Assignment:

Write a short story (600 – 1000 words max) that describes your sense of home and the values and stories that you use to connect yourself to your home.

My story:

     Who am I? she’d ask. She’d sit in darkness, waiting for space to solidify around her, but there was none. Who am I? she’d cry, wishing desperately for an answer. She was cold and it seemed like nothing would ever come to warm her.

     Then something would hit her, flying out of the pages of a book straight into her soul, and she’d know where she belonged. This place was familiar; it reeked of childhood and familiarity. It was what she’d grown up on. It was home.

     Or was it? Safely hidden between the pages of a book, she could be at home, but when she put the book down and wandered onto the street, she’d be a stranger. At 11, it had been home, but now she had an accent; she could no longer belong.

     Home. Alas, it could not be home.

     Darkness folded in around her, wrapping her in its empty arms. You and I are the same, it seemed to say: we don’t belong.

     But then a song would reach her ears, a familiar tune from her teenagedhood, a reminder of a history that gave her a sense of home. She’d start to sing, start to feel ground solidifying beneath her, but like the book, the song too would fade. She could sing it loudly and proudly, but there would be another and another, until one came on that wasn’t familiar. This was a tradition she’d been dropped into then plucked out of. It was not a place in which she would ever find belonging. It would never envelop her in the way the darkness did.

     And the darkness would come again, curling around her fingers and gently caressing her back. It would whisper things in her ear, tell her that she would never be at home in the light. You’re an international bastard*, it’d tell her: you only belong in that you don’t.

     She’d begin to believe it, begin to curl up in the darkness, but then she’d hear a voice, a voice telling tales of the past, and she’d know that she belongs. Her parents, her grandparents, they had history, if only she could find it. But over top of that voice would come another, the voice of reason, a monotone drawl telling her that those links were severed, that she could never belong to a land she’d never been to. Citizenship, yes; home, no.

     She belonged nowhere. Only the void would embrace her. She could move between countries and literatures and languages, but she could never wholly belong to any of them. An international bastard, she existed in the space between them: belonging, but not belonging.

     Who am I? she’d ask herself. The answers never ceased to come, but they came from all directions, at ends with one another. She’d been raised to value difference, to accept all, but she’d never learnt where to place herself. The harder she searched for a place of belonging, the further she divided herself, until no place of belonging was ever to be found. She could only belong in that she could not belong. For her, home was a notion she couldn’t define.

     Even as her childhood bedroom began to solidify around her, she knew that it was no longer home. Home had changed; ‘home’ was ever changing.

*I borrowed the term “international bastards” from Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient: “Kip and I are both international bastards – born in one place and choosing to live elsewhere. Fighting to get back or to get away from our homelands all our lives” (176). Toronto: Vintage Canada, 1992. Print.

© 2015 Heather Josephine Pue

Works Cited:

Les Enfoirés. « Qui a le droit. » « Garou, Zazie, Isabelle Boulay, Corneille, Patrick Bruel et Jean Baptiste Maunier Qui a le droit Les Enfoires 2005. » Youtube. 13 May 2010. Web. 31 Jan. 2015.

Marchetta, Melina. « Extract: On the Jellicoe Road. » Penguin Books Australia. Penguin Books Australia. Web. 31 Jan. 2015.

Assignment:

Your task is to 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. If you want, you can post a video of you telling the story, in place of text.

My story:

     I have a great story to tell you. It’s about evil and how it came into the world. I can see already that you don’t believe me, but just listen and you will.

     It wasn’t white people or black people or red people or yellow people who brought it here, although we often like to pretend it was, to pass blame off onto others. You want to know who it was who brought evil into the world? It was witch people.

     Now, I know what you’re going to say. Witches don’t exist. But that’s where you’re wrong. Witches do exist, but not in the way we know them from stories. Those stories were told by the real witches, to keep us from discovering them. There are witches all over the world: some men, some women, some old, some young, some black, some white, some red, some yellow, some all mixed: all witches. It’s the real witches who drowned women and burnt them at the stake, to divert attention from themselves.

     Now, once long ago, there was a gathering of witches from all over the world. They had come together to see who could produce the best magic. They cackled and they laughed, then the first witch stepped up to compete in the competition. Let’s call him Mr. Harper. So Mr. Harper stepped up and he showed the witches how he could dig deep into the ground and extract a gooey, black substance, which he then tossed across the world in exchange for squirts of liquid gold and a clatter of coins. All the witches cheered. They liked Mr. Harper’s trick very much.

     Then the next witch stepped up. Let’s call him Mr. Abbott. Everyone had liked Mr. Harper’s trick so much that they didn’t think Mr. Abbott could outdo him, but Mr. Abbott ran around in circles, creating a massive pit in the ground. After much running, he emerged with his arms full of steel-like rocks and golden nuggets which he then tossed across the world in exchange for coins and jewellery. The witches were very impressed indeed! That was a good trick.

     After Mr. Abbott, another witch went, then another. Some turned forests into butter-like blocks of oil; some flew into the air and shot down wolves; some laid cement overtop of cacti, proudly announcing they were paving the way for the future. The witches were impressed time and time again and no one could agree who should win.

     Then the last witch stepped up. This witch had sat in the back, silently watching the proceedings. This witch hadn’t brought any equipment and hadn’t spoken to any of the other witches. Nobody could tell this witch’s age or race or gender and nobody was quite sure where they had come from.

     When everyone fell silent, the witch told a story. But it wasn’t just any story. It was a terrible story; a fabulous story: the greatest story any of them had ever heard. The witch spoke of murder and destruction, of money and power. When the witch was finished speaking, everyone agreed that they had won.

     “You win!” they said. “But please, call the story back! It’s too powerful. That kind of magic isn’t good for the world. It’ll get people thinking and who knows what they’ll say, what they’ll do.”

     The story couldn’t be called back, though. Once a story’s told, it’s out there.

Commentary:

This written version is, of course, quite different from the version which I told to my father, which also varies from the numerous versions I have told inside my head over the past week. I spent most of the week playing around with the story inside of my head, trying to knot out the details and grow confident in it. I found telling the story quite challenging as I’m used to writing stories, memorizing them, and telling them verbatim, not traditional storytelling. I knew the story well (and was able to write it quite easily), but telling it aloud was quite challenging and I found myself pausing quite a bit, trying to remember what I wanted to say next and/or how to say it. I often tell stories several times inside my head before writing them down, but I never reach a point in which I can tell them fluidly until they have been written and memorized. In writing, pauses to think feel normal; however, oratory doesn’t allow such pauses and I have come to realize that I am unskilled in storytelling. Of course, telling stories in the moment and with the right inspiration is much more natural than telling them in a contrived situation due to a university assignment. I tell stories all the time, just not of this sort.

© 2015 Heather Josephine Pue

     Words are a central and core part of a person or group’s identity. To quote Melina Marchetta’s Finnikin of the Rock, a novel which I read years ago but that has never left me, “Who are we without our words?” (Marchetta 65). I read Finnikin of the Rock in 2008, but words from it still dance around in my head. Certainly, the importance of a book I read 6 years ago in my current life is proof that words are significant. While Finnikin of the Rock may be a fantasy novel, its power lies in its close proximity to the “real world” (whatever that may be). Reading it brought me closer to the tangible world I (sometimes) live in by giving me a new perspective and distancing me from my own perspective enough to give me a critical eye and ear.

     As Chamberlin emphasises, we build our lives around the notion of “us” and “them”: those who share our beliefs, rituals, and customs – and those who do not. While we can certainly visit other countries, it takes time to learn their ways and come to accept them. As readers and listeners, we generally sympathise with the protagonist of a story, regardless of culture. As such, reading brings us closer to those who do not share our values and beliefs; it gives us greater understanding of our differences and of our similarities.

     Reading and storytelling play on the notion Chamberlin mentions of “a cat that is both there and not there” (132), of “the happening that is not happening” (Chamberlin 152). When we read a book or listen to a story, we are experiencing something that seems very real, yet which we know did not happen (or not exactly in the way presented to us, in the case of nonfiction). It is both real and not real, true and not true. While stories may not have happened, we build our world upon the truth of them.

     We learn from a very young age that magic does not exist and that animals cannot talk, yet we also learn that Glooscap was formed by lightening, that Eve was created from Adam’s rib, and that Skywoman was rescued by talking animals. While, on the one hand, we know that these things cannot be true, they also become the basis for our understanding of the world.

     “The Book of John” tells us that “in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” (New International Bible, John 1.1), a reminder that God, like the cat invoked by three letters on a sheet of paper, is both there and not there. God was created in a word.

     Likewise magic is created by words. Harry Potter may seem far from the truth, until we remember that Diagon Alley is a play on “diagonally” (Appelbaum 86), the way we need to look at the world to perceive the magic all around us. Harry’s England is not far from the England my father went to school in: steam trains, prefects, Latin, and elitism. Surely, even the most fantastical of stories contain more truth than fiction. After all, no story we cannot relate to will hold our imagination. As Chamberlin points out, “our English word ‘fact’ comes from the same root as ‘fiction;’ both mean ‘something made up’” (138). No story told can be 100% true as truth is imperfectly remembered; however, a story that is 100% fiction could not be conceived. We live our lives in the space between the two. Our stories are both fact and fiction, true and not true, existing in the space of contradiction which Chamberlin talks about. This is not to say that words are insignificant.

     It is important to remember that God – created in a word – has been the cause of wars and death. Surely, this goes to prove the power of words. Like Chamberlin’s cat, God both exists and does not, yet God has clearly had an impact on the world around us. God may not have a physical existence, but he provides an answer to questions we cannot answer. The belief in the existence of a god helps humans of diverse cultures to come to terms with the world around them. Our explanation draws us closer to the world and holds us away from it, giving us answers and keeping us from answers both at once. God, in this sense, is no different from science.

     Riddles are a means of revaluating language. What does a raven have in common with a writing desk (Carroll 104)? Perhaps there is no answer, but writers and readers alike have spent decades searching their knowledge – both of the world and of language – for an answer. Certainly, the multitudes of answers that can be found with a google search do not change our understanding of the world, but they may alter our understanding of language.

     Charms, on the other hand, be they poems, songs, prayers, or stories, hold us together by presenting us with a story that may not match our lived experience of the world, but which we believe in nevertheless. As Chamberlin puts it, “riddles and charms bring words and the world together and test one against the other to see which gives way…In a riddle, it is language that gives, while the world stays just as it is…In a charm, it is the world that changes – if only for that moment when we sing our national anthem or recite our creed or repeat our creation story” (239). When I read Finnikin of the Rock, my notion of the world shifted, as I came to understand the struggle of refugees around the world, through the eyes and ears of a fictitious character in a fantasy land.

© 2015 Heather Josephine Pue

Works Cited:

Appelbaum, Peter. “The Great Snape Debate.” Critical Perspectives on Harry Potter . Ed. Elizabeth Heilman. New York: Routledge, 2003. 83-100. UBC Library. Web. 16 Jan. 2015.

Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Peterborough, Ontario: Broadview Press, 2000. Print.

Chamberlin, J. Edward. If This is Your Land, Where Are Your Stories? Toronto: Vintage Canada, 2003. Print.

Giffard, Sue. “Finnikin of the Rock.” School Library Journal. Vol. 56 Issue 3 (2010): 163-164. UBC Library. Web. 15 Jan. 2015.

Marchetta, Melina. Finnkin of the Rock. Camberwell, Victoria: Penguin Group (Australia), 2008. Print.

New International Bible. Bible Gateway. Web. 15 Jan. 2015.

Rowling, J.K.. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. London: Raincoast Books, 1997. Print.

My father and I were recently talking about Canadian literature,
Trying to name a book to represent each province,
But all we could agree on was Margaret Laurence for Manitoba
And Thomas King for Alberta,
Provinces whose literatures we aren’t familiar with.
When it comes to BC, we couldn’t decide between Douglas Copeland,
Wayson Choy and Eden Robinson;
We couldn’t agree whether Jane Urquhart or Thomson Highway better represented Ontario,
Because our country doesn’t have one common culture.

     The above lines from the first draft of a poem I wrote this fall embody my current understanding of “Canadian literature” (or lack thereof). What does it mean to be Canadian? In a country as diverse as ours, what could possibly tie us together?

     The conversation with my father was in response to an article in Brooklyn Magazine which listed a book to represent each American state (“The Literary United States: A Map of the Best Book for Every State”). While trying to come up with a Canadian equivalent seemed like a fun idea, it proved rather challenging. In provinces as big as ours, what ties us together? How could we choose a book from one cultural background over one from another?

     I have recently begun reading Obasan by Joy Kogawa, a novel which explores the internment of Japanese Canadians during World War II. Obasan has led me to question what it is to be Canadian even further. Canada is not a binary country made up of natives and non-natives or Anglophones and Francophones: it is a mosaic of cultural identities. With identities as diverse as Chinese-Cree-Irish-Ukrainian Canadians and Cherokee-Greek-German-American Canadians, how can we possibly pin-point Canadian identity?

     If Canadian identity is fluid, then what makes a book Canadian? Is a book written by a Canadian-born author Canadian (even if that novel takes place overseas with a cast of foreign characters)? What of authors, like Michael Ondaatje and Thomas King, who immigrated to Canada? What of foreign authors who visit Canada and write about our country?

     What is Canada? Is it lines drawn on a map by colonizers, a feeling in one’s heart, or a political entity with no concrete existence? Historically, Canada was viewed as an overseas extension of Britain; however, more recently, “multiculturalism itself [has become] that upon which Canada is imagined. Canada’s national imaginary – perhaps somewhat ironically – is that which is whole and yet continually in crisis, continually threatened to be fragmented into diverse and disparate cultures and identities” (Davis).

     In researching Obasan, I was surprised to discover that Japanese-Canadians were issued an apology for their internment during World War II in 1988 (Davis), 20 years before Harper’s residential school apology. How is it that a country which embraced multiculturalism 40 years ago (Davis), which prides itself on welcoming immigrants from around the world (and turns a blind eye on those it is not willing to accept), refuses to acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land? How is it that our schools still teach about indigenous cultures as though they were history?
 
     It is grappling with these questions that I “walk into” this electronic classroom. I hope that the books we study and the discussions we share will help me to further my understanding of what it is to be Canadian. As such, I welcome you, my classmates and readers, to my English 470 blog, where I will respond to prompts about Canadian literature and how our country’s imagined identity is (identities are?) created and depicted in literary and oral works. I look forward to sharing this journey with you!

     For those who are interested, here is the final version of my poem: “Canadian, eh?”.

 

© 2015 Heather Josephine Pue

Works Cited

Davis, Laura K. “Joy Kogawa’s Obasan: Canadian multiculturalism and Japanese-Canadian internment.” British Journal of Canadian Studies. Vol 25 Issue 1 (2012): 57-76. UBC Library. Web. 08 Jan. 2015.

Iversen, Kristin. “The Literary United States: A Map of the Best Book for Every State.” Brooklyn Magazine 15 Oct. 2014. Web. 08 Jan. 2015.

Kogawa, Joy. Obasan. Toronto: Penguin Group (Canada), 1981. Print.

Pue, Heather Josephine. “Canadian, eh?” Vancouver Poetry Slam 05 Jan. 2015. Youtube. Web. 08 Jan. 2015.