Coyote Pedagogy is a term sometimes used to describe King’s writing strategies (Margery Fee and Jane Flick). Discuss your understanding of the role of Coyote in the novel.

Coyote is the quintessential trickster in the Native American oraliture. Yet, on top of stirring up trouble and testing moral precepts, Coyote also has “attributes that are unique from those of the European fool” (Lesson 3.2). Former Simpc Indian Band chief and university administrator has this to say about an a Coyote sculpture on Thompson Rivers University campus: “With the coyote we wanted something very symbolic to Interior Salish people. The coyote is a transforming creature that has significance to all Interior Salish people – transforming people in so many ways from what we know today.” Coyote is not only a playful shape-shifter and trickster, but also a creator and teacher. In Green Grass, Running Water, King’s portrays Coyote in a new light that nonetheless continues to trick and transform readers.

Upon my first reading of the novel, I was surprised and disorientated to find Coyote popping up in all over the place: dancing in the rain in a street corner in Blossom, arguing with ‘I says’, peeping into Fort Marion. He jumps fluidly between all three narrative threads, between the ‘real’ and the ‘fictive.’ I think King does this not only to remind readers of Coyote’s mythical character, but also to introduce a worldview in which the supernatural bleeds into the tangible all the time. Coyote’s historical permeability speaks to his nature as a shape-shifter: he is unconfinable and indefinable. It’s interesting to note however, that although he participates in both worlds just like the four Indians, ‘real’ human characters such as Lionel, Eli, and Alberta do not seem to notice his interjections.

The four Indians do, however, they help solidify Coyote’s identity as the traditional trickster. It’s hinted that he was the one who impregnated Alberta and the virgin Mary, and caused the Great Flood:

The last time you fooled around like this, said Robinson Crusoe, the world got very wet.
I didn’t do anything, says Coyote. I just sang a little […]
But I was helpful too, says Coyote. That woman who wanted a baby. Now that was helpful […]
Helpful! Said Robinson Crusoe. You remember the last time you did that?
“We haven’t straightened out that mess yet,” said Hawkeye
Hee-hee, says Coyote. Hee-hee. (King 416)

Coyote is an important character through which King accomplishes what James Cox terms acts of “narrative decolonization” (All This Water Imagery). Weaving in Native American characters like Coyote, King revises Western origin stories, and offering alternative explanations which undermine the metanarratives of the dominant discourse. In the novel, Noah’s Flood and the Immaculate Conception are just products of a canine’s well-intended mishaps, not acts of divine wrath or mercy. In this role, Coyote infiltrates, upends, and transforms the European American narratives which have been most central to the tenets of colonialism.

However, King’s Coyote is far from omnipotent or omniscient even if omnipresent. As the “master narrators” of the story, ‘I Says’ and Coyote keep up a friendly banter which nonetheless makes it clear that ‘I Says’ is teacher and Coyote is student.

Coyote functions as an extension of and a stand-in for the reader, modeling reader response. Often stumped, he turns to ‘I Says’ for help:

“Is this a puzzle?” says Coyote. “Are there any clues?” (100)
“I can see that”… “But I don’t get it,” says Coyote. (419)

Like him, the audience has access to all three narrative threads, and similarly, they have limited omniscience. Coyote is constantly corrected and told that he is “wrong again” (349). Like Coyote, we often have to readjust our values and expectations as we encounter the new and often jarring perspectives or worldviews presented in Green Grass, Running Water.

The badinage between ‘I says’ and ‘Coyote’ also reflects the organic spontaneity of oral storytelling. By making this relationship a narrative thread, King highlights and privileges the dynamics between storyteller and listener. Coyote often asks outrageous questions like whether Coyotes are Indians or not. Like him, the reader may make side comments or non sequiturs that are ‘ignored’ by the characters of the story. Neither can the audience control the trajectory of the narrative: “Coyote’s,” ‘I says’ tells him, “don’t get a turn” (327). When Coyote finally gets a turn to tell his tale, it turns out to be a reiteration of the beginning of the novel—he can only repeat what the authorial narrator has put in his mouth.

Nevertheless, Coyote remains full of curiosity and indefatigable enthusiasm. Like him, readers are encouraged to remain thoroughly engaged with the story. What Coyote teaches us, then, is precisely to be teachable, to be okay, as Professor Paterson says, when we do “not know” (Lesson 3.2). As Teacher, Transformer, and Trickster all in one, Coyote embodies the ignorant reader while retaining his Native roots. King’s Coyote Pedagogy is not only an effective way to pattern reader response and implicate the reader as a character in the novel, it also re-enacts the dynamic relationship between orator and listener, showing how both can contribute and participate in the tale, how both play the role of narrator and character.

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Flick, Jane. “Reading Notes for Thomas King’s Green Grass Running Water.” Canadian Literature 161-162. (1999). Web. March 21, 2016

James Cox. “All This Water Imagery Must Mean Something.” Canadian Literature 161-162 (1999). Web. March 21, 2016

King, Thomas. Green Grass Running Water. Toronto: Harper Collins, 1993. Print.

Paterson, Erika. “Lesson 3.2.” ENGL 470A: Indigenous Lit. Web. 21 Mar. 2016.

Ramsey, Jarold. “Coyote (legend).” Oregon Encyclopedia. Web. 21 Mar. 2016.

Explain why it is that Scott’s highly active role in the purposeful destruction of Indigenous people’s cultures is not relevant for Frye. You will find your answers in Frye’s discussion on the problem of ‘historical bias’ (216) and in his theory of the forms of literature as closed systems (234 –5).

In The Bush Garden, renowned Canadian literary critic Northrop Frye argues that great literature is independent of social-historical context. “The forms of literature,” writes Frye, “are autonomous: they exist within literature itself and cannot be derived from any experience outside literature” (Frye 234). The failure of Canadian writers to recognize that literature is a closed system is precisely the reason why the nation has yet to produce a classic thus far. However, the inability of Canadian author to pull us “toward the center of literary experience itself” does have its merits: in this lacuna, readers become aware of the author’s social and historical setting.

What, precisely, are the qualities of the “Canadian” context? Noting the predominant focus on Canadian life in Canadian literature, Frye posits that the Canadian imagination records that which it has reacted to—nature. This environment is a barren and unoccupied wasteland—“terrifyingly cold, empty, and vast” (245)—and it has left an indelible mark on the Canadian imagination. “One wonders,” writes the theorist in his discussion of the frontier, “if any other national consciousness has had so large an amount of the unknown, the unrealized, the humanly undigested so built into it” (222). The Canadian landscape has come to represent for him that which is unknowable and morally inexplicable; Canada’s “obliterated environment” represents for him “the riddle of unconsciousness” (245), the epitome of which is death.

What I found most disturbing about The Bush Garden was that Frye, a centuries after settlers like Susanna Moore, continues to imagine Canada as a terra nullis. “Canada,” he writes, “with its empty spaces, its largely unknown lakes and rivers and islands… has had this peculiar problem of an obliterated environment throughout most of its history” (xxiii). The irony, of course, is that Canada suffers not so much from an effaced environment but from an erased history. By imagining Canada as “empty, unknown, obliterated,” Frye discounts that the fact this land has been populated, named, and cultivated by the First Nations for thousands of years.

Rather than asserting equal claim to the land, Frye’s Indian occupies a primitive role in his theory of “conscious mythology” (234). Presenting perhaps the English literary equivalent to stadial history, Frye proposes,

As society develops, its mythical stories become structural principles of storytelling, its mythical concepts… become habits of metaphorical thought. In a fully mature literary tradition the writer enters into a structure of traditional stories and images.” (234-5)

Indians occupy that first step, possessing “a mythology that included all the main elements of our [the Canadian’s] own” but remained incompatible with Canadian culture (235). Note that by using the first person plural possessive “our,” Frye assumes a division between Indian and reader. With one fell stroke of his pen, he writes them out of any role within contemporary Canadian society and relegates them to “literary conventions of the nineteenth century” (235). Instead of seeing E. Pauline Johnson as a Native writer who sought to inculcate intercultural understanding through her poetry and performances (fun fact: Johnson’s performance costume is housed at the Museum of Vancouver), Frye dismisses the popularity of native writers as demonstrative of “the kind of rapport with nature” symbolized by the Indian that is central to pastoral myth (240). And we must remember that Frye doesn’t see much in nature, quite literally.

Returning to the question posed by Dr. Paterson, Scott’s purposeful destruction of Indigenous people’s cultures would be irrelevant to Frye because literature exists autonomously. There is nothing incompatible between mourning a vanishing people and actively instigating cultural genocide because great books are undetermined by the socio-historical environments in which they are spawned. Furthermore, Frye has no room in his theories to include the Native consciousness or legacy in the Canadian imagination. Grey Owl and Pauline Johnson were but brief and peripheral moments in Canadian literary history. (Did you know that Grey Owl was British?). Frye’s Indian is fictive—an object of literary criticism, mythic—a relic of the past, and archaic—excluded from the present and future reality of Canada.

Northrop Frye was a trailblazer of the 1960’s cultural nationalist movement—a movement focused on rejecting Canada’s ties to Britain and America, determined to free itself of the “colonial mind-set.” Dr. Patterson’s explanation of the dual nature of colonial identity is relevant here:

The settler-colonist than, is seen as occupying a space between the colonial powers and the Indigenous peoples… The dual identity… then is the settler-invader who dispossess the Indigenous peoples under the authority of colonial powers, and the settler-colonist who resists the authority of colonial powers in their dreams and efforts to build a nation that they could call home. (Patterson)

Canadians during the 1960’s failed to recognize that they retained a history of both colonized and colonizer. In fact, even as great thinkers like Frye tried to extricate themselves from colonial narratives, they ended up perpetuating a colonizing paradigm.

To end, I’d like to leave you with two thoughts: Firstly, is it not ironic that Northrop Frye, for all his preaching about great literature being independent of social-historical context, is famed precisely for his literary work in locating the Canadian imagination? Secondly, Frye may actually be correct in thinking of literature as “a conscious mythology,” for indeed, The Bush Garden itself is a prime example of how literature continues to perpetuate and solidify myths within a society. White man, whether asserting his right of place on the literary stage or political map, continues to displace the Native.

“17 Funny Snow Images That Will Keep You Warm with Laughter While the Blizzard Keeps Piling It Up.” Independent Journal Review. 2015. Web. 11 Mar. 2016.

CanLit Guides. “Poetry and Racialization.” Canadian Literature. Web. 11 Mar. 2016.

Frye, Northrop. The Bush Garden; Essays on the Canadian Imagination. 2011 Toronto: Anansi. Print.

“Grey Owl: Trapper, Conservationist, Author, Fraud.” CBC Archives. CBC/Radio Canada, 2013. Web. 11 Mar. 2016.

Patterson, Erika. “Lesson 2.3.” ENGL 470A Canadian Studies. Web. 11 Mar. 2016.

“Pauline Johnson’s Performance Costume.” Museum of Vancouver. Web. 11 Mar. 2016.

We began this unit by discussing assumptions and differences that we carry into our class. In “First Contact as Spiritual Performance,” Lutz makes an assumption about his readers (Lutz, “First Contact” 32). He asks us to begin with the assumption that comprehending the performances of the Indigenous participants is “one of the most obvious difficulties.” He explains that this is so because “one must of necessity enter a world that is distant in time and alien in culture, attempting to perceive indigenous performance through their eyes as well as those of the Europeans.” Here, Lutz is assuming either that his readers belong to the European tradition, or he is assuming that it is more difficult for a European to understand Indigenous performances – than the other way around. What do you make of this reading? Am I being fair when I point to this assumption? If so, is Lutz being fair when he makes this assumption?

In “First Contact as Spiritual Performance,” Lutz explains that “one must of necessity enter a world that is distant in time and alien in culture, attempting to perceive indigenous performance through their eyes as well as those of the Europeans” (32). Although it may seem at first that Lutz is reinforcing differences between indigenous and European perspectives, this is in fact a false dichotomy which Lutz is quite cognizant of and latter collapses. Lutz argues that the first and ongoing contacts between indigenous peoples and Europeans as spiritual as well as material encounters.

Lutz cautions against the downplaying of indigenous belief systems by pointing out how “the attribution of rationality to other peoples [is] a projection of European ideas to the rest of the world.” Many indigenous accounts of first encounters reveal how Native peoples linked the arrival of Europeans and their ships with the supernatural world. The Gitxaala, for example, protect themselves from supernatural beings by rubbing themselves with urine, which is why the native fisherman in the story doused himself in pee when a strange vessel landed on a beach sacred to the transformer Raven (featured image: the only Raven Transformer I knew of before “First Contact”).

But Lutz argues that Western explorers, merchants, and missionaries were equally influenced by spiritual motivations. He writes, “a closer look at the Europeans shows that their rational behavior [too] was determined… by their non-rational spiritual beliefs” (32). A prime incentive for Spanish exploration was evangelism, and Enlightenment Christianity saw science as a way to appreciate God’s creation while seeking to justify the superiority of European Christians to pagans.

At the end of the day, these narratives of first contact reveal how both indigenous peoples and Europeans demonstrate Anthony Pagden’s principle of attachment. Instead of immediately destabilizing traditional beliefs, they interpreted their encounters as ongoing proof of these beliefs, processing the new through the familiar.

Remarkably, Lutz himself forms assumptions about his audience. In asserting that “one must of necessity enter a world that is distant in time and alien in culture [and] perceive indigenous performance through their eyes as well as those of the Europeans,” Lutz assumes his readers belong to the European tradition. This is ironic because this text not only seeks to dismantle the binary between “mythic and historical modes of consciousness” in first contact stories but also in the reader. Lutz calls for the audience to “step outside and see one’s own culture as alien and to discern the mythic in the performances of one’s own histories” (Lutz 32), while himself falling trap to the assumption that it is more difficult for Europeans to understand Indigenous performances, thereby reinforcing the Eurocentricity that he criticizes other cultural scholars of.

At the same time, Lutz’s assumption may be grounded in historical fact. Over the past century, around 150,000 First Nation, Inuit and Métis children were removed from their communities and forced to attend residential schools.

Residential schools were established with the assumption that aboriginal culture was unable to adapt to a rapidly modernizing society. It was believed that native children could be successful if they assimilated into mainstream Canadian society by adopting Christianity and speaking English or French. Students were discouraged from speaking their first language or practicing native traditions. (“A History of Residential Schools”)

Perhaps this period of cultural genocide and forced assimilation has in some way made indigenous people more comprehending of (if not sympathetic to) Western ideologies than vice versa. One question I have for Lutz–and you–is where people who come from neither Western nor indigenous culture stand. Are we lumped in with the Europeans? Or, more generally speaking, do you think it is more difficult for Westerners to understand Indigenous performances?

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Works Cited:

“99 Golden Facts About Urine.” Random Facts. 2012. Web. 19 Feb. 2016

“A History of Residential Schools in Canada.” CBCnews. CBC/Radio Canada, 07 Jan. 2014. Web. 12 Feb. 2016.

Lutz, John. “First Contact as a Spiritual Performance: Aboriginal — Non-Aboriginal Encounters on the North American West Coast.” Myth and Memory: Rethinking Stories of Indigenous-European Contact. Ed. Lutz. Vancouver: U of British Columbia P, 2007. 30-45. Print.

Pagden, Anthony. European Encounters with the New World. New Haven: Yale University Press. 1993.

Read at least 3 students blog short stories about ‘home’ and make a list of the common shared assumptions, values and stories that you find. Post this list on your blog.

I had the pleasure of reading Althea, Karen, and Cherie’s short stories, and here are a list of shared assumptions that I discovered:

1. Cultural Traditions and Histories
2. Communal Eating
3. Family and Intergenerationality

What I found most interesting was that all three blog posts dovetailed on the subject of Chinese New Year. Althea and Karen’s stories were strewn with descriptions of traditional festivities—the red and gold banners, lai see, the fortune box—while Cherie, who reminiscences of a much quieter celebration, was brought to the pinnacle of homesickness by the sound of a lion dance. As Karen learns from her exchange with Uncle Ben, these communal celebrations are important conduit for the intergenerational exchange of cultural heritage, values, and stories. Being Chinese myself, I totally resonate with Althea, who writes, “When my house is decorated in a lot of red and gold decorations it always reminds me of how much my parents value their culture and when I grow up to be a parent I will probably do the same to instill the culture on to my kids.”

Another common vein I found was the centrality of food—quite literally, since Asian dinner tables are round and dishes are placed in the middle—in Asian culture. In Althea’s story, her family gathers for “Tun Yun Fan.” The first word means wholeness, while the second means round; together they reinforce the belief that a circle represents completion—the family is complete when they sit down and eat together. This same idea is conveyed in English through the saying, “everything comes full circle.” Karen’s “tray of togetherness” too is, unsurprisingly, a round box.

As Cherie points out with the #fishballrevolution, people can get really defensive about their food. In Hong Kong, any attempt to regulate street food culture is tantamount to an infringement on home. For Hong Kong native and restaurant chain entrepreneur Alan Yau, the fishball bears two meanings: “It is the quintessential Hong Kong street food and – culturally – it represents the Hong Kong working class like no other institutions can. Street food, and the fishball represent the values of entrepreneurship. Of capitalism. Of liberal democracy. Anthropologically, they mean more than a $5 skewer with curry satay sauce.”

Underlying cultural traditions and ethnic cuisines is the idea that home is first and foremost determined by our relationships and ties with people. Chinese New Year is a time where everyone sets aside their busy schedules in order to focus on re-establishing relationships. I love how Karen and Althea both bring up the fact that they get to interact with their grandparents and extended relatives. Home is one of the few places where intergenerational relationships can be nurtured. Traditionally, it was imperative for all members of the family to come home to eat “Tun Yun Fan” with the family, no matter how far away they were working during the rest of the year. Today, this festival continues to occasion the largest annual human migration worldwide, as migrant workers and Chinese diaspora from around the globe rush home for reunion dinner on New Year’s Eve. Home indeed, is where the heart is.

Take the story about how evil comes into the world, from King’s text, and change it to tell it. First, learn the story by heart, and then tell the story to your friends and family. When you are finished, post a blog with your version of the story and some commentary on what you discovered. 

I have a great story to tell you. It’s about the story about how Evil came into the world. Well, sort of. You’ll see.

Have you ever heard of General Sherman?  It’s the biggest tree on earth and one of the oldest living things in the world. Well, a long, long, long time ago, way before General Sherman even joined the military, there was another really, really tall tree.

This tree was at the center of a beautiful garden. Everything and everyone in this garden was perfect. No screaming babies. No assignment deadlines. No missed buses. No sickness, no death, no hate, no hunger.

Now if this tis all beginning to sound a little too familiar, I beg you to hang in there with me. Because in this garden, there was also no unbreakable rule. There were no “thou shalt not’s” or “boys only” signs nailed to any treehouse or mysterious gardeners walking around in glowing, white togas.

The only people in this garden were three best friends: Philip, Evelyn, and Goodwin.

And they all lived in a treehouse in this tree at the center of the garden. Now, as you’ve probably imagined already, but this garden was lush and filled with every type of seed-bearing fruit tree: cherries, pears, mangosteens, papaya, you name it, or rather, Phil, Eve, and Good took turns naming them. Anyway since the three best friends were all living  in the tallest tree in the garden, they had a pretty good view of the garden. So, the trio contented themselves with the abundant selection they had below and never bothered to look up.

That is, until one day…

Eve was busy shelling a basket of walnuts in the treehouse, when all of a sudden she heard a noise above her. Some people say it was the hiss of a snake. Others say that it was the coo of a dove. I’m inclined to believe that it was just the wind. Regardless, the fact of the matter was that Eve looked out the window and up.

That’s when something bright and shiny caught her attention out of the corner of her eye. There, fifteen branches up, something red stood out among the leaves. What is this? Eve wondered as she climbed up to take a closer look. Nestled among the branches was a fruit that she had never seen before. Odd. It was hard like a pear, but more spherical, like an orange. The fruit was still mostly green, which probably accounted for why she hadn’t noticed it before, but the face that was turned towards the sun had developed an attractive rosy blush. Hm, maybe Phil or Good would know. But Eve’s mouth started watering as she relieved the branch of this tantalizing new specimen and before she knew it, she had taken a bite. And another. And another. Until all that was left in her palm was the stem and two seeds.

Just at that moment Phil popped his head out the window.
–Hey Eve, are you finished shelling the wal—WOAH. What are you doing up there?
–You’ll never believe what I found, said Eve.
Then she burped. But of course, since Eve had eaten it all, she didn’t have anything left to show Phil. Eve scanned the empty branches around her.
–Well, there’s only one solution, she said, and started climbing.
–Wait up! cried Phil.

Now I forgot to mention this earlier, but this tree in the middle of the garden was many, many General Shermans tall, so high that even if you stood at the edge of the garden and looked up, you still wouldn’t be able to see the canopy. But the fruit was very tasty, and Eve knew she would do anything to share it with her friends. So, Phil and Eve climbed up higher and higher and higher… until pretty soon, they couldn’t see the roof of the treehouse anymore. In fact, they climbed so high that the leaves and the branches started looking like roots.

Eve was just about to comment on this strange phenomenon when—schoompf—she broke the last layer of branches and found herself peering out among some bushes at a whole grove of trees. She made room for Phil.
–Weird. This place looks exactly like our garden. A garden above a garden, can you believe it!?!
–But better, ‘cause look, those are exactly the fruits I was telling you of!

Eve jumped out onto firm ground and rushed to the nearest bough. Phil agreed that this fruit was indeed the premium. The pair became so engrossed in their u-picking adventure that it was sunset before they remembered Good.
–Oh hey, we should probably bring some back.

But no matter how hard they looked among the bushes, Phil and Eve couldn’t find the hole again.
–Rats! We’re stuck here, cried Eve. What good are all these apples—for that was the name Eve and Phil had decided on—if we can’t share them with Good?
–It’s all your fault, said Phil accusingly. If you hadn’t bitten that apple…

Well, Eve and Phil bickered and fought for a solid 146.25 days but there was no going back. Eventually, they settled into this new world, and had a family. But Eve and Phil never felt whole again without their best friend. No matter how many apples they ate, there was a hole in their hearts that just couldn’t be filled. Nothing could satisfy their love hunger for Good.

This is the story of how Eve-Phil came into the World and left Good behind. Throughout the ages, their children have tried to fill this hole with a myriad of things a little more sophisticated than fruit. They’ve done terrible things to one another, yet nothing could satisfy their love hunger. Eventually, one of Eve-Phil’s descendants took it upon himself to write down the story of his great, great, great, great… grandparents. By then, of course, no one could remember all the details, so his version became the version. But even if Eve or Phil did come up with a new and revised edition, it would be too late. For once a story is told, it cannot be called back. Once told, it is loose in the world. So, be careful of the stories you tell, and the stories you listen to.

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In this story, I played with inversions. You probably noticed many references to Genesis 1, which is the origin story of evil that I’ve been living with daily since I’m also taking a course on Paradise Lost. Reading through other origin stories however, I realized that the Judeo-Christian tale isn’t the only one involving a Fall. Many creation tales speak of a lost relationship between the “sky people” and “earth people,” and even Charm’s story involves a free-fall from a higher paradise. In my story, however, Eve and Phil climb up instead, and their “Fall” comes about as a result of their ascension–which nevertheless leads to pain because Good gets left behind. When my brother heard the conclusion, he rolled his eyes and labeled my pun “cringeworthy.” And I would agree. But there is method to my madness! Looking beyond this “cringeworthy” play on words, I also wanted to consider the idea that “evil” itself isn’t actually an entity; rather, it’s privatio boni, or the deprivation of good. Maybe people don’t do terrible things because they’re inherently wicked, perhaps they’re suffering from a bit of love hunger.

Thanks for reading!

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Works Cited:

“17 of the Most Amazing Treehouses From Around The World.” Bored Panda. Web. 01 Feb. 2016.

King, The Truth About Stories, Chapter One: You’ll Never Believe What Happened Is Always a Great Way to Start.

Milton, John. “Paradise Lost.” The Online Literature Library. Web. 01 Feb. 2016.

“The General Sherman Tree.” Sequoia & Kings Canyon. National Park Service. Web. 1 Feb. 2016.

Tooley, Michael. “The Problem of Evil.” Stanford University. Stanford University, 2002. Web. 01 Feb. 2016.