Monthly Archives: September 2016

Home. A term that everyone uses with little thought and depth. A term so normalized and conditioned by society that I wonder if anyone understands what ‘home’ is. Of course that also depends on one’s view of the word. But, it is a term that people throw around so offhandedly without putting any thought into it because there’s an assumption that ‘home’ is obvious. It is common sense and it doesn’t need to be defined. In a way, that’s true. A feeling doesn’t always become defined. Abstractions can’t always be understood. But it’s a term that one should be intimately aware of. A term that people have put so little thought in despite its importance. What words would be synonymous with ‘home’? Security? Comfort? A Dwelling? Family? Background? Haven? All of these are synonym to ‘home’. Yet, what do these synonyms bring to the table but more words to define? Why do we need synonyms for the word ‘home’? Too often do I use the word ‘home’ instead of house only because I don’t need people asking me why. Are you not comfortable at home? Where is home then? Questions that dig deep into a personal boundary that I don’t allow others to enter. Conforming to society’s wishes isn’t always negative, it is merely a means to self-preservation. Too often do people throw the word ‘home’ around without truly thinking about what that means for them. It turns the word into a cheap accessory that anything can be. It’s used so casually, that instead of somewhere special in a person’s heart, that it becomes a cheap accessory for the bustling of society. Seldom do they stop to think. Is this where I want to be? Is this where I belong? A pause, before bursting full speed into their next societal obligation.

Home would be no material place. It’s just a space in the most abstract form of the word where I return to in order to feel as though I belong somewhere. It is an opaque, translucent and transparent place. A place of the mind. Whatever I want it to be. Home is merely a concept. A story in which we tell ourselves we belong. Home is a memory, home is a person. There are plenty of ways to define home, but what does that mean?

Maybe we can understand it by comparison? Homeless. Immediately, waves of impressions show up; jobless; on the streets; without an abode. What interests me is that the synonyms for homeless includes the words migrants and vagabonds. Migrants and Nomads being similar, they travel from place to place. Are they searching for a home? Vagabonds always struck me as a sort of adventurer. Are they looking for a home as well? Or are they just moving and exploring to see different places? Are they there for the adventure? Eventually these people are going to have to settle down, whether that be due to old age, or the lack of excitement, or the lack of choice. For Nomads.. perhaps home just means being together with their family. It doesn’t matter the location.

So we have people who understand home as a location, we have people who understand home as people (a sort of makeshift, uncertain idea of it), then there are those who never felt as though they have had a home. Maybe their memories are the only places where they can go to feel the concept of home. Or maybe it’s something else.

At first, we only knew ourselves. I’m using the word ‘know’ very loosely. As a baby, we might not be as functionable as we are now, but we were comfortable with ourselves. There was no social convention binding us yet because we don’t quite understand it. At that point, we’re “at home” with ourselves. Then social convention comes around affecting us. Family becomes our sense of home. But at the same time, being in a materialistic society as it is, home becomes a location. So say, we believe that location is ‘home’. When that gets burned down, we’re left without a home. Walking through the streets, we keep searching. What is home? Is it someone we can depend on? Because at the point, that might be how it feels. Distrusting of others, but desperate for a home, we accept their kindness(?). Perhaps we eventually become best friends, perhaps lovers. Who knows? What I’m trying to say is that a person becomes what we call home. Then, what if we become betrayed? Not only do we no longer have a location or a person to be comfortable with, we lose our ‘home’. The place where we feel we belong. Short and not very transitional, but I assume you see the pattern. Eventually, we get to know ourselves because that seems to be the only thing we can be comfortable with- the only thing we trust that won’t, can’t abandon us. Although I don’t think the mind is where it ends, it is a start. It begs an interesting take on the term ‘home’ in sports where the goal or the end point is ‘home’ and the animal’s definition of where it returns to by instinct. Perhaps our goal is to go home, and although we try to return instinctively, life is a part of the journey and until that is over… we are not home. Hopefully, self-awareness will eventually bring us closer to home.

Work Cited:

Switchfoot. “”This Is Home” – THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA” N.p., n.d. Web. 22 Oct. 2016.

“Our Story | Musqueam.” N.p., n.d. Web. 1 Oct. 2016.

“Reclaiming the Indigenous Soul – WisdomBridge.” N.p., n.d. Web. 1 Oct. 2016.

Let me tell you a story about trauma, ignorant guidance and the unsuspecting.

—

This was the only memory she remembered when she looked at her reflection in the bath and drowned in familial expectations.

“Nessa!” Her mother was on the patio. “Come here.”

Across the lush lawn, the sun’s radiance gifted warmth to a child with gleaming golden locks. A trick of light seemed to form a halo hovering over the girl’s head. Abruptly, she turned around. The girl’s head was held high and her fingers were bunched in two tiny fists in front of her. Her chest puffed out as she took a deep breath; her cheeks were tinted pink and inflated like a harvesting chipmunk. Finally, she bent over and let out a squeal in excitement.

“Mommy!”

She lifts her head and grins, showing her baby teeth. She ran with her arms flapping behind her as if she had grown wings. A kaleidoscope burst into the air, startled. Soft shades of heart-shapes scattered in a dance. She paused to point. “Butterfly!”

The girl frolicked before dashing through the grass again. Her miniature bare feet leapt from the warm green edge to the cool gray space. Slapping against the concrete, she hurried towards the picnic table in front of the cottage porch..

Her blue eyes lit up in wonder when she stopped. Who are these people?

“Nessa.”

Though young, she immediately recognized her mother’s tone. Nessa reached down, near the hem of her dress, and pulled slightly. She bowed her head and curtsied. The women gathered around the picnic table clapped their hands in delight and beckoned her to come close.
Like a wounded puppy, she stepped cautiously towards the women. The air vibrated with left over exhilaration, but also tinged in tense silence.

Who are they? Her eyes flitted towards her mother who only nodded.
In a split second, they sprang forth. Hands akin to claws lunged for her in all directions and the glass like silence shattered in chatter.

“She’s adorable!”

“What’s your name?”

“Yeah, introduce yourself, sweetheart.”

Nessa tried to speak, but with smothering breasts and pointy fingers pinching her cheeks, it proved too difficult; she could only squeak.

“Her name is Vanessa.” Her mother, an epitome of grace, lifted the teapot from its tray. The table wobbled from imbalance before she poured steamy liquid into each ladies’ cup. “These are your aunts, Nessa.”

Nessa could only hiccup in reply as she was still coddled by her aunts.

“Is Nessa short for Vanessa?

Putting down the teapot carefully to avoid an upset, her mother replied. “We were originally going to call her just ‘Nessa’ –it means pure, holy and butterfly— but Vanessa is her official name.”

“It’s perfect for her. So innocent.” One of the aunts cooed and another one picked up the drink. Their flighty attention stretched.

Nessa tried to untangle her way out of the bony arms that wrapped around her like a spider’s web; muffled grunts of dissatisfaction came from her pursed lips.

“Stop that, Nessa. Go play in the garden.”

Suddenly, the arms around her loosened and she slid off one of her aunts’ lap. She still didn’t really know who they were, but “okay.” As if rehearsed, Nessa tilted her head to the side, then waved at her aunts before twirling towards the lawn. Her cotton white dress fluttered in a semicircle before racing after her as she ran; it was loose on her two year old frame.

When she stopped, a ways away from the adults, she felt the wind caress her cheeks and comb through her hair. The sun’s heat warmed the top of her head gently as if patting her for being an endearing, sweet child.

It was a while later before the sun reached its peak. Vanessa squinted when her eyes met the ball of flames in the sky; it caused spots. Shaking off the white voids in her vision, she continued her expedition.

Fwoosh…

Something’s rustling. Vanessa could hear the chirps of insects and the tweets of birds. She held her breath. What is it? Where is it? Her curiosity sparked— it was a mystery. Vanessa turned slowly to the left, then to the right. She spun, searching for the source. Her dress chased after her helplessly like a puppy chasing its tail. Giggles joined the chirping, tweeting and rustling.

Shortly after, she stopped. Beads of sweat lined her temple. The greenery around Vanessa was bright under the sun’s unyielding hard glare. Her feet staggered unevenly in front of her, teetering left and right. She tumbled in front of one of the bushes along the white picket fence.

“Oompf.” Groggily, she pushed herself up after a few attempts. Vanessa’s hands reached out and pushed the undergrowth away. Peeking cautiously into the gap, her eyes caught sight of a pupa. A cocoon.

The sunlight glinted off the sleek shell. It was the beginning of a new life; innocent and untouched. A little crack was forming and before long it was left with nothing but a husk. A creature with shriveled up wings tore its way out. Its abdomen was swollen, but it seemed to deflate slowly as its wings expanded with throbs.

Vanessa snagged it. “Butterfly!” Clutching the creature, she leapt with new-found enthusiasm; she wanted to show the adults her namesake. “One…two…one, two.” Increasing in speed, both hands clenched to keep control. A few more hops, she suddenly stopped and remembered. “Butterfly?”

Loosening her hold, she peered closely into the hand caging the insect and shrieked.
Her entire body jumped as if she had been stung by a bee. The newborn was tossed into the air. What is that? Its wings were crumpled from being taken away before there was time to unfurl. It was crippled.

Adults rushed to towards Vanessa’s wailing. Her pudgy hands were swinging in a tantrum and her hair was a frazzled mess. Trying to soothe her screams, they tried to figure out what was wrong.

“B-butterfly.” Vanessa was shaking slightly. Her eyes were wide with fear and her face was blotted red like the Devil’s. She was pointing at the demented creature that tried to stay aflutter.

The aunties followed the direction of Vanessa’s finger. “Ew. Is that what you named Vanessa after?”

“That’s not a butterfly. It’s a moth. It’s not her.” Vanessa’s mother tried to pacify her child and explain to the aunts. Hints of disgust were strewn into her expression. “Vanessa means ‘bring to light’ or ‘make appear.’”

The moth sank ever so slowly as if trying to delay the inevitable. Before it could see any of the fleeting wonders of the world, its wings were crushed by an unsuspectingly cruel palm. It had no choice when it entered this world.

Painstakingly, it fought to stay in the air. Silver powder sprinkled from under its pinched wings like trailing blood. Ultimately, it returned to earth. Its body trembled in fear and quivered as its life drained away. The sole evidence of its premature existence was that beautiful, yet stifling powder mist.

Vanessa screeched again. It was like she crushed a piece of herself. Only a silver haze remained in her hand.

“Let’s wash your hands Vanessa, sweetie.”

And the wings twitched one final time.

Now that we’re older and wiser, take with you what you will. Fill in the words in between. What did you hear? What did you see? What can you imagine?

—

My memory is horrible, so it can’t be expected of me to remember all that I wrote. What I retold was generally the main points: how innocent Vanessa was, what kind of exterior forces affected her, Vanessa’s newest experience and how she was unwittingly taught. I never really explicitly told how she became “corrupted,” or what kind of similar experience she came across as she grew older because I wanted to let the listeners imagine her experiences.

I gave my friends some time to think about my story. Not everyone came back to me with an experience, but a few did. They told me about their immediate reactions to emotional arousal. Others told me about what kind of habits they had and why they became habits. The latest experience that returned to me was my friend who was talking to her grandma. She had always wondered why she constantly asked leading questions rather than questions that allowed for a wider breadth of answers. At first she assumed it was because she liked to act all-knowing. (I’m sure that’s part of the reason.) But, it was when she started talking to her grandma that she realized: whenever she asked a question that invoked a wider range of answers, her grandma would never answer. Only when she asked a leading question, a yes-or-no question, would her grandma answer. It was something that frustrated her a lot. She wanted to obtain answers different from the ones she thought of, but her habit of asking leading questions, limit her. Now that she knew why she was had this type of habit, she said she would be able to figure out how to ask more open questions. I guess knowing the reason was important to her.

By telling my story in a somewhat vague manner, I was able to listen to my audience’s side of the story. I believe that is the most valuable part of telling my story.

Words. Chamberlin talks a lot about language, in particular the strangeness and wonder of how language works. Stories, he says, “bring us close to the world we live in by taking us into the world of words” (italics mine,1). He describes learning to read and write as learning “to be comfortable with a cat that is both there and not there” (132). Based on Chamberlin’s understanding of how riddles and charms work, explain this “world of words.” Reflect on why “words make us feel closer to the world we live in” (1).

Words help us understand and communicate with each other. On the flip side, it is very easy to miscommunicate and misunderstand. What we don’t always see is that words are very much a construction of one’s own experiences. Each word is associated with a person’s five senses or intuitive understanding. For example, when I say the word ‘teapot,’ the image you see in your head will differ from mine. Even if I were to describe to you word for word what the teapot in my mind looks like, there will still be different aspects. The concept of “words can cut, words can heal” is easy enough to grasp. However, not everyone comprehends that each person’s understanding differs from another.

A person’s understanding of stories is the same. What one hears differs from another. When orators speak, their stories are from memory and their focus differs from another orator. Looking at oration from a political realm, it is also the same. We hear certain things and make assumptions. Marcus Aurelius once said that, “everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth.” Although words do not always lead to a correct answer, it supports understanding amongst human beings.

Fear of the unknown is prominent in colonialism precisely because the narratives are different. A person’s worldview, although left unstated, will be intrinsic in the way they present themselves in the world. However, if we are not aware of the connections made by a person, we feel alienated and uncomfortable because we don’t know or understand the person’s understanding of the world. We live our lives in our story that provides us a sense of who we are and where we are. According to Chamberlain, stories “hold us together and at the same time keep us apart.

The world of words support people’s connections to another person which also develops their understanding of the world, but at the same time, if another’s story is too different from one’s own, people become alienated. Common ground always exists in people’s stories. It is only a matter of looking. Sometimes, the surface of one’s story seems too alien for another to grasp, but if they can focus and search a little longer, they will find that many of their experiences intersect each others.

Work Cited:

Chamberlin, Edward. If This is Your Land, Where are Your Stories? Finding Common Ground. Toronto: AA. Knopf. 2003. Print.

Morgan, Rebecca. “Rebecca Morgan’s Free Articles – Management – The Power of Our Words.” Rebecca Morgan’s Free Articles – Management – The Power of Our Words. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 Sept. 2016.

“TRUTH, Fact and Perspective.” So How Do We Know? Theory of Knowledge Website for IB DP Students. N.p., n.d. Web. 18 Sept. 2016.

Winters, Jeffrey. “Why We Fear the Unknown.” Psychology Today. N.p., June 2016. Web. 18 Sept. 2016.

“I don’t really like Canadian Literature. I don’t think it’s as interesting as English or British Literature.” I said to my English 227 professor.

“Oh?” He seemed unperturbed. “Have you taken other English courses?”

“Yes.”

“Which books did you read in those classes?”

I shifted my feet and listed a few that I remembered. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.. That was engaging.. Prometheus Bound was a favorite.. And Life of Pi was insightful.”

“Life of Pi was written by a Canadian Author.”

At the time, I didn’t think I had read any Canadian texts. I didn’t think they were as informative as outsourced literature since I lived in Canada all my life. Oh, how little I knew. I’ve been wanting to read Tigana by Guy Gavriel Kay. He is a Canadian writer. Fine, one or two books are written by Canadian writers, that doesn’t mean that I like it. Well… the Silverwing Series by Kenneth Oppel has always been close to my heart. Surprise, surprise, he’s a Canadian writer as well! If I had thought before I spoke to my professor, I would have remembered that I also enjoyed reading Indigenous myths as a child. Canadian stories have always been a part of my life.

Maybe, it was time for a revamp in my perspective. Discriminating across genres is like deciding whether a Golden Retriever or a German Shepherd was the better type of dog. A crude example, but Golden Retrievers were bred for retrieving game, where as German Shepherd’s were originally bred to herd sheep. Every breed has something to offer, just as every person and every genre has something offer. It is a matter of where to look, why and how hard we seek to understand.

What I didn’t know was what Canadian Literature had to offer. What were its advantages and disadvantages? What kind of intrinsic understandings or underlying implications does Canadian Literature offer? Naturally, I registered in English 470A. Not only do I want to increase my knowledge in “allusions and symbolic knowledge other than Western,” I want to understand what I am saying about myself in context of Canadian Literature.

So, to those reading my blog, welcome to the next 4 months of my renewed understanding of Canadian Literature.

Doubt brings one to a possibly humble and forever diverging path

Work Cited:

“ENGL 470A (3 cr): Canadian Studies: Canadian Literary Genres” Distance Learning UBC, September 16, 2016. http://distancelearning.ubc.ca/courses-and-programs/distance-learning-courses/courses/engl/engl470a/. September 16, 2016

Silva, Jason. “Storytelling Animal” Facebook. August 30. 2016. https://www.facebook.com/jasonlsilva/videos/1732598057004472/. September 16, 2016

Smith, Russel. “Why do we struggle with what makes Canadian literature?” The Globe and Mail, November 21, 2013 http://www.theglobeandmail.com/arts/books-and-media/why-do-we-struggle-with-what-makes-canadian-literature/article15536056/. September 16, 2016