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

The Difference in Studying the Humanities: Then and Now

“A watery lexicon and syntax, a hydro logical approach could cultivate our capacity to scale down to the level of molecules and up to the level of oceans. It could also better attune our senses to the range of languages that traverse the human and nonhuman realms, enabling us to transition between the dialects of the domesticated, the wild, the feral. If I can learn to parse a salmon’s journey or a human sentence, then hopefully, I might be able to speak nearby a river, if I keenly listen to its shape shifting grammar, it’s stubborn flow despite human obstacles and impositions. These are the fluid literatures I believe we need to relearn and adapt for the future.”
(Rita Wong, “Untapping Watershed Mind”)

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One of the requirements in graduate school is to complete at least one course in each time period. Although this is sometimes a hindrance to others, I call it a blessing in disguise.

Last term, I spent four months learning about the humanist education system in Renaissance England. I more or less delved deep into the source texts of Shakespeare’s plays, and the contemporary plays to the Shakespearean canon, which tends to be our only general exposure to the Renaissance outside of English literary studies. My historical research thus involved learning about discipline in the grammar schools, such as physical beatings to enforce Latin recitations, in addition to consulting the humanist texts and pedagogy.

Traditionally, humanists look to the past for examples (as do most people since examples, well, come from… the past). Not only did they draw on classical texts and ideals, but they based their entire learning system on mimicking it. The Renaissance, after all, is a rebirth of the Classical time period. Humanist learning today, also looks to the past. Whether it is philosophy, classics, history, languages, etc., humanities students also study everything from “the greats,” however controversial that term may be (and I’m rolling my eyes at you if you’re glaring at my colloquial and likely offensive generalizing and prioritizing use of the term), to the contemporary works. But after eavesdropping on invigoratingly heated but professional conversations, as one does while casually sitting in a common room, I realized just how much the humanities values the historical past.

And now I switch to “humanities” in terms of English Literature.

English students are increasingly more interested in post-modern and contemporary literature and are foregoing the, shall we say, “traditional” canon. Though I’m sure we all love Beowulf, claim our favourite Shakespeare play is one that isn’t covered in high schools, can breakdown Robinson Crusoe in a few minutes, dream of or despise dancing daffodils (ALERT: I’M A WORDSWORTH FAN), and sing praises of T.S. Eliot, we can’t deny that it seems like the secret to luring students is expanding beyond the traditional canon and allowing ourselves to be intrigued by contemporary literature.

Looking forward or placing “too much” importance on the contemporary world in this way is so often condemned. While I’m not disregarding the importance of a sound foundation built from the traditional literary canon, I am arguing for the respect of contemporary issues embodied in contemporary literature. We are not in the Renaissance anymore. We can and should look to past texts the way humanists looked to classical texts, but we should not limit ourselves to them. There is undeniable value in making relevant contemporary conversations through literature and literary analysis.

This term, I’m studying permaculture and ecocriticism – not just in literature, but in visual arts, activism like guerrilla gardening, film, etc. Even if I’m not reading a “book” I’m reading criticism, and I’m applying literary analysis tools to these other forms of expression. I would not have the confidence or skills to do so without my strong literary background in, YES, THE TRADITIONAL CANON, but I am more intrigued by applying a humanist’s perspective to the world in which I currently live.

In the true humanities fashion, I look to the past for examples as the past drives my love of literature, but I look to the past, to the present and to the future, for the inspiration to drive my curiosity. Stop studying the humanities then; start studying the humanities now.

A little critical thinking, but it works (out).

Choosing courses seemed to be one of the most stressful periods of my undergraduate experience. Since I am completing a course-based Master’s program, I had the opportunity to… choose… courses… again.

However, unlike undergrad, I wasn’t choosing between American or Canadian Literature Survey courses, but between poetry of a small, regional area, or an ecocritical and national, fiction course. Having no experience studying Canadian Literature, this presented a dilemma with the standard questions: “How do I know if I’m going to be interested in something that specific at this early point in time?” Cue: Flashbacks to Grade Ten when we had to choose a university path at the tender, young age of 15 years old.

Well, I am here to tell you that it works out. I think that’s my current mantra, and I’m sure I will change my mind and panic another day, but so far, it works out. I never thought that I had an interest in Canadian Literature, for the sole fact that mainstream Canadian literature just doesn’t seem to align with my literary interests. However, in my fourth year of undergrad, I studied Canadian poetry and fiction of the Great War for a seminar class and boy, did that change my mind!

I ended up writing my graduate school thesis proposal about Canadian and children’s literature, and although I am not pursuing the thesis project in favour of taking more courses before I focus my research on one area, I remain fascinated by the intersections of K-12 pedagogy and Canadian children’s literature. After the seminar course on literature of the Great War, I also became interested in the construction of a national Canadian identity and how immigrant perspectives play into this identity. What I did not realize about this proposal was how narrow and optimistic my ideas of the “national Canadian identity” really were.

In a way, the propaganda literature convinced me, despite retrospectively reading the works 100 years later.

And my ideas of constructing a wonderful national identity- well, they lacked the voice of someone who was not afraid to challenge the optimistic ideal. I am confident these issues would have arisen early enough in my project to correct and modify the thesis of course, but I am happy I was able to gain perspective on these ideas simply by taking a course on regional Canadian poetry.

The first couple of weeks of my new Canadian poetry course consisted of studying Al Purdy, who was a poet that, to this day, is consistently used as an anthologized example of the Canadian national voice. Our discussions in class, informed by Mark Silverberg’s “The Can(adi)onization of Al Purdy,” revealed the limitations of considering a work through the checklist definitions of “Canadian” literature. By reading Purdy’s poetry through the lens of a nationalist perspective, nuances and subtleties of his poetry become lost in the midst of the wilderness landscape, survival, and self-deprecating voice (to name a few of Silverberg’s examples). We were rejecting the singularly traditional readings of Purdy as a nationalist example. That is to say, we were not rejecting Purdy as a Canadian poet, but table-fipping the elements of “Canadian identity” and pressing them against the regional and other aspects of the poetry.

With this renewed perspective, I was able to question what is it about national identity that is so appealing to me when in fact, it might not truly exist in a country so varied and dynamic. Sorry, I don’t have the answer. But it’s an interesting direction that I cannot ignore, especially considering my would-be research interests are sitting on the floor, having just been flipped off of a table.

What in the world does this have to do with choosing courses? It works out. I was hesitant to take this course, but after this feeling of excitement and enlightenment (I’m on my way to being the next Dalai Lama), I know things work out. Had I not taken this course, I never would have gained perspective in the exact opposite way my argument would have gone. *dramatic pause* Thanks, life.

It works out.

“You rock. Don’t ever change.”

…So says Lizzie McGuire, a favourite Disney channel teen from the hit TV-series, “Lizzie McGuire”. To me, written as a high school yearbook message, the phrase seems to capture the idea that you are great the way you are, and celebrates the high school you – GO YOU! To me, it encapsulates the age-old adage that you don’t have to change yourself for others, and to embrace yourself in all your flaws and talents.

This quote is so memorable, it tends to pop up in a lot of places, eliciting a smile, perhaps a small chuckle, from nostalgic past-Lizzie-lovers like me. But seeing it again started the spurs and whirls of the gears in my head, and now I’m wondering if it’s okay to change. In high school, you picked the courses for the following year in grade ten, courses that would ultimately decide if you had the prerequisite courses for applying to certain post-secondary programs. In high school, it was easy to have a plan. You didn’t have to change, because you had a plan.

In university, there was a checklist: fulfill these requirements, and choose one course from this category and this category and this category. Course X must be completed by the end of your second year. You could change programs, sure, but there was still a plan. You just had to change plans.

In graduate school, the MA English program is course-based (for me). You have to complete X courses and Y mandatory courses. You have more freedom to research and pursue ideas than you had in undergrad, but again, in the end, you followed a plan.

And if you don’t pursue a Ph.D., when you can follow a four year plan and typically runs into five or six years, then what’s your plan? You could change plans – don’t apply for a doctorate program, take a year off, dig yourself out of student debt, but can you change to not having a plan? Can you change your mind? If you’re a planner, like me, then it’s terrifying to think that you might change your mind. To even acknowledge that something you have worked towards for four years is not your dream anymore. To think that all of your volunteering, and extra-curricular activities, all of your conversations centred on this end goal, and this end goal is no longer a goal – are they useless? The obvious answer would be no, since you learned skills and developed traits that are applicable to a multitude of situations.

On a resumé, you are built to change, adapt quickly, and apply your skills in different fields. Technically, you can. But you can’t deny a nagging voice in your head wondering if it’s okay to change what you want to do with your life. To be a starving artist, or to put in the hours as an unpaid intern, and work your way through the field for ten years only to find you don’t enjoy the work? To pursue the childhood dream you have worked towards with a constant questioning if maybe you should be doing something else, or put the dream on hold and try out the “other thing”?

“You rock. Don’t ever change.” She’s right. I hope you don’t change. I hope you never lose the sense of curiosity and desire to dream. I hope you never change the all the great parts of yourself – yes, they are there, even when you think they’ve gotten buried under life’s cynicism and burdens. And I hope you do change. I hope you change your mind and change your plan and change the voice inside your head that says, “Don’t change.” I hope you know it’s okay to change your mind. I hope I remember it’s okay to change my mind.

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.)

“There and back again”: Not an epic tale by a hobbit

When I went home for Thanksgiving weekend this past weekend, I was a statistic for the first time ever. You know what I mean: I was part of the group of students to whom the priest said “Welcome home!” in his opening greetings to mass, I was the person the church friends crowded to see how school was going, because they no longer had an opportunity to each week, I could even use the guilt card to see my friends at late hours of the night to provide optimal time with family during the day, and “catching up” (or as some smarty-pant friends of mine would term “ketchup”) time with friends at night. Or so I thought. I have to admit, before Thanksgiving weekend, I was optimistic about my time management, but nevertheless, there was a little bit of visiting with friends still. So anyways, you know that statistic (and by statistic I am completely just guessing that a statistic exists somewhere)? The one where hundreds of thousands of students flock to their hometowns to celebrate holidays and become the special kids to whom everyone pays their utmost attention during those short two or three days? Yes, well, I was one of them, and boy, did it feel weird at first. But I guess it’s nice to feel special. *understatement*

Going home and coming back to Queenstown was an interesting experience. You have to do all these backwards things, like pack to go home, since, as a girl in love with clothes, almost all of my wearable clothes moved with me. You have loose ends to tie up, or time-consuming computer jobs to finish at home since if you’re essentially home tech support for your parents, like me. And yet every moment you spend away from your family, whether it’s the time downloading new music, or transferring all your sunset pictures, or looking down at your phone to make plans with your friends while with your family, there is an Eeyore-sized-raincloud of guilt hanging over you. It takes a lot of time, for me at least, to realize that even if there is no such thing as too much time with parents when you’re a visiting student, they still want you to visit with your friends from elementary and high school. And they’re okay with that. 

Being home is the most comfortable thing in the world. I finally get what people mean. Being back in my apartment is also comfortable. But it’s not home. Is it cliché to say it does feel like a home away from home? That really is its function, though. But now I have this strange distinction in my head. I made a home for myself here. I got two fish that both have lasted 48 hours so far. I have plants to water. I have carpets to vacuum, and laundry to do (in a few weeks… Obviously, I came back with a freshly laundered closet, courtesy of my mother’s hard work). Does a part of me actually enjoy taking care of myself and making a home for myself? At what point is it “okay” to start to grow up and be a responsible adult, without an overwhelming sense of guilt and loss of childhood ignorance? Maybe it’s time to read Catcher in the Rye again.

Whatever it is, I officially have less than ten months to figure it out.

“They’re people too.”

During one of my reading weeks in undergrad, I visited a friend who was going to school in Vancouver. I expected to come back and tell everyone I wanted to move to the West coast, since it seems like a widely accepted fact that once you go to B.C., you never want to leave. (I mean, in some ways it’s very true – just walk to the edge of the water and look at the mountains on your right and the ocean on your left. It’s simply beautiful.) What I did not expect was to come back and think about how I walked past those on the street begging for money with no home to go to and no job to support themselves.

Homelessness can be a sensitive subject – a passionate cause for some, an ignored but accepted part of society to others. Either way the topic raises potential for heated debates and I will admit I am hesitant to write this blog post, especially since I do not actively engage in the politics of or current conversations about these issues.

When you grow up in a relatively big city, it becomes a habit to walk past the homeless and beggars without sparing a second glance. In Vancouver, I responded to the greetings the same way I always have: by carrying on. My friend reprimanded me, and said “Why do you just ignore them? They’re people too.”

“They’re people too.” They’re people too.

When I was travelling in Shanghai this past summer, I self-toured the city alone. I passed an elderly homeless couple begging for money on a busy street corner, and I noticed every person passed by without a second glance. The elderly man was wrapped in a sleeping bag, with a knit hat. He appeared to be sleeping. He eerily resembled the likeness of my own grandpa, and I felt a knot in my stomach unlike the cold-hearted response I had trained myself to possess. I pulled a small amount of yuan from my purse, and handed it to the elderly lady, who kept up an on-going plea to passers-by that sounded almost chant-like. As soon as I had given her the money, I was immediately verbally harassed by a group of women standing nearby. Not understanding a single word of Chinese, except for my numbers one to ten, I stared, startled, and tried to communicate that I could not understand what they were saying. Though their tone of voices seemed to soften towards me when they realized I only spoke English, I got the sense that one woman was trying to tell me I should not have given money to the elderly couple. An argument broke out between the elderly woman and this woman from the group, which escalated to the two shouting curses (I’m guessing, since they were repeating words and throwing their arms in the air).

Weren’t the elderly couple people too? 

While trying to adjust to the new city of “Queenstown,” I walked around the main downtown area and passed a number of homeless people. Of them, one called out to me and said, “Good evening, miss.” Under the cloak of my sunglasses, I kept my eyes straight and walked by without any acknowledgement, but inside I shrunk, tried to ignore the feeling and I couldn’t deny that I felt disappointed in myself. (Think, Gus from Cinderella trying to take all his cheese cubes and fit into the tiny mouse hole unsuccessfully.) I could hide my eyes with sunglasses, but I couldn’t hide from myself.

“They’re people too.” 

In a situation where I felt relatively safe on the sidewalk in broad daylight and I knew the language and culture of the city, why didn’t I reply? Maybe I was concerned for my safety, since you read stories in the news where “things happen,” and as a single woman in a new city, not inviting conversation with anyone, be it on the street or in a store, is another habit I have developed. But where is the line between being polite and inviting conversation? Surely a smile and a nod, or a reciprocated, “Good evening,” is not an invitation, right? Part of me wants to say, “Of course not,” but another part of me, likely in my mother’s warning voice, says, “You never know.”

There is no easy answer for this type of situation from my limited experience, and although some may easily respond with no hesitation, while others see it as “no big deal,” it’s the kind of thing I feel as though I am constantly debating. Being alone in a new city has given me another perspective, but no matter the situation, I can’t forget that “they’re people too.“

A Letter to Fellow Future-Teachers, inspired by IDEAS.TED.COM’s “Teachers open up about the (mostly lousy) economics of their dream job”

As someone who constantly believes in and supports the incredibly crucial role teachers have in society, as well as being someone who has dreamt of many different career paths but always considers teaching to be the final and most fitting destination, this TED article sparked some thoughts about an issue I am not afraid to argue (I mean, although since I am not a teacher, I feel less qualified than if you were to talk to me in a few years… I hope?)… Respect and understanding for teachers. If you read the article, which is a compilation of interviews from teachers in public school systems around the world, you will quickly see a pattern: the love of learning and a lack of recognition, understanding and respect for teaching as a profession. However curated the selection of these interviews may be, the lack of financial compensation and respect from the general public are small summaries of a larger issue I have witnessed during my few years volunteering as a teacher’s assistant in both elementary and high school classrooms. It is not appalling or shocking; it is disappointing. (Making the privileged but accepted assumption that) most of the people who are making these judgements have been in school and therefore have had teachers, I must consider that many opinions could have been formed on the experience of “bad teachers” or teachers who seemed not to care about their students, or perhaps students who did not have positive school experiences… Which leads me to the next topic about which I also have strong opinions. 

As a recent undergraduate graduate, my fellow classmates from high school and university are all headed in different paths: teacher’s college, the working world, more undergraduate courses, professional programs, college, graduate school, the list goes on. What most surprised me were the Facebook posts of those who I did not expect to teach who were headed to teacher’s college this fall. (This, however, is merely my reaction to students whom I did not know well, and so, I cannot trust my fleeting high school memories of these now future-teachers.) At first, I was quick to assume someone wanted to attend teacher’s college, simply because he or she did not, for instance, get into medical school. I shuddered at the idea that teacher’s college suddenly became his or her fallback option and not a dream career path, until I kicked myself and realized that one of my greatest mentors, and also a brilliant teacher I have seen in action in the classroom, also never considered teaching as a career until the opportunity presented itself. 

The topic of respecting and recognizing the importance of the teaching profession has the potential to raise so many issues: global, political, economical, social… But since I am no expert in any of these areas, I would rather leave that to someone who did not just learn what “fiscal year” means in the last… fiscal year…

Instead, I want to end my blog post on something a little unconventional (I mean, as conventional as you can get with a total of two blog posts, and three after this one). I have come across articles and blog posts and Facebook posts, and tweets addressed to students, parents, fellow teachers, members of the community… But this one I want to address to future -teachers: 

Dear future-teachers, be it in the near future, far future, or currently on the supply list or short-term contracts: 

Respect and recognition for teachers is a battle that has come forefront to the news in light of the provincial lack of contracts and job security. This TED article enlightens readers to the battle for respect and recognition on a global level, that reaches beyond our local schools. Teaching may have been your final destination since you were young, or it may have been a new option because of the way the big man upstairs worked things out, but either way a B.Ed is in your future. While students and parents tend to find creative ways to show their gratitude to their teachers, or communities support teachers during picket lines or other ways, I do believe that showing support as a future-teacher is by respecting the profession you have chosen. I picture this, in an ideal world, as teachers teaching because they love to learn and they love to teach, and teachers who choose not to teach because they feel called to commit their time elsewhere. I do not mean for this to sound “preachy,” ignorant, or have negative connotations. But as a student, it is downright disappointing to see teachers bashed in the media (although I am starting to see a lot more support lately). If teachers want respect and recognition from future generations, then maybe future-teachers should respect their profession first.

Sincerely, 

A fellow student and future-teacher.