What makes literature ‘truly Canadian’? | The Journal

As a followup to my blog post on changing ideas about Canadian Literature, I happened across an article that articulates the same problematic questions I encountered when questioning a nationalized view of what constitutes ‘Canadian’ identity:

“What’s the novel all Canadians should read? That’s the question at the core of CBC’s Canada Reads competition.”

The problem with choosing one text to encompass a multitude of perspectives is that we limit our understanding of what it means to be ‘Canadian’ or to have a ‘Canadian’ experience. While a nationalistic view is unifying for citizens, it also overlooks the specific regional qualities that define the varying aspects of Canadian culture across the country. While Canadian authors should be celebrated and commended, the notion that one perspective or narrative is more ‘Canadian’ than another reinforces and privileges the problematic stereotypes.

Check out the article here: What makes literature ‘truly Canadian’? | The Journal

I’m falling out of love with English, and I don’t know what to do.

*inhale*

I’m falling out of love with English, and I don’t know what to do.

In class I sit there, wondering, “If I were interested enough to find something useful to contribute to the conversation, would I enjoy it more?” Something I once found intuitive, something that was a part of me whether or not I knew it until the end of first year university, is slowing shrinking into a pea-sized part of my undergraduate past, instead of looming like an omnipotent part of my soul. Dramatic, I know. But is that what graduate studies does? Potentially make you fall out of love with a subject for which you used to be head over heels? I mean, if so, wow, I’m not even pursuing a doctorate and I’m only one month into my program.

*exhale*

I’m worried.

*inhale*

Falling out of love with English has so many repercussions. I’m still an advocate for the importance of studying English, and yet studying it for one more year is making me question why I chose to do so. I asked the dreaded question I anticipate as a future teacher: “Why are we in heated debates over fictional characters? THEY DO NOT EXIST.” I cringed as soon as the thought entered my head and stayed there for the duration of my class this week. “What a traitor, I am,” I thought. How could I ask the question that every English teacher would answer: “it matters.” How could I do this to English? I typed out the words that almost broke my heart via Facebook message: “I do not love English anymore.” And as a friend of mine so eloquently (and jokingly) replied, “English loves you, even if you do not love it.”

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

Even though it was meant as a joke, the reply hit me hard. How does English still love me? How could English still love me? I committed almost every felony against my beloved subject. Albeit, I love English in a slightly different way than the stereotypical English student. I would rather go shopping for clothing than sit in a used bookstore and poetry. I would rather eat popcorn and watch “Pitch Perfect” than watch every film ever made of Jane Eyre. I don’t enjoy reading anymore, and I don’t enjoy writing anymore (I mean, it is a mentally strenuous task, so who really does enjoy essay writing in the moment, anyways?). So aside from all of that, I really did love English. I could still talk for hours on books I love, I think. But now that I try to in my head, I just cannot seem to conjure that passion I never knew I had until someone pointed it out to me.

What does it mean for English to love me? Does that mean I keep coming back to English because I know it will always be there for me? Is that what’s beautiful about books? You can revisit a story again and again, and it changes with you. All the knowledge and thoughts you have acquired between the last time you read the book, and your next time reading the book makes all of these strange connections you never knew existed when you revisit it. You develop inside jokes with the book. You love the characters a little more, or hate them a little more. Oh, there, I smiled. So I do love English still, at least a little bit. Maybe I love English like an old childhood friend. But childhood friends grow up and change too. But childhood friends don’t always stay friends. They grow apart. Is that what happened to English and I? Did we grow apart? English is supposed to be my thing. Who am I without it?

*exhale

*chest tightens*

*inhale*

Oh. There’s sadness. You know, like in “Inside Out.” Maybe we did grow apart. You know, it’s more than a childhood friend. It’s like a relationship you can feel slipping away. You thought you would grow old together. You thought you would always be in love with them. And then, all of a sudden, it stops, and makes you want to cry. And you want to stop it but you can’t and you don’t know how but you wish you could feel something, feel some kind of emotion that isn’t just nostalgia. But it’s not there.

Nothing’s there.

*exhale*

(Taking all suggestions for how to fall back in love with my English subject. Slightly urgent since I still have 10 months of the M.A. program to finish. Thanks.)

Finding your Big-Girl Pants: Part 1½

We’re now two weeks into classes and three weeks since Orientation started. Incase my online absence is suspiciously pointing towards two weeks of socializing and making new friends, need I remind the world of my social skills? Silly, world. Since my last post, my very optimistic sounding post, I have come face-to-face with more big-girl things. And since I like lists, here we go:

1. Leaky tap. Fill out a work order form for the apartment superintendent and hope that it gets fixed while panicking at the idea that you have just given someone permission to enter your apartment at some point, even when you are not home. *Hides laundry loonies*
2. Orange Juice. Since the local farmer’s market has been stocked with a wonderful surplus of choice in vegetables, fruit, and baked goods, I have somehow managed to avoid stepping foot in a grocery store for three weeks. The market does not, however, have orange juice. The one substance I require to function the way plants need carbon dioxide. Or humans and oxygen. You know. So I put on my big-girl pants and rode the bus to the shopping centre where I happily strolled through Loblaws, really buttoning up those big-girl pants when I had to ask for a rain check on the out-of-stock-on-sale-orange-juice. That’s what happens when you go to the grocery store after noon, people. Lesson: Wake up and get your groceries early. 
3. Laundry. I may have ironed my shirt in my last blog post, but I never actually did the whole washing machine/dryer routine. When you leave laundry for 3 weeks, and try to fit the whole dark load into one load, things do not get washed properly. I mean, of course I knew enough to separate darks and lights, and of course I did not leave a red sock in my white a-la-Rachel-Green, but I thought water in washing machines just penetrates all the clothing and soaks everything. Well, if you have three weeks of clothing, and a small washer in the laundry room of your apartment, it doesn’t. So do not try to stuff the washing machine. Also, invest in those Tide tablet things so that you don’t have to measure laundry detergent. Life gets better with those laundry tablet things.
4. Learn how to small-talk. Okay, so I’m expecting there will be another post on this at some point this year. This past week, I attended a faculty wine and cheese event, and had to endure the dreaded small talk with colleagues aka classmates, and professors aka those who assign you a grade that defines your academic progression. What did I expect? Painful, awkward, staring at the ceiling.
   What did I encounter? Slightly less painful, slightly less awkward, and I couldn’t tell you what the ceiling looked like. I received some great advice on what to wear for “business casual” before attending: “If you would TA in it, you can wear it.” Since it was a wine and cheese, and I enjoy wine but cannot tolerate alcohol well, I was that person who casually sipped and warmed my chilled white wine in my hands, which is a nice way of saying I pretended to drink it, subtly made half of my glass magically disappear, filled the half with water, and sipped my diluted now-warm chardonnay with effortless (what a lie) grace.
   What’s the point of diluting the wine? Why didn’t I just drink a non-alcoholic drink?
   There is no difference; I call it personal preference. There is absolutely no problem or judgment I expected for preferring a non-alcoholic drink. I honestly do enjoy wine, so I had no problem asking for white wine. I like the feel of wine glasses because in that superficial way, I feel more comfortable and classy with a wine glass. It all has to do with holding the wine glass itself, and just having a drink (be it alcoholic or non-alcoholic) in general so your hands have something to do, and nothing to do with what’s in the glass. If you feel confident you will be more confident. Fact. (Not proven, but you know.)
   Let’s put it this way. I once attended an alumni talk from a very successful graduate who talked about networking and socializing. Her #1 piece of advice for events? Get a drink (again, any drink, water, wine, etc.) and hold it. It makes you 90% (I made that number up) less awkward than you would be without a drink. It gives you an excuse to politely leave a conversation and “refill” or join another conversation along the way to maximize you networking. And it keeps you hydrated, since you know, socializing requires talking, which requires hydration. And I also made that last point up based on my recent experiences.

So, all that rambling basically meant: I had to take care of maintaining my apartment, I had to go to a real grocery store and do my own laundry, which takes a lot more time when you let it accumulate. I had to socialize in a professional setting and put to use the lesson I learned about professional socializing, that is, get a drink and (it doesn’t matter if it’s alcoholic or non-alcoholic), and mingle. All of which is a lot easier said than done. Which are things I am still working on. But I tried, and that’s why this post is a ½ step in the “Big-Girl Pants.” Like half a step when you’re walking. Like the running man. No, nevermind, not the running man. Just mid step.