Our southern neighbour is a destination for about eight per cent of outbound Canadian students, according to the Canadian Bureau for International Education. It’s geographically close, culturally similar in many ways and home to many of the top-rated universities in the world.

Adventure, not geographic proximity, prompted Kirsten Nesbitt to study in America. Nesbitt was 18 when she moved to the town of Laie, on the island of Oahu, to study at Brigham Young University Hawaii in 2004. “There was a huge boost of independence,” says Nesbitt, who had not travelled abroad alone before. “It was an experience of coming into my own and being able to figure out who I was and what I wanted out of life.” Nesbitt says she gained new cultural understanding, as many students hailed from Polynesian and Asian countries. She also made lifelong friends in a beautiful setting. “On American Thanksgiving, we camped on the beach and woke up in the morning to dolphins,” she recalls. “It was magical.” Nesbitt transferred back to Canada, graduating with a bachelor of science in food, nutrition and health from the University of British Columbia.

Visa

Canadian students do not need a visa to study in the U.S., but they do need an I-20 certificate from their university. Students will then be entered into the Student and Exchange Visitor Information System, better known as SEVIS. This student-tracking program, operated by the Department of Homeland Security, requires a first-time fee of US$200. While Canadians may be used to flashing their passport and travelling across the Canada-U.S. border as a visitor, students need to remember to submit a I-94 record each time they cross the border.

Where to study

The U.S. has some of the top-ranked universities in the world. Caltech, Stanford, MIT, Harvard, Princeton and the University of Chicago all made the top 10 in the annual Times Higher Education World University Rankings for 2018. There are almost 7,000 other colleges and universities, including many public schools, as well as private not-for-profit and private for-profit schools.

Tuition and other expenses

Tuition in the United States is generally higher than in Canada, but it will vary widely depending on where you go and whether you choose a public or private school. Out-of-state students and international students pay higher tuition in the U.S. than their in-state peers. Statistics gathered by the College Board for the 2017-18 academic school year show that the average tuition for non-resident students at a public institution was $25,620, and it went up to $34,740 at private not-for-profit schools. The average for room and board in that same year was $10,800 for public and $12,210 for private schools. However, those are the “sticker prices,” says the organization. The majority of students in the U.S. receive some kind of financial aid during their studies, so the actual cost paid for tuition and board is often much less.

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The post Study in the United States: A guide for Canadian students appeared first on Macleans.ca.

France is not only the top tourist destination in the world, it’s also tops for Canadian students studying abroad. Fourteen per cent of outbound students choose to study there, according to data from the Canadian Bureau for International Education.

Nakita Rubuliak is one of them. In the summer of 2017, the University of Alberta environmental and conservation sciences student travelled to the French Alps for a three-month program that mixed language study with an internship. First, she studied French for credit at the Université Grenoble Alpes. “The classes were quite intensive,” she says—five days a week with no English. Rubuliak’s language skills improved quickly.

From there, she travelled to a Université Grenoble research garden in the Col du Lautaret, in the Alps near the Italian border. She lived in an idyllic chalet in the midst of a botanical garden, where she worked on climate-change research, measuring alpine and sub-alpine plant growth. “I was the only foreigner,” says Rubuliak. “I was in a completely French setting. By the time I got back, I was fluent.” The internship helped Rubuliak land a job with Parks Canada in Waterton Lakes National Park this past summer, something she’d like to go back to after graduating in 2019.

Visa

Any stay longer than 90 days requires a student visa. Along with a passport, you’ll need a pre-registration certificate from your university proving that you’re studying, and proof of accommodation. You’ll also need to show that you have enough funds to study in France. Student visas are valid for a maximum of three years. A student visa application will cost 99 euros, or about $150.

Where to study

France has more than 3,500 institutes of higher learning, which includes both public and private institutions. Three-quarters of foreign students study in state-funded universities, which offer three-year undergraduate degrees. Grandes écoles are another option. These specialized professional schools have more competitive entrance requirements and higher tuition fees, offering degrees in engineering, business, political science and veterinary medicine. Paris Sciences et Lettres (PSL) is the top-ranked university in France and No. 72 in the world, according to the Times Higher Education World University Rankings. PSL is made up of nine institutions, and 25 per cent of its students are international (compared to 12 per cent elsewhere in the country). If you want to share an alma mater with Louis Pasteur, Jean-Paul Sartre or Michel Foucault, consider PSL.

Tuition and other expenses

At public universities, the French government mostly pays the cost of tuition, even for foreign students. For the 2018-19 academic year, tuition for an undergraduate degree at a French public university was 170 euros, or about $260. Tuition may be cheap, but you’ll still have to cover the cost of visas, airfare, books and living expenses, and maybe a French test.

While some universities in France offer courses in English, foreign students studying in French may need a document proving their grasp of the language. For Canadians, this means taking the Test d’Évaluation de Français pour le Canada (TEF Canada). The test is offered regularly by the Alliance Française and at French-language Canadian colleges and universities. The exam costs $440 through the Alliance Française, so factor that into your budget. There’s a 60-day waiting period between tests if you need to redo it. If you have a French-language high school diploma, you could be exempt.

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The post Study in France: A guide for Canadian students appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Vanessa Ambtman-Smith stands inside the Mshkikii Gamik medicine lodge that will loom large in her graduate research over the next four years.

Located on the ground floor of the Ramsey Lake Health Centre in Sudbury, Ont., the circular room—its shape a symbol of the “hoop of life”—is soft-lit with a separately vented fireplace in the centre for smudging and other traditional ceremonies. On cedar posts spaced along the wood-lined walls, the seven “grandfather teachings” of wisdom, love, respect, bravery, honesty, humility and truth are written on birchbark wall hangings. The medicine wheel colours of red, yellow, black and white trim the domed ceiling. The atmosphere is calm and serene.

Ambtman-Smith, a nêhiyaw (Cree) Ph.D. candidate at Western University, arrived in June to consult on her research about the potential of traditional healing spaces like the lodge to improve the spiritual and physical health of Indigenous patients in Canada. This cohort has been repeatedly identified by national inquiries, most recently the 2015 Truth and Reconciliation Commission, as victims of racism, non-consensual medical experiments and inequitable access to the health care system. First Nation, Métis and Inuit people have higher rates of smoking, obesity and food insecurity than the Canadian population in general, according to Statistics Canada, with other studies reporting discriminatory treatment of Indigenous patients seeking medical care.

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“I am looking at ways to reverse the harms that Indigenous people have experienced within institutions for generations,” she says. Along with mainstream academic tools of analysis, she plans to bring her Indigenous worldview, with its emphasis on collaboration and respect. There’s also a commitment to share knowledge with Indigenous communities, who have historically been treated as subjects—not partners—in health research.

As Ambtman-Smith begins her work, she embodies a new trend in higher education that connects Indigenous researchers, instead of leaving them to toil alone. Last June, she was one of 25 young scholars, mostly Indigenous, selected for Ontario’s Indigenous Mentorship Network, a summer school founded earlier this year to nurture a new generation of scholars to conduct culturally relevant research on health problems identified by First Nation, Inuit and Métis communities. With Western University as the hub for 13 research institutions and 70 researchers, and with students and community representatives across the province, the network has received funding of $1 million from the Canadian Institutes of Health Research (CIHR) and $1.2 million from universities over five years. The network’s motto is an Anishinaabe saying, “mno nimkodadding geegi,” meaning “we are all connected.”

Over the past 15 years, Indigenous scholars have participated in CIHR-funded networks to build capacity in Indigenous health research, but the new network goes much further, says Ontario program leader Chantelle Richmond. 

“This is purely Indigenous-led and Indigenous-centred, and the summer school itself was rooted in ceremony,” says Richmond, an Anishinaabe scholar from Pic River First Nation, an associate professor of geography at Western and Canada Research Chair in Indigenous health and environment. She adds: “That is why this network is so important. We are raising scholars.”

At its core, the network aims to link young researchers with each other and with nationally recognized Indigenous scholars, some only five to 10 years older, who advise them on how to succeed in mainstream academia while incorporating traditional knowledge and practices in their research and improving the health of Indigenous communities. “What I am trying to do is foster in this next generation of students [the sense] that we need to not ask for permission to do the things we need to do,” says Richmond. “We just need to do it.”

Perry McLeod leading summer school participants on a walk in nearby woods to learn about plants and medicines. (Isaac Paul)

At the four-day summer school held at Laurentian University, Indigenous “knowledge keepers” led the students in traditional ceremonies—storytelling, ancestral teachings, talking circles and medicine walks in the woods—to unite the young researchers with their history and the culturally relevant academic work to come. On the first day of school, in keeping with ceremonial activities, including smudging, several female Indigenous researchers wore ribbon-trimmed skirts.

What is so thrilling—and often emotionally charged—for Richmond and other mentors is the chance to guide a new generation in adopting a different research relationship with Indigenous communities, one that values, not disparages, Indigenous knowledge. “When I started my Ph.D. in 2003, we still had researchers out there who thought it was okay to use Indigenous data or work on Indigenous matters but not work with communities,” she says. “Our mentorship network is young, but we were all raised through these [earlier] networks that taught us the first priority really should be the communities. It is a moral imperative.”

That urgency also drives Jennifer Walker, Laurentian’s network lead and a summer school mentor. An epidemiologist, she holds a Canada Research Chair in Indigenous health, assisting First Nation and Métis communities in applying data on Indigenous health and health services for community-defined purposes.

“I am making sure . . . that the data are used to tell Indigenous-led stories about Indigenous lives; not the health system saying these people are sick,” says Walker, a member of the Six Nations of the Grand River. “I am using the data not to shed light on more problems but as tools for healing.”

As a young scholar in a mainstream institution, she says she was told that Indigenous research methods were not valid in mainstream epidemiology. “I was crushed because that was what I wanted to do,” she says. Over time, however, she found herself in demand by Indigenous organizations for her ability to bring an Indigenous perspective to quantitative epidemiology data, and she now belongs to an international network of like-minded scholars.

Walker says the network’s summer school—another will be held next year elsewhere in Ontario—seeks to create a community of Indigenous scholars. “Some people are coming from institutions where there is not a lot of collective energy around the role of indigeneity in academics,” she says. “If there is not a community, then people really need it . . . academia is a very competitive world, and that doesn’t jibe with Indigenous worldviews.”

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Carrie Bourassa, scientific director of CIHR’s Institute of Indigenous Peoples’ Health, applauds the Western University-led network for its focus on mentoring young scholars whose work could help dismantle historic negative practices rooted in the Indian Act. “We are making progress and we are seeing real change in terms of understanding, and that is the first step to decolonization,” says Bourassa, author of a recent paper endorsing the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s “calls to action” to address systemic racism and provide “culturally safe care” in health services. “We have to have people who understand when we say, ‘Indigenous knowledge is science.’ ”

Like their mentors, the summer school scholars express a sense of obligation, not just to earn an academic credential for themselves but to give back to their home communities.

University of Toronto clinical psychology student Shanna Peltier, a member of Wiikwemkoong First Nation on Manitoulin Island, is unequivocal when asked where she wants her research on Indigenous youth suicide to take her. “Back home,” she declares. “Ever since I decided to go to university, I have been told, ‘You go get your education and bring that knowledge back here.’ ”

She hopes her Indigenous research will help her reframe suicide among First Nations youth as a societal responsibility, not an individual tragedy. “There is a lot of work out there about how colonialism has played into suicide,” she says. “How do you expect an Indigenous youth with depression to heal if they can’t get any [clean] water?” she asks. “Can we give them a pill and expect it to help with their symptoms when they haven’t seen their families because they have to attend high school out of town?”

At the summer school, she says she found a sense of belonging that is missing in the university culture of Western knowledge. “There is something about this [network] environment where I never had to justify how I felt today,” she says. “Coming into university as an Indigenous person is literally battling colonialism every day. As soon as you walk through those doors you are stepping into a space where your identity is put on the spot.”

A determination to contribute to Indigenous communities also underpins the research of Randi Ray, an Anishinaabe from Flying Post First Nation, one of six members of the Wabun Tribal Council. A provincial practice lead for the Ontario Indigenous Cultural Safety Program, an anti-racism advocacy group, she is also a second-year educational sustainability Ph.D. candidate at Nipissing University.

READ: How Canadian universities help fight to save Indigenous languages

In her research, she plans to work with Wabun and First Nations leaders to address a problem they raised with her: how to improve on-reserve governance and leadership.

The link between effective band leadership and health care is key for Ray, one of the summer school’s nine recipients of $20,000 in research funding. “In Anishinaabe teachings, health is holistic, health is income, health is education and health is socio-economic status,” she says. “It is everything and encompassing: if you don’t have strong leadership and you don’t have that strong governance, you are not going to be healthy.”

Her research, which begins with questions posed by First Nations communities, uses Indigenous methodology and ways of thinking, doing and knowing. “I call it my learning journey, not a study, because I am trying to decolonize intentionally,” says Ray, daughter of a long-time First Nation chief. Bringing an Indigenous perspective to her research, with the approval of her university advisers, “means absolutely everything to me,” she adds.

She praises the network as “innovative” for its recognition of Indigenous knowledge, but argues it has “always been there” but is often discounted by non-Indigenous scholars. “The system we continue to value in academia is embedded in colonial practice,” she says. “That is not the only way of knowing and doing. Just because a settler wrote it down 250 years ago doesn’t mean it is more valuable than the plants and medicines we talked about today [on the first day of summer school].”

Growing up in her First Nation community, Ray says she received band support for sports and academic pursuits. Now she says it is time for her to repay the gesture. “What we talk about in terms of the Anishinaabe people is the reciprocal relationship of giving back,” she says. “It made no sense for me to do a Ph.D. that is not benefiting the communities that have benefited me all my life.”

Students holding tobacco used for ceremony. (Isaac Paul)

Jason Batise, executive director of the Wabun Tribal Council, is keen to work with Ray, who he says has already demonstrated a respectful approach to working with local First Nations leaders. “That is the preferred approach, and a smart one by Randi,” he says, hopeful that her community-based research will yield “better decision-making” by elected First Nations officials. “She has spent a lot of time with her dad in the bush and she has a good grasp of her Aboriginal self and our culture,” he says. “If that is what she is going to write about in her report, that is important.”

Andrew Forbes, a non-Indigenous participant in the summer school, says exposure to another way of looking at the world “really humbles you.” A master of science in interdisciplinary health student at Laurentian, he says he wants to “learn how to do research in a respectful way that respects the knowledge and expertise of Indigenous peoples, and how to build better relationships—because relationships between white people and Indigenous people have been incredibly racist and damaging in a lot of ways.”

Back in Sudbury, Ambtman-Smith recalls her initial fears of joining the mentorship network.

She had pulled out of an M.A. program at one university in Western Canada, citing “overt racism.” Returning to Ontario, she met Western’s Chantelle Richmond, who encouraged her to pursue graduate studies (now fast-tracked to a Ph.D.) in the geography of Indigenous health. The summer school, she says, provided a safe space to open up about past experiences with racism and to learn from others.

“It has become a really beautiful relationship now that I didn’t expect,” says Ambtman-Smith, who also qualified for $20,000 in research funding through the network. “I didn’t expect how loved and supported we would be and how many people came together to encourage us to be successful. It is overwhelming.”

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The post A new network aims to connect and support Indigenous scholars appeared first on Macleans.ca.

There are many nêhiyaw—or Cree—ways to hunt moose. There are very old required legal teachings, each passed down through families and communities, learned through the patient experience of preparing to take a life. Just as these ways are dependent on the repetition of footsteps on prairies and through muskeg and bush, they also rest on the recollection of songs and stories, and on the guidance of ceremonies. According to some older Cree legal practices, the hunt starts long before the bush. It is initiated through offerings and dreams as those who intend to hunt begin to come to terms with harming a relative. All of this is entering into a relationship of reciprocity. All of this is continuing a relationship with Cree law. It is a practice of wahkotowin, or the principles that govern our relationships with each other, including those with our animal relations. Proper adherence to these laws teaches how to respect the moose’s life and how to continue on with our lives in a proper way.

Once a moose has given its life, there are many Cree ways to prepare moose. The initial frenzy of dressing a moose (skinning it, removing its organs and guts, quartering and removing the meat) dissipates and gives way to the slow, hard work of making the most of the life you just took. You have become obligated. Making use of the meat and the organs is the easier and exciting work. The bones are harder. They can be either cracked open for marrow, filled with grease from the fatty parts of the moose or saved for soup. In the very old ways, they were converted into tools for scraping. The moose hide—seemingly growing heavier by the hour with your responsibilities—must be stretched out until it is almost as taut as a drum. The tighter it is, the easier the scraping becomes. Scraping moose hide. Tough work. The older ones have developed a hidden strength for this hardest work, a strength they have been gifted through hours of clutching and grooving scrapers on rough rawhide, convincing tufts of hair that it is okay to fall away. Eventually it relents and gives way to its new life, maybe as a drum or a pair of moccasins.

READ MORE: Why Indigenous visibility is part of the Maclean’s university rankings

I share the above to recognize the essentiality and challenge of teaching law through relationships with the land. Indigenous law, like many other Indigenous knowledge systems, requires students to leave the limited environment of traditional university lecture halls and go out onto the land. For those unfamiliar with Cree legal processes, they sometimes do not work in the strict linear fashion of other traditions, from the breach of rule to immediate individual consequence. The wahkotowin described above provides guidance to avoid collective consequences for cumulative breaches. Practising Cree law requires us to move beyond our intellectual aspects, as we must physically endure, spiritually connect and emotionally embrace our obligations to the moose’s life. This is what Cree people describe as “four-bodied learning,” engaging with our physical, intellectual, spiritual and emotional selves. The practice ensures we are employing not just our intellectual selves, but relating to the ecological world around us with our full humanity.

Law schools are beginning to act on the understanding of the wealth of legal knowledge outside the classroom. In doing so, they are increasingly turning to partnerships with Indigenous communities to lead on-the-land teachings. For example, the Osgoode Hall law program has begun annually to take part in an Anishinaabe Law Camp. Hosted by the Chippewas of Nawash First Nation on the Bruce Peninsula in Ontario, students are immersed in the ecology of Anishinaabe law. The University of Alberta has worked with Aseniwuche Winewak Nation to bring law students onto its territory and, through the careful guidance of community elders and youth, learn about wahkotowin. This year, law students at the University of Victoria have the opportunity to engage in a field course in WSÁNEĆ—or Saanich—law, during which they will spend a full semester focusing on WSÁNEĆ legal practices and how they are regenerated and continued through guided teachings on the lands and waters of Vancouver Island.

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These are only a few examples from select law schools in Canada. Other law schools and other university faculties are digging their hands into the soil and standing themselves in rivers to provide four-bodied learning opportunities. While the Truth and Reconciliation Commission Calls to Action have brought focus on the indigenization of university curriculums, the seeds of land-based Indigenous learning have long been sown. And while universities are adept at formally acknowledging the traditional territories and unceded lands they’re situated on, engaging in land-based learning at the direction of Indigenous nations begins to give such recognition meaning.

Returning to the brief description of obligations during hunting, it is also important to remember that as a legal principle, wahkotowin represents just one star in a myriad of constellations within Cree law. Widening the frame, it is also important to acknowledge that Cree law is only one of the multitude of Indigenous legal orders in North America. As university students are led out on the land, law schools are committing themselves to showing the full vibrancy of law in North America. If you allow yourself to conceive of laws and legal systems as stars and constellations as I have, then it is wondrous what other beautiful patterns will come into our view—if we choose to make all the stars in our sky matter. Engaging with Indigenous laws on the land is one step in making it so.

Darcy Lindberg is an âpihtawkosisân nêhiyaw/mixed-rooted Plains Cree person, a recovering practising lawyer and doctoral student at the University of Victoria.

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The post Canadian law schools trade moot courts for Indigenous land-based learning appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Like many of his classmates, fifth-year kinesiology major Benson Naman often has to explain where he goes to school: the University of Ontario Institute of Technology.

With its clunky acronym—UOIT—the Oshawa, Ont., institution is frequently mistaken in casual conversation for the long-established University of Toronto. “It’s frustrating,” says Naman. “They say, ‘Oh, U of T, right,’ and I say, ‘No, UOIT.’ ”

Ending the confusion is among the goals of UOIT’s new president, Steven Murphy. His plan to position the school as “one of the great technological universities” includes a rebranding campaign and creating a student-friendly “sticky campus” initiative, as well as shake-it-up moves for teaching and learning. “There is a place in Ontario and Canada for a school that is heavily STEM [science, technology, engineering and math], but STEM-based with a conscience,” he says, with graduates as savvy about the latest technology innovations as they are about their impact on society.

READ MORE: UOIT: The inside scoop on Ontario’s technology school

Getting there will have its challenges. “The biggest branding challenge is the name,” says Murphy. “Few people know what UOIT means, and it doesn’t help us that it’s a string of vowels.”

Over the summer, the university convened focus groups to consider a new moniker for marketing purposes, with more consultations this fall and a potential rebranding by next spring.

Murphy likes the name “On-Tech,” modelled on Georgia Tech and other top technology universities in the United States. He describes UOIT’s inherent potential by invoking the name of another U.S. university—the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—globally known for its blend of engineering, economics, philosophy and political science. “UOIT was built with a vision to be the MIT of the north,” Murphy said at his presidential induction ceremony last May.

Though the Toronto-Waterloo tech corridor features major research universities at either end, Murphy says his institution should not be overlooked. Enrolment has risen steadily since UOIT opened in 2003 and now stands at 10,000 students, with Murphy envisioning further growth to 16,000 over the next decade. UOIT’s most popular programs include nuclear and mechanical engineering, game development and entrepreneurship, and kinesiology.

At its Automotive Centre of Excellence, UOIT operates a five-storey climatic wind tunnel heavily used by industry and other researchers. Recently, the federal government pledged $9.5 million for new aerodynamic enhancements, including a belt-like “moving ground plane” that acts like a road for researchers to design vehicles of the future.

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Yet UOIT has physical challenges. It is split between a downtown Oshawa location and the main campus at the north end of the city. Also, the university estimates that almost 50 per cent of fourth-year students—and almost 40 per cent of freshmen—spend up to five hours a week commuting to school, a deterrent to hanging around campus.

Sarah Abdelmassih, a Ph.D. candidate in applied bioscience, recalls an exhausting first-year commute in 2011. From Brampton, one hour west of Oshawa, she spent an hour and 15 minutes getting to school with a ride from her dad and regional public transit. The trip home, solely via public transportation, took about three hours. “By the end of the day, you are so drained that the last thing you want to do is open a textbook after taking the bus home,” she says. The following year, she rented housing near campus and now, newly married, she commutes 15 minutes by car from a nearby suburb.

Dr. Stephen Murphy, president of UOIT (Hannah Yoon)

Luring commuter students to stick around is a priority for Murphy, a former dean of the Ted Rogers School of Management at Ryerson University. “You want folks to really be proud of where they are and want to stick around because it is the cool place to go,” he says. “If students can stay here and be proud of their community, they leave as alumni and ambassadors.”

Some “sticky campus” activities began before he arrived. In August, UOIT completed renovations on its soccer pitch with an Astroturf surface that meets FIFA criteria, enabling UOIT to host major tournaments. Murphy calls the field a “crown jewel.”

Katherine Koehler-Grassau, a member of the women’s soccer team that won a bronze at a national competition several years ago, says the field “has always been grass, and it turned to mud when it rained. It’s nice to have the turf field, finally.”

Elsewhere, students are being asked about what food they want in campus cafés, and for ideas on a revamped coffee shop that could double as an evening event space.

Some moves are small but visible. Around a seasonal water pool near the main campus commons, the university recently added blue and white Muskoka chairs for three-season seating. Picking up on an initiative first funded by the student association, UOIT has pledged to keep its library open 24-7 during exams. Other moves are bigger: consultations are under way on the design of a new building that would replace portables and house student services, UOIT’s student association and additional study spaces by 2021. “It will really bring the student community together,” says Jessica Nguyen, president of the UOIT Student Association. “What students lack is a place where they can come and hang out, talk to friends and [participate in] clubs and societies.” Her executive is also looking into sleeping “huts” for students to nap in between classes.

SCHOOL PROFILE: University of Ontario Institute of Technology

Beyond a welcoming campus, Murphy is eager to explore “disruptions” to teaching and learning. Last year, UOIT approved a liberal studies program for STEM students to study the humanities, as well as for others undecided about their future. The 120-credit program aims to equip students with knowledge across multiple disciplines, including technology, to help them succeed in an uncertain world.

Murphy wants to build on the new program, predicting it “will become the norm in new degree passing because it gives people flexibility.”

He also questions the traditional university format of 13-week semesters and three-hour lectures. “None of that is sacrosanct, and none of it speaks to how people best learn,” he says, eyeing alternatives to the professor-led classroom, including expanded experiential learning (in collaboration with local industry and non-profit organizations) and flexible curriculum delivery, including online.

To get there, he will need support from faculty, who are about to bargain for a new agreement. UOIT Faculty Association president Kimberly Nugent says her members are “cautiously optimistic” about the president’s game plan, describing him as a “forward thinker.” But she warns her members “need to be part of the conversation. It is not just the senior leadership imposing these decisions.”

Like the excited freshmen who filled UOIT’s gym for an orientation rally in early September, the new president is anxious to get going. “This is a great start,” Murphy told them. “Let this be your springboard to a fantastic year.”

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The post Can UOIT become Canada’s MIT? appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Be open to unfamiliar surroundings

If you’re attending university in a distant city, expect to feel excitement in meeting new people and forging new friendships, but also to experience some homesickness. I know that I did when I left Halifax to attend the University of Waterloo in September 1979. Although Nova Scotia and Ontario are more similar than, say, France and China, I was still astonished by some subtle differences that made me miss my Africadian (African-Nova Scotian) community. My response to this homesickness or nostalgia or even alienation was to read voraciously everything the Dana Porter Arts Library had pertaining to “Sweet Home” Nova Scotia. Not only did I become an amateur expert on the history and the geography, all that curative research served to inspire my first book of poetry, Saltwater Spirituals and Deeper Blues (1983), and continues to inform much of my scholarship and creative writing. I started out as a Black Nova Scotian, but became Africadian thanks to that transplantation and uprooting experience.

George Elliott Clarke, E.J. Pratt professor of Canadian literature, University of Toronto

READ: 10 things I wish I’d known in my first year of university

Take advantage of research opportunities

The self-discipline you develop in your university years will pay off tenfold in the future. By attending classes regularly and staying on top of things, you will learn new and creative ways of solving problems and hear about all kinds of wild things not found in textbooks or online notes. You will also meet new people who share common interests with you, plus be able to interact with your profs and learn about their research. Many profs hire students to do research over the summer months, and I encourage any student to jump at this opportunity if it’s available. This is how I got into research—I just emailed a few of my professors, and one of them was interested in taking me on. Now, as an assistant professor, I have been able to pay forward the kindness of my former supervisors by hiring some of the bright young minds I’ve interacted with while teaching my first-year chemistry course.

Mita Dasog, assistant professor, department of chemistry, Dalhousie University. Recently named one of the top 150 Canadian women in STEM. 

Don’t be afraid to stand behind what you know 

At first the university seemed like a different world to me, but I found it was made of many, many worlds. As an Indigenous undergrad, I remember feeling conflicted about sharing knowledge or ideas in certain classes wherein Indigenous ways of knowing were not commonplace. On one hand, I wondered, is the classroom where this knowledge should be taken up? On the other, I worried Indigenous knowledge systems wouldn’t be taken seriously. Looking back, I know that this struggle was an important process for me. 

While the university is one source of knowledge, it also provides a forum for students to bring in their own knowledges and experiences. This can be both an uncomfortable and liberating feeling. Draw on your experiences—they are a source of knowledge.

I remember being really grateful for the friendships I developed, many of which continue today. Relationships with friends and peers will be crucial to your wellbeing as you explore, contend and deliberate. Take courses with content outside your comfort zone. Don’t be afraid to represent your own knowledge. Your learning will stretch you, and the university should be stretched in return. 

Vanessa Watts, acting director, Indigenous studies program, and assistant professor, department of sociology, McMaster University 

Find ways to stay focused in classes

As a first-year undergraduate in the honours physics program at McGill, I often found myself having a hard time understanding material the professor was teaching in class. Either I was tired and found myself drifting off to sleep or else I felt lost and unable to even come up with a cogent question, if I even had the nerve to speak up—and at first, I did not. 

I eventually found two solutions (apart from trying to get more sleep) that were helpful. One was to realize that if I was lost, probably others were too, and they really appreciated someone having the courage to speak up. Also, a very effective trick was to take some time before class to read a little ahead in the textbook. This primed me for class and I found I could get far more out of the professor’s lecture. I could follow better, and I developed enough confidence to ask questions, since I had already given the material some thought. Reading ahead was an investment, but it paid off by making the classroom experience a valuable use of time. I was more engaged, and I found staying awake was that much easier.

Victoria Kaspi, professor of astrophysics and director of the Space Institute at McGill University 

Aritha van Herk. (Ewan Nicholson)

Don’t let your program confine you

Explore. Give your curiosity free rein. Universities are programmatically structured now, but don’t let the requirements of your program confine you. If you want to take astronomy and your English degree tells you that you can’t take any more options, resist and figure out a way to do both. It is less important to complete a degree than to discover your fascinations, which will follow you through life. Add another year and take those options. Stretch. Expand your interests and follow the spirit of inquiry that will serve as the signal for your success. Allow yourself the pleasure of fascination and engagement in an area that will tell you what you really care about, even if it doesn’t result in a cut-and-dried profession. And always work on your ability to express yourself with eloquence and passion. The greatest skill you will need to succeed is articulation, clarity and effective persuasion.

Aritha van Herk, professor, department of English, University of Calgary. Member of the Order of Canada and Alberta Order of Excellence, and fellow of the Royal Society of Canada.

Engage with subjects that frighten you. Take a course that scares and challenges you.

I started university as a science student at the University of Western Ontario (now Western University). All my courses were science courses, and they provided me with a set of problem-definition and problem-solving skills that have been useful to me over the course of my working life. I did not take any courses in history or philosophy because I was afraid of them and thought they would not be helpful. Years later, I discovered that context influences understanding and that all things have history and philosophy. I’ve had to go back and learn the things that frightened me those many years ago. You never know what you’ll need on this journey through life. It’s best to be prepared as best you can for a world in which context is as important as method.

David Newhouse, professor and director, Chanie Wenjack School for Indigenous Studies, Trent University

Ask yourself questions

If I could repeat my first year at university, I would ask more questions of myself, my classmates, senior peers and professors. The shift from knowing the answers to asking the questions lets your curiosity shine and helps you figure out the new and vast university system. As a student, I could have asked questions like: What are the requirements and options in my program? What are the campus services (including mental health services)? What’s the best way to approach this course or assignment? What are the options in my program? What clubs or sports could I try? By practising these questioning skills early on, you will be better able to ask for help when you struggle, and hopefully you will challenge yourself enough to struggle—it’s a good thing!

Asking questions helps you understand the moment, make connections and build skills. You are building the foundation for lifelong learning.

Alison Flynn, associate professor, chair in university teaching, department of chemistry and biomolecular sciences, University of Ottawa, 3M National Teaching Fellow

Follow your curiosity

“Pursue what you’re passionate about” is incredibly banal advice to give new university students, but it strikes me as the most important thing that I wish I’d known in my first year of university. I initially applied to pursue a degree in business before changing my major twice to settle on political science. Why? Because I came in thinking I should get a degree that sounded practical, something that would pay well, something that would look good on a resumé. These are perfectly fine factors to take into consideration, but you’re not going to succeed doing something you don’t enjoy. I ended up with a degree that gave me a lot of skills and a variety of great potential career paths (in other words, it kept my options open), but more importantly, I could only do well in a program I was interested in. Use your first year to explore all a university has to offer, inside and outside the classroom, and remember that it’s okay to chart a different path than the one you initially planned.

Emmett Macfarlane, associate chair, graduate studies, associate professor, department of political science, University of Waterloo 

Manage your time and take a partial course load if you need to

I began university when I was 21 as a mature student and was driven and passionate about my education. However, my financial and family circumstances meant I needed to work to attend university, despite receiving a small student loan and eventually scholarships. I was able to succeed by finding employment that either related in some way to the skills and knowledge I was gaining in university, or was unionized, physically demanding and paid well. I learned to multi-task and ruthlessly manage my time and deadlines. At times, I chose a partial course load, which meant I could concentrate on my studies and build strong relationships with my faculty and peers. I also learned how to manage my personal finances. I loved my undergraduate years at Simon Fraser University, and graduated with an honours degree in history and communication.  

Sara Diamond, OCAD University president

Establish positive lifelong habits

Cultivate friendships. The most valuable thing I have from my undergraduate years is my social network of friends, which includes both former classmates and professors. I’ve had so many opportunities in my life because people I met in undergrad thought of me for some role.

Write every day. It’s easy to leave a 3,000-word essay to the last minute. I have a rule for writing projects: I have to write at least 10 words every day. Just 10 words. Of course, I usually end up writing far more, but the act of writing every day helps me not fall behind, and “just 10 words” is small enough that I don’t put off the task. It’s strange, but it works.

Exercise every day. It’s good for mental health, and in your first year, you will have stress. During the exam crunch, you may not feel like you have time, but that’s when it’s most important. It’s time well spent.

Mike Moffatt, assistant professor in the business, economics and public policy group at Ivey Business School, Western University, and director of policy and research for Canada 2020, a leading, independent progressive think tank  

Bonnie Norton. (Bonnie Norton)

Use your learning to work toward a more equitable world

My parents were not wealthy and never went to university. It was therefore necessary for me to learn to navigate the many cultural practices of university life through trial and error. I was surprised when one student, who came from a wealthy family, was given a generous financial scholarship, while I was holding down two jobs and working around the clock. I gathered up the courage to ask him how he knew about the scholarship. Without a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I make it my business to find out.” I have never forgotten this lesson on the relationship between human agency and access to knowledge and opportunity. We need to make it our business to “find out”—not only about scholarships and financial aid, but the way human possibility is socially and historically constructed, both locally and globally, and how we can achieve a more equitable world through sharing access to knowledge and power.

Bonny Norton, professor and distinguished university scholar, department of language and literacy education, University of British Columbia 

Develop a work-life balance

Remember that mental and physical fitness and health go together. Pay attention to your nutrition and make sure you get enough sleep, especially before exams. Your first year at university should be a time when you explore new ideas, strengthen existing hobbies or discover new ones, make lasting friends, and join and actively participate in clubs and societies. These non-academic activities will sharpen your ability to competently use your time, make you more efficient and effective in learning your academic material, and make your university experience more fulfilling and rewarding. In the broader context and when feasible, volunteer outside of the university, such as at a homeless shelter or in assisting residents in nursing homes to learn to use new technologies or develop their computer skills. Be aware that university is very different from high school in both the speed and depth of new material that you will have to master. Finally, remember that life is about balance and choices, so choose your major wisely, focus and persevere, and strive to balance your academic and non-academic life while you build your professional foundation with strong personal growth and healthy living.

Jamal Deen, professor, McMaster University, and Senior Canada Research Chair in information technology

Allow yourself to be intellectually uncomfortable

If I had one piece of advice to give, it would be: don’t be afraid to make yourself intellectually uncomfortable. What I mean by that is let your mind be open to different ideas—especially those that challenge your viewpoints.

A lot of students I see coming into university today are married to a very specific position, which mirrors what we are seeing now across North America. There’s too much polarization—people with different political and social views aren’t talking to one another, and that’s a problem. Luckily, universities were created to beat that problem. You will be exposed to new ideas daily, be it from professors, other students or clubs you belong to—but only if you are open to them. You need to seek them out. Those new ideas will allow you to better understand others, learn new things, change your opinion or simply become more resilient with your own ideas, but you need that perspective and context.

 We are developing tomorrow’s leaders at universities like ours, and we want them to be responsible leaders; that’s a key focus for us at UBC Sauder. Responsible leaders understand all the viewpoints at play and don’t become dogmatic on one specific idea. I think true leadership is about understanding all the different positions that people have and coming to a consensus on the best decision that can be made.

So be curious, be open-minded and be uncomfortable. It will make you a better leader and a better person.

Darren Dahl, senior associate dean, faculty director of the Robert H. Lee Graduate School, UBC Sauder School of Business, 3M National Teaching Fellow 

Remember that you have time to make connections

I wish I had known how many paths my career would take, from designer to running a health sciences programme to teaching in Brock’s M.Ed. program and researching post-secondary teaching and learning. I wish I had known that what would matter most wouldn’t be the specific content of any course but rather the learning skills I was acquiring along the way.

As the well-known scholar Patricia Cross wrote, “Learning is about making connections.” Two of the most useful things I have learned are the ability to make connections from one subject and context to another, and the ability to make connections across diverse groups of people. Above all, develop these meta-cognitive skills so that when you leave school and enter the workforce, you’ll be able to keep learning and reinventing yourself as you go.

Another critical consideration is that there is enough time. There is time to do the work, but also connect to friends. To read the articles, but still go for a walk. To write the papers, but still have time for yourself. At the end of the degree, what’s left is you. The patterns you create will be with you for a long time—make them ones that will work for your life. Let busy-ness be for others; make your life rich and full.

Nicola Simmons, assistant professor, department of education studies, Brock University. 3M National Teaching Fellow and Brock University Chancellor’s Chair in Teaching Excellence, 2018-2021 

Joe Schwarcz. (Joe Schwarcz)

Make good use of recorded lectures

When I was an undergrad back in the 1960s, skipping a lecture was a foreign concept. We were scared that our performance on exams would suffer for having missed some pearl of wisdom that the prof cast our way. How times have changed! At McGill, back in 2000, with technical help from two bright undergraduates, Nic Siggel and Nat Goodyer, my colleagues David Harpp, Ariel Fenster and I pioneered the recording of lectures with a view toward decreasing students’ stress. At first we were dismayed by the decrease in attendance, but have since found that grades have actually crept upward. That is likely due to the opportunity of reviewing the material in a more efficient fashion, clarifying more difficult concepts as needed.

At the beginning of each course, we offer students advice on how best to master the material and optimize performance. It is critical not to attempt to “binge watch” the lectures just prior to exams. Numerous studies, as well as our own observations, have shown that material consumed in large lumps does not lead to durable learning. As evidenced by student evaluations, the availability of recorded lectures makes for a better, more efficient learning process. We are also satisfied that most students abide by our advice and relatively few are seduced by the possibility of binge watching.

Joe Schwarcz, director, office for science and society, McGill University

Prioritize learning to write well

One of the things I wish I had known as an undergraduate was the importance of writing well. When I was completing my B.A., I thought my ideas would speak for themselves. It didn’t matter if I picked the right words or structured my sentences properly, since my understanding of the material would shine through regardless. In fact, I remember ruminating over my essay topics for days, then drafting whole papers in one night. I’m pretty sure I even submitted a few without editing them. That was a bad strategy. I did well on exams, but my essay marks kept bringing my average down. Luckily, I was still able to get into graduate school. Once I started my M.A., my stubbornness subsided, and I finally accepted that I had to improve my writing. Although I’ll never be a great writer, I try to get a bit better with each article, book chapter, op ed or blog post I churn out. As I tell my students at the start of every class, arguments are far more convincing and compelling when they’re effectively communicated. When ideas are presented clearly and concisely, they’re more likely to be considered and retained. These messages are particularly important for students who are planning careers in fields that depend on persuasion and explanation, such as public policy and international affairs. My undergraduate papers would have been much better had I figured that out earlier.

Philippe Lagassé, associate professor and Barton Chair, Norman Paterson School of International Affairs, Carleton University

Don’t be afraid to change direction

While exchanging with a student with whom I’ve worked for several years, who has now completed her undergraduate degree and moved to graduate work, something suddenly crystallized: “I wish I’d known when I first arrived at McGill that I had a right to change my mind,” she said. Nora arrived as a student in the faculty of science, and subsequently transferred to the faculty of arts. We worked together on the transition and culture change she had to navigate. She added that she wished she’d realized that she had not only the prerogative but the ability and freedom to change course. Initially, as she shifted, it felt as though she was “letting people down”—her family and the people who had initially advised her. We talked about what it takes, especially these days, to overcome that sense, fed by many discourses in contemporary culture, that one must come to university with a set plan and objective in mind for “success,” and that departure from that initial direction is seen as coming at too high a price. Yet that’s what undergraduate experience is crucially about (I say this from the perspective of someone positioned in the humanities): exploration, discovery, playing a sudden hunch that may lead to a swerve and a new discovery. Nora also wished she’d known that the red tape she’d feared would stand in her way as she changed pathways just wasn’t there. There were actually lots of resources in place to encourage what she was doing. I was glad to hear that the university’s advising infrastructure helps to support the spirit of remaining open to change, evolution and unexpected possible futures. 

Miranda Hickman, acting associate dean, faculty of arts, associate professor of English, McGill University; Nora Shaalan, M.A. student, McGill University

Make time for personal growth

There were so many avenues that I followed that have contributed greatly to my success later in life. Many of the experiences were unknown to me when I first entered university. I never imagined I would enjoy something so much that I knew nothing about previously. Through uncovering these hidden experiences, you will connect with others who, like you, are waiting to discover a passion they did not know existed. Having everything planned out and scheduled does not leave room for growth. Taking on new challenges and exploring new disciplines will allow you to deviate from plans or may reinforce the route you had already planned to take. Whatever the result, you will have varied experiences to broaden your thinking. When you walk off the beaten learning path, so many amazing adventures await.

Jay Wilson, associate professor and department head, curriculum studies, University of Saskatchewan, 3M National Teaching Fellow

Dan Dolderman. (Jenna Liao/TedX)

Things I wish I’d known (in no apparent order):

 1. Play. Never stop having fun. Besides, it gets you happiness, productivity, friends. And you never know when life ends.

 2. To maximize No. 1, work very hard, in bursts. Don’t “study all the time.” That makes you depressed, bored and boring. And it’s a colossal waste of time. Focus and dedicate yourself fully to the tasks you are engaged in. 

3. “Cheating the system” by doing things at the last minute, skipping class but still managing to pull off the A-minus or whatever, is just stupid. If you can slack your way through school, who knows what your potential is?

4. Find people who are helpful and motivated. Share notes and help others freely. Any friend will party with you; hold on to the ones who will help you grow.

5. Professors want to talk to you. (At least, I hope so!) Asking questions is not “wasting their time.” They want you to succeed (so they can brag about this great student they knew, who’s now doing amazing things).  

6. The small things matter. A lot. Get enough sleep, eat half-decently and organize your time well so you aren’t always stressed. Everything will work out better from there. 

7. Everybody is insecure. Don’t be intimidated by people. Just be yourself. Some people will like you for you, and that’s enough. So let your freak flag fly.

8. Practically everybody could benefit from a good therapist or mentor. Don’t wait until you hit bottom before you get help. 

9. Relationships determine most of the quality of life. Learn how to set boundaries with people, how to be a good communicator and what your weaknesses are. Then, take the leap and trust people—when it seems wise.  

Dan Dolderman, professor, department of psychology, University of Toronto

Stay curious and learn beyond your assigned course load

Don’t underestimate the importance of embracing experiences outside the university as part of your education. A walking tour of a historic neighbourhood, listening to an elder tell stories or studying an ecosystem in the field—such happenings can spark intangible and unexpected encounters. Enrol in courses held on the land or in community settings, and read, read, read. Opening yourself to new ideas and pushing beyond your comfort zone will not only enhance your current academic experience but might inspire you to shift directions and lead you down new learning paths. Thinking back to talks I attended both on and off campus when I thought I didn’t have time to spare or I was too tired to venture out often provoked new questions I hadn’t considered. 

And do not forget to read beyond what is assigned for your classes. University libraries are filled with amazing books. Choose a section, walk up and down the stacks and pull books off the shelf that catch your eye. Crack open the spine and read the table of contents or start with the first sentence. You might find something you didn’t even know you were looking for. I started out at a two-year program after high school and never imagined the places I would go, the experiences I would have and the paths that eventually led me to becoming a professor. 

Carmen Robertson, Scots-Lakota professor of art history, Carleton University 

Work on your meta-cognitive skills 

What will you learn in university? You will memorize a lot of facts and learn a lot of new skills and techniques. But all those facts you memorize will likely be quickly forgotten, or you can always Google them. Specific job skills you learn may be out of date by the time you start your career, let alone all the times you will change careers over the course of your working life. Much more important is a layer of meta-level skills that will help you in any career path and in contributing to the world as a functioning citizen. Two essential skills are good time management and the ability to pay close attention to detail. These are skills you will need for all your courses, and for your jobs later. Overall, there is the ability to deal with complex issues: to think your way through a maze of opinions and information, decide what is relevant, make reasoned and evidence-based decisions, then communicate and defend those decisions. These critical-thinking skills are what higher education should give you, and they are essential to survival in a fast-changing world. 

Shelly Wismath, dean of liberal education, professor, mathematics and liberal education, University of Lethbridge, 3M National Teaching Fellow   

MORE ABOUT EDUCATION:

• A notorious Canadian party school attempts to sober up
• Canada’s top party schools 2019
• How Telus and the University of Victoria designed a different kind of MBA
• Can UOIT become Canada’s MIT?

The post 21 tips every first-year student should know appeared first on Macleans.ca.

In the midst of yet another panic attack, Tina Chan realized she needed better help. Chan was a first-year student at the University of Waterloo, and the transition from high school wasn’t going smoothly.

Chan had always excelled in school, but she pushed herself harder in new classes while living alone for the first time. When she started to struggle, she reached out to resources on and off campus. She received the phone numbers for intimidating crisis hotline numbers or pamphlets full of text. Neither was useful to her.

Chan needed something to quickly overcome the immediate symptoms of her panic attacks, and some coping mechanisms. So she made her own solution. “I thought if there’s a first-aid kit for physical trauma, there should also be one for mental health symptoms,” Chan recalls. 

READ: 21 tips every first-year student should know

Chan took her idea to GreenHouse, an incubator for student-run start-ups on the Waterloo campus. Each year, students pitch “big ideas” for social innovation or entrepreneurship, with successful applicants earning residence at St. Paul’s University College, in the middle of the Waterloo campus, and a semester of mentorship and coaching from GreenHouse staff.

She was accepted, and spent several months honing her idea into the Panic, Anxiety and Stress Support Kit, or PASS Kit. She asked peers what they thought should be in it. Some answers were impractical, like “gin and Xanax,” while others were useful but bulky, like a “stuffed animal or a blanket.”

Eventually, Chan settled on items based on scientific theory and evidence of usefulness. “Earplugs and sleeping masks to block distracting noise and light that are environmental,” she says. “As well as the chewing gum and the stress ball, which exercise hand and jaw muscles to release tension for better blood flow and less anxiety.”

Chan’s struggle with anxiety in her first year of university inspired her mental health first-aid kit (Hannah Yoon)

Instead of bulky pamphlets, Chan created a series of flash cards based on cognitive behavioural therapy, which takes a practical approach to addressing issues. The cards point out symptoms of stress and suggest behaviours or habits to adopt, like getting more sleep. “A lot of students like to cram all-nighters before an exam, and sleep deprivation is really bad for mental health, and [getting sleep] is good for memory formation,” says Chan. “We remind them that maybe sleep is productive toward studying, not counterproductive.”

Chan worked with staff at GreenHouse for about a year, finessing the PASS Kits and figuring out how to market them. Brendan Wylie-Toal, GreenHouse’s manager, helped create more than 1,000 kits as a test run, and distributed them to first-year students in Chan’s residence. The feedback was impressive. “For some students, the kit is just an awareness-raising tool, and a cue to say, ‘Yeah, think of mental health,’ ” Wylie-Toal says. “For others, it was something they used weekly. We had a student in our program who received a kit when she was in first year, and she said she wore the flash cards out; there were some she referenced so often they were pulling at the corners.”

Chan still solicits feedback from the kit’s users, which she says is generally positive. “One particular student suffered bulimia cycles as well as self-harm. So using the kit and reading through the cards gave her a moment of thought to reflect on what she wanted to do, instead of going into that cycle of negative behaviour.”

RELATED: A letter to friends with mental illnesses: ‘Your lives make my life worth living’

The PASS Kits proved so helpful that faculties across the University of Waterloo began ordering them to hand out to first-year students. Leanne Wright, the recruitment coordinator with the faculty of applied health sciences, was the first to place an order. “We decided on the PASS Kit with a customized note, as we felt it was a good way to communicate to our students that we value them and care about their health and wellbeing,” she says. “It was also an opportunity to inform them about the resources on campus and in our faculty to support them along the way.”

For Wright, purchasing the kits was also a chance to support a student-led product. Orders like this helped Chan grow her business, though she didn’t imagine it would reach this scale.

Chan is still figuring out her next steps, but she has a few ideas. She’s looking at the possibility of PASS Kits more specifically tailored to populations, like veterans or French Canadians, or kits that deal more directly with a specific mental health issue, like loneliness, depression or PTSD.

And while the kits are a good first step, both Chan and Wylie-Toal recognize they aren’t a replacement for more intensive mental health care. “There will always be folks out there who say this isn’t a solution to the mental health crisis. From the very start, Tina was never trying to solve the mental health crisis. She was keenly aware that this was a tool to start a conversation, but there needs to be more done,” Wylie-Toal emphasizes.

For now, the $15 kits are only available online, and Chan balances managing the company with working toward her master’s degree at Waterloo. But now, if she feels a panic attack coming on, she knows where to turn.

MORE ABOUT EDUCATION:

• A notorious Canadian party school attempts to sober up
• Canada’s top party schools 2019
• How Telus and the University of Victoria designed a different kind of MBA
• Can UOIT become Canada’s MIT?

The post How first-aid kits for mental health symptoms are helping Canadian university students appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Dalhousie’s Indigenous Student Centre recently relocated to a prominent place on the university’s downtown Halifax campus. Residing in a cheery blue house, shared by the Black Student Advising Centre, there’s a student lounge, computer lab and meeting/smudge room. On hand is an Indigenous student adviser to answer questions, serve as a sounding board and curate regular events, like a monthly communal meal that often includes traditional ingredients like moose meat. There’s also an elder-in-residence, and the centre provides tobacco ties—loose leaves collected in a small cloth and offered as a gesture of respect—in case students want to approach the elder for assistance.

Sitting in a room smelling of recently smudged sage and sweetgrass, Michele Graveline, Dalhousie’s Indigenous student adviser, describes an exercise recently added to the school year’s start for most incoming students to the professional faculties, including law, medicine and engineering.

The “blanket exercise” is an interactive workshop that explains Canadian history through an Indigenous perspective. Blankets are laid down and then gradually stripped away to symbolize the loss of land and the decimation of Indigenous perspectives through smallpox, residential schools, missing and murdered women and other forms of contact. Response to the workshop, designed by faith-based advocacy group KAIROS Canada in partnership with Indigenous elders and teachers, is mostly positive. Mostly. “There are still some students who ask why we have to do this,” says Graveline.

RELATED: A new network aims to connect and support Indigenous scholars

“It’s a very visceral, experiential way to understand the history of colonization of Canada and the impact it has on contemporary society,” says Brad Wuetherick, Dalhousie’s executive director of learning and teaching and co-chair of Dalhousie’s Indigenous advisory council. “A lot of people are concerned that for 150 years of Canada, this history was not taught.”

When the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) of Canada issued its Calls to Action in December 2015, it placed education at the centre of the country’s reconciliation process. Created following a settlement between the federal government and survivors of residential schools, the TRC issued 94 Calls to Action, including calls to eliminate educational and employment gaps between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Canadians, address the backlog of Indigenous students seeking a post-secondary education and incorporate Indigenous education into existing programming.

Many universities have embraced these calls with gusto, accepting them as an urgent and overdue reckoning. Institutions have focused on recruiting and retaining more Indigenous students, hiring Indigenous faculty and creating Indigenous spaces—like the new centre at Dalhousie. And while the field of Indigenous studies is certainly not new—Trent introduced its department in 1969, the first in the country—some universities are receiving increased funding, re-examining curricula and implementing mandatory study for all students of particular faculties. As this work continues, many universities still grapple with the question of how foundational their changes should be. In an interview last year with the CBC, University of Saskatchewan Indigenous studies professor and Cree activist Priscilla Settee questioned the process by proclaiming that it would have to extend beyond “just add Indigenous and stir.”

At the school where she teaches, which has one of the highest concentrations of Indigenous students in the country at 15 per cent, a new strategic plan aims to make Indigenization one of the core pillars of the educational experience. The school’s academic governance body passed a motion almost two years ago decreeing that each degree program should have significant Indigenous content—while not prescribing the precise form for the institution’s 17 colleges and schools. “It doesn’t look the same across the institution, but we do expect consultation with Indigenous communities, elders and students about what they want to see in the programming in their particular area,” says Peter Stoicheff, University of Saskatchewan president. Stoicheff says his institution is committed to the idea of “nothing about us without us,” and that research involving Indigenous peoples has become more consultative and symbiotic. “We put a lot of emphasis on researching Aboriginal peoples and on working with communities to do that kind of research appropriately and not just on the university’s terms,” he says. The university has also added Indigenous voices to governance roles, including an elders advisory council and the recent creation of a vice-provost for Indigenous engagement—a position held by Jacqueline Ottmann, an Anishinaabe scholar charged with transforming “practices inclusive of Indigenous leadership, methodologies and pedagogies.”

In its own bid to foster inclusion, the University of Toronto is launching a dedicated Indigenous web portal in October, hoping to highlight services available to and contributions made by Indigenous people on campus. The provost’s office at U of T also recently approved funding to support 20 Indigenous faculty hires and 20 Indigenous staff hires. “If we want the university to transform, we really need Indigenous people here in all aspects of university life,” says Jonathan Hamilton-Diabo, director of U of T’s Indigenous initiatives and the former director of First Nations House, which offers Indigenous student services.

RELATED: How Indigenous scholarship winners are busting myths and stereotypes

The changes being introduced by Canadian universities certainly feel like progress. But there are stickier parts, too. Hamilton-Diabo, who grew up in Kahnawà:ke Mohawk Nation in Quebec, warns schools must avoid “pan-Indigenization,” or the presentation of Canada’s Indigenous peoples as one monolithic bloc. “Indigenous peoples are a collection of people with diverse backgrounds and nations, and there are great differences. We are not all the same. It’s truth and reconciliation—and we can’t just focus on reconciliation. It means that the university has to build relationships with multiple peoples and communities.”

Hayden King, director of the Yellowhead Institute at Ryerson University, says that the concept of Indigenization is itself problematic. “It implies that we’re adding Indigenous peoples to existing institutions and structures and making them a bit more hospitable, but it doesn’t address the core structural issues of institutions like the university,” he says. “We can recruit more Indigenous students to campus and put Indigenous iconography on campus, which are all symbolic changes, but representation is only a partial remedy.”

Further, increasing representation can have its own perils. Indigenous peoples are significantly underrepresented in graduate work—just three per cent of master’s and Ph.D. students are Indigenous, according to Universities Canada. So how can institutions hire them into the university system and avoid leaving them languishing as underpaid, insecurely employed sessional teachers without challenging tenure requirements? And how can every aspect of the university, an inherently conservative institution, be enveloped in the process of Indigenization?

At Trent University, part of that transformation involves not simply inclusion of Indigenous narratives but the incorporation of Indigenous knowledge. David Newhouse, professor and chair of Indigenous studies at Trent, points to the Mi’kmaw concept of “two-eyed seeing,” a framework for fusing the best of Indigenous knowledge, led by Indigenous elders, with the best of Western knowledge.

Newhouse says that this process is actively countering the destruction perpetrated by residential schools. “The schools intended to turn Indians into Europeans, and so it was geared toward the elimination of Indigenous knowledge,” says Newhouse. “So in my view, this is one of the most profound statements that a university in Canada can make. It acknowledges that a people who have lived here for millennia have knowledge that is important and valid and is part of the academy.”

The idea of shifting the framework of all the university’s teachings, not simply adding more courses that examine Indigenous history, language or culture, is a core part of the reconciliation process for many Indigenous scholars. “Indigenization really has to recognize the validity of Indigenous worldviews and ways of knowing, being and doing. It has to recognize our knowledge and perspectives,” says Shelly Johnson, the world’s first Canada Research Chair in Indigenizing higher education and an associate professor at Thompson Rivers University in Kamloops, B.C. “Education was a weapon used against us to remove language and culture and traditions. What about putting back oral tradition, including elders as sources of knowledge, and recognizing Indigenous writers and scholars?”

The integration of Indigenous scholars into the typically rigid framework of post-secondary education has also proven thorny. At Dalhousie, the administration is presently navigating the tenure review process for a cohort of Indigenous professors whose research and dissemination methodologies vary from the established “publish or perish” norm. A new collective agreement with faculty recognizes Indigenous knowledge and aims to steer tenure committees toward greater latitude. “For Indigenous scholars, dissemination back to community, and the utility of that research for communities, is first and foremost,” says Dalhousie’s Wuetherick. “The idea of publishing a peer-reviewed journal article is not top priority.”

Funding—for Indigenous faculty and students, and for initiatives related to Indigenization—is a top priority, even if ambitions don’t always match resources. “The funding now available to First Nations students is inadequate,” says Newhouse. “The number of students who want to go to university is so great that the communities have to make decisions about administering those funds, and there’s a greater expectation of student or parental contributions, which is tough if you’re lower-income.”

Several universities dedicate portions of their operating budget to financial aid for Indigenous students and services like daycare. (A relatively high number of Indigenous students are parents.) They’ve also pursued grants big and small from both public and private sources. Last year, Vancouver Island University and Yukon College jointly received more than $20 million from the Mastercard Foundation to help Indigenous youth access post-secondary education through a range of initiatives, including financial support, mentoring and community engagement.

RELATED: How Canadian universities help fight to save Indigenous languages

Settee points to systemic economic barriers that extend beyond the university, including the rising cost of living and depleted social housing options. “For my Indigenous students, who tend to be the poorest of the poor, it impacts their lives greatly,” says Settee. “I had a call from a student the other day to tell me she wouldn’t be coming to class because she didn’t have money for the bus.”

For many institutions, this is just the start of a very long process—though of course the conversation has been going on much longer in Indigenous communities. “This is a very long-term project, and I have a mixture of patience and impatience,” says University of Saskatchewan’s Stoicheff. “We have to have constant dialogue, externally and internally, and we have to be moving not just in measurable ways but in ways that are experienced by Indigenous students and their communities.”

Some still find institutions resistant to change. Sandra Muse, a professor of Indigenous literature, resigned from Saint Mary’s University during the summer because of what she describes as an institution-wide refusal to implement Indigenization recommendations beyond “window dressing.” “I could have stayed and gotten tenure and had a pretty cushy life, but I couldn’t live with myself,” she says.

Muse has since landed at the University of Windsor, where she was part of a five-faculty cluster of Indigenous hires. Windsor also offers a Native Student Alliance, Aboriginal Education Council and a Brown Bag Series designed to encourage conversations about how to decolonize existing pedagogy. During one meeting in early September, Muse and her new colleagues formulated a plan to train other faculty members in certain processes related to Indigenization so that all of the work isn’t expected of recently hired Indigenous faculty members still awaiting tenure. “I feel much more hopeful here, like I can make a difference,” she says.

Recognition ceremonies like this one at UVic are just a first step in the long process of reconciliation (University of Victoria)

There are signs that progress is being made. According to a 2017 Universities Canada survey, 65 per cent of universities are incorporating Indigenous knowledge, methods and protocols into research and teaching policies, programs and practices, while 71 per cent are working to include Indigenous representation within their governance structures.

But making a significant difference will require intense examination of normative behaviour—something that’s bound to be uncomfortable. Johnson points out that TRU’s Indigenous Services are housed in an old army officer’s building that’s “probably the most colonial building on campus.” It’s hard, she says, to expect Indigenous students to overlook this even in their desire for support. “I think about the disrespect that’s inherent in that for people whose families were absolutely decimated by colonialism.”

Ultimately, says King, meaningful change will have to be driven by Indigenous students and faculty. “The trend is typically that more Indigenous students get into these universities, they begin to organize, more Indigenous faculty is recruited, the community grows, and the university is pushed on these issues.”

At Dalhousie, Wuetherick acknowledges that the students have been essential in pushing for change. “They’re not shy about holding the campus to account and encouraging more aggressive timelines,” he says. “They’re a big reason the new Indigenous Students Centre and elder-in-residence program came together so quickly.” This year, for the first time in Dalhousie’s 200-year history, the president of the student union is Mi’kmaw from Cape Breton. During orientation, each student received a small feather sticker that reads: “Dalhousie University is located in Mi’kma’ki, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi’kmak. We are all treaty people.”

Graveline, Dalhousie’s Indigenous student adviser, marvels at this development. “Dal has come out officially with a land acknowledgement, which seems like a simple thing, but it’s such a big piece. Just a few years ago, they wouldn’t have used the word unceded, and now it’s printed on syllabuses.”

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The post How Canadian universities are responding to the TRC’s Calls to Action appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Tomas Jirousek, a fourth-year varsity rower at McGill and a member of the Kainai First Nation in southern Alberta, spent the third year of his undergraduate career working to change the name of McGill’s varsity teams. Since the late 1920s, the school’s male athletes have been known as the McGill Redmen—a moniker that’s generated plenty of controversy in recent decades, thanks to its association with harmful stereotypes of Indigenous peoples. Jirousek’s campaign officially launched with a rally on campus on Oct. 31, 2018, when students chanted “change the name” and “not your Redmen.” The demonstration coincided with a petition and an open letter to the administration; Jirousek and other supporters continued to campaign afterwards. In November 2018, the Students’ Society at McGill held a referendum on changing the name, and 79 per cent of students voted for change. On April 12, 2019, following decades of backlash capped off by Jirousek’s efforts, the administration officially announced that it would drop the name.

Professor Fabrice Labeau, deputy provost, student life and learning, is putting together a steering committee that will come up with a new name. Before the publication of this article, the administration declined to comment on the structure of the committee or whether there would be Indigenous representation. A spokesperson said that the provost is finalizing the committee’s membership and that it “will engage our varsity athletes, and the broader McGill community.” In the interim, the male varsity teams are simply called the “McGill Team.”

Jirousek hopes to sit on that naming committee. He wants the male varsity teams to carry the same moniker as the women’s teams—the McGill Martlets, whose namesake is a fictional bird that appears in the university’s crest. But the women’s division has its own sordid history: the teams were colloquially known as the McGill Squaws in the ’60s; “squaw” is a slur historically used to describe North American Indigenous women. The term fell out of favour in later decades, but the men’s name stuck around. “Our varsity women’s teams have had a lot of success with the Martlet name, and no one is offended by it,” says Jirousek. “As a varsity male athlete, I could proudly get behind that name. I think they’ve done a beautiful job of championing it.”

RELATED: Indigenous students on campus: Going past the equity handbook

Jirousek didn’t expect his efforts to gain nearly as much traction as they did. “Initially, I had intended it to be an educational campaign to raise awareness of the issue on campus. I mean, Indigenous students have been trying for several decades to change the name,” says Jirousek. “It really helped when outside media sources started paying attention and putting additional pressure on the administration.”

When it was first chosen, the Redmen name did not refer to North American Indigenous peoples. It originated from the colours traditionally worn by the team and possibly referred to founder James McGill’s Scottish heritage. But, in the mid-20th century, the name took on a decidedly offensive character. The men’s teams were colloquially referred to as Indians from the early 1930s onwards, and references connecting Indigenous peoples to varsity athletics appeared repeatedly in McGill media. A 1958 yearbook had the caption “Redman scalped” under a photo of an injured hockey player, and hockey and football uniforms featured a stylized logo with a headdress through the 1980s. In the early 1990s, obvious references to Indigenous stereotypes—like the logo—were removed, but the institution decided to keep the name, given its benign origins.

But Jirousek doesn’t think the name’s origins justified keeping it. “I liken it to any other slur,” he says. “I’m also queer—openly gay—and I’ve been called all these other words that hurt me and isolate me as a queer person. The Redman name does the exact same thing. It has become associated with problematic ideas of Indigenous people.”

Jirousek says Indigenous peoples are the ultimate authorities on which words and phrases harm their communities. “It isn’t for anybody else to dictate when we are allowed to be heard, and that came up a lot during the name campaign. One or another historian would point to the name’s origins, but it’s not for non-Indigenous people to dictate to our community what is and is not offensive,” said Jirousek. “We’ve articulated over decades that the Redmen name has been used as a slur. That it hurts us in the same way any other slur would.”

The controversy has been around for decades, but a few key events over the past five years seem to have forced the administration’s hand. In 2015, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada published a report calling on Canadian institutions to “honour the past and reconcile the future.” The report heavily focused on addressing the harms inflicted on Indigenous communities by Canada’s residential schools.

In response to this report, Christopher Manfredi, McGill’s provost and vice-principal (academic), launched a reconciliation-focused task force, which released its own report in 2017. The document outlined a host of recommendations, including a call to change the Redmen team name. “Our community questioned seriously the credibility of the University’s efforts in relation to Indigeneity given the pejorative connotation of our men’s varsity team name,” reads a section of the report.

Later, Manfredi convened a Working Group on Principles of Commemoration and Renaming. The group released its final report in December 2018—one month after the Students’ Society referendum. The report stops short of explicitly recommending that the university change the name but highlights a series of administrative delays related to the issue.

“Several participants in our consultations expressed a sense of fatigue and cynicism, given the number of consultative exercises and a perceived shortage of consequential follow-up,” the report reads. It also cites opposing voices to the name change within the varsity athletic community, some of whom attended consultation meetings and expressed a strong emotional attachment to the name, citing pride in the team’s history of athletic achievement.

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“It is important to accord weight to the voices of historically excluded or otherwise marginalized groups,” says the report. “Several participants voiced discomfort with an analysis that would purport to weigh, as equivalent interests, tradition-based attachment to a name or practice against objections to one arising from experienced harm or insult to a community or to an immutable or inherited identity.”

Principal Suzanne Fortier said she would reach a decision in January, but ultimately said she needed more time to consider opposing views. In April, Fortier officially announced that McGill was to look for a new name for its varsity teams.

Jirousek says he is optimistic about the level of Indigenous representation on the forthcoming renaming committee. “I hope that the administration understands the damage that’s been done by the Redmen name, and the fact that this committee serves an opportunity to address and reflect on that history,” he says.

This article appears in print in the 2020 University Rankings issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “‘It hurts the way any slur would.’” Order a copy of the issue here or subscribe to the monthly print magazine here.

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The post The long campaign to change McGill’s varsity name appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Toronto-born American author Paul Tough has written for years about subjects related to education, equity, poverty, children and parents, most notably in his 2012 bestseller, How Children Succeed. In his latest book, The Years That Matter Most: How College Makes or Breaks Us, Tough turns his attention to what has become—especially in the wake of the recent college admission scandal, when affluent parents broke the law to pave their children’s paths into elite schools—a burning issue south of the border. American higher education, Tough argues, is at once the ticket to wealth for young people and one of the most powerful forces for inequality in the contemporary United States.

Q: Let me start by quoting you. “In sharp contrast to other ages and other cultures,” decisions made by and for Americans as they leave high school are critical in determining their lives. How unique is America in that regard?

A: Everywhere, what happens after high school plays an important role in determining a young person’s life. But it’s more extreme in the United States because the higher education marketplace there is so stratified. The stratification [is] based so much on not just your academic abilities but your family’s financial status.

Q: You note that the so-called college premium—the amount of money earned over a lifetime on account of having a B.A.—is misleading. The real financial rewards now go to graduate degrees.

A: What’s confusing about the statistics is that both those things are true. There is definitely a college wage premium—people with a B.A. do earn a lot more money than people without any higher education credential. But most of the reason a B.A. pays off right now is because it allows you to go on to get an M.A., Ph.D. or professional degree, and then make a ton of money. That’s the experience of a lot of Americans who have B.A.s but find they are still not getting ahead the way that someone with just a B.A. would have done a couple decades ago.

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Q: Attending elite schools—the Ivy League and a few peers—does matter economically. Their graduates have a one in five chance of hitting the top one per cent of U.S. incomes ($630,000 a year) by their mid-30s. Meanwhile, the gap between average annual incomes for graduates of elite schools who come from affluent families versus those who grew up in poverty is noticeable but not extreme—$88,000 to $76,000. Why do you link these two different stats together?

A: Because those two facts show that super-selective colleges really do pay off in big ways, especially (of course) at the very top. They also create middle-class graduates and are an effective way of reducing the advantages that rich kids bring with them to Harvard or Princeton or Stanford. Yes, no matter what, the rich will do better, but their advantages are minimized. In that way, these institutions are vehicles for social mobility. They do work well for low-income kids when they get there. They just don’t get there often: only four per cent of elite school admissions come from poorer students.

Q: Which raises the question of how students are selected by universities. In your book, the role of the SAT admissions test comes across as malignant.

A: Well, I don’t think the SAT itself is a force for evil as a test. It’s the way that it is used. The College Board, which runs it, has launched a PR campaign trying to convince the world that the SAT is a force for equity when the evidence shows the opposite: the emphasis on SAT scores in college admissions tends to favour the wealthy and disadvantage low-income kids. My book pokes holes in its case that the benefit you get from test prep is minimal.

Q: You devote several pages to Ned Johnson, the $400-an-hour “teen whisperer” of Washington, D.C. There is clearly value for money—for those who have the money—in sending your kid to his tutoring service.

A: Johnson is a great guy to spend time with, and it was fun watching him work. I would keep meeting one kid after another whose scores would go up by huge percentiles, and they would go from not being able to get into the institution they wanted to being admitted. The thousands of dollars that their parents paid to have Ned tutor them was arguably a really good investment.

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Q: There are other legal value-for-money methods, such as getting on the Z list. That’s a route for the children of ultra-wealthy donors like Charles Kushner, whose son Jared (Donald Trump’s son-in-law) made it to Harvard after his father gave millions to the university. What about the illegal ways in, the ones exposed by the cheating scandal?

A: The book was just off to the publishers when that broke, so I could only add a couple of paragraphs. I put them right next to the section about Ned Johnson, because Ned is definitely different from conman Rick Singer. But, at the same time, the instincts of the parents who went to Singer are not totally different from those of Ned’s parents. They get that the system is unfair, and if money is going to make the difference, they are willing to pay it. I read some of the wiretaps of parents talking to Singer. The way they spoke was exactly the way Ned’s parents spoke to him—they didn’t sound at all like a criminal conspiracy—a lot of “Oh my God, can you believe we have to do this?” But this wasn’t about hiring an effective tutor, but [was about] having someone else take their child’s test or sending Singer a photo so he could photoshop it onto an athlete’s body. In the transcripts, Singer talks of the front door, the side door and the back door. Front door, you do what you’re supposed to do—get the marks, ace the SAT. Back door is Kushner. Singer says, “I’m the side door”—guaranteed entry, and cheaper than the multi-million-dollar donation.

Q: The more selective a university is in admissions, the more it rises in the rankings, the more prestige it gets, the more the best and brightest apply to it, the more wealthy donors give to it and the more resources it has for already well-off students. Your account of Harvard’s 2013-18 fundraising campaign demonstrates all of that.

A: Harvard was looking for $6 billion in endowment—more than all but 10 universities have, period—and the five-year campaign came in at $9.6 billion. Elite universities now have endowments of about a million dollars per student compared to $300,000 in 1996, while the non-elite schools are still at 1996’s $35,000 each. And every incoming Harvard class is richer than the previous year’s: in 2013, 14 per cent of Harvard students came from families with over $500,000 in annual income; now it’s 17 per cent.

Q: The rich get richer, with a vengeance.

A: Rich people donating to the most exclusive universities seems inevitable, a matter of their own prestige, and also crazy. There is this impression that the elite institutions have been able to create: they are perceived as being the institutions that make the world a better place. Obviously in lots of ways they do that, in terms of their biotech research and the like. But they are also powerful instruments for social inequity. Harvard makes the United States less equal. The really crazy thing about it is that most of the people who work in those institutions, including at the highest levels, are liberal Democrats who care about equity and diversity. I feel all these people are one potential audience for my book. Maybe a few of the billionaires, instead of [giving] one more billion for the giant Harvard endowment, will fund a community college or a public university, some place that makes a difference for low-income kids.

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Q: Meanwhile, a quarter of U.S. private colleges are in the red, and most are offering massive tuition discounts, which again mostly benefit the well-off, since only 11 per cent of students now pay the full freight.

A: Yeah, exactly. The tuition-discount spiral means private colleges have to keep giving bigger discounts to get enough kids to stay afloat. Schools like Harvard have their enormous endowments and donors, but at most institutions, tuition keeps the lights on. You need to admit people who can pay it. So there are all these pressures for admissions people and a great sense of anxiety in their profession. They have to make offers to four times as many applicants as they can admit, because of turndowns, and they have to make sure the ones who accept are the right mix of scholarship students and students who can pay tuition.

It all goes back to the forces of stratification. Universities are now competing for a diminishing group of paying students. The so-called CFO special—a student who doesn’t have particularly good grades (so no scholarship) but enough family money to pay full tuition—is the prize. Ironically, though, such students are now so sought after they can pay less, because they are offered better and better discounts. In state universities, there is the same pressure to admit out-of-state students because you can charge them more, even though the whole reason for state universities is to create social mobility and to educate kids in that state. Reduced funding and higher tuition costs in state universities make for maybe the most toxic shift that’s happening in American higher education.

Q: That is the first thing we have spoken of that brings Canada to mind, the pressure or temptation to admit international students so you can charge more. Otherwise the two university systems seem very different.

A: I don’t know the Canadian system well, but it seems more equitable and promotes more mobility for more people. It’s reflective of the Canadian economy and the Canadian social economy, both different than the American economies. In Canada there’s more of a middle class, which is shrinking in the United States, something both reflected in and propelled along by the stratification of higher education. I feel like Canada has a more middle-class higher education system in the same way that it has a more middle-class-dominated economy.

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Q: The effects of university stratification are bad enough in terms of social mobility, but you see other disadvantages too.

A: It may be counterintuitive, but I think it also hurts the rich kids. Not financially, since they benefit in all kinds of ways. But one thing that I found sitting in Ned Johnson’s office, watching him work with these affluent teenagers: it seemed like a pretty rough adolescence. There’s an enormous pressure in those communities in the last couple of years of high school. They’re just all focused on where you get into college.

Q: Once upon a time, I suppose, there were Harvard families and Yale families and you simply knew Junior would go there and, like George W. Bush, get his gentleman’s C. You write that, among the teens you met, there was more fear about being cut off somehow from higher education than hope about its possibilities.

A: Exactly, and although that’s a crushing weight on poorer kids, it’s also infected a lot of stressed-out and miserable affluent teenagers. When your adolescence focuses only on “Where do I go to college?” and “What is my SAT score?”—that’s a diminished adolescence. It’s harder to do all the other things you are supposed to do as a teen, like have fun and figure out who you are. That stuff is important. Watching students in Ned’s classroom, I felt the enormous amount of privilege being perpetuated there and [thought] this is a rough way to spend your adolescence.

This article appears in print in the 2020 University Rankings issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “How Harvard makes the U.S. less equal.” Order a copy of the issue here or subscribe to the monthly print magazine here.

The post How Harvard makes the U.S. less equal appeared first on Macleans.ca.

It was early March and there was still snow underfoot as students from the University of Alberta pro-life club set up metal scaffolding for their display. The posters, shipped to the Edmonton campus from a neighbouring anti-abortion organization in Calgary, were designed to outrage with images of bloody fetuses at various stages of development, some of them dismembered. Amberlee Nicol, then president of the club, knew the display had stirred conflict on other Canadian campuses. Still, she was optimistic that it would inspire debate in the high-traffic area known as the Quad. “We wanted to have our conversation with as many people as possible,” recalls the young activist, who has since married and goes by the last name Duteau.

More than getting attention, that two-day display in 2015 precipitated a years-long court battle, leading to a decision in January by the Alberta Court of Appeal that could put the onus on universities to cover the costs of facilitating free speech—even when that speech is designed to stir up the kind of opposition that comes with a hefty security price tag.

READ: Will new rules around free speech on campus wind up silencing protestors?

The ruling sent waves through post-secondary institutions across the country, which are struggling to balance demands to protect free-speech rights while maintaining safe and secure campuses—a task made harder as some activists adopt so-called “direct action” to disrupt or silence messaging that offends.

Suffice to say, the pro-life students weren’t the only ones who had something to say about abortion. In late February 2015, pro-choice students at U of A also started talking and planning. Stephanie Ibsen, a master’s student in environmental science at the time, organized a poster-making session and, as the pro-life group set up its display, she stood in front of a series of wooden barricades, placed by campus security to control crowds. She hoisted a sign reading “pro-choice, pro-woman, pro-child.” As many as 100 other pro-choice demonstrators showed up, their numbers ebbing and flowing as they went to class, or ducked inside to warm frosty fingers. Some protesters held a blanket stretched between two hockey sticks in an attempt to obscure the anti-abortion display. Ibsen recalls the pro-choice group being loud, but respectful. “I didn’t think it was fair that someone has to walk onto campus, just trying to get to class, and be confronted with something like that,” she says. “We tried to create nice signs, we tried to block it out, but we didn’t break any rules.” There were no incidents of violence.

READ: Inside Lindsay Shepherd’s controversial battle over free speech on campus

Indeed, the whole situation only came to a head in 2016, when the pro-life club applied to do it all again. The university said yes, but given the previous year’s brouhaha, demanded that the club cover security costs—an estimated $17,500, with a $9,000 deposit up front. It was a price Duteau and company could not and would not pay. “It wasn’t our group causing the disruption,” she says. “We followed all the rules. We were very careful to make sure to set everything up in a safe and respectful way. Unfortunately, people who disagreed with us expressing our views in the centre of campus that way did not respect our freedom of expression.” The club appealed the security-cost decision and another by the university not to discipline any of the pro-choice protesters. The university held firm. Two months later, the club went to court to challenge both decisions.

In 2017, the Alberta Court of Queen’s Bench ruled in favour of the university on both issues. However, the cost portion of that ruling was overturned by the appeal court on Jan. 6. In that decision, Justice Jack Watson wrote: “Whether or not the figures are right, it cannot be said that Pro-Life should be held 100 per cent responsible for costs that future events might generate.” He went on to encourage alternative scenarios where the university could cover security fees, suggesting better fencing, or “a less provocative” display, adding: “Compromises on both sides are in order.”

Universities across the country are watching closely to see whether the precedent holds. U of A had 60 days to seek leave for appeal; at press time, it would say only that it was reviewing the decision. Should the case go to the Supreme Court, the outcome could define how universities deal with the conundrum brought on by the era of so-called “cancel culture.” How do they reconcile demands for free speech when the trend toward “deplatforming” controversial voices—obscuring signs, tearing down posters, blocking speaking venues—causes its own confrontations? How do they deal with groups who generate attention by flirting with hate speech, or by deliberately provoking certain social groups?

For Jay Cameron, a lawyer with the Calgary-based Justice Centre for Constitutional Freedoms, which represented the pro-life club, this partial win is important for what he sees as a culture increasingly hostile to the exchange of ideas, especially unpopular ones. “The way society is set up, if I don’t like what you have to say, I can’t put my hand over your mouth; that’s against the law,” Cameron says. “But what universities are teaching young people is that it’s okay to throw a fit if you don’t like something that somebody said. And that’s a disservice to those young people.”

This article appears in print in the March 2020 issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “A price cut on free speech.” Subscribe to the monthly print magazine here.

The post Who pays to protect free speech on campus appeared first on Macleans.ca.

On April 1, 2020, after eight years, two concussions, a supervisor who moved to another university, a pause for a summer internship and several existential crises about what I was doing with my life, I successfully defended my Ph.D. dissertation in Organizational Behaviour and Human Resources Management at the University of Toronto. I will now be known as Dr. Roderique, the first person to earn a doctorate in my entire family. My dad jokingly asked if I would go to medical school now, but after three post-graduate degrees (I have an M.A. in criminology and a law degree in addition to my Ph.D.), I think I can safely say that I am done. 

I had been a bit worried when the pandemic hit and classes were cancelled at the university. Would I still defend in person? Would it be my supervisor and I in a small room, with everyone else attending virtually? (The other people on my defence committee included two other members of my supervisory committee, an external reviewer from York University, and two additional members from my department.) As more and more of our society was shut down, I was afraid that I would remain paused, so close to the goal I had been chasing for so long. I was afraid that if my defence was cancelled, I would become a Ph.D. dropout two weeks from completion. 

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Ultimately, my defence proceeded as scheduled via Zoom. Preparation was undoubtedly harder than it would have been but for the pandemic—I found it difficult to concentrate, was continually sucked into the news vortex and frequently became distracted with making sure I had enough supplies and my parents and sisters were okay. I had to work in dribs and drabs of productivity, wiped of my law-honed ability to write for 12-plus hours a day. At the same time, I also had to take on more paid work as a teaching assistant, as my eight upcoming speaking engagements—my primary source of income—were all cancelled, a casualty of the COVID-19 pandemic. 

Still, much of the defence process was normal. I familiarized myself with the intricacies of the newest version of PowerPoint, and hemmed and hawed over colour schemes and choosing the right icons. I practiced with my friends over Zoom, an unexpected opportunity to share with them my research into how motherhood and fatherhood differentially impact workplace social networks and relationships. I fretted about what to wear, eventually settling on my lucky blouse from my favourite Canadian designers, Horses Atelier (buy local!), and a pair of pink pants.  I edited and revised my 20-minute presentation, and then edited and revised it some more. I used some of my law school studying techniques, creating an outline with possible questions. 

There were some novelties. My defence had to be protected via password to avoid “Zoom bombing,” whereby anonymous individuals enter random room IDs, scrawl foul messages and take over the screens with explicit images. While presenting, I could only see my own face in a small box in the upper right corner, because my presentation took up the entire screen. In some ways, this made things easier—I couldn’t see or worry about anyone’s reactions. I just stared straight at my slides, feeling comfort in the familiar words, words that I had written and rewritten for almost a year. I was nervous, but the lack of visual distraction made things much less nerve-wracking.  

RELATED: What life is like for students still living in university dorms during coronavirus

The rest of the defence passed in a blur. I know there were questions, and I answered them—well, I thought. I switched the video from my face to the faces of my committee, superimposed over my slides and could see nods as I responded. Before I knew it, it was 11:45—time for me to exit the Zoom meeting so my committee to deliberate my fate. Waiting was torturous, and the process was made more difficult by my committee’s need to send virtual voting forms to the graduate studies committee chair. 

When I re-entered the Zoom meeting, I was greeted with the words “Congratulations, Dr. Roderique.” I had done it. There were cheers and laughter, a brief moment of joy in a world that needs some right now. I took a picture with my committee, holding up their virtual faces to my own. 

I was glad my defence was able to happen despite the pandemic, but I also felt a profound sense of loss. That I couldn’t hug and high-five the people on my committee. That the champagne my supervisor had squirrelled away in her office for this moment was now just sitting there—and will sit there—for months, at the very least. That I was unable to share this moment with those who mean the most to me—my parents, my sisters, my best friends. The Twitter likes, while lovely, just weren’t a substitute for the touch of those I care about the most. 

I didn’t realize, before COVID-19, how much those physical connections mean at times like this. How different it is to get a congratulations in person, to actually see the crinkled eyes of your parents light up in pride, to feel the warmth of their embrace, to take in, viscerally, the fact that your degree is, in a way the culmination of all the sacrifices they have made in their lives for you. I didn’t know how much I wanted to have a gathering of my friends, high-fiving and selfie-taking and celebrating this milestone the way I have happily celebrated theirs—graduations, book launches, babies, weddings—until I couldn’t. I know there are so many things to mourn and to be sad for right now, but I think it’s okay to be sad about this, too. For the time being, I will stare at pictures of bottles of champagne and wait my turn to celebrate properly. And you’re all invited to the party. 

The post What it’s like to defend your Ph.D. during a pandemic appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Chika Oriuwa graduates from medical school at the University of Toronto today, June 2, 2020. In her valedictory address (which can be seen in the above video; the transcript appears in full below), Oriuwa talks about the strangeness and sadness of having to celebrate this massive accomplishment apart from her classmates. She pays tribute to their courage, creativity and exhaustive work, and she describes the way they supported her when she—the sole Black student in a class of 259—took on the role of ambassador of the Black Students Application Program at U of T, an initiative developed in response to the chronically low number of Black students admitted to the program (the medical school’s graduating class of 2022 has 15 Black students). In her speech, Oriuwa reflects on the fear she felt at the prospect of becoming an advocate. But while speaking out can feel like a risk, she writes, there is “a greater risk in staying silent.”

Dr. Chika Oriuwa is the first Black woman* to be chosen as sole valedictorian for U of T’s faculty of medicine, and the first woman in 14 years to hold this title. In 1992, Dr. Kristine Whitehead was named co-valedictorian alongside Dr. Gideon Cohen.

Good Morning, 

Dean Young, Vice Dean Houston, esteemed professors, physicians and faculty members, mentors, family, friends, and especially my fellow graduating class of physicians at the University of Toronto, faculty of medicine, class of 2020. 

I am Chika Stacy Oriuwa, and I have the absolute honour of being the valedictorian of our graduating class here at U of T. I’d like to start by thanking you, to my fellow graduates for the opportunity to share my address, during what will be the final time that we convene before our respective journeys take flight.

I’d like to start by addressing the elephant in the room. Whether you’re watching this speech from the comfort of your bed, or around the dining room table with your family, I’m sure that we all envisioned the day we finally became medical doctors to look and feel a little differently than it does right now. If I may, I’d like to take a moment to reflect on what it means to be a doctor. 

As physicians, we are asked to make sense of our patients’ stories. Rarely does a patient present to us with a clinical picture that fits beautifully with what appears in our textbooks. We are often called to synthesize complex information into a coherent narrative to formulate a differential diagnosis and approach to treatment. We are asked to make sense of the difficulty in our patients’ lives; we are, in essence, sense-makers.

But what do we do when it stops making sense? When the patient who has been stable for years relapses, when the psychosis returns, or when the cancer metastasizes? What do we do when things don’t go as planned and we are no longer the sense-makers? In these moments, we should remember that the most important skill that we possess is not our ability to make sense of things, but our ability to connect, remain human, and bring comfort. Or as Hippocrates is thought to have said, “Cure sometimes, treat often, comfort always.”

It is my hope that in sharing my parting words, I am able to instil in us a measure of comfort despite the unexpected turn. When we envisioned our graduation day, we expected to don our caps and gowns, walk confidently across the stage to get our degrees in Convocation Hall, while our friends and families cheer through our names being called after being reminded by the faculty to hold their applause until the end. We live for those moments of unbridled joy, and to bask in the pride of completion and accomplishment. 

But things didn’t go as planned. And while I know it feels a little different, a little incomplete, I say that today it is still our day. On this day, we become doctors, and, non-traditional celebration and all, this achievement is a momentous one. 

One of my personal heroes is the former First Lady of the United States, Michelle Obama. In her memoir, she wrote, “If you don’t get out there and define yourself, you’ll be quickly and inaccurately defined by others.” And so, as we pause to reflect on the past four years and ponder the next, perhaps we should ask how we have defined ourselves and how we will continue to do so as physicians in this world?

Reflexively, from our time in Portfolio [a course centred on personal and small-group reflection], I know many of us are itching to say that we’ll be a scholar, communicator, and health expert, but for one moment, let’s step back, put away our Portfolio submissions, and take a minute to really think about it.

Four years ago we were the stem cells in the Foundations [a new pre-clerkship curriculum introduced at U of T in 2016] petri dish. We started our medical education at the same institution where Banting and Best discovered insulin, and where we discovered how to learn; about ourselves, medicine, and the ever-changing world around us. We confronted our mistakes, failures, and setbacks. We leaned into what sparked our interests and what coaxed the flames of our passion.

We displayed an insatiable curiosity for knowledge, and a commitment to learning. We prepared for mastery exams every few weeks, and despite the sheer exhaustion, were able  to find comedic relief in the form of brilliantly crafted memes for every situation in which we found ourselves. I can confidently say that we laughed as much as we learned, and we cared for each other, and that is how we got through the last four years. We shared our notes, our artistic talents, our secrets, our frustrations, our disbelief, our joys, and our tragedies. We mourned upon learning of the passing of one of our own, Ashley Ma, while coming together and finding a way to keep strong, keep her memory alive, and keep moving forward. 

When we hit the wards in 2018, we were eager clinical clerks, ready to take care of our patients, leave a lasting impression on preceptors, and apply the knowledge that we accrued. With a pager in one hand, and a stethoscope in the other, we stood tall, and ready to face any obstacles that clerkship may throw at us, including the dreaded first time we had to percuss a lung base in front of our preceptor.

We learned about the fragility of life, as we ushered it into this world, and held its hand on the way out. We sat with patients as we delivered terminal diagnoses, and parents as they heard their child’s heartbeat for the first time. On many occasions, we stayed awake for 30-hour stretches, and at points broke down when the weight of expectations, exhaustion, and uncertainty proved too heavy to bear. It was in these circumstances that we found each other, and came together, like we always have.

These moments defined our clerkship, but how have we defined ourselves along the way?

My journey through medical school has been unconventional. It has been an iterative process of being inaccurately defined by others and having to continuously redefine myself. 

When I started medical school four years ago, I was surprised to find that in a class of 259, I stood as the sole Black student. And despite taking immense pride in being a woman of colour in a space where we are often unseen, I could not have imagined the extent to which my identity and story would be the driving force of my advocacy and the platform upon which I strove for change.

One of my earliest defining moments was a few years before I started medical school, when a border officer accused me of lying about having aspirations of becoming a physician. His words stayed with me for years, as I faced invalidations about my experience as a woman of colour in medicine. I remembered his words when a patient asked me to leave because they could not believe that the only Black person in the room was also training to become a doctor. I did not want my story to be written by others; I did not want to be inaccurately defined on my own journey and knew that I had to reclaim my narrative.

In my first year of medicine, I was presented with the opportunity to be the ambassador of the Black Students Application Program at U of T—an initiative developed by the faculty in partnership with the Black community in response to the chronically low number of Black students admitted to the program. However, this also meant going public with my experiences of isolation and encountering discrimination. I knew that I was uniquely positioned to speak truthfully on this issue. 

But I was worried—actually, I was terrified.  

I was cautioned that institutions do not like people who challenge the status quo, that I could be jeopardizing a spot in residency, or future career opportunities. For me, there was an ever-present tension between my advocacy and my wanting to be accepted. 

I mention this because I want to challenge the notion that being an advocate, and living in your authentic truth, is mutually exclusive from belonging. Through seeking counsel with mentors, families, and friends, I was empowered to move forward, and stand by my conviction to enhance diversity and inclusive practices within medicine and beyond. These decisions, which may seem trivial in hindsight but were terrifying at the time, are the moments by which I now define myself.  

When I wrote my first syndicated article detailing my experiences and ideas for reform, I faced an onslaught of online bigotry, threats, and racism. Without missing a beat, my classmates were there to defend me, stand alongside me as allies, and shoulder me as I continued my advocacy. 

When I was providing a seminar, I had a resident comment that although they admired my bravery and voice, they would have never done what I was doing, because it was too risky, and they didn’t think the system would be accepting of what I had to say. It was then that I was reminded by my mentors that there was a greater risk in staying silent; advocacy was a form of self-preservation when there are no other options. 

When I gave my keynote speech at Women’s College Hospital on International Women’s Day in 2018, as I looked out to a sea of mostly strangers, I saw several seats occupied by my fellow classmates, and the familiar smiles emboldened me to speak confidently. On a journey that has been marked by moments of otherness, I learned that I belong in this incredible, protective family we call 2T0s.

So, to answer my own question, I defined myself in the last four years through understanding and hopefully demonstrating that there is a power in narrative and in vulnerability. With a community to stand behind you, and a mentor to guide you, you can take the risk that might move mountains.

And I have witnessed many of my classmates do the same. Between Adam taking the front page in the newspaper as a medical student working in the same hospital where he was once a premature baby fighting for his life, to Justine winning a national student scholarship in family medicine, Nayantara, Justin, and Liz producing and directing Daffydil the musical, procuring PPE for frontline workers during a pandemic, and achieving their life-long goals and dreams.

I’ve learned that if it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a nation to train a doctor. So for this, I want to take a moment to thank those without whom, we would not be here today. 

First, I would like to thank our loved ones for supporting us on the path to medicine, believing in our dreams, encouraging us when we felt defeated, and celebrating our wins. Thank you for being our anchors, that grounded us in who we were, when we often lost sight of the bigger picture. 

To our patients, thank you for trusting us to heal you, learn medicine through you, and patiently tolerating us attempting to elicit the brachioradialis reflex for the fifth time. You have taught us more about life than we ever could have imagined in these four years. 

To our faculty, staff, and preceptors, thank you for being our lighthouse when the choppy waves of medicine carried us far from the shore. For creating an inclusive environment where we can learn without judgment and explore our curiosity without reservation. You have been there to not only support our education, but also help us find meaning throughout the journey, and you guided us to the specialty that we will now call home. Our gratitude to all of you is endless.  

________

So: 

To my fellow graduates 

To this cohort of brilliant physicians with boundless potential

To the people who are quickest at thinking of a differential

Who have finally earned the credential of M.D.

We had a vision of 2020, 

though the picture didn’t quite come out as clear as we thought it would be 

We remained a class of visionaries. 

Those with the foresight to define themselves in the world

Who raise their arms with fists curled in the face of injustice

As our patients entrust us with their lives,

The time has officially arrived for us to rise to the occasion

So here is to the stem cells

The first generation to graduate from the curriculum of Foundations

We waded into uncertain waters

The sons and daughters of hope. 

Equipped with knowledge, compassion, and our stethoscopes 

We now find ourselves, four years later

Starting residency in the face of an uncertainty that is much greater

Once again, wading into unchartered territory

Maybe, it’s a defining part of our story

To be the class who is familiar

With moving forward despite the unknown

We have shown, 

that are capable of doing what has not been done before 

We are the class who will explore the stones yet turned 

Here is to the innovators, way-makers, and healers,

Who have been mentored by some of the greatest leaders in medicine

At an institution that continues to re-define excellence

We are ready to take the leap into the next chapter of our lives

And on the other side awaits personal and professional celebration

Anniversaries, weddings

Rare diagnoses and successful resuscitations 

And though we will encounter a difficult road ahead, 

We are united by the threads of endurance and tenacity

Within us lies the capacity to change the world

To my fellow graduates of the university of Toronto, Faculty of Medicine, Class of 2020, congratulations! We did it! 

Thank you for this incredible honour, and I look forward to seeing how our journeys unfold. 

CORRECTION, June 4, 2020: An earlier version of this story incorrectly reported that Dr. Chika Oriuwa is the first Black woman to be named valedictorian for the faculty of medicine at the University of Toronto. She is the first Black woman in the school’s history to be named sole valedictorian for her class. In 1992, Dr. Kristine Whitehead was co-valedictorian for her class.

The post Chika Oriuwa, valedictorian for U of T’s medical school, gives her address appeared first on Macleans.ca.

May Black headed to Wilfrid Laurier University this fall ready to become a “Golden Hawk”—the nickname for students who embrace the school spirit of the Waterloo, Ont., institution. The 18-year-old trombone and piano player chose Laurier for its music program, compact main campus and the warm welcome she received when she toured the school two years ago. But with coronavirus disruptions expected to last into 2021, campus life is going to be “super different,” says Black from her hometown in New Lowell, Ont. She belongs to an unenviable cohort of freshmen across the country who have few (if any) options to attend class in person, hang out in residence or join a sports team or on-campus student club. Instead, they’ll begin their university life in front of a computer screen.

Rocked by the new reality, universities scrambled in recent months to virtually reproduce the “stickiness,” or sense of belonging, that naturally occurs when students meet in and outside the classroom. With no road map for the unprecedented mandate of social distancing on campus, officials added new programs and interactive tools, and mobilized faculty and senior students as allies to redefine “stickiness” in an online environment.

The stakes are high.

At the best of times, about 15 per cent of first-year students do not return in second year (they drop out, defer studies or switch schools), according to Statistics Canada. COVID-19 represents a new risk that could turn off this year’s freshmen, given the less-than-ideal learning conditions. “I don’t want a lost cohort,” says Laurier president Deborah MacLatchy. “I don’t want students to decide that university is not for them because the learning environment did not work for them.”

This year, all universities are seeking normality and connectedness in abnormal times, tailoring their own strategies to reimagine the building blocks of student engagement: classroom learning, residence life, freshmen outreach, orientation and faculty mentoring.

In class (or not)

Acadia University, located on a 250-acre campus in Wolfville, N.S., prides itself on offering a personalized liberal arts education. When COVID-19 cases revved up nationally last May, Acadia surveyed new and returning students. “They had a very high preference for an on-campus experience,” says Scott Duguay, the university’s vice-provost of students, recruitment and enrolment management. “If we offered [that],” he says, “we could expect similar enrolment. But if it was virtual [only], it would drop substantially, and more students would delay to January.”

READ: Can Canada’s universities survive COVID?

In July, after months of deliberation, Acadia opted for maximum flexibility. Within public health guidelines and with a fall enrolment of about 1,000 first-year students (down slightly from 2019), the school made plans to offer 10 per cent of courses in person, with no more than 43 students, and the remaining 90 per cent of courses as a mix of in-class and virtual learning. High-demand courses would be in the latter group to maximize access no matter the study location. Lower-enrolment electives could be face-to-face with students spaced across a classroom. “We need to remain Acadia,” says Duguay. “It is all about the personal, humanized education experience and that doesn’t have to change online.”

Reputation concerns were also paramount at Trent University, a liberal arts, undergraduate institution in Peterborough, Ont. Given the promise of “a personal, transformative experience,” president Leo Groarke says, “we are determined to hold onto the in-person part of education.” Among several new initiatives at Trent this fall is an on-campus course limited to 20 first-year students in a class taught by an experienced or award-winning professor. This “critical engagement” course asks a big question (this fall, it is “What is the good life?”) to help students hone skills in research, writing and oral debate. Remote learners can take the course online.

Other freshmen classes are virtual, but some science labs and study groups are in person. “Of course, safety is a priority,” says Groarke. But within that constraint, he adds, the new course is “a special way in which we are trying to make sure the in-person experience is there for students who want it.”

Other schools decided last spring to go entirely virtual this semester.

Health was “the number one priority” in moving online, says Laurier’s MacLatchy, who met her senior officials weekly, sometimes more often, to devise a comprehensive virtual welcome for 5,000 freshmen. “Some things are not going to be the same,” she says. “So how do we transition so that students are meeting their peers and other students? At the end of the day, it is the relationships that are key.”

Laurier beefed up other aspects of its “stickiness” strategy—for example, extra academic, wellness and career-planning supports—and recruited faculty and upper-year students to send a consistent welcome message. “It shows, whether we are virtual or in person, that we have met the brand promise that we are developing the whole student, academically and personally, through their university journey,” says MacLatchy. “That is what we need to get right.”

‘I feel pretty safe with what they have prepared,’ says first-year student Leeder (centre) (Photograph by Darren Calabrese)

Residence life (or not)

Most universities offer residence living to first-year students, but this year, public health rules dictated the terms.

Acadia delayed its fall semester to Sept. 21 to allow for a two-week quarantine of freshmen as they arrived on campus. Dormitory occupancy is restricted to one student per room, and no visitors are allowed in dorm rooms. Washrooms are limited to a maximum of four students who have set schedules for access to laundry facilities. The university also introduced a new radio-frequency identity card to track movements between buildings. “We can do single-direction flow [in buildings], with [entrance and exit] tap cards, so we will know who is going in and out and at what time,” says Duguay. “If there is an outbreak, public health takes over and we can provide a lot of help in terms of contact tracing.” First-year Acadia student Alexandra Leeder, an 18-year-old from Whitby, Ont., who moved into the school’s residence in September, says, “I feel pretty safe with what they have prepared for the students. They’re doing their best.”

READ: What college students in Canada can expect during COVID

Laurier freshman Ben Jesseau, 18, also opted to live on campus, eager for a taste of normality. “There was still that opportunity to have some kind of independence and social interaction,” he says. “It still made sense for me to go.” Jesseau is enrolled in degree programs in business administration at Laurier and mathematics at the nearby University of Waterloo, and chose Laurier as his home base for what he saw as a livelier campus atmosphere. While Laurier reduced residence occupancy to 40 per cent, the university retained a full roster of residence dons to help freshmen adjust to university amid pandemic anxieties.

First-year Laurier student Keren Ighalo praised her university for “being safe, cautious and responsible” but wanted more freedom than is available, so she rented an apartment close to campus. The school has redesigned its supports for those living off-campus, assigning senior students as mentors who will meet virtually with freshmen in assigned groups for academic and social activities.

Early-bird outreach

This year, most universities sought to establish strong freshmen connections sooner than usual.

Trent worked with student leaders to develop the Trent Mobile app, which links students to government COVID-tracking sites and other resources, and provides personalized information to help them keep abreast of assignments, exam schedules, student-club group chats and transit schedules. In mid-June, the university’s annual Summer Connect welcome program opened six weeks early; 125 student volunteers were assigned to freshmen based on personal interests. In August, 200 student orientation-week leaders followed up with freshmen grouped by college affiliation. “It’s not just about providing student services, but [it’s]very much about building community,” says Nona Robinson, Trent’s associate vice-president of students.

The university incorporated a new online element into 25 first-year courses with the help of recruited student volunteers—key allies for many schools—to teach Trent freshmen the ropes of campus life. While the program is tied to academic courses, the volunteers serve as friendly faces to students, not as aides to the professors. “Any time I have asked students to help in supporting other students, I always have more students [offering] than I know what to do with,” says Robinson.

In early July, Laurier held a first-ever virtual welcome party for freshmen. “It was a good introduction to how online [learning] is going to be,” says Taylor Magill, 18, who signed on from her home in Innisfil, Ont. “You are trying to be revved up but then you realize, ‘I am in my bedroom,’ which is weird.” She is studying philosophy at Laurier in combination with a law degree in England. Before too long at the party, she says, the virtual chats “were going crazy” as students shared their Facebook and Instagram accounts for future get-togethers.

Through its Home for Interactive Virtual Engagement (HIVE), Simon Fraser University organized groups of students by study disciplines, personal interests and time zones to meet in a safe online space facilitated by an upper-year student. HIVE members join chats, hold game nights over Zoom and hang out as if on campus. “We were really concerned about what we would lose in the online environment,” says Rummana Khan Hemani, vice-provost and associate vice-president, students and international, and registrar at SFU, which is located in Burnaby, B.C. “The peer-to-peer interaction that happens organically inside and outside the classroom had to be reimagined.”

HIVE participant Esha Sharma, a 17-year-old science undergraduate from nearby Surrey, B.C., was initially uneasy about how to build friendships without face-to-face interactions. “I was quite concerned about meeting new people, especially through this online event,” she says. But she quickly adapted after being paired with fellow science students in her group. “The HIVE has made me feel more relaxed and calm now that I know a few people who have similar interests and courses,” she says. “I have some connections going into university rather than starting it all alone.”

Ighalo chose to live off campus (Photograph by Alex Jacobs-Blum)

Frosh Week, reimagined

The transition to university is “a very exciting, intense and emotional time for students,” says Lindsay Lawrence, manager of transition and learning services in Laurier’s teaching and learning department. The pandemic “added some complexity.”

One challenge was to redesign Orientation Week, a festive event curated by student leaders and university officials to bind new students to the campus. “Orientation Week is extremely important,” says Laurier student union president Devyn Kelly, whose organization staged many online orientation activities this fall, including its signature fundraising event for cystic fibrosis. “Not only are you being acclimated to campus and meeting people, you are figuring out what you want to get involved in.”

This year’s Orientation Week featured a virtual game developed by past and current students in Laurier’s game design and development program. Over five days—with a new hour-long episode every day—freshmen were assigned to teams to solve a Harry Potter-esque mystery and learn about life at Laurier under the direction of upper-year mentors.

Designed as a fun, team-building exercise, The Laurier Way included learning outcomes that echoed those of a normal orientation week: to equip students to use the library, avoid plagiarism, manage time, plan careers, learn about academic and mental health supports, and discover how to become a Golden Hawk. The designers left time at the end of each game for freshmen to raise questions or concerns about the transition to university life. “These games are not just for recreation,” says Scott Nicholson, director of Laurier’s game design program. “You get something from these games, not just by playing but reflecting on what went on. The reflection is more important than the activity.”

READ: How Canadian colleges rose to the challenges of the COVID-19 pandemic

The game is also a bonding tool, says Kate McCrae Bristol, dean of students at Laurier’s Waterloo campus. “It is giving us another opportunity to connect students with each other and mimic the campus experience.”

May Black, the first-year Laurier music student, was eager to play despite having already participated in COVID-spurred university webinars that rolled out over the summer to prepare students for the fall. She also completed a new Laurier academic preparation certificate for freshmen in how to thrive in an unfamiliar environment.

On the last day of August—the start of orientation and 10 days before moving into residence—Black played the first round of the game. “It is making me feel more connected,” she says, especially as the game designers paired her with players from her wing of residence. “I already know some faces before I go.”

Professors joining the cause

This summer, instead of conducting research, many professors hosted virtual webinars and mock lectures to familiarize freshmen with online learning.

That was true at Acadia, says politics department head Geoffrey Whitehall. His colleagues redesigned courses “to capture the ephemeral elements of teaching in a face-to-face, supportive environment” for the new learning reality. Seeking to strengthen faculty-student connections, his department revamped its approach to advising: instead of having a 20-minute chat at the end of term, students now meet designated faculty members throughout the year to discuss course selections and career aspirations. “It is to create a supportive environment and make sure those students don’t get lost,” says Whitehall.

At Laurier, chemistry professor Louise Dawe, one of seven faculty peer mentors at her institution, led virtual workshops for fellow professors to share tips on teaching large classes remotely. Since some high school graduates lost ground academically in the pivot to remote learning last spring, she designed a pre-university module for freshmen to review core principles of chemistry. And she redesigned her introductory chemistry course for virtual learning, pre-recording five- to 10-minute lectures to cover course themes that students can review repeatedly. “I am using regular class time [online] for problem-solving and questions,” says Dawe. “The lecture time now will be [largely] a tutorial instead of learning the stuff we would lecture them about.”

Her department also developed a mentor program for first-year students, pairing them with a faculty or staff person for informal meetings during the academic year. Stickiness, she says, “is exactly the goal. It’s about making sure students are part of something.”

This article appears in print in the 2021 University Rankings issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “The COVID freshmen.”

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In January 2020, ‘Snowmageddon’ stopped MUN from issuing students’ transcripts for nine days (Andrew Vaughan/CP)

In January, Newfoundland experienced what many now call Snowmageddon. St. John’s, home to Memorial University (MUN), received nearly 80 cm of snow over a weekend. MUN wasn’t able to issue transcripts for nine days, a delay that is bad enough at any time of year, says registrar Tom Nault. But this delay was just weeks before most grad school application deadlines.

“Then, after that, the logistic networks were slow. Even though Canada Post was functioning, stuff was being majorly delayed,” says Nault. “We had to put out an appeal to institutions across the country saying, ‘Please grant our students leniency. It’s not their fault that we got about three years of snow in a period of a day.’ ”

Waiting for requested transcripts has long been notoriously slow. (COVID’s increased pressure on the mail system, caused by a surge in online shopping over the past several months, has not helped.) A student requests that transcripts from one university be sent to another. The issuing university has to find the record, print it on letterhead, have the registrar sign and emboss it and, finally, mail it. Even when the transcript arrives at its destination, time can pass before the transcript’s receipt is documented. The entire process can take weeks, sometimes longer.

Kathleen Massey, associate vice-president (students) at the University of Lethbridge, says that verifying a job applicant’s degree is also completely manual. “It’s very time-consuming and not great service to either our students or alumni, or to the organizations that need that information quickly,” she says.

So the Association of Registrars of the Universities and Colleges of Canada (ARUCC) is working on a project to revolutionize the process. The National Network will be a digital credential wallet that allows learners to securely store all of their certifications and transcripts and share them with potential employers or other educational institutions. While university transcripts and degree verifications are the jumping-off point for this project, ARUCC hopes to add other professional designations.

One of the project’s key goals is to put control in the hands of learners. They will not only manage their own documents, but also decide their required levels of security. Students will be able to decide who can see their credentials and for how long. They will have the option to either set an expiry date or revoke access to a document made available to an employer or institution.

In addition to shortening the time it takes to verify a degree and removing the fear of lost documents, the wallet will make Canadian students more competitive by ensuring simple and instantaneous document delivery. Canada will be more attractive as a study destination for international students if they know their degrees will be easy to access globally. Canadian students will gain greater global mobility because their credentials will travel with them.

The wallet will also help eliminate credential fraud. “It’s almost impossible now to identify a fraudulent document or credential,” says Charmaine Hack, chair of ARUCC’s National Network project and registrar at Ryerson University. The increased level of security “from issuing institution to receiving institution, or employer, creates trust, so in the world, Canadian post-secondary credentials can be trusted.”

In June, ARUCC announced it had selected Digitary as its technology partner. The Irish firm is a world leader in digital credentials, and its platform is used in more than 135 countries. The company has launched similar technologies in Ireland, New Zealand and Australia. Currently, 19 post-secondary institutions and four application centres and hubs in Canada are participating in pilot projects validating different parts of the technology. This pilot period is expected to run until June 2021. Then all ARUCC member universities will be able to opt in to the project.

For Massey, one of the best things about the project is its potential for accessibility and equity. Ideally, the credential wallet can help students around the world—including those who are uprooted by political turmoil or natural disasters—transport key documents that attest to their education and skill. “At the end of the day, I would like [students] to feel that they can trust this network,” she says. “They’re getting much better service, so it’s meeting a need. That to me is the most important benchmark or metric.”

This article appears in print in the 2021 University Rankings issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “Winterized transcripts.”

The post University transcripts move into the digital age appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Originally from Worcester, Mass., Loch Baillie is a fourth-year honours English literature and French student at Bishop’s University.

It was March 2020 and I had just returned home from my semester abroad in England—except the semester wasn’t over, I was in quarantine and a deadly virus was beginning to creep its way around the globe. I was meant to be exploring Europe on my study breaks; instead, I was attending classes an ocean away via a chat room.

Everything about this time was strange and uncertain. The concept of online learning was as foreign to me as the words “social distancing” and wearing a mask to the grocery store. It didn’t seem like there was anything familiar to cling to, and even worse, there was no way of knowing what the following months would bring.

In April, I received an email from one of my professors asking if I was looking for summer employment. Bishop’s University was looking to hire students as part of its new online learning and technology consultant (OLTC) program. If I got the job, I would work closely with professors to design fall courses for online delivery, thus playing a significant role in my university’s COVID response.

On the night of my interview—a warm evening in May—I sat down at my computer and joined a video call with 30 other students. While initially intimidated by the idea of a group interview, I soon realized the format was exactly what I needed after being isolated for so long. We talked about what a Bishop’s experience during COVID might look like, and for the first time in months, I felt hope. I had missed the Bishop’s community greatly and was inspired by how much everyone on that call cared about our school.

When I was hired as an OLTC, I was grateful and relieved. A time that had felt so purposeless finally had a purpose, and I would have a say in the decisions being made about the final year of my undergrad. I began training in July, and my days were spent learning how to use different online platforms, designing a demo class for a faculty mentor and getting to know my colleagues. The difficult topic of COVID-19 was at the forefront of many of our conversations, but I found it became easier to talk about as I settled into the job. I realize today that my training period played a key role in how I processed my shock after the virus’s first wave.

There weren’t many moments in the summer when I worked alone. A few of my colleagues and I would often stay on our group call just to be around other people. It did wonders for our mental health and provided us with a live shared space, just like an office. These calls were also convenient for asking each other questions and solving problems. For example, I could proofread a syllabus for one of my peers and they could teach me how to embed videos. I learned through these interactions that I like working in groups more than I thought I did.

One of the most enlightening parts of my job has been my one-on-one meetings with professors. During these assessments, I learned about professors’ individual teaching styles, listened to their concerns and anxieties about going into fall 2020 and helped them come up with engaging and comprehensive lessons tailored to their students’ needs. For an English class on Shakespeare that I had already taken, I helped rethink the delivery of the material and how students would interact with each other. We ended up choosing three ways to engage with the course content—short video lectures, podcasts and readings—and planned five virtual play performances (in which the students are the cast members) that would take place throughout the semester. These modifications ensured students would still get the in-classroom experience from home, whether they were learning directly from the professor or working with their peers.

READ: Why movement is critical to learning

It takes a certain amount of courage for faculty to let their guard down and jump head-first into such unfamiliar territory. Since being hired, my interactions with professors have been unique and, to be honest, occasionally uncomfortable. Educators can become hesitant when their students are no longer just students but also collaborators. This model defies the faculty-student hierarchy traditionally found in academia, but I have discovered that such a model can yield fruitful results.

My work has made me further appreciate what teachers do and has taught me that it is essential for students to co-design their learning journeys. So much unseen planning goes into the creation of university courses, from choosing the topics that will guide the curriculum to assigning percentages to assignments in the gradebook. I was able to witness this process as an OLTC while giving insight as a student about what I believed would work best in a digital classroom. After all, who better to advise teachers on their instruction than those being taught? Having a chance to co-design my own education has had an impact on how I perceive myself as a learner. I used to think learning from home wasn’t something I’d be able to do. One of the reasons I love school is being in the classroom environment, so how could I love school anymore if the classrooms were all online?

While online learning is still not ideal, my job has made me understand that if classes are well-designed, if I give myself breaks and if I find the right routine, it is doable. I also know now that this model of education is not going to disappear post-COVID. As I write this article, my school is in its second semester of online teaching, and my work as an OLTC continues. What was once a solution for an uncertain fall is a design model for the future of post-secondary education.

This article appears in print in the Maclean’s 2021 Canadian Universities Guidebook with the headline, “Leaning into the distance.” Order a copy of the issue here. Subscribe to the monthly print magazine here.

The post Leaning into distance learning appeared first on Macleans.ca.

Moving away for school is like taking a crash course in adulting. And even if you opt for residence and full meal plans in your first year of university, at some point you’re going to have to figure out how to cook enough to feed yourself. Setting yourself up for success means, ideally, picking up some skills before you leave home, as well as a few of the things to help you get the job done. You don’t need a full kitchen’s worth of gear to start, but it’s useful to list the things you’d like to make and go from there. (Bonus points for actually printing out some recipes.)

This task can be incredibly person-specific. Do you enjoy a daily smoothie? Make room in your budget for a Magic Bullet or immersion blender. Do your family recipes call for a multicooker? Consider an Instant Pot. Maybe you plan to eat a lot of raw greens and need a salad spinner, or know that you like to bake as a way to relieve stress and will make use of a hand mixer and baking pans. But some needs are fairly uniform, and you may find you can gather utensils from family members who have duplicates, or from second-hand stores or discount houseware stores. Keep in mind that housemates can share; discussing whether anyone else plans to bring a microwave is a great way to spark conversation, even when you haven’t met yet.

(Andre Banyai/iStock)

Knife

If you take good care of it, a good chef’s knife can last you literally a lifetime of cooking, and it makes a huge difference to your enjoyment of the process. So if there’s one thing to spend money on, this is it. (Parent tip: it also makes a great graduation gift.) There is a huge price range for this one, so buy the best chef’s knife you can justify, and possibly even a steel to sharpen it. An inexpensive paring knife that you can replace every few years is another key purchase.

(Koosen/iStock)

Cutting Board

Don’t ruin a good knife by cutting on any surface other than a cutting board. Solid wooden cutting boards are the most expensive, but they make cutting easier than bamboo boards, and they are less likely to harbour bacteria than plastic boards. Larger, heavier boards give you more room to work and will move around less while chopping, if you have the space for them; a piece of anti-slip rubber matting or a damp towel is great for keeping a smaller board in place. If you dry your wooden board well after washing and give it a rub with mineral oil every now and again, it will last for decades.

(Urfinguss/iStock)

Pots and Pans

You don’t need a set! Look for stainless steel cookware that feels heavy for its size, because thicker metal results in better heat distribution. You should also have two pots with lids—one large enough to cook a box of pasta or to make soup (4-6 litres/quarts), and one small enough for sauces (1-2 litres/quarts). A large, cast-iron frying pan is ideal and will last you forever; a small non-stick pan works for cooking scrambled eggs or omelettes.

(Antagain/iStock)

Electric Kettle

If you have a full meal plan and no access to a kitchen, an electric kettle might be the only thing you need for now. If you are a tea drinker, this is an obvious choice. Coffee drinkers can buy a plastic or ceramic one-cup pour-over coffee maker that works on top of a mug. Boiling water also means instant noodles without having to leave your room.

(Unkas_photo/iStock)

Cooking Implements

There are plenty of tools that are not essential but will make the job of cooking a lot easier, starting with tongs, a wooden spoon and a good pair of oven mitts or thick tea towels. The rest can be acquired as you need them, but you may want to consider measuring cups and spoons, a vegetable peeler, a can opener, a box grater, a colander, a baking sheet, a pancake flipper, a rubber spatula and a whisk.

This article appears in print in the 2022 University Rankings issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “Ode to Spatula.’”

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It’s commonplace for post-secondary students to survive off a substandard diet of ramen noodles, boxed macaroni and cheese, and other affordable staples that are cheap, filling and quick to prepare. After tuition, rent and other expenses are settled, a student’s remaining budget for food can be scant, or even none. Food—for some university students in Canada—is an afterthought.

This problem among post-secondary students reflects what’s happening in the whole of society. Food insecurity is positioned as one of Canada’s major health issues for its direct association with chronic health diseases and poor mental health. In May 2020, Statistics Canada reported that approximately one in seven Canadians encountered inadequate access to food because of financial constraints during the pandemic—the highest number recorded to date. And university students are more susceptible to hunger than the general population. Research conducted on campuses across the country have found that approximately 40 per cent of post-secondary students in Canada are food insecure.

“We’re consistently seeing that, whether it’s campuses in large urban centres, in university towns, in more rural areas, Atlantic provinces, central Canada or Western Canada, there are fairly consistent results that make [campus food insecurity] hard to ignore,” says Sam Laban, who develops and manages programs at the Guelph Lab, a joint initiative with the City of Guelph and the University of Guelph’s College of Social and Applied Human Sciences, to address challenges faced within the community.

RELATED: The grassroots food insecurity initiatives putting an end to the ‘starving student’

Universities play a much larger role than providing education, Laban says. A growing body of research indicates immediate action on campus food insecurity is imperative to students’ well-being and academic success. “For many [students], the university is the educator, employer, landlord, restaurant, cafe and kitchen,” Laban says. “It’s a remarkable number of touchpoints.”

Poor academic performance is just one of the ripple effects that many food-insecure students reportedly encounter. Studies have shown individuals who are food insecure experience insidious effects on their mental and physical health. Students who are severely food insecure—a term used to describe someone who skips one or more meals per day—accounted for 11 per cent of students at the University of Guelph, according to a 2020 report.

“It’s not unheard of for students, if they don’t have any money left, to drink some water [in place of dinner] and go to bed,” says Suman Roy, executive director of Meal Exchange, a youth-driven charity that collaborates on food security initiatives with over 40 universities and colleges across Canada. “This is not only a health problem, it is about education,” says Roy. “The main goal for a university is to make sure they give proper education to students, but if [universities] are not giving [students] the tools—like nutritious food—to do so, how are [students] expected to achieve that?”

READ: The Inuk woman using TikTok to expose high food prices in the North

Roy says research by Meal Exchange and university campuses has shown that international students are significantly more vulnerable than domestic students to being food insecure. Through tuition fees and living expenses, foreign students contribute approximately $22 billion annually to Canada’s economy—close in amount to Canada’s forestry sector. But despite the significant positive value international education brings to Canada’s economy, Roy says universities and governments “do the least to take care of them.”

“In various cities and small towns, the economy runs during September to April because [of international students],” says Roy. “They are coming here and spending so much more money [than domestic students], and when there is a chance to help them we say it’s not our problem.”

Data also continues to indicate marginalized students—such as students of colour, students with disabilities or adverse abilities, students with dependent children or families, and LGBTQ+ students—are disproportionately at risk of experiencing food insecurity. Sara Kozicky, a registered dietitian and food security project manager at the University of British Columbia, says research conducted on campuses reflects the broad inequities that exist within society.

(Courtesy of Loaded Ladle)

Students have long advocated for universities to address affordability and food insecurity, says Kozicky. The first food banks on university campuses (thought to have opened in the early ’90s) and prepared-meal initiatives in Canada were established by students who saw an urgent community need and wanted access to sustainable, local and ethically sourced food. “[Students] have led low-cost community meal programs, and most student societies on campuses run the food bank or the food pantry. Historically on campuses, it’s been students supporting students,” says Kozicky.

Today, every university in Canada has a food bank on campus. And with research findings and survey results indicating food insecurity is pernicious, campuses are taking action.

The University of British Columbia—where rates of campus food insecurity are three to four times higher among students than among the general population in the province—has piloted robust solutions, which include a whole campus strategy to address food insecurity, including outlets that provide low-cost meals, investments in student-led food insecurity initiatives and a proposal for a campus food hub that would provide programs and services to improve food security on campus.

READ: What happens to sexual assault reports at Canadian universities? No one really knows.

“We’re in a real transition where the institution is leaning in more, thinking about what their roles and responsibilities are and how [they can] address these issues that impact student well-being,” says Kozicky.

While many schools have come up with creative programs to address food insecurity, it’s well understood by both universities and students that only so much can be accomplished on campus. Suggested solutions correspond to those recommended to address food insecurity among the general population; the similarity indicates that policy changes at the provincial and federal levels are vital.

“There are ways this can be done,” says Roy, who speaks to members of Parliament about student food insecurity. “We just need to have the will to make it happen.”

Nathan Sing writes about food security and hunger issues in Canada. His one-year position at Maclean’s is funded by the Maple Leaf Centre for Action on Food Security, in partnership with Community Food Centres Canada. Email tips and suggestions to nathan.sing@macleans.ca.

This article appears in print in the 2022 University Rankings issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “Putting an end to the ‘starving student.’”

The post The fight to end hunger on Canadian university campuses appeared first on Macleans.ca.

“Somebody put a pillow in the washing machine at one o’clock in the morning and flooded the entire second floor of the building. That kind of thing was a Tuesday night.”

That’s Molly Strickland, who worked as a residence adviser at St. Thomas University in Fredericton from 2014 to 2015. Also known as residence assistants, RAs deal with all manner of situations on the campuses of Canadian universities and colleges each year. They are hired to support fellow students who live in on-campus housing, and they receive pay, board or both as compensation. It’s a unique situation, living where you work and having responsibility for your peers. It can be stressful, fun, fulfilling and also just plain odd.

I opted to work as an RA at the University of Regina for two years because I liked the community and wanted to serve it—having money to pay down my rent didn’t hurt either. I also happened to be the first wheelchair user to be hired for the job on my campus, and suspect I was the only RA who ever brought his wheelchair repair kit down to the front desk at one in the morning to help another student. The role is one of my foundational memories of university.

MORE: Six Canadian university students on how they’re fighting climate change 

Joy Hannan, a recent McGill graduate who worked as a floor-fellow (McGill’s term for RA) for two years, was looking to build on her previous experience in student government. “I was really involved in leadership and community building at the high school level. So I knew going into my undergrad at McGill that at some point I wanted to do floor-fellowing,” she says. “I really enjoyed guiding [fellow] students.”

RAs are responsible for organizing events—whether they are related to academic development or social support—promoting community and ensuring the safety of students. The job regularly involves lengthy shifts, liaising with office staff, speaking with security and providing mentorship and community support. Levying fines for lost keys or unruly parties is also often par for the course. The student-staff dynamic—neighbour one day, administrator the next—was something Strickland had to get used to.

“RA is an interesting position, because you’re kind of nominally in charge of people,” says Strickland. “But I found, more than anything else, we’re a resource to them. I think I gave out one fine the entire time that I was a residence adviser. It didn’t really feel like my place to be in charge of these other students who are often, like, a year younger or older than me.”

READ: Meet the University of Saskatchewan student behind Canada’s COVID-19 tracker 

Despite the wealth of communication, team building and problem-solving skills she built in her role as an RA, Hannan still had the feeling that she could never relax. “I’m working in this building, so that means that I’m constantly being surveyed by the other staff,” she says, referring to the other floor fellows and their supervisors. “And I’m basically a role model [to other students] from the minute I step outside my room. It never stopped.” Plus, during her time in residence, conflict arose between student-staff and administration over harm reduction and the implementation of COVID-19 restrictions, something that Hannan calls “frustrating.”

Those who spoke to Maclean’s for this story said that the experience of working as an RA was, on the whole, positive. The high points included meeting students they would have never met otherwise, planning and implementing community-building activities and growing as a communicator. Stickland says that the skills they built as an RA have served them well in their current career working for Veterans Affairs Canada.

“I just got better at being able to talk to whoever, whenever, about whatever it is that could come up,” says Strickland, who decided to become an RA after living in the dorms for two years, and was part of a team responsible for supporting over 100 people. “I talk to veterans and still-serving members on a daily basis. A lot of my job involves helping people sort out whatever their major concern is at the time.”

RELATED: Climate crisis 101: Canadian university courses to prepare you for a greener future

If this job sounds appealing to you, there are a few things to consider. Most, if not all, RA positions require that you have lived in residence for at least one year. Application processes differ, but most have an academic standard that you have to meet and require you to interview as well as to provide a cover letter and resumé. Administrators want to see that you can handle the extra load alongside your studies, that you have previous experience working with peers and that you can be trusted to support the framework of the university.

Hannan says it’s wise to think carefully about why you want to work in residence. “Knowing ahead of time what your year could look like and seeing if you have the emotional, physical and mental bandwidth to take on the role on top of what you already have going on—I think that is important.”

This article appears in print in the 2022 University Rankings issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “Friend, neighbour, officer.”

The post The weird and wonderful work of a university residence assistant appeared first on Macleans.ca.

McMaster Univeristy, School of Nursing BScN student training at McMaster University Medical Centre. (Courtesy of Ron Scheffler/McMaster University)

When 23-year-old Srisudhakar (Sri) Nowduri was 16, he suddenly developed severe lower back pain that eluded an explanation as well as attempts at treatment. “I kept getting negative test results,” he says, “and I felt a lot of despair and hopelessness.” His pain is manageable now, though its original cause is still a mystery. “It gave me a glimpse into how other patients might feel, and the idea of giving someone in that position any kind of relief gave me a sense of purpose. So I decided to pursue a career in health care.” In 2020, he completed a double major in biochemistry and human biology at the University of Toronto Scarborough, and then applied to a few different programs, including nursing, medical school and pharmacy.

Nowduri always had “a stereotypical idea of nursing,” he says. “I mistakenly thought it was like being a glorified assistant to a ‘real’ health-care provider.” But when the pandemic hit, he volunteered as a COVID-19 screener at Baycrest Health Sciences, a research and teaching hospital for elderly patients in Toronto. One day on the job, he faced the difficult task of telling the family of a rapidly deteriorating palliative patient that only two relatives would be allowed in to say goodbye. The nurse managing the floor was consulted and eventually made the call to let one additional family member in the room. “I learned that nursing is so much more meaningful and impactful than I’d initially thought,” says Nowduri. “Nurses hold positions of authority, perform complex medical procedures, work independently as nurse practitioners and can specialize in numerous advanced areas [of medicine].” Nowduri accepted an offer of admission to U of T’s Lawrence S. Bloomberg Faculty of Nursing and started his studies there in September 2021.

During the pandemic, Ontario nursing schools saw a significant increase in interest. As the country braces for an impending nursing shortage, driven in large part by an aging workforce, it is also experiencing a rise in applications to nursing schools, sparked, in part, by a greater awareness of the critical role nurses play in the health-care system.

MORE: ‘I saw fleeting moments no one remember’: One ER doctor’s photos from the coronavirus frontlines 

Srisudhakar Nowduri (Photograph by Wade Hudson)

Nurses in Canada work in a wide range of settings, from hospitals and care homes to policy centres and private businesses. The base qualifications are the RPN (registered practical nurse) and RN (registered nurse) designations, which take four semesters of college and four years of university, respectively, to obtain. Afterward, nurses can pursue various kinds of advanced education and become clinical specialists, independent practitioners or researchers and educators. A nurse who goes on to become an NP (nurse practitioner), for instance, can autonomously offer primary care and prescribe medication, while a CNS (clinical nurse specialist) holds a master’s degree or Ph.D. and can work as an expert consultant and specialize in a niche area of medicine. Salaries, depending on a nurse’s role and level of education, range from around $52,000 to upward of $100,000 a year.

Registered nurses are in fact already in critically short supply. The Canadian Nurses Association predicts that Canada will be short 60,000 nurses by 2022, barring policy interventions. The recent surge in applications to nursing schools is a step in the right direction, but with other factors at work—namely, limited clinical placements and government funding for spots in nursing schools—it might not be enough to stave off the shortage. “Our application rate is up more than 60 per cent,” says Dr. Erna Snelgrove-Clarke, vice-dean and associate professor at the Queen’s University School of Nursing. “We discuss it in every meeting. And while we will increase the number of spots a little bit this year, we need to be more creative about ways students can learn with and without direct patient contact.”

McMaster University—where applications to its four-year nursing program are up about 20 per cent—incorporates simulation technology in its curriculum. But that’s not a substitute for direct patient care, stresses Dr. Joanna Pierazzo, assistant dean of the school’s undergraduate nursing programs. “I think any school would say, ‘Give me more seats and we will produce more graduates,’ ” she says, referring to the number of spots funded by the government in a given program. “But every academic program has a clinical component, and there are only a certain number of placements available. I was immersed in simulation as a scholar for a number of years, including in my Ph.D. work. You have to determine where simulation learning fits and has good outcomes, and where direct patient care has better outcomes. We balance that, and the pandemic has not changed our thoughts about it. We haven’t decreased our direct patient care.”

(Courtesy of Queen’s Faculty of Health Sciences)

RELATED: Canada’s best university nursing programs: 2022 rankings 

At the University of Toronto, Lesley Mak—assistant dean and registrar of the Lawrence S. Bloomberg Faculty of Nursing—says there’s been a roughly 25 per cent increase in applications to undergraduate nursing programs and a 22 per cent increase for graduate programs. “In a normal year, you might waver up or down around five per cent, so these numbers are pretty unprecedented in recent history,” she says. “I think, unfortunately, this is partially driven by job loss, since the entire professional landscape has shifted during the pandemic. And of course the pandemic is a health crisis, and lots of people are thinking about how they can be the greatest help to society.”

However, the pandemic has also led to an exodus of nurses from public hospitals and care homes in parts of the country. It’s a challenging time to be a nurse: they bear the burden of overtime and the risk of working on the frontlines of a global pandemic. An online survey conducted by the Registered Nurses’ Association of Ontario in early 2021 found that 9.3 per cent of RN respondents were “very likely” to leave the profession, and a further 7.1 per cent were “likely” to do the same. The first figure is nearly twice the proportion of nurses who actually leave the profession in a typical year.

Still, educators hope the incoming pool of nurses will start to course-correct Canada’s march to a serious nursing shortage. “As people got sick, nurses were expected to carry the same load with fewer people. It was hard, and stressful. But I think nurses coming out of a program today will shine,” says Snelgrove-Clarke. “At Christmastime I got 700 shirts printed, one for every undergraduate student. The back of the shirts say ‘Committed’ and ‘Resilient.’ They will be different from the nurses who never lived through a pandemic like this. A nurse knows how to come together in a time of hardship and get the job done.”

This article appears in print in the 2022 University Rankings issue of Maclean’s magazine with the headline, “A new generation of nurses.”

The post Ontario nursing schools are seeing an increase in applicants during the pandemic appeared first on Macleans.ca.