: Opiniens =

 

 

 

 

BRI’S HALLS

Lisa LeBlanc, OP Contributor

Halloween costumes are always a hoot. I
have dyed my hair, painted my skin green,
and dressed like a tin-foiled Martian. Pve
covered myself with purple balloons like a
bunch of grapes from that Fruit of the
Loom commercial. One year, I was

bas

 

Christmas dinner. I got inside a large card-
bgard box and stuck my head through a
hole cut in the top. I covered the box with
a large tablecloth and wore a life-sized
turkey shaped tea cozy on my head. All
night long people left their drinks on my
shoulder when they went to dance.

As a mermaid, I wore a turquoise
sequined gown and carried a mounted
plastic fish that wiggled while singing
“Don’t worry, be happy.” I loved doing
my hair and makeup for that one. I’ve
always been really happy that I was born a
girl. I like girly clothes. I like striding
along, swinging my hips and arms, and
pointing my toes as I align one foot
directly in front of the other like a fashion
model on the runway. That’s why I was so
surprised last Halloween.

I donned my normal everyday clothes
to join my friends at my usual neighbour-
hood pub: black jeans, black sweater (that
I considered quite flattering), and my
favorite black jacket. As I was leaving the
house, the bugged-out eyes of a rubber
Bart Simpson mask peered up at me. |
heard his voice squeak “Come on, Man,

you're puttin’ me on.” I thought a Bart
Simpson mask on top of a

woman’s body would be
funny.

Bart’s pointed hair spikes
added
inches to my six-foot
frame. The rollerblades
added a few more. As I

a couple of

rolled down Broadway, my
incognito status was point-
ed out to me when friendly
fans hollered “Hey, Bart!
Where’s Lisa?” I thought that
was an interesting question,
since my name actually is Lisa. I
waved back and smiled inside
my rubber mask.

When I reached the
door of the pub, I was
elbowed out of the way
by a group of women
barking, “Be a man, Bart. Hold
the door.” I quietly obliged and
watched them parade
through. No one said
thanks. Once inside I
sidled up beside my
friends and waited to be recog-
nized. A group of princesses pranced by
as my friend Mike muttered “Hey Bart,
check out the bouncing tatas.’ I was
shocked. He’d never spoken to me that

    
  
   
 
 
     
  
  
  
   
    
    
 
  
 
   

way before. Usually any sexual innuendos

men made to me involved me.
The rubber mask muffled my
voice so I quietly nodded,
knowingly.

At the bar Wonder
oC Woman sidled up to me
“> and asked me to order her a

drink. I motioned to the bar-

tender and pointed to her glass.

The bartender poured her a
drink and added the price to my bill
without anyone asking me if I
wanted to pay for it. Mooning her
eyes at me, she swayed sugges-
tively, tickling her fingertips
up my arms. I
declined her dance
invitation but she
grabbed my arm
and rolled me out onto
the dance floor anyway.
Fortunately, the only dancing
required of me was a little
head bobbing and
elbow _ jerking.
When a_ chair
scooted out sud-
denly threatening to knock

me off my skates, I rested my hands on
my dancing partner’s shoulders to catch
my balance, like any woman would. She
snapped “Getting” a bit too friendly, Bart,

 

ya Dickhead.” Wonder Woman shrugged
me off and indignantly stalked away, sip-
ping the drink I had just paid for. She left
me floundering for balance on a dance
floor I didn’t want to dance on in the first
place.

Inevitably, I couldn’t put off going to
the washroom any longer. When a burst
of applause distracted the crowd, I
ducked into the woman’s washroom.
Coming out of a stall I met a flurry of fin-
gernails, hairbrushes, and angry women
screeching, “What the hell do you think
youre doing in the woman’s washroom?”
My Bart mask was snatched off and my
game was up.

I didn’t say, “But these are my normal
clothes and I thought (hoped) it would be
obvious that I’m a woman.” I didn’t point
out that they mistook me for a man, and
because of that they demanded my serv-
ices as Doorman, Dancer, Drink-buyer,
and finally, Dick-head when it all went
wrong. The only response required from
me as a man, was a nod, a shrug, or a
wave. It’s no wonder men don’t talk. Who
has the energy to talk after keeping up
with the demands of women while trying
to avoid the wrath of Wonder Woman?

I did revisit this whole “glad to be a
girl” thing. And now I know why I’m sin-
gle. I’ve confused things. ’'ve been waiting
for a man to roll me onto the dance floor.

 

STATI

Matters

  

Biotech can Pose Problems

for Organic Farmers
David Suzuki, David Suzuki
Foundation

Recently, I met with a group of organic
farmers in Saskatchewan who are at the
frontlines in the battle that will determine
the future of farming.

The farmers I talked to were spooked
by the infamous Supreme Court decision

@ | STHERPRESS

that ruled canola plants growing in the
fields of Saskatchewan farmer Percy
Schmeiser actually belonged to the
biotechnology giant, Monsanto. This was
because some of the plants were carrying
genes resistant to Monsanto’s pesticide,
Roundup, even though Mr. Schmeiser had
not purchased “Roundup-Ready” canola
seed from the company.

Despite Mr. Schmeiser’s claim that he
had not deliberately planted the seeds and
that they were somehow contaminating
his fields, the court ruled that he had to
pay the corporate giant for having them
on his property.

For organic farmers, the implications
are potentially devastating. It has been
learned through the widespread planting
of transgenic plants (commonly referred
to as genetically modified organisms or
GMOs), that despite buffer zones
between them and conventional plants,
transgenes readily move over considerable
distances. Pollen is light and can be blown
away or carried by unwitting agents like
mammals, birds, or insects. Organic farm-
ers are now vulnerable to contamination

of their crops from transgenic material
and thus could lose their organic status.

The problem for such farmers and
opponents of biotechnology is that our
federal and provincial governments seem
unconcerned about the potential risks of
transgenic crops and focus entirely on
exploiting the benefits. Agriculture
Canada, the Canadian Food Inspection
Agency, and Health Canada are like cheer-
leaders encouraging the widespread
growing of genetically-engineered crops,
approving the testing of new strains with-
out subjecting them to critical scrutiny
and deliberately introducing the new
plants into our food stream without fan-
fare or labels that would allow the
consumer to decide what to ingest.

For the average person, the claims and
counterclaims over transgenic crops seem
arcane and jargon-laden—difficult for a
layperson to assess. As a scientist, I am
shocked at the ease with which past histo-
ry and experience are forgotten when
there seems to be an economic opportu-
nity. As a geneticist, I am surprised that
my peer group seems so reluctant to

 

“Eat Me”

engage in genuine discussion about the
claims being made for and against trans-
genic organisms.

First let me make my position clear. I
once had the largest genetics lab in basic
research in Canada, I was obsessed with
research and genetics consumed most of
my waking hours, seven days a week. It
was my passion and I was good at it. By
the 1970s, I had also embarked on a sec-
ond career popularizing science and

Continued on Page 9

Qetaber 27/2004