Question: In this lesson I say that our capacity for understanding or making meaningfulness from the first stories is seriously limited for numerous reasons and I briefly offer two reasons why this is so: 1) the social process of the telling is disconnected from the story and this creates obvious problems for ascribing meaningfulness, and 2) the extended time of criminal prohibitions against Indigenous peoples telling stories combined with the act of taking all the children between 5 – 15 away from their families and communities. In Wickwire’s introduction to Living Stories, find a third reason why, according to Robinson, our abilities to make meaning from first stories and encounters is so seriously limited. To be complete, your answer should begin with a brief discussion on the two reasons I present and then proceed to introduce and explain your third reason from Wickwire’s introduction.

In Erika Paterson‘s blog, she clearly outlines two reasons that our capacity for understanding the first stories is limited:
1. “in the acts of collecting, translating and publishing these stories, the social process of the telling is disconnected from the story and this creates obvious problems for ascribing meaningfulness”.
2. “there exists a serious time gap of almost 75 years, between 1880 and 1951, when the telling and retelling of stories at the potlatch, and other similar First Nations institutions across the country, were outlawed by the Indian Act and accordingly, the possibilities for storytelling were greatly diminished”.

In the first reason, we see that the verbal telling is no longer emphasizes and is in fact being removed all together. By having the stories written down, the only thing that is needed for the stories to continue is a reader. Previously, they were told at a potlatch feast, which seems to be a sort of community gathering. Paterson effectively describes it as “a special place and time set aside where laws, cultural and spiritual beliefs, and treasured knowledge are displayed, performed, challenged, decided and disseminated”. Now that only a reader is needed, the community and teaching aspect of these stories is stripped away.

The second reason has a more political emphasis. For 75 years, which is an entire life for most, and consists of 7 separate generations, it was against the law to speak of stories at a potlatch. As mentioned above, the potlatch was a time for the community to get together to learn, tell stories, and build community. Without the ability to tell stories in this time, many family favourite has the opportunity to be lost. Furthermore, Native children were taken from their home and placed in residential schools where they were taught the traditional Catholic stories, not their culture’s stories that they would have learned otherwise.

In Wendy Wickwire’s introduction to Harry Robinson’s book Living by Stories: A Journey of Landscape and Memory, she introduces several other reasons why our capacity for understanding the first stories is limited. The one I will focus on is her argument that other’s ideas and values can impede our own. She tells how she decided how to compile Robinson’s stories into two separate volumes, wondering “how much of Boas’s editorial decisions had influenced [her] own selection process” (22). I would say that by compiling narratives into a coherent theme would be a way that limits our stories. Earlier in the intro, Wickwire explains that she enjoyed staying with Robinson for longer trips so that she could wander with him and through those wanderings and explorations his memory would be triggered to tell another story. These are organic stories. They are not being forced together; they are not asking to be linked or to be seen as similar. The stories told by a whiff of nostalgia are the stories that cause our arms to sweep around us as we tell them. They make us lean in; they keep us engaged. They make our souls salivate and have us craving more.

Works Cited:

• anashinteractive. “The Importance of Potlatch.” Online video clip. Youtube. Youtube, 27 Feb 2008. Web. 9 Feb 2015.
• Paterson, Erika. “Lesson 2:2.” ENGL 470A Canadian Studies: Canadian Literary Genres – 99C Jan 2015. UBC Blogs. Web. 9 Feb 2015.
• “Residential Schools.” Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. n.p., n.d. Web. 9 Feb 2015.
• Robinson, Harry. Living by Stories: A Journey of Landscape and Memory. Ed Wendy Wickwire. Vancouver: Talonbooks, 2005. Print.

I looked at three other student’s blogs of my Engl 470 class today and am compiling a list of what we consider needs to be in the definition of “home”:

• parents
• a hardship overcome
• community
• responsibility
• comfort
• shared passions

Laura Landsberg. “…” a guest on Turtle Island. UBC Blogs. Web. 2 Feb 2015.

Rajin Sidhu. “2.1 The Story About My Home(s).” Rain Sidhu. UBC Blogs. Web. 2 Feb 2015.

Devon Smith. “Lesson 2.1 – Home. ” Engl 470 BLOG. UBC Blogs. Web. 2 Feb 2015.

When I was born, I was a source of joy. My mom had me as a teen outside of wedlock, so we lived with my grandparents and her brothers. I was constantly surrounded by people who loved me and supported both myself and my mom. The women in the church doted on me; the pastor laughed as how much hair I had on my head as he was mostly bald; my uncle’s were fiercely protective of me. We lived in that home until I was 3, and moved 4 times before I was 6.

When I was 6 years old, my mom married my step-dad (who I call my dad). I was in the wedding as a “Junior Bridesmaid”. During the ceremony, my dad got down on one knee and said vows to me as his daughter. He vowed to always be my dad and other mushy stuff like helping me study and beating up boys who hurt me. He then gave me a heart-shaped locket that said “Love Daddy” on the back. As a 6-year-old, I was not able to appreciate this at all, but I now recognize this as a wonderfully sweet gesture, and the utmost truth. This was the beginning of my home.

When I was about 11 years old, my youngest brother burnt his arm really badly when he pulled down a cup of hot water on himself. We had specific bandages and tape in the house so we could keep his wounds clean. The tape was very translucent and wouldn’t pull the skin when removing, which was really important when trying to bandage a one-year-old. My dad and I taped my middle brother’s face up, so his nose was squished to the right side and the left side of his face was pressed together, making him look like he’d smashed his face into the wall and it was now stuck like that. We then told him to run and hug mom. When my mom saw his face she started screaming and crying because she didn’t see the tape. My dad and I fell on the floor, laughing so hard. She wasn’t happy at first, but ended up laughing. We all just laughed, and still to this day when we see the pictures or bring it up we can’t help but cry with laughter.

When I was 19 years old, I left home and moved to France to be a fille au pair (a nanny). When I returned after a year and a half, my parents had divorced and I had a new house, for the 15th time in my life. I returned to what many would call a “broken” home, with my brothers going back and forth between parents. We still laugh, but rarely as hard or for as long.

When I was 24 years old, I ran my first half marathon. I (barely and inefficiently) trained for months. As I was running, there were many times that I felt defeated and that I didn’t want to continue. I pressed on. In my last 1km, I saw a familiar face smiling at me, that of my trainer and amazing friend Meghan. I knew I was almost at the end and that I would be able to make it. When I passed the finish line, I felt such relief. I looked around and my dad’s face caught my eye. I burst into tears, and am even crying remembering this moment as I type. He was there for me, encouraging me and advising me as I trained; he was there supporting me as I finished a major goal of mine. I ran to him and fell into his arms and just cried, so happy to see him and have him be a part of this day.

When I was 25 years old, I moved to Australia for 4 months. Home was non-existant for those 4 months. I lived in a van, in an apartment, in a hostel, on a mattress in my friend’s living room. I did not have a dresser. I did not have my own sheets. I did not have my clay pot that I cook with. I did not have a David’s Tea mugs or the tea. I did not have comfort. But I did have friends. I did have joy. I did have adventure. I did have support, both from those there and those here. I did have laughter.

In the end, laughter is all that I need.

Works Cited

Caitlin Funk. “I seriously love art.” Instagram, Dec 2014. Photograph. 30 Jan 2015.

Caitlin Funk. “Maybe we look more alike.” Instagram, Dec 2014. Photograph. 30 Jan 2015.

Caitlin Funk. “These two.” Instagram, Dec 2014. Photograph. 30 Jan 2015.

Caitlin Funk. “Well that happened.” Instagram, Aug 2014. Photograph. 30 Jan 2015.