Month: February 2021

Upon reading the story of Coyote’s twin brother, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to this first story I had heard about Coyote; A Coyote Columbus Story by Thomas King. For those not familiar, King satirizes the “First Encounter” story of Columbus, by utilizing Coyote’s trickster ways to protect her land and people from the clownish Christopher Columbus. I often consider this story to be my “First Encounter”. I heard it for the first time in a first-year English course at Okanagan College. Up until that point, my education on the various Indigenous cultures and stories of Canada had been glaringly sparse, not that I’m hubristic enough to say that they’re any better now. Beyond learning about Residential Schools in High school, and a few horribly cartoonish colouring pages in eighth grade, Indigenous narratives were always treated as an afterthought. Something we had to learn about, but definitely weren’t going to be spending a lot of time on.

This tangent about A Coyote Columbus Story may seem like a strange sequitur, but it’s something that has been on my mind during our readings and this course. I have often wondered why it took so long to be aware of these stories, given that my parents grew up in a city with a high Indigenous population, and my Grandmother even spent time growing up on a reserve, you’d think somewhere I would have heard these stories. But then I read what Harry said to Wendy when he thought he was dying. Wickwire writes, “it was a relief that Harry had expected me to listen to his stories many times before drawing any conclusions. He stressed that they contained hidden messages and connections that would take time to decipher” (Robinson, Wickwire 19), causing me to realize that it wouldn’t have mattered if I had heard Coyote’s story before, because I had no reason to make meaning of it before.

As touched on in previous posts, the world of literature and story are often kept in separate spheres. I once had a friend scoff at me when I excitedly told him I was taking a course at UBCO titled: Superhero Narratives. His British sensibilities clearly offended he asked, “Why aren’t you studying Shakespeare?” His perception of what “worthwhile” literature is, was stagnant, and there wasn’t any argument that I could make in one conversation to change that.  For me, these narratives held meaning because I studied them, and read them over and over again, to draw meaning and connection. Just like I would with any Shakespearean work.

Which brings me back to the story of Coyote’s twin brother. I’ve read over this passage a few times, hoping to find a definite answer. I can see the allegory; British colonizers used the fact that their laws and documents were written in a foreign language to the Indigenous peoples they encountered to unfairly, but to British sensibilities “legally”, dominate the land and its people. Perhaps that is the important paper that the twin stole, but even as I write this, it feels wrong to commit on answer to this question. It’s as Harry states:

“but if I tell you, you may not understand.

I try to tell you many times

But I know you didn’t got ‘em…” (Robinson, Wickwire 18).

I feel like I don’t have enough understanding to confidently put forth an answer. Not one that I’m happy with at least. And I acknowledge that any answer I formulate now, may very well change by the end of this course, or even years from now, as I come back to this story.

I remember visiting Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump with my family one summer when I was around ten. While there my parents were chatting with a guide who was an older Indigenous

man. When he found out we were from Red Deer, he proceeded to tell is the story about how the city was named. Basically, the European settlers had mistakenly identified the Mule deer that roamed around the riverbanks as Red deer, even though that species of deer had never been found in that area. Now, the misidentified animal marks all city logos, and can be spotted on the sign entering the city limits. My narrative understanding of my city changed that day, and I recall the man’s story every

time I enter the city limits. That’s why it is so important to have an interactive  relationship with the narratives we encounter, because you never know what piece of information you gain or what connection you make, could change its entire meaning for you.      

 

 

Works Cited

Robinson, Harry, and Wendy Wickwire. Living by Stories a Journey of Landscape and Memory.

Talonbooks, 2005.

After reading through the amazing posts about my classmates’ feelings and interpretations on home, I found that many of us share similar themes. Themes of family, of childhood and nostalgia, of land and country and place. Mostly though, I see a group of people trying to define what home is, and the strangeness of the transition of moving from collective home to personal home.

The connection between home and childhood seems to be very strong for most of us, and I think this transitional period of defining our own “homes” comes from the fact that our generation (mostly millennials) have lengthened the time period of how long we live at “home”. According to CBS, “the number of adults aged 23 to 37 staying or returning home to their parents has been steadily rising since 2000” (Sarah Min, “More millennials are living at home than at any other time this century”), indicating that perhaps a reason we see such a strong connection between childhood and home, is simply because we stay there longer. By the time my parents were my age, they had a mortgage and 1.5 kids. I have an apartment and 2 cats. Most of my friends, who are still finishing their degrees, lovingly call themselves “the basement dwellers”, living in their childhood bedrooms, or if lucky, the built-in suites in their parent’s homes.

We stay at home longer because we simply cannot afford to do otherwise, but I also think it’s important to acknowledge that we do so because we know it’s a safe place. I remember hearing my dad tell me that for his High School graduation gift, he received a suitcase and a suit. It was a reminder that he was independent now and supposed to go off into the world and make his own way. My Dida left home at fourteen to go to school and live in a boarding house. He had to learn fast what it meant to be independent, and his father, well he was left at fourteen with his older sister as his family travelled to another country, another continent, to build a better life for themselves, and escape the war.

I was one of those “Boomerang” Millennials. I left home and came back twice. Not once, did I feel like I had failed, or that I was lacking independence. My parents had worked hard to establish that home was always a place where I was safe and loved.  Now, I have been able to build a life for myself. I have an apartment that I love, I live in a city that with breathtaking views of the mountains and water, and I have a community of people around me that have become my second family. Because my parents had provided my with such a strong sense of home, I am able to begin to redefine that place for myself, and I think that’s what is at the heart of most of our posts. Home isn’t just setting, it’s a feeling. Home is wherever we feel safe and loved and happy. We’re all learning how to build that place for ourselves, taking bits and pieces from our experiences along the way.

Works Cited

Min, Sarah. “More millennials are living at home than at any other time this century”, CBS News, 10 May 2019, https://www.cbsnews.com/news/more-millennials-are-living-at-home-than-at-any-other-time-this-century/

Sherman, Erik. “Why Millennials Boomerang Home: It’s Not Student Loans. It’s Worse”, Forbes, 11 Jan 2017. https://www.forbes.com/sites/eriksherman/2017/01/11/why-millennials-boomerang-home-its-not-student-loans-its-worse/?sh=d3de5585d86d

My brother and I outside of our childhood home 2008

Home is something that has been on my mind lately, and the irony that our whole lives have been confined to our homes hasn’t escaped me here. When I think of home, I think of safety, and the things that I have gathered here in this small apartment, like a squirrel preparing for a long winter. I think of the violin that hangs on my wall, a gift from my Dida (Ukrainian for grandfather). It was given to him, by his father in-law, my great-grandfather who was gifted it by a stranger he took in. It says Stradivarius inside, but no one in the family believes it’s real. The violin sits next to a painting I did a few years ago, a skill I learned from my mother, which she in turn learned from her father, my Dida. He used to call me his little squirrel with a bushy tail, because I really liked those mixed nuts as a kid.

I’m always cold, and the thermostat is closer to my brother’s room, who is always hot, so there’s a plethora of blankets to be found in my apartment. Mostly because I’m too lazy to change the thermostat. A lot of them are handmade by my Baba (Ukrainian for grandmother, though she herself is an Irish-Scottish-Swedish hybrid). This year I was really into hygge, which I just think was an excuse to justify my blanket obsession. My house growing up was always cold too, though my mom pointed out that it was because my bedroom was in the basement. I saw pictures of my childhood bedroom online today. It looked strangely tiny, and empty. It looked cold.

My parents are selling the house I spent most of my time growing up in. My early childhood was spent in Northern Saskatchewan and my pre-teen to teen years were spent in central Alberta. My parents are from Saskatchewan and I feel like I’m from Saskatchewan, probably because it sounds nicer than saying I’m from Alberta. Have you ever been to Northern Saskatchewan? It’s cold, and there are trees. Lots of trees.

Most of my memories of Saskatchewan are of my Baba and Dida’s farm. It was beautiful and quiet. In the winter you could see the Northern Lights. I’m always surprised that most of my B.C. friends have never seen the Northern Lights. So I guess there is a benefit from being from Northern Saskatchewan, even though I’m not really from there.

I was raised closely with the Ukrainian traditions of my mother’s family. My dad never seemed to mind, partly because the food was always amazing, but mostly because his side of the family could never agree on where they were from. They’re mostly English, which isn’t shocking. I asked for one of those Ancestry DNA kits one Christmas, so I’ve confirmed this, no matter how much my Aunt wants to believe we’re French. I also found out that we might be Jewish. A distant relative relayed a story explaining the reason that my family line was so hard to track; they had to cover up the fact that they were Jewish apparently. No one on that side of the family found this interesting. They’re all Catholic now.

My family isn’t though. It’s labeled as one of the top ten Rance family controversies. My parents left the Catholic church to join a Pentecostal church. So, you can understand my Grandmother’s outrage. All I remember of this time was that Sunday school got way more fun. My Grandmother got over it eventually, mostly because I think she was preoccupied with her thirteen other grandchildren.

My parents are divorced now, I’m not sure where that ranks on the family controversy scale anymore, but that’s why my childhood home is for sale. The traditional sense of home has therefore gotten a little messier. Not that it wasn’t to begin with, it’s just harder to hide, because now when I say, “I’m going home for Christmas”, I really don’t know what that means.

Once upon a time, as any good tale begins, there was a small girl. She was from a small town, full of similarly small people, but around that small little town ran a tall fence, so tall that you couldn’t even see above it, not even if you stood on your tiptoes. This tall fence ran all the way around this small town, keeping the small people safe inside their little world. The people worked hard to make sure the wall stayed sturdy and strong, but every once in a while, cracks formed in the stones, and if someone looked hard enough, beyond the wall could be seen. The Mayor warned everyone to stay away from the wall when it cracked.

“It’s dangerous,” he would say.

The townspeople all agreed with the Mayor, beyond the wall was dangerous, but every once in a while, those brave few would take a peek through the cracks. Rumors would fill the town of what they saw beyond the wall, and soon everyone would be whispering of what could be beyond. Dreaming and imagining.

“Don’t listen to those tall tales,” the Mayor would harumph. “They’ll only distract you from making sure our wall is strong and safe.”

And so, the townspeople would go back to their small lives, rejoining the ebb and flow of their monotonous little town.

Which brings us to this small girl, from a small town full of similarly small people. Everyday she would walk along the perimeter of the wall. Once one way, and once the other. She would collect small stones as she walked, ones that were perfectly round of horridly jagged, and when asked what she was doing, the girl would simply say,

“Collecting.”

Satisfied with her answer, the curios townsfolk would wander off, leaving the girl to continue her collecting. But it wasn’t just stones she collected, in fact it was something much more precious. On one of her trips around the perimeter the girl had discovered that there wasn’t just something to see through the cracks in the wall, but there was something to hear. Every time she came across a crack, no matter how fine, the girl would press her ear up against the wall and listen. Whispered through the crack, as clear sounding as if they stood beside her, came a voice that would tell her fantastic stories about what lay beyond the wall. Stories that greatly rivaled anything those who had peered through the cracks had told. Just like the stones that weighed down her pockets, the girl collected these stories, and locked them away in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to be accused of telling tall tales after all, and more importantly she didn’t want to have to stop collecting.

On one of her walks, as the girl bent down to collect a particularly smooth stone, she noticed the tiniest of cracks, no bigger than a single hair. Surely, she thought, there might be a way to hear something even from such a small crack. So, she pressed her ear against the wall and listened.

“Listen closely,” crooned the voice, “and I will tell you all there is beyond this wall. Everything you have ever wanted to know, but there is one condition. You must share your knowledge with the rest of the town. It is selfish to hide such a story as this, and I don’t tell my stories to selfish people.”

The girl agreed to the voices demands and listened to their story. Indeed, it was the most unique tale she had ever heard. After she was done the girl ran to the center of town, and gathered all the townsfolk. There she told them the tale of what lied beyond their wall, and as she told her story, full of beasts with dripping maws, and eyeless creatures that ate at your souls piece by piece, the townsfolk swore they could hear growls and hissing coming from beyond their walls. But that couldn’t be, they thought, it was just a story. The Mayor came rushing forward begging the girl to stop.

“Please , you must not continue. Tall tales are dangerous.” He cried.

But it was too late. For once a story is told, it cannot be called back. Once told, it is loose in the world.

 

I found that not too much had changed content wise in my story when I told it to family and friends, but of course, inflection and tone can emphasize and highlight the parts I wanted to draw the audience in. I always think something really interesting to consider is how these inflections would shift or change if it was someone else reading this story, who hadn’t heard it before. It always makes me think of the YouTube channel “Editing is Everything” in which the creator will take scenes from a movie or show and edit them into different genres to show how easily tone and meaning can change. The same thing can be applied to written works, especially if they are taken out of context. I found this practice of moving between “written” and “oral” narratives a good reminder of this concept.

 

Works Cited:

King, Thomas. The Truth about Stories: a Native Narrative. House of Anansi Press Inc., 2003.