Monthly Archives: January 2014

2.1: Home

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What is home?

I must have asked myself this question a dozen times in preparation of this post. I’ve written about five different versions of what I think home means to me. And I’ve hit the delete button more than ever.

Home. What is it?

Some people get to choose their homes. Just turn on the television, find the channel for HGTV and watch a bunch of people choose their homes.

I want a house that is within x budget.

It’s got to have tiles throughout.

Three bedrooms would be best.

It’s too windy and right under a flight route.

I have to have elongated toilet seats. Not the round ones.

(If you’ll believe it, this was for one episode.)

My goldfish did not choose his. He has four walls: see through on three sides and with the last one covered by a picturesque view of what a perfect tank should look like. He can see a lot, if he chooses to, or he can turn around and stare at the unmoving green that is forever grown on that one wall. Or, he can turn and see me, staring back at him. Or maybe I’m sitting at my desk with my back to him. Or I’ve left the room and it’s dark. I wonder what he sees in the dark.

I’ve asked my grandparents why they emigrated from Hong Kong and whether they would ever want to live there again. My grandma said she would not be able to survive in Hong Kong if she went back. It has changed too much. She would not be able to recognize the country she grew up in – a place she used to call home.

It makes me wonder about my goldfish, swimming in his home of four walls – three all seeing and another static. He stares at me the most.

My first memory of home was my potty. It was green. It was in the kitchen. I used it… a lot.

(I am now seriously questioning the decision by my parents for putting my potty in the middle of the kitchen.)

My mom is always in my first memories of home. She was the one that fed me macaroni and made sure I ate them all before I could watch Sailor Moon. She was there as I put on my shoes on the steps of our doorway. She was there when I spoke jibberish, thinking it was English, while I ran out into the patio. She was there while she pushed me around in my stroller at the market. She was there when we napped before her work.

She wasn’t there when she left me at my cousin’s house. I broke my arm there. I lost my Sailor Moon doll there. Found it again, only to see it in the hands of my cousin as a “gift” from “someone else”. I rode my bike there; down the steepest hill an eight year old could possibly ride. Past vicious, growling dogs that were scared of closed fists. I did a wheelie there by accident and I thought I was the coolest ever. My cousin would tap the window with her umbrella as a greeting when she came home from school. We made chocolate chip cookies from scratch and ate fudge popsicles and jell-o. There were computers and movies there, and there was Internet and food.

We moved. My sister was born. My grandparents lived with us. I used stools as my table for dinner because real tables were too big for me. My sister and I played drive-thru on the balcony. I slept in my sister’s cot because her bed couldn’t fit my grandmother and her when she was scared and wanted company. She threw up on her own sheets and I was forced to use them afterwards (Washed, of course. She can tell which sheets were the puke-stained ones). I waved good-bye to my mom and screamed out the window every morning before her work. The neighbours complained about me, but I only got to see my mom for thirty minutes each day. Dairy Queen was right next door. My grandma had a dragon fish that grew bigger than my whole arm but my grandfather scared him to death. She threw the fish away into the trash at Dairy Queen. My sister and I had secret passageways around the complex that weren’t actually that secret in hindsight.

We moved again, without my grandparents. It was lonely. It was cold. But we had the biggest backyard. I accidently dropped the metal rod for the toilet paper into the toilet and we had to install a completely new toilet. My dad held a BBQ with his employees while I watched TV and heard the same toilet flush at least a hundred times, non-stop. People sure peed a lot. Our laundry machines were outside and my mom complained all the time. The kitchen was unusable but the wok kitchen was okay, although small. The walls were yellow – pee colour.

It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten what I named him. My whole family thinks I’m crazy for loving a goldfish this much and my friend calls my fish the devil because of his size (longer than my whole hand and wrist!). He’s just too awesome for them to handle.

We moved again. I lived on the other side of the city and my friends all complained about how far I was. But I was the one living far, not them. I don’t see why they got to complain when I should be. Our neighbour is called The Birdman because the first day, he poked his head over the fence and he sure looked like a peach parrot with his long nose. I got into a fight with my sister, scared the neighbours who then called the cops. I bought a fish tank and my mom and sister decided to buy eight tropical fish for a freshwater tank. They all died in a week. I went to the Night Market, won (saved) three fish. Two died and the last one is still living with me.

He’s been in the same tank for four years and more. He might get a new one. I might move it downstairs, or upstairs, or into another room. I wonder what he would think if I moved him. Would he know his home is still his home, just in a different area of my house? Or would his sense of surroundings change with his sense of home?

But, as I remember my sense of home, it is not fixed to one place, or one time. It is a rambling stream of consciousness. Memories that might mean nothing to some people, but mean everything to me. They are scenes in my life that don’t need context to have meaning and which are all connected to my idea of home.

Although, it’s hard to call a place home if it has been changed beyond recognition and memory recall. It’s hard to call a place home if you did not choose it. What if your home was four glass walls and you were able to see as far as your eye would let you but you could touch nothing? Would it still be a home? Surrounded by things untouchable? Things that do not belong to you?

I didn’t like some aspects of my home at first, but I learned to love other parts of it. The bad things still stay with me, as well as the good. I believe home is memory and feeling. I believe it is also the good and the bad. If you can call something home, I think it’s better than not being able to call anything home.

1.3: Evil’s Story

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I have a great story to tell you. And it’s about me, Evil.

Yes, me, Evil. My name is Evil. You might have heard of me. Faint whispers in the dark, that cold breeze that tangles your hair into knots and draws marks on your skin, and that eerie feeling you get looking too long into someone’s eyes.

I came to this world all on my own. Not with Good. Everybody always pairs me up with Good. And Good always gets all the credit. It’s always “Good conquers Evil” or “Good wins in the end”. I never seem to be able to get rid of Good. It’s like an itch way down in a place you can’t reach – annoying and frustrating. I was here first, not Good. Or God. Whatever you want to call Good.

But anyway, I’m Evil. Not Good. Don’t get us confused.

Don’t get me confused with my friends either. Lust is great and beautiful – all kinds of positive – but she is a little excessive at times. She’ll have you on your knees, begging for more and then, she’ll flake on you. Just like that. She’ll disappear and you’re left with empty hands and empty pockets.

Gluttony will probably fill that emptiness. He’ll shower you with the richest, warmest foods. Food that drips with hot, sweating oil, and smells that fill the whole room until you’re suffocating for fresh air.

Greed is good friends with Gluttony. They’re very similar, except Greed hates to share. She has so much money that it would make Smaug salivate until the fire inside of him goes out.

And if you want to learn how to get absolutely nothing done, find Sloth. He’s always in his room. I don’t think he’s even seen the light of day. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him.

But, of course, I can’t forget about Wrath. Don’t ever forget about Wrath or you’ll have to face him. And he is not a pretty sight.

Envy and Pride are two peas in a pod. They work well as a unit, always trying to rise to the top and always looking down their noses at everyone else. They are very good at what they do and will do almost anything to obtain what they want. Be wary of them, but aim to be them. That’s my advice.

So be careful. Don’t get me confused with Good and my seven deadly friends. They will tell you things – crazy stories – and you won’t know what to believe. And you will be left with dreams and half-awake fantasies of the unimaginable, teetering on the edges of sense and nonsense. Don’t listen to them, trust me, because once you do, you won’t be able to forget them.

So let me tell you my story. It’s better than any story you will ever hear from lousy Good or any of my lousy friends. It’s a story that’s won me many contests, especially with the Witches of Silko who are always looking for the best, the scariest, and the most kingly of things. It was so great they told me to take it back; they wanted to forget it. I’m guessing so I could tell them all over again.

So sit down, get comfortable, and listen. I have a great story to tell you.

*

I wrote this version of the story intending to replicate the same reaction I had with the original retelling of Leslie Silko’s story by Thomas King. Of course, I wrote it in a much more overt way than the way King told it. After telling the story to my two younger sisters, I got the reaction I wanted. And felt –well – an evil glee upon witnessing their expected pain of not knowing what the “great story” is. I found an irony in not knowing exactly what the story full of “murderous mischief” was and designed my story in the same way. Truly, this is one form of evil: hooking someone in with words and promises and never fulfilling them.

 

References

King, Thomas. The Truth about Stories: A Native Narrative. Toronto: House of Anansi, 2003. Print.

1.2: Meaning is in the Mind of the Beholder

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What if blue is not blue? Who decided blue would be called blue? What if the person who decided blue was blue looked up at the sky during the night and decided the night sky was blue?

There is a 55-hectare spaced land in the centre of Richmond which has been under much ownership debate for many years.

These are some questions I wondered about after watching a clip from BBC Horizon about the Himba tribe. The people of the Himba tribe see colours differently from English speakers. It’s amazing to realize how impactful words can be on us as humans and how it can change the way we perceive the world. For the Himba, it is easy to distinguish which green is which compared to the English speaker. There was no hesitation and no questioning. That particular “green” was different from the other “greens”.

J. Edward Chamberlin says in his book, If This Is Your Land, Where Are Your Stories? Finding Common Ground, “living in the real word depends on our living in our imaginations” (125). I believe when he says this that he is suggesting there is no real solid divide between reality and imagination. He calls the choice of choosing between these two “false choices”. Each reality is different for each one’s imagination.

There are many words for things in reality that don’t exist in the English language. One of the most common struggles I have growing up using Cantonese as my other language is trying to explain to non-Cantonese speakers in English about something that seems to only exist in the Cantonese language. Take example the word “nonsense”. In English, it means something that either has no meaning or sense, or behaviour that is foolish or unacceptable. However, in Cantonese, mo liu means that and more. It’s a feeling too. You can feel mo liu or you can feel something is mo liu. You can’t really feel nonsense in English. Something can seem nonsensical, but can you really feel it?

Non-Cantonese speakers probably don’t know what I’m babbling about. I don’t expect them to. Maybe there is a way to explain mo liu in one perfect English word or phrase, but I just don’t know it yet. For now, the reality of that feeling only exists to me and other speakers of the Cantonese language.

Chamberlin touches upon briefly the hypothesis of linguistic relativity, or what is called the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis. It is the idea that language can shape our thought processes and thus the way we see the world. I would argue that language can help to shape the way we see the world, or at least how we name or describe it. Even without a word, things exist but with a word to name it, these things seem clearer and closer to understanding. Chamberlin writes, “Naming things is one of the oldest forms of storytelling” (127).

Ultimately, Chamberlin’s goal is to find common ground. This is difficult when we feel the need or are forced to choose these “false choices” – between what is common ground and what is not. I don’t believe there can ever be a true common ground where everyone agrees what something should be (or, say, what English word best represents mo liu). It is why when Canadians are asked, “What is a Canadian?” you can get about a hundred and four different answers. Some are agreed upon and some are not. But they are all valid representations of what a Canadian is – according to the answerer.

I am privileged to have two languages and to be able to see the world through several lenses. I do not see the world exactly the same way as my mother or my father, but they gave me my language and my Chinese culture. The fact that I can think something is nonsense as well as feel it as mo liu, brings me closer to the reality that I imagine for myself everyday.

I don’t believe common ground is the attempt to find similarities while discounting the differences, or choosing what is considered important to keep as shared values. But rather common ground is being able to understand and acknowledge the many words a language can create for someone. And also understanding how each language, or culture, exists at the same time and is all relevant to everything in its own unique way.

Just because you think it is nonsense, does not mean it is nonsense to another.

 

 

References
Chamberlin, J. Edward. If This Is Your Land, Where Are Your Stories?: Finding Common Ground. Toronto: Vintage Canada, 2003. Print.
Lilienfeld, Scott O. “Linguistic Relativity: Language Gives Thought A Gentle Nudge.” Psychology: From Inquiry to Understanding. Boston: Pearson/Allyn & Bacon, 2011. 347. Print.

1.1: Oh Hello

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There are many voices in every story, even if you can only hear one. Coming from a rather loud family with two other sisters, I know what it’s like to almost hear half a dozen voices at once and attempt to pick which one to listen to or not.

My name is Cristabel Koo, but you can call me Crista. I’m a fourth year student majoring in English literature and minoring in sociology. I have recently taken a seminar course on Canadian autobiographies and most (pretty much all) of my knowledge on Canadian literature is from that awesome class. However, before that, I came into my studies initially interested in gender and sexuality discourses in literature, or what is called Queer Theory. Yet as I progressed in my studies, I was reminded how, as gender and sexuality is fluid, other matters of intersectionality flow into these realms as well. I was not only realizing the flexibility of gender and sexual identity, but how identity is also impacted by cultural landscapes.

Wah’s book is written like an autobiography and talks about his life growing up in his father’s diner. It’s a bit of a tough read but I have the idea that Wah is a tough guy and that’s pretty cool.

As a Canadian born Chinese, my experiences in Canada would differ from common historical narratives found in Western colonialist culture. Fred Wah’s Diamond Grill is one of those stories I can relate to. He writes about living in the hyphen, or in a place that straddles the doorways of whiteness and Chineseness and how that all comes together to create what he sees as Canadian. Attempting to understand where you are and who you are in certain places is something I feel that is common in forming Canadian identity.

On the same vein, English 470A Canadian Studies will explore the experiences of European and Indigenous Canadians and how these experiences are passed on through literature and oral tradition. These stories can be used to cement canons of Canadian literature or even at times, break them down in order to create new narratives. These narratives help to create a sense of identity, or in relation to the course, a Canadian identity. However, it is important to understand Canadian identity is not one solid idea. It is many and goes beyond just Western colonizing narratives. As Northrop Frye writes, the “Canadian identity has been profoundly disturbed, not so much our famous problem of identity […] but by a series of paradoxes in what confronts that identity.” These paradoxes being the many differing and conflicting histories and experiences of Canadians. The course will focus on how each voice and story has a legitimate part in creating a Canadian literary canon – more specifically, whose voice and story is heard, or unheard, and whose histories makes it into the canon.

Really Professional Photo taken from my very professional iPhone at the Museum of Anthropology

This brings in the debated idea of authenticity and legitimacy of Canadianism. We are often surrounded by First Nations art – from the Canucks logo to the walkway entering Canada when you arrive from international flights at the YVR Airport – but the stories of these artworks are not always heard. And I am guilty of looking at them with an air of distance and I know it can seem non-Canadian to some. Last term, I attended a mini-class field trip in one of my sociology courses. We visited the Museum of Anthropology on campus. There, the guide walked us through the artwork and artefacts displayed and spoke  of how often people have complained about the legitimacy of contemporary Aboriginal artwork being mixed in with the “traditional”. Upon starting this course, I am reminded of the tour guide’s story and how it raised the question of what can be considered “real” or authentic Aboriginal artwork and what is not. What is Canada then? Who is a Canadian and who is not? Whose work is allowed to pass the mark and whose isn’t? I’m hoping this course will add on to these questions that are very difficult to answer (and probably have no single all-defining answer) and to help me gain knowledge and understanding of the perspectives of European and Indigenous Canadians.

 

References
Frye, Northrop. “Conclusion to a Literary History of Canada.” The Bush Garden: Essays on the Canadian Imagination. Toronto: Anansi, 1971. 213-51.
Wah, Fred. Diamond Grill. Edmonton: NeWest, 2006. Print.