Creating Connections – Exploring the Impact of Stories on Identity, Place, and People

Stories Within Stories

For my post this week, I will be reflecting on pages 99-109 in Green Grass, Running Water and finding some of the references and underlying stories contained within the stories explicitly shared in this text.

While reading Green Grass, Running Water (by Thomas King), I was struck by the number of plays on names and words, allusions, and subtle references that King made throughout the novel. However, after reflecting on story and reading posts by my classmates, as well as Jane Flick’s reading notes, I found there were even more layers of meaning and depth to the story than I initially realized. In particular, cycles throughout the story that connected to Florida and ledger art sparked my curiosity and was one of the main reasons I chose to focus on this section of the novel. While there were many references throughout the novel, this post and reflection focuses on some of the references found within a small section of the book, with the intention of revealing some of the layers of story woven into King’s writing.

Sitting around, drawing pictures in Florida (King, Green Grass, Running Water 99)

The pages I chose begin with First Woman and Ahdamn being taken by soldiers to a train station where they board a train for Florida. This section alludes to the transportation and imprisonment of 72 Cheyenne, Kiowa, Comanche, and Arapaho from their traditional lands to Fort Sill and, later, to Fort Marion, where they were imprisoned from 1875 to 1878 (King, Green Grass, Running Water 18; “Red River War”). It was claimed that the prisoners were all leaders and combatants in the Red River War, although it has also been suggested that, for many of them, “their primary crime was that they were Indians who had led a traditional Plains Indian life,” especially as they did not have a trial before being imprisoned (Ojibwa).

In addition to these connections, Coyote suggests going to Miami and Fort Lauderdale, which could be a reference to the history of these places, as Miami was named after an Indigenous word and is built on an Indigenous village site while Fort Lauderdale was also built on land traditionally used by Indigenous nations (Tequesta) and was later used in the Second Seminole War (“Fort Lauderdale History”). In a less connected sense, Coyote’s suggestion could also simply be based on a desire to visit the beaches in Miami and Fort Lauderdale. Still, the story, along with First Woman and Ahdamn, proceed to Fort Marion, rather than listening to Coyote’s suggestions.

Once at Fort Marion, the prisoners were “converted” to Christianity (many did not keep this as a religion) and educated in English ways, with assimilation being the end goal; one of the techniques for this assimilation and “civilizing” was “encouraging” the prisoners to draw (Adams; Coffee; Keeping History). Ahdamn’s drawing, and his resulting “fame” that takes place at Fort Marion, alludes to this ledger art that was produced by those held captive at Fort Marion. This art was created by some of the prisoners during their time at Fort Marion and often was sold to visitors — the artwork is still bought and sold today (Adams). Accordingly, some of these pieces of art depicted cultural life, including the Sun Dance (“Keeping History”), another important part of the story for King’s characters.

Connecting cycles and directions

The Sun Dance is one of the connections that many of the characters in King’s novel share, regardless of the year the dance occurs as, like many of King’s themes, it too is cyclic and has the potential to connect the characters across time and space. However, throughout the book, broader connections to the theme of interconnection and cycles can be found. The section I chose transitions from one section to another and, as author Jane Flick suggests, these different sections indicate different directions and colours which relate to both the Medicine Lodge, a part of the Sun Dance for many nations (Stover), and the alternative names (Mr. Red, Mr. Blue, Mr. Green, and Mr. Black) that First Woman, Changing Woman, Thought Woman, and Old Woman go by in Dr. Hovaugh’s records (Flick 143; King, Green Grass, Running Water 53).

This transition also marks the beginning of another creation story, a story of Changing Woman. This transition gives a turn to another one of the four Indian comrades (unlike in much of Western society, different creation stories each have a turn) and presents a reference to water and, in this way, new beginnings overall as both Lionel is in a puddle of water and, perhaps less significantly, the toilet floods at the Dead Dog Cafe (King, Green Grass, Running Water 106-107). Changing Woman’s name also suggests a different phase of life (changing from a child to an adult) following First Woman, and, in this way, connects to larger cycles of life.

Finding significance in names

Similar to how significance can be found in the names of First Woman and Changing Woman in reference to life stages, numerous other references can be found within the names of King’s characters. Even within these few pages, character and location names hint at deeper meanings to their stories. For instance, First Woman’s name also alludes to other creation stories that include a first woman. In the case of Green Grass, Running Water, First Woman also alludes to Christian stories of Eve and Adam as First Woman meets and Ahdamn and they live in a garden for a time (King, Green Grass, Running Water 40). In addition to this, the alternatives names for First Woman and Ahdamn, Lone Ranger and Tonto, also reference another story that has had impacts on perceptions of Indigenous peoples in North America, and could be a connection to some of King’s photography experiences (Flick 141). While these names are not hugely emphasized in this section of the book, they are still reoccurring references (in addition to Robinson Crusoe, Hawkeye, and Ishmael), which could also be perceived as references to how stories and stereotypes can remain with a person, regardless of the context.

Beyond these character names, the name of Latisha’s restaurant, the Dead Dog Cafe, seems to indirectly reference the beginning of the novel where Coyote’s dream starts to get out of hand and ends-up wanting to be a dog. However, the dog end-up as a GOD instead as “when that Coyote Dream thinks about being a dog, it gets everything mixed-up. It gets everything backward” (King, Green Grass, Running Water 2). In addition, after the publication of Green Grass, Running Water, King also wrote and co-hosted a radio show, the Dead Dog Cafe Comedy Hour, which also takes place within the (fictional) town of Blossom, Alberta, and provokes similar questions and reflections (such as those about stereotypes, “Indians,” and stories) to Green Grass, Running Water.

Overall, this only skimmed the surface of the many connections that one can find within King’s writing; it is incredible to reflect on the many layers of understanding and meaning that can be found within his work.

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Re-Storying Narratives

“The lives of King’s characters are entangled in and informed by both the colonial legacy in the Americas and the narratives that enact and enable colonial domination. King begins to extricate his characters’ lives from the domination of the invader’s discourses by weaving their stories into both Native American oral traditions and into revisions of some of the most damaging narratives of domination and conquest: European American origin stories and national myths, canonical literary texts, and popular culture texts such as John Wayne films. These revisions are acts of narrative decolonization.” (Cox, qtd. in Paterson, question 4)

This prompt drew me as, more and more throughout my learning this year, I have been reflecting on the impact, and potential, of art and stories in the processes of colonization and decolonization (including through maps, national “myths,” and historic stories/histories). When I first read this quote and the prompt to “[i]dentify and discuss two of King’s ‘acts of narrative decolonization’” (Paterson), a flood of ideas came to mind as I thought of different aspects of Green Grass, Running Water that seemed to re-story not only prominent Western stories, but colonial perspectives and assumptions that underlie these stories, along with many others.

However, while starting to write, I began to reflect on how the concept of “decolonization” itself is diverse in its definitions and interpretations. Defining this term seemed important to being able to write and reflect on it, yet this definition was not as definite as the word might imply. In fact, some suggest that the definition in and of itself is variable, depending on the context of its use (Sium, Desai, and Ritskes ii; Tuck and Yang 5).

Beyond these points, a friend of mine told me once that she had been reflecting on the word “decolonization” in being counter to colonization, yet centered around it by the term itself. This caused our discussion to turn to what other words could be used to “paint the picture” of what is desired instead. We did not come-up with an all-inclusive answer, and, as some suggest, perhaps “Decolonization doesn’t have a synonym” (Tuck and Yang 3). However, the ideas of restorying and highlighting, what is desired was a large part of this conversation.

Still, within the overarching themes of decolonization, I agree with James Cox’s suggestion that throughout the story Green Grass, Running Water, Thomas King contributes to the process of disrupting damaging colonial narratives and prompting his audience to think critically about their assumptions (or, in other words, decolonizing) through his narrative (221). In particular, through his writing, King presents different perspectives and storylines than the hetero-patriarchal ideals that Western culture typically emphasizes (especially compared to many Indigenous relationships with gender and gender roles), shows that Indigenous stories are still being told and lived (counter to myths of “vanishing Indians”), and creates a form of storyline that is not as monologic as traditional Western stories and that highlights the interconnections, and dialogues, between story lines and perspectives (Chester 45). In addition, King inserts threads of story and creates alternate tellings of well known and “damaging” colonial narratives, such as Moby Dick and genesis (Cox 221).

To expand on a few of these themes, one of the first things that struck me in King’s writing was the prominence and power of his female characters. Women in Green Grass, Running Water, such as Alberta Frank, are strong, capable, intelligent, and “successful,” while other characters who are portrayed as women (such as the “four Indians:” Lone Ranger, Robinson Crusoe, Ishmael, and Hawkeye) are shown as powerful entities in the creation stories that are cycle throughout the book. Beyond this, instances such as some interpretations of Moby Jane (Flick 152), and even Albert’s desire for a family structure without commitment to one man (King 65), touch on possibilities of sexuality, gender, and family that go beyond common Western (hetero-patriarchal) structures. Even the four old Indians seem to transcend gender (and gender expectations) in some ways as they are perceived as men or women by different characters and at different times.

In these ways, King plays with assumptions of gender and identity commonly portrayed in Western society, such as what wedlock means in a Western sense, compared to what characters such as Alberta desire (86-87), and what a reader might initially assume when one reads “police officer” before the officer is referred to as “she” (304). These narratives bring awareness to these assumptions and can create a dialogue between these potentially different perspectives (Western and Indigenous), both within the narrative and within the audience.

Along these lines, King’s narrative not only prompts discussion and creates an alternative message to many Western stories, but it creates an alternate telling to and (re)claims some of the well known Western narratives that have impacted society, including views of women. For example, King’s telling of First Woman’s story can evoke the narrative of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, even for those relatively unfamiliar with the tale. However, this story is of its own making and is an entirely new perspective on the garden of Eden tale, if they can be said to be the same at all. In King’s version, First Woman (later known as the Lone Ranger) and Ahdamn (later known as Tonto) end-up in a garden made by First Woman (40). Coyote’s rambunctious dream-turned-dog-turned-backwards (GOD), while watching these events unfold, decides that the garden belongs to him and that he does not want to share with anyone (King 68-69). First Woman concludes that he seems to have forgotten his relations, and her and Ahdamn leave the garden to find another location without “a grouchy GOD for a neighbour” (King 69).

Through this narrative, King disrupts colonial stories, and their related assumptions, in a number of ways. For instance, in this version of the story, First Woman chooses to leave the garden and has authority over her own choices and body/location, suggesting a “reclamation of … authority” for Indigenous women (which many had prior to colonization) (Cox 227). In addition, through this storytelling process, King touches on the continuance and adaptability of Indigenous peoples (counter to some colonial myths) as First Woman continues to thrive and problem-solve throughout the story — moving to another place, changing her name, and continuing to “fix things” in a more modern-seeming setting as the Lone Ranger.

Overall, while this only touches the tip of the possible examples of the decolonial narratives and conversations between different paradigms that King provides in his book, King has created a powerful deconstruction and re-storying of damaging Western narratives, while also weaving in ongoing stories and connections. Some storytellers suggest that there is power and significance in creating narratives as they can create another vision for the future (and past) that can impact one’s perception of the world, or even just provide another perspective, a different story, which can be important in and of itself. In Green Grass, Running Water, by showing the interconnectedness of the stories and the lives of his characters throughout the narrative, as well as the connections between colonial and decolonial narratives, King works to create another, decolonizing narrative while inviting the story’s audience to interact with it and ultimately, reflect and inspect their own questions, connections, and assumptions.

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To Build a Story?

For this week’s post, I will be responding to the following prompt:

“[I]n her essay, Maracle answers her question describing what she sees to be the function of literary criticism in Salish society. Summarize her answer and then make some comparisons between Maracle and Frye’s analysis of the role of myth in nation building” (Paterson, question 6).

In order for criticism to arise naturally from within our culture, discourse must serve the same function it has always served. In Euro-society, literary criticism heightens the competition between writers and limits entry of new writers to preserve the original canon. What will its function be in our societies? (Maracle 85)

Author, storyteller, and educator Lee Maracle poses this question in her essay, “Toward a National Literature,” where she continues to explore different elements of what the function of criticism could be, especially with regards to First Nation society (Maracle identifies herself as Sto:lo). In her “response,” Maracle suggests that story and its criticism can be a prompt for discourse and “healthy communal doubt” (85). This questioning can create inspiration to reflect on one’s self and society, or “face ourselves,” and to grow and transform by expanding clan knowledge or augmenting “the house … by adding rafters” (Maracle 85). Once augmented, it calls for new myths to be created based on these changes, which can help to spark opportunities for group learning and further criticism and reflection on the story’s role and relationship to oneself and one’s community, and to their continued growth. In the words of Maracle, the “purpose for examining old story is first to understand it; second, to see oneself in the story; and then to see the nation, the community, and our common humanity through the story and to assess its value to continued growth and transformation of the community and the nation” (85).

Through this process of reflection, criticism, and group learning, Maracle suggests that new stories are created, some of which can help to direct one towards the “good life,” change behaviours, and “clear old obstacles” (85). Beyond this, Maracle indicates that this process of “creation and recreation of literary culture is a function of education,” which is also a means to share and transfer knowledge (90). This knowledge and stories are a part of an inheritance that is a part of what Maracle says governs her (94) and that are also elements of a nation (85). In fact, Maracle suggests that these stories come forward and are created by the myth-make in the interest of the nation (85).

In the words of professor Erika Paterson, “[t]here is an intimate relationship between constructing a literary canon and building a nation.” Author and literary critic Northrop Frye also alludes to this concept in his reflections at the beginning and conclusion of his book The Bush Garden: Essays on the Canadian Imagination. Not only can this connection be found, but Frye also shares some commonalities with Maracle in terms of reflecting on the myths and stories that influence, and are influenced by nations.

To expand, both Maracle and Frye suggest that one’s place, both within the environment and society, can contribute to one’s experience with stories, and with national identity. In the words of editors Aman Sium and Eric Ritskes, “[l]and is not simply the backdrop against which stories are told; it’s the premise of why and how we tell them” (vii). In Frye’s analysis, this affects nation building as one’s physical location alters one’s imagination and culture which is directly linked to identity; causing identity to be found at a local scale (ii). This contrasts with a more euro-centric view of a nation-state being culturally homogenous (“Introduction to Nationalism”); however, even with various attempts at assimilation (including residential schools and promotion of “Canadian unity and identity” (Frye ii)), Canada has continued to be culturally diverse, with many “nations” within the internationally recognized state (“Introduction to Nationalism”). In a similar way, Maracle also recognizes that one’s location and experiences affects one’s writing — and suggests that writing from within one’s culture and with an understanding of that culture’s original knowledge is essential for that culture to grow (84).

Beyond this, Frye and Maracle both suggest that imagination is important for identity and that a lack of connection to previous, historical knowledge contributes to a degree of loss in terms of identity and national myths. However, Maracle and Frye come from very different standpoints in this regard as for Maracle, this is due to the detachment of knowledges, national systems, and stories that have been forcefully disconnected and interrupted by colonialism (80). On the other hand, Frye (contributing to the erasure that Maracle reflects on) finds the transformations in Canada, from “wilderness” to “a part of North America and the British Empire, then [to] a part of the world” (219) is too fast for a writing tradition, and its related national identity, to really be grounded and developed (while simultaneously suggesting that “Canada” began when Europeans arrived).

As indicated by both these authors and Paterson, myth plays a role in nation building and, to go beyond the ideas already presented, “to believe in [stories and myths] is to reimagine the world” (Sium and Ritskes v). This concept creates numerous possibilities—and challenges. To return to an earlier reflection, perhaps these myths are some of the reasons why it can be so challenging, and often problematic, to be at home in Canada. In the words of Indigenous (Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg) writer and academic Leanne Betasamosake Simpson: “[i]t struck me at that moment that our nationhood, my nationhood by its very nature calls into question this system of settler colonialism; a system that is such an overwhelming, violent, normalized and dishonest reality in Canada and so many other places” (Simpson, emphasis added). In this way, stories can contribute to the forgetting or, in this case, the remembering of histories that a nation may want rewritten. Yet, to others, this concept may not seem surprising as Chamberlin suggests that “that’s what all stories do: they hold some people together and keep others apart” ( 227). In this sense, national stories and myths can tell who belongs to the nation and how they do, while also excluding others who are not a part of the socially constructed nation.

Still, whether the stories are honest or not, writers and storytellers, such as Maracle (89) and Simpson (“Storytelling as a Force of Resistance and Tool of Reconciliation”) suggest that, even with all the power they hold, stories are not the only pieces required to alter reality, or even to construct oneself, and that one needs to “close the false gap that often exists between speaking and acting” (Sium and Ritskes v). In the words of Maracle, “[o]ur stories belong in and to our future” (94) and we will need both stories, and actions, in order to move towards “genuine decolonization” (Maracle 95) and a more connected, “reimagined” world (Sium and Ritskes v).

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Story Plots

For this post, I will be responding to the following prompt:

[R]efer to Sparke’s article, “A Map that Roared and an Original Atlas: Canada, Cartography, and the Narration of Nation” … [and] write a blog that explains Sparke’s analysis of what Judge McEachern might have meant by this statement: “We’ll call this the map that roared.” (Paterson, question 3)

I have always found maps to be fascinating. They spark my imagination by hinting about places that I may or may not know and can relay large amounts of information about the thing (typically a place) they are depicting, as well as potentially revealing some of the underlying perspectives behind the map’s making. However, along these lines, maps, while often portrayed as unbiased and objective, can be hugely political and powerful depending on what the cartographer(s) choose to, or to not, show.

As quoted by Matthew Sparke in his article “A Map that Roared and an Original Atlas: Canada, Cartography, and the Narration of Nation,” in the 1987 court case regarding Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en sovereignty and land rights (463) the court judge, Allan McEachern, accordingly called the map that the Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en brought with them “the map that roared” (Sparke 468). This statement could be interpreted in a number of different ways and Sparke’s analysis provides a couple of potential ways that this statement could be viewed.

“A Map that Roared” by Don Monet

The first analysis that Sparke provides indicates that these comments, made by McEachern, could be interpreted as suggesting that the Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en plaintiffs and their map are “ramshackled” and “anachronistic” in a scornful, or “derisory,” way (468). More specifically, Sparke indicates that the comment could be suggesting that the map is a “paper tiger” and/or could be referring to a 1959 movie called “The Mouse that Roared” (468), in which a small territory declares war on the United States in order to replenish the territory’s treasury (Erickson).

However, Sparke and others, such as Don Monet through his artwork above, also provide an alternative analysis to this statement, as the concept of a roaring map also evokes ideas of resistance (Sparke 468) and potentially new stories being told loudly and clearly. To expand, by its “roaring refusal of the orientation systems, the trap lines, the property lines, the electricity lines, the pipelines, the logging roads, the clear-cuts, and all the other accoutrements of Canadian colonialism on native land” (Sparke 468), this map challenged assumptions of map objectivity and plotted another story of the land, one that had gone mostly unrecognized by mainstream colonial maps. In this way, the maps that the Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en worked to create and brought to the courtroom, not only challenged the Canadian legal “game” (Sparke 471), but, like Thomas King’s contrast of creation stories, showed that another “story” could be used to narrate a place that had had another story imposed on it.

In fact, maps have contributed to colonialism since first contact through perpetuating myths such as terra nullius and detaching people, stories, and living connections from a place by “abstracting” the space to something that was empty (Harris 175; Sparke 474). In the words of geographer Cole Harris, maps, such as early colonial ones, “erased almost all the contents of the space they depicted” (175). This apparent emptiness made it easy for lands to be plotted and claimed by others, even while those who were doing this could be on another continent.

However, maps tell stories (Fotiadis 6) and mapping is now also being used to offer alternative perspectives, stories, and understandings of place, and different kinds of maps, such as story and oral maps, are also contributing to these re-imagined mappings. For example, while some may argue that the maps created by the Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en for the 1987 court case did not result in the plaintiff’s desired objective, these maps still helped to articulate their “claim to their territories in a way the judge might understand” (Sparke 472) and provided a powerful alternative to the barren seeming colonial maps, presenting “a landscape rich with the historical geographies of Wet’suwet’en and Gitxsan names and meanings” (Sparke 474). Another example of this re-imaging of maps is the Mapping Indigenous LA project which is using storymaps to “uncover and highlight the multiple layers of indigenous Los Angeles” while making “the rich Indigenous identities and histories that are often hidden … yet deeply embedded in the history of Los Angeles” more visible (“About Our Project”). Among other things, these maps are helping to re-story the landscape and bring forward the layers and presences on the land that often remain hidden in Western cartography.

Finally, in addition to the points mentioned above, maps have contributed to various narratives through the process of naming. In this sense, I found it quite interesting to notice that, according to Sparke, the first thing that judge McEachern did when first unfolding one of the Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en territory maps was to name it, or say what they would call it by stating: “we’ll call it the map that roared” (468). Perhaps this act in and of itself suggests the power of this map as, while the judge’s comment could be considered derisory, it could also be seen as the judge’s attempt to claim and to regain some control over something that seemed to be “roaring” with another powerful perspective.

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Created by Stories

For this week’s post, I decided to respond to the following prompt:

First stories tell us how the world was created. In The Truth about Stories, King tells us two creation stories … [and] provides us with a neat analysis of how each story reflects a distinct worldview … The differences all seem to come down to co-operation or competition — a nice clean-cut satisfying dichotomy. However, a choice must be made: you can only believe ONE of the stories is the true story of creation – right? That’s the thing about creation stories; only one can be sacred and the others are just stories. Strangely, this analysis reflects the kind of binary thinking that Chamberlin, and so many others, including King himself, would caution us to stop and examine. So, why does King create dichotomies for us to examine these two creation stories? Why does he emphasize the believability of one story over the other — as he says, he purposefully tells us the “Genesis” story with an authoritative voice, and “The Earth Diver” story with a storyteller’s voice. Why does King give us this analysis that depends on pairing up oppositions into a tidy row of dichotomies? What is he trying to show us? (Paterson, question 1)

“The truth about stories is that that’s all we are” (2) states storyteller and author Thomas King near the beginning of each lecture, or chapter, in his 2003 Massey lectures and book The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative. Telling two different creation stories, he draws comparisons between them, while proposing that “[i]f we believe one story to be sacred, we must see the other as secular” (King 25). By doing so, he to also seems to create dichotomies between the perspective suggested in both stories, such as cooperation and competition, and creates a choice to decide which story to “keep.” However, King and other authors, such as J. Edward Chamberlin, suggest that creating these dichotomies can be dangerous as they can encourage one to choose between “false alternatives” (Chamberlin 24). Still, by creating these comparisons, King also implies some similarities between these creation stories, creates an alternative story to what is often found in mainstream Canadian society, and helps to draw attention to the power of stories.

To expand, both stories present a different perspective on the origin of people and the world as we know it — and both have elements that are more “mythical” seeming, inviting the audience to “believe it and not” (Chamberlin 160), regardless of how “authoritative” the story’s words might sound. Beyond this, stories, such as these, underlie and influence much of society, including what is often perceived to be fact and truth and share this commonality as well. Yet, when one looks at these stories more closely, they are just that: stories — and stories, no matter the topic, still need the imagination and belief to be brought into the world.

However, as King suggests, these creation stories still have numerous differences if looked at from a storyteller’s perspective (23), including that one of them is better known and, as a narrative, underlies a broader part of Canadian society (including laws, economics, and media), whether or not people are conscious of it. By contrasting these stories, one could say that King isn’t creating a choice so much as exposing an alternative narrative to those often found in mainstream society. King provides the opportunity to see that there is an alternative way, or an alternative story, of understanding how people have come to be in the world, and how people can continue to “fit” into its larger picture.

In this sense, stories can affect the way we interact with and perceive the world. As suggested by King (in the context of sharing a number of family stories with his audience), “I tell the stories not to play on your sympathies but to suggest how stories can control our lives, for there is a part of me that has never been able to move past these stories, a part of me that will be chained to these stories as long as I live” (emphasis added) (9). In a similar way, one could say that, whether or not one “believes” in them, the stories that are shared with us, especially those reenforced through society, are still are chained to us and affect who we are and our perspectives on the world.

More explicitly, King ponders the powerful impact that stories can have on people, and prompts his audience to do the same, by asking: “[d]id you ever wonder how it is we imagine the world in the way we do, how it is we imagine ourselves, if not through our stories … For these are our stories, the cornerstones of our culture” (95). By reflecting on and comparing the two creation stories, King creates this opportunity for his audience to see similarities between different stories, see an alternative story to the one often told, and recognize the power that stories can have on society, especially by altering the way people imagine the world around them. In this way, while stories, such as the two shared by King, are often referred to as “creation stories” in the sense that they express how the world began and/or how people came to live in a place, one could argue that they are still “creating stories” and contributing to creating cultures, including “Canadian culture.”

A representation of a few different forms of story that can affect one’s perception and understanding of society and, in this case, law.

In fact, perhaps the most important part of the ideas that King highlights through the contrast of these two creation stories is to remember that “[t]he truth about stories is that that’s all we are” (King 2) and, for this reason, the stories we tell ourselves, and that we allow to become a part of us, are especially important. In other words, “‘we live by stories, we also live in them. One way or another we are living the stories planted in us early or along the way, or we are also living the stories we planted — knowingly or unknowingly — in ourselves … If we change the stries we live by, quite possibly we change our lives’” (Ben Okri qtd. in King 153).

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Where We Belong

For this week’s post, I am reflecting on some of the beautiful stories about home that my classmates wrote this week. While I did not get the chance to read every post thoroughly, I was struck by the impact that the concept of home seemed to have on many of us and on our memories—and by the number of similarities between the experiences or feelings relating to home that many of us seem to have. In fact, while everyone’s experiences and stories were different, I found it hard to find values and stories that did not have at least one other post reflecting similar perspectives. While it doesn’t contain every commonality I observed, the following list summarizes some of the major similarities I found in the values, assumptions, and stories I read this week. These similarities include that home:

is connected to people (including pets). Many posts mentioned that home is connected to family, friends, pets, and/or significant others and that these relationships were more important than the actual location of one’s home.

is adaptable. While not always explicitly stating this, multiple posts reflected that home has changed throughout the years, depending on a number of things, such as one’s sense of connection to the place and people one is around.

is complicated. A number of posts talked about home being complicated, or not making sense. Some reflections suggested that this has changed throughout the times and places the blogger reflected on; overall numerous posts seemed to indicate that defining the concept of home and finding a home is complicated.

may be connected to a place, but isn’t merely one space. A number of posts also implied that, while home is often assumed to be a place, it is often not specific to a location. Some blog authors suggested that home can relate to the sense of one’s surroundings and things that one is connected to (such as the forest or the sound of rain) and that this sense isn’t directly tied to any one place; while it can be connected to places such as the ocean, it isn’t a specific place so much as a sense found in the presence of such an entity.

is a feeling and is where one feels a sense of safety, comfort, and belonging. Many posts reflected that home was a feeling more than a physical location, and, in broad terms, this feeling was also associated with a sense of safety—whether this be a sense of stability, connection, belonging, or comfort.

is sometimes not present in one’s life. While the focus of the previous blog prompt was to discuss home, the sense of a lack of home also came-up for me while reading others’ reflections. Chamberlin suggests that “[h]omelessness is also a condition of mind and spirit” (84), and this sense of “homelessness” seemed to be reflected in some of my classmates posts as they reflected on times when they have felt at home and times when they felt that this connection was lacking (whether in the past or in the present), even if they physically had a place to live in.

I also found that, while there were many common ideas about home, every blog didn’t mention all of the similarities listed above and, in some cases, a couple of blogs would share something in common that would be different from many others. For example, a number of my classmates mentioned how home was connected to independence and making home your own. However, while this idea was common among some people, it wasn’t reflected in all the blogs I read, and wasn’t consciously reflected in my own reflections on home.

Beyond this, some blogs prompted me to think of elements of home that I had not considered before, such as the importance of language in connecting one to people and place. As someone who is fluent in the language I’m commonly surrounded by and who has lived in the same region for the majority of their life, I hadn’t consciously thought of this facet of home, although it seems important in feeling a sense of safety and connection. I also didn’t find another mention of creating art or music in the other posts I read regarding home, which I found interesting as it was one of the first things that came to mind for me as something that connects me to a sense of home.

In addition to these thoughts, I found myself reflecting on the pieces that construct this sense of home for me and my classmates. Home seems to imply a physical place, yet for most of us, it has more facets to it than a physical meaning, and it sometimes doesn’t indicate a specific place at all. This caused me to wonder if home is constructed by different elements, such as physical places, interpersonal connections, the language and culture we feel a part of, a feeling of belonging, comfort, safety. In this way, home seems to have a lot to do with a sense of connection to these things, and yet it seems to be something different than a sense of connection. All of the posts I read told some form of story, and one even explicitly acknowledged that “home is in my story” (HannahWagner), in addition to the ones suggesting that home is related to stories we tell ourselves. Perhaps these different, yet similar senses of home can be best summarized by saying “there are many ways to build a home” (StephanieLines). In this way, home is like the different structures that create the places where we live, or, perhaps more applicably, create the stories we tell: possibly made of similar elements, yet constructed in different ways, in different proportions, at different times, and with different voices.

I feel a deep gratitude to everyone who shared their stories and reflections regarding home through this process. In particular, I send thanks to stephanie, Hope, Hannah, Madelaine, Chloë, Patrick, Francisco, Colleen, and Mikayla for the thought-provoking and insightful reflections that inspired this post.

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Is This Home?

Looking out the window, at the changing leaves and pale, grey sky, I think to myself: what is home? A deep feeling, a sense flowing through my veins, responds. It is a feeling that I struggle to find words for and that allows me to imagine I’m grounded. Simultaneously, it is a sense of longing and loving; a sense of heartache and connection; a feeling of deep gratitude and of nearly finding tears.

I have lived in the same place for most of my life. The house and region I grew-up in is the same space that I reside in now.

Yet, it has never fully felt like home.

Perhaps it is because of the recent family changes that have left most of my family living in another town, and left the soul of this house empty—causing Belle’s verse “Is this home? / Is this what I must learn to believe in?” to run through my head when it is vacant of music (“Home Lyrics”). Or, perhaps it is because my home has never been within four walls; perhaps there is some other reason. Still, it leads me to wonder, if the house that I have lived in for years is not home, then what and where is it?

The first thing that comes to mind, beyond these feelings, is the forest. Specifically, the temperate rainforests that can be found along the west coast of North America. Sitting in the forest, wandering in the forest, feeling a sense of gratitude: this feels like home. I turn to the ocean and the connection it has to the people and vibrant ecosystem here. Digging my feet in the sand, watching the waves roll in and out with my breath, feeling the misty, salty air on my face, I believe I feel at home.

ceilidh-2011-13-01-2011-10-17-25-pm-2360x3544 Yet, I then start to wonder if my conception of home in this sense is contributing to the displacement of others, to the myth of terra nulls, and to the ongoing colonialism that underlies much of society. I wonder if I can ever truly belong to a place that my ancestors didn’t belong to, and if my own stories contribute to the erasure of the story and home of others.

For some, language, culture, and sense of being is rooted in place, but I have not learned the language of this place or experienced these additional connections, and while I can try to learn more about this place and its people, I wonder if I have a “home,” or should have a home, in a place where I am an “uninvited visitor.” I return to looking out at the darkening sky and tattered-looking leaves, wondering and wandering.

I do know that home has never been a building, or a container with four walls.

My mind turns to art and music. Other times when I have felt the sense I associate with home have been while I’m making music: jamming with friends, tapping my feet in time, or singing out from the deepest parts of myself—my chest and entire being resonating with the music and the moment I’m a part of. I’ve also found that feeling of home when I’m drawing or working with clay. I love the feeling of mud, clay, in my hands, the shape it takes as I carve it, form it; I feel connected to the Earth and the place I am working. Besides, my art often brings together these different senses of home with familiar forests and aquatic life reflected in my work.

Home… home…

It is the feeling of family and close friends nearby. It is the connection to this place—watching the waves role in and out with my breath—and the recognition of the connections between the living beings here, and between this life and this place. It is recognizing how I fit into this picture.

In my earlier blog post, when I mentioned my initial experience with “home,” I was looking for an escape—an escape from an unfamiliar environment that a younger version of me didn’t understand. Yet, when I think about the concept of home now, it is a space that I also don’t fully understand; a space that I’m not entirely familiar with.

I stop to look back out the window—the sky is still grey, the leaves are still orange, brown—and I turn to look at the wall, where a quote my mom gave me is placed. Home is where your story begins, it tells me in cursive print.

Home has never been a building, or container with four walls, but it has been music, it has been the forest, it has been the ocean, my family, my art, my gratitude. It has been my community and the place that we are a part of. Home is adaptable and it is personal. It is a feeling and an idea, one that I am still navigating and figuring-out. Home is where I feel loved and feel loving. It is where I tell myself I belong, where the stories I tell leave a space for me in this world, where I have a connection to this place and the life here.

It is where the stories I make, the perspectives I share, originate from; home is the place where my story begins, and, like the rivers and oceans I feel so connected to, where it continues to flow from.

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Just Like Magic

I love stories. They seem so magical and in an incredible way, can take me to another time and place, or, if I’m the one writing, help me to process the events and observations from my daily life. I have also loved storytelling for as long as I can remember, and through the prompt inspiring this post, I’ve had the opportunity to not only write and tell a story, but to also reflect on my own relationship with storytelling.

A few years ago, a friend of mine hosted a birthday party where we spent the afternoon drinking tea, catching-up, and making buttons with pieces of fabric, bits of paper, and meaningful words. I wanted to make one for myself that incorporated my love of stories, and I wrote-out the letters of “storyteller” for this button. However, when I started to lay-out the pieces, I paused. Within the society I knew, wouldn’t calling myself a storyteller suggest that I was stretching the truth? Or, perhaps, a liar, if that was what the storytelling implied?

I still have that button I made that says story lover instead of storyteller. Writing this post prompted me to reflect on this memory and to question: what are the relationships between storytelling and “lying?” What powers are contained within stories? What kind of stories do we tell ourselves and how do these stories affect who we are?

I’m lucky that I get to tell stories regularly to the children I work with. However, I found it different experience consciously telling a story to adults. My story changed each time I told it, and depending on how busy, or interested, or curious my audience was, I elaborated, or shorted, or summarized various parts of the tale. I was also acutely aware of how the stories I’ve heard and know affected my own storytelling—both the story itself and the way I told it.

The following story, inspired by Thomas King’s retelling of Leslie Silko’s story of how evil came into the world (9-10), is a version of the one that prompted these reflections, and the one that I shared with my family. In short, I have a great story to tell you; it goes like this:

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Once there was magic throughout the world.

It flowed from the earth, it whispered in the winds, it lit-up the skies, it shimmered in the water. The magic was powerful, and it was abundant. It pulsed through the world, and created things of beauty—and destruction.

In fact, things were getting out of hand. The fire dragons were having far too good a time burning forests, which was causing the other forest creatures and spirits to become rather annoyed. The selkies were breaking hearts left, right, and center. Some creatures were using the magic to change the minds and behaviours of others. And the magic itself was bursting at the seams, increasing with each new life, it was literally shaking the earth, and breaking apart the land and the beings living there. (The humans, in case anyone was wondering, were not doing so well with their limited understanding of magic and imagination and their minimal amounts of claws, teeth, and other protection.)

Not only was the usual level of chaos at work, but things were beginning to escalate. Magic can become a rather unruly thing, especially when it is so prominent in the atmosphere, and a number of the earth’s inhabitants started to discuss how it would be good to meet and collaborate on working things out and soothing the magic’s unease.

So the witches decided to get together and have a conference. Actually, it wasn’t only the witches; everyone else was invited too, witches are just good at having conferences. Now, to put this in perspective, this was not an unusual occurrence; in fact, it was a rather regular thing. The witches just enjoyed getting together, playing games, and sharing magic. And that was pretty much what happened at this conference. Witches came from all around the world, along with any other beings that wanted to join. Witches of all genders, of all backgrounds, of all stories, of all places came to conference (witches generally enjoy conferencing); while a variety of other magical beings came to join the conference too.

Trying to calm this shock of magic, to make the it a bit more ruly, a bit more manageable so things could more easily live on the planet, was one of the conference’s themes—in addition to the usual shenanigans. And so the conference started.

Some witches began brewing, others began dancing. Some made faces, some made potions, some made mistakes. Some did magical tricks. Many worked together and tried to sooth the magic in the world; many didn’t. The magic continued to pulse dangerously.

By the end of their conference, almost every creature in attendance had done a trick, played a game, or at least tried to sooth the world’s magic.

Except one: the quietest witch, who had been observing the conference and the tricks and discussions of the others.

The others approached them asking: “Can you work the magic? Can you channel it and do something exciting, or scary, or both?” The quiet witch quickly opened their mouth, as if to reply to these questions, and… started to tell a story.

This story enfolded the dragons, dove with the selkies, and spoke of myth and legend. It included beginnings and endings and terrible, nearly unspeakable things, and things so beautiful, they nearly leapt beyond words. It told the listeners what to believe and what to disbelieve. It ensnared the imaginations and beliefs of those present and when the quiet witch-storyteller stopped, those present agreed that it had been a good story, an enjoyable story at least.

Yet, the witch should take it back. That story took its listeners to another place and suggested that the magic and magical things they knew did not exist; should not be believed in. The other witches and attending creatures wanted their magic back, along with their whole-hearted belief.

But the witch couldn’t. Not only had their words been a story, but it had captured their listeners’ imaginations; it had captured their belief.

It was magic.

It was a spell.

And once a spell is cast, there’s no taking it back; once a story is told, it is loose in the world (King 10).

The magic that had seemed so abundant and accessible before, started to fade away from the form it had shook the world in before. After the conference, as the effects of the story spread, the magical creatures and blunt forms of magic started to fade from the belief and sight of the common world.

Sometime later, one of the witches who had been at that fateful conference came across a number of people gathered around someone. Watching the group, they realized that someone was telling a story—someone familiar, telling a familiar story. They approached this storyteller and were struck by the way the imagination and belief of those listening was being captured… and smiled as they realized where the magic, and its power, had gone.

***

As suggested by another kind of witch in a story I know, “Careful the tale you tell / That is the spell” (“Children Will Listen Lyrics”). Thank you for listening to my stories.

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Stories of Home

idlenomore2_0

For this week’s post, I have chosen to respond to the following prompt:

Figuring out this place called home is a problem (87). Why? Why is it so problematic to figure out this place we call home: Canada? … Chamberlin says, “the sad fact is, the history of settlement around the world is the history of displacing other people from their lands, of discounting their livelihoods and destroying their languages” (78). Chamberlin goes on to “put this differently” (Para. 3). Explain that “different way” of looking at this, and discuss what you think of the differences and possible consequences of these “two ways” of understanding the history of settlement in Canada (Paterson, question 4).

I don’t remember learning to speak, but according to my family’s stories, my first word was “home.” I’ve always felt a strong connection the the ideas of place, family, and home. However, as my understanding of history, ancestry, and colonialism has grown, the complexity, confusion, and pain that I associate with this connection has also increased.

Stories can “give meaning and value to the places we call home” (Chamberlin 1), and the opening lines of Canada’s national anthem, a kind of story (Chamberlin 175), suggest that being at home here, in Canada, is simple if you’re considered to be a Canadian citizen. It’s “our home and native land” (O Canada). But what does this phrase actually mean? Whose “home” and “land” is being referred to as “ours?”

As suggested by author J. Edward Chamberlin, the history of settlement itself has been tied to displacing others, while also “discounting their livelihoods and destroying their languages” (78). This history features prominently in Canada’s story as Indigenous peoples, who have lived here for thousands of years, have been displaced and removed from their homelands, historically and currently. Not only that, but the cultures, livelihoods, and languages of peoples originally living here have been discounted and actively destroyed through initiatives such as reserves and residential schools, the last of which closed as recently as 1996 (CBC News).

This displacement and destruction is a central reason why calling Canada “home” is so complicated. For immigrants (including “settlers” whose families have been here for hundreds of years), it means trying to find home on land that, in most cases, has been illegally stolen and occupied, and is tied to a genocide of peoples and cultures. For people with Indigenous ancestry, as mentioned above, “home” has been largely affected too, as communities have been geographically divided, landscapes have been irreparably changed, and many of the stories and connections to place, language, and community have been denied.

However, Chamberlin also offers another perspective on this “history of settlement,” suggesting that, “[p]ut differently,” many of the world’s conflicts have been a story of “dismissing a different belief or different behaviour as unbelief or misbehaviour, and of discrediting those who believe or behave differently” (78). While this is closely related to his point mentioned above, it suggests that conflicts, such as those regarding “home,” have been tied to dismissing and creating the other, or “them and us” (Chamberlin 8). This dismissal and discreditation could be used to justify labelling one set of beliefs or behaviours as “right,” while indicating others are “wrong.”

For Canada, this included dismissing the beliefs and practices of people originally living here and actively trying to change this. In addition, stories and ideas such as terra nullius were created through this dismissal of different ways of using and perceiving land and place, and suggested that the usage of land by Indigenous peoples was leaving the land “vacant,” or not properly used, and helped to “justify” the occupation of lands by settlers.

So what does it mean to be at “home” on land that has such a conflicted story? This is a main reason why finding home in Canada can be so challenging–and problematic. Perhaps there really is “no place like home” (qtd. in Chamberlin 74) and this connection is found in the stories and concepts of home that we build for ourselves, which can “hold some people together and keep others apart” (Chamberlin 227). If stories do have this power, then perhaps they can also help us to recognize the past, and create a new story, and “home,” for all of us.

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Welcome!

Hello and welcome!

Picture credit: Maureen Bracewell, October 2013

My name is Kaylie. I am a lifelong learner, an avid knitter, a nature lover — and a first time blogger.

Recently, I transferred from Capilano University, where I was working on my Associate of Arts degree in Global Stewardship, to the Global Resource Systems (GRS) program at UBC. Through this program, I intend to focus my learning on sense of connection (to place, environment, culture, community), and how this sense affects our interactions with each other and our environment.

Throughout this blog, I hope to explore some of these themes of connection within the context of literature and stories; I welcome you to join me!

However, this blog is not simply an open exploration, but it’s also part of an online course through UBC: Canadian Studies: Canadian Literary Genres (ENGL 470A). This course will be focusing on Canadian literature, with an emphasis on the power of stories and the intersections, and departures, between Indigenous and non-Indigenous narratives, especially those narratives originating in the place now commonly known as North America (ENGL 407A).

By taking this course, I’m expecting to have the opportunity to critically reflect on the stories that create our perception of Canada, while improving my computer literacy skills and experiencing how the internet can be used as a tool for learning, discussing, and sharing different perspectives.

Beyond this, I’m hoping this course will also offer the opportunity to discuss and consider topics and questions such as how stories shape culture, nations, and a sense of connection, or “home;” what forms stories can come in (e.g. songs, art, writing) and how our society’s perspective on the validity of these stories may change depending on the form used to share it; and what it means to be a person living in a place where many of the stories, and even place names, that I learned throughout my childhood were largely disconnected from this place and its people.

I have always loved stories and I am looking forward to exploring both the stories, and their underlying connections, throughout this course. Please leave a comment if you feel inspired to do so; I look forward to connecting with you!

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