

As for enticing students to areas that aren’t “neutral,” Ben says, “It’s hard to see top-down changes. It comes down to what students do.”

Cunningham points to time as the major limiting factor for belonging at St. George Campus. “No matter how attractive public spaces are made, you’re not going to have people making use of them if they don’t have leisure time.” Spare time is tough to come by for jet-set commuters, and campus-dwellers cite the rez effect: life’s necessities are a stone’s throw away, so there’s no reason to wander, to poke into weird nooks and crannies. But campus exploration doesn’t have to take hours on end. It starts with something as small as stepping inside a building you pass by every day, or taking the long way to class, if you’re so inclined. The street furniture proposals on the next two pages offer a few ideas for the kind of space U of T can become.

Having a pedestrian-friendly campus means more than showing how to get from A to B—though that would be a good start. What we need is a space that is open, accessible, and encourages our intellectual wanderings.

Read on.

The Ties That Bind

I once had a dream. Well, I had many.

I was a commuting student, trying to find my place at a sprawling university where I knew nobody. In those dark days, I would find myself sitting on a packed train twice a day amongst burnt-out middle managers, with lots of time to think.

Shouldn’t I be able to go online, post a random thought, get it reviewed by peers in computer science, learn about its possible environmental impact from a prof in the Engineering faculty, only to be told by a grizzled Rotman alumnus that the idea could never make any money?

Wasn’t this the promise of the Internet?

Nobody would dispute that U of T has an acute case of lethargy. Our commuting culture and lack of student space make it hard to meet people, and in surveys measuring campus community involvement, we consistently rank near the bottom. What people disagree about is how to use the Internet as a solution.

In university, almost anywhere you go, March is election season. Amid promises of lowering fees and solutions to global warming, this year’s U of T Student Union campaigns tackled how online tools can be used to increase the sense of community on campus.

“What we’re about is promoting community,” said Jason Marin who unsuccessfully run against the “Demand Access” incumbent UTSU slate. For Marin, an effective student union website is vital, and he had plans for bulking it up with relevant information and community features.

The incumbents didn’t disagree. Sandy Hudson, who just won a second term as UTSU president, plans to make the site a big focus of next year’s efforts. Among her plans: creating U of T versions of Wikipedia and Craigslist. She argues that they will let students “find out more about what’s going on and know a little more about the community.”

The university administration is also forging ahead with its own solutions.

The recently created Ulife portal aims to connect students with events and groups that are active on campus. Part of the initiative is a new blog called UpbeaT. Its mission is to inspire undergraduates to “put down their textbooks now, and then and explore the wider world of U of T’s St. George Campus.”

But it’s sometimes hard to get students to come out of their shells.

“People seem to be reading it, but no one wants to comment!” contributing blogger Liesl* admits.

While blogs have had a big impact on many other communities, it remains to be seen whether they can make a difference in connecting the student body at U of T. Facebook, by comparison, is the juggernaut that can’t be ignored.

Jeffrey Pinto-Lobo is an executive on the Cinema Studies Student Union, a group you might know from the ubiquitous “Free Films on Campus” events. “Facebook has had a huge impact on the CINSSU community,” he argues. With under $100 spent on actual advertising and heavy promotion on Facebook, the attendance at the group’s events has at least doubled. Pinto-Lobo is especially proud of the number of students from outside the Cinema Studies program who have been attending.

Facebook has also impacted residence communities. “You definitely had to take initiative to visit other houses or go drop by events. For those people who aren’t naturally social and outgoing, this can be a bit difficult,” Bianca Filoteo, a recent University College graduate tells me.

Instead of thinking about technology as a way of creating new communities, it seems that online platforms like Facebook serve as a catalyst, speeding up the random interactions that people might make over time in real life.

But when there is little community at all, do these tools have much of a chance at making an impact?

Maybe my friend was on to something when he complained, “U of T is a lost cause. If you want community, go to Queen’s.”

Or Laurier.

“Our school is renowned for our community spirit and extracurricular involvement,” says recent grad Dan Hocking. At school, Hocking was heavily involved in campus politics; he now does social media and online consulting and likes to describe himself as a “fire-starter.”

He kindly offered some thoughts while packing his bags for South by Southwest Interactive, a conference in Austin, Texas that has spawned many of today’s most popular social sites.

“Facebook definitely changed the way we all interacted. It pervaded everything,” he tells me. In the hyper-socialized campus, Facebook amplifies the social-networking equivalent of noise—some of the most active Facebook groups at Laurier were about inside jokes and fake political causes.

Dan tells of an event he created called “Retro Rewind.” He blitzed the social networks and the turnout was huge. He suspects that in spite of the noise, people either never liked it,or moved on to something that was getting more attention.

“It started with FB, and died a really quiet, sad death.”

But the idea of Facebook as a catalyst is certainly the case at Laurier too. Dan describes how the Laurier science fiction club was able to grow to the point where it splintered into many subgroups. Facebook allowed people who shared the same interest in the topic to find each other.

“I still suspect that these people would’ve found their niches; it just would’ve taken a little longer for them to do so.”

It’s clear that online tools can accelerate traditional social interactions but was my naive dream of a campus-wide online community ever feasible? When I mentioned it to my editor, she promptly suggested I check out myocad.com, an online forum for students at the Ontario College of Art and Design.

At even a quick glance, it’s obvious that the site is for arts students, by arts students. The main menu is composed of a row of abstract symbols, conventional typefaces are banished, and comments take the form of comic book talk bubbles.

Myocad.com allows students to post and critique each other’s work, rate professors, and discuss all things OCAD.

It seems like a true utopia-on-the-web, except for one problem: the once-active forum has been virtually abandoned (this in spite of the site’s subtitle of “Still kicking”). The first post that I notice when I visit the site asks people to share memories from “when myocad was the shit.” Various people chime in with their stories.

I biked down to OCAD’s student centre on McCaul Street to get the scoop.

“It’s hard to casually stumble on an online community,” Lindsay Denise tells me. She’s the Finance Director of the OCAD Student Union.

Like at U of T, most OCAD students commute to class. In addition, a shortage of campus space, OCAD’s highly specialized programs, and intensive workload make it difficult to meet people outside the classroom. Is this why the site died?

“There has to be a really good reason for people to be attracted to an online space,” says Denise. When the people who were originally part of the community start graduating, it’s hard to ensure sustainability. A commenter on myocad.com had a simpler explanation: “Facebook pretty much replaced it.”

Another student union exec, who joined OCAD later than Denise, piped in that she had not even heard of the site until recently.

But after perhaps one-too-many of my reverent questions about myocad.com, Lindsay interrupts to clarify that the site’s heyday doesn’t represent OCAD’s glory days.

“I think we have lost something now that it’s not active, but nothing can replace an actual physical manifestation of community.”

Regardless of whether a similar platform could ever function for U of T as a whole, many smaller communities on campus have strong online components.

The Computer Science department hosts forums that serve as discussion boards for most undergraduate courses. But there is also space for announcements and general discussions where people from all areas of the department connect.

A recent conversation on why there are so few women in the program has pulled in current students, profs, and alumni. Many differing opinions are offered, from the nuanced to those that you could only ever see online. “Sitting in front of a computer has a negative effect on [girls’] skin,” is one example. BIOME is another forum, this one for life science communities. People come for the course notes and often stay for the conversations.

But even on these forums, most of the activity is dominated by a small number of active participants.

“Only keeners use BIOME,” a friend in life sciences admitted to me. She just used it to get the course notes.

Asked whether myocad.com was an online platform for the whole school, Lindsay Denise replies, “I don’t know if it ever was.”

Liesl*, the UpbeaT blogger, observes that for various reasons, many people may never cash in on the potential of online communities.

“If a person is busy, they’re busy. They may have access to all the information they need to be drawn in, but still be unable to actually engage in it.”

University College veterans have a secret term describing the number of people who can be reasonably expected to get involved: “the UC 250”—or “UC 150,” if one feels particularly cynical. UC has over 4,000 students.

This isn’t to say that because only a fraction of students get involved, online communities accomplish nothing.

Dan Patricio is a marketing student at Ryerson with a passion for building communities. His site says that “we need to talk” so I shot him an email saying just that. The next day, we met for coffee.

“I was a lost person [when I started] university. I wondered where the intelligent people were.”

Over time, he realized that instead of restricting himself to connecting with people in his geographical vicinity, the power of the web allowed him to go beyond campus.

He acted on this revelation, organizing a series of informal meet-ups with young people who shared similar interests. Virtually all the promotion has been done using online tools.

Patricio connected me with another friend of his from Ryerson, who also created a community beyond the borders of campus. Rob Fraser is a nursing student and the founder of nursingideas.ca, a blog that’s quickly becoming one of the strongest voices in the nursing world.

About once per week, Fraser interviews an experienced practitioner, student, or professor with questions ranging from the philosophy of nursing to ideas on how to reduce a hospital’s carbon footprint. He kindly gave up a precious morning break to tell me his story.

“The fun part about building this community is that you don’t have to rally the people that are geographically close by,” he says.

Fraser describes how he can track visitors from as far away as Singapore and Iran who are watching his videos. The resulting emails and comments are what he values most.

“Each one is an obvious sign that someone has been reached and compelled to say something.”

Patricio and Fraser both agree that without the Internet, connecting with similar people would be a time-consuming and mostly accidental process.

For Patricio, it’s all about linking up with people who can rally behind common values.

“Without barriers to communication, it doesn’t matter program or what school you’re from—it’s about building a tribe.”

For those seeking to build communities, is the model of going outside of campus the way to go? Jeffrey Pinto-Lobo of the CINSSU argues that online platforms allow for the creation of a group of people who are passionate about film, regardless of whether they are students.

“Since our Facebook group is one of the largest Toronto-based film groups, we attract organizations from around Toronto that would like organize a co-promotional event.”

The lesson seems to be that the key to online community building is more about connecting people with shared values than my original fantasy of an online home for a campus-wide community that might not even exist in real life.

Regardless, Daniel Patricio argues that the important thing is to go out and start the conversations.

For the last few decades, only the privileged have had the ability to broadcast; the Internet has flipped this around.

“We’ve been conditioned to believe that our voices don’t matter. Now we all have the ability to broadcast.”

*Last name omitted at student’s request (updated, January 11, 2015).

Designer’s statement: Wasted Space—Hart House Circle

There are too many spaces on campus that aren’t used to their full potential. Sadly, these types of spaces are found all over campus. Arbitrarily placed benches sit unoccupied while other surfaces—grass, concrete, wood, stone—anything that will support a body, laptop, and three or four textbooks becomes unintentional street furniture.

We have a dream to recycle the abundance of “space waste” into functional, attractive places for students to sit, study, talk, eat, sleep, procrastinate—whatever the day calls for. With such a high concentration of intelligent, creative, and inspired people, the University of Toronto deserves spaces that will encourage a positive and lively intellectual and social community.

While the university invests millions of dollars into grand architectural improvements that often come at a cost to students, what can be done with minimal resources, economizing on material and money while capitalizing on space that is already ours?

Our proposal is for a neglected hillside space on the east side of Hart House Circle, a space that so many students pass by daily and few ever touch (except maybe to throw their trash at). We envision a long bench, carved into the hillside and recovered with a layer of grass. Combining the form of a traditional bench with the liberating sensation of running your fingers through the lawn on a sunny summer day, this will provide a shady space for the academic and general community that passes through this public space.

We wanted this piece of furniture to be entirely environmentally friendly and comfortable, something out of the ordinary but also evoking the familiar. The simple gesture of reshaping the slope of this hill can re-activate an underused, under-loved space, and allow it to become part of the vibrant outdoor environment around Hart House from which it is currently excluded.