Kristen Lew

In the past few weeks, my ASTU class has begun to explore a new medium of literature on 9/11: poetry. I’ve appreciated getting to know a different way of expressing one’s personal perspective on this event and on trauma in general, focusing especially on the unique strengths of both Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and Spahr’s poetry in This Connection of Everyone With Lungs. In analyzing Spahr’s work, our class discussions took a turn into analysing the definition of a witness. Understanding this term is crucial in analyzing any personal perspective, yet its boundaries are not easily defined. My thoughts in this blog will derive from this idea: how is the idea of a witness explored in Foer’s and Spahr’s work? Which is more effective?

As I see it, the debate on the definition of a witness has two main perspectives: one is a belief that there must be a tangibly personal element to one’s account for it to be credible, while the other is more accepting of a broad and varied audience—anyone that has a personal reaction, and feels some sort of connection to

In many ways, Foer’s work advances the perspective that to be a witness one must have some sort of personal connection with the event. We can see this specifically through Oskar’s character, who keeps his trauma and grief to himself, and feels that is is meant to be this way:

“It makes me incredibly angry that people all over the world can know things that I can’t, because it happened here, and happened to me, so why can’t it be mine?”. This may be able to be equated to the structure of this novel—it focuses on deeply exploring one point of view—someone who is very close to a trauma.

On the other hand, Spahr, sharing from her personal perspective as one who did not have a first-hand personal connection to 9/11, but still felt its after effects as a resident in the US, develops the second perspective. She shows that an event can have a very powerful impact on an individual, even if they have not witnessed it in an intimately personal way.

In my opinion, I’d take the side of that which is interpreted from Spahr’s work, but with a crucial distinction: that rather than ranking or eliminating certain witness accounts as valid, it is most beneficial to take into consideration every manifestation of a witness. Spahr’s development of this idea through her position was clearer to me, because I am of similar understanding and position in my witnessing of 9/11. That said, this only empahsizes the importance of every perspective—each speaks more clearly to their own audience, and provides other audiences with something to think about.

The beginning of this term in ASTU 100 has centered around the trauma of 9/11 and how it is represented in Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. This account of 9/11 and the firebombing of Dresden centers around the traumas  of Oskar,  young boy who lost his father in the Twin Towers attacks, and his grandparents, as they continue to deal with their traumatic losses in WWII.

One of the lasting concepts that defines this novel is the overarching sense of loneliness that, for me, is one of the central ways in which Foer defines trauma. This comes to define Grandma and Grandpa’s lives after the trauma, whether explicitly, in Grandpa’s loss of speech, or more symbolically, in the Something and Nothing spaces that construct their apartment. However, it is best played out through Oskar’s character, where the reader is able to see the parallels between Oskar’s healing and coming to terms with his trauma and his loss of the feelings of isolation, disconnection, and loneliness that consume him. This is most clearly seen in his travels in and around the boroughs of New York: his encounters with the many Blacks can be seen as one way in which he becomes less alone, as he interacts and comes together with others in their traumas. At the same time, it is evident that his journey aids him in his healing process. Another example is in the easing of tensions between Oskar and his mother towards the end of the novel; this represents another moment where Oskar paves his way towards being healed of his trauma.

Changing direction slightly, this week is UBC’s Mental Health week, and this subject came to mind when I thought of loneliness in our everyday lives—how Foer’s constructions of trauma (in that they are often represented in loneliness) can help to understand the loneliness that creates barriers in our society. The connection of loneliness with trauma can now be extended to mental illness. To me, this is a refreshing way to attempt to understand the struggles of mental illness—as a trauma themselves.

With mental illness, what often makes this loneliness so enduring and painful is the stigma that is associated with it. The fact of not being able to see a physical wound makes the pain so difficult to relate to, and therefore harder for people to believe. In a way, understanding this has a reciprocal effect on my appreciation of Foer’s novel: the struggles of those who face trauma (from events like 9/11, Dresden, the Holocaust, and countless others) are clearer. Pain, in all these situations, is silenced by the lack of visible wound.

This gives context for the purpose and necessity of Foer’s novel—and other narrations of trauma—but also gives context for erasing stigma, which is often one of the objectives of mental health awareness movements. In connecting these two occurrences, we can see that narrative may be one such way to erase stigma.

In this way, Foer’s novel can be used as a model for the impact of narrative on erasing loneliness. We see this within the novel, when Oskar begins to interact and connect with others, he feels more healing. We also see it with how the novel’s themes impact our society—and not only in the realm of understanding traumatic events, but understanding the more common, everyday traumas in many realms of our society, like mental health.

Thanks for listening!

Kristen

A note: I am, of course, not equating Oskar’s trauma with the traumas of struggling with stigma and mental illness—I cite Professor Luger on the distinction that that it is even not plausible to compare traumas—they are all horrific for the inhumanity they cause. Let me also make the necessary disclaimer that I know little about stigma and mental health except from personal experience and conversations with others, so what I am saying is purely opinion.

In continuing with our theme of graphic narratives focused on wartime, my ASTU class recently read the graphic narrative Safe Area Goražde, a story of a journalist’s experience in Goražde, a Bosnian town shut out from the outside world as a result of the surrounding Serbian nationalist oppression during the War in Eastern Bosnia between 1992 and 1995. The journalist, Joe Sacco, presents his own experiences as an outsider on the inside: while he is privileged as an American, who “could leave” (65), he clearly tries to integrate and live the life of those trapped in Goražde, attempting to break down the thick wall between the ignorant, outside world and reality.

What struck me most about the situation Sacco presents in Safe Area Goražde is rather unconventional: simply, I was shocked by my complete lack of knowledge about the subject, even that a war in Bosnia had occurred at all. The horrifying attacks on the Bosnian people: burning down their homes, raping their women, murdering so many of their people, not to mention the oppression (which, itself is an attack on their freedoms, their ability to live fully) somewhat shattered the way I see the world, including how I remember the past. Living in the Western world, it’s so easy live everyday and every passing year in a bubble, sheltered from the reality of war and suffering occurring today, as I write this. Even then, there is a huge difference from knowing of an issue and understanding what each strife truly encompasses, as Sacco attempts to do in his journalistic expeditions. I appreciate Sacco’s attempt to break down the Western veil of ignorance, even if it is impossible for him to truly showcase the Bosnian pain and suffering, because of his status as and outsider.

Ignorance in the Western world has perhaps always been an issue, but I stand to argue that it is increased in recent years. For example, during the devastating U.S-Iraq war, it was so easy for the average American family, to be oblivious to the terror being wrought abroad (as an American, I speak from this point of view). Economically, the United States took out debt after debt, increasing the national deficit monumentally, keeping the people from truly understanding the trillions of dollars being spent on the war. This stands in stark comparison to World War II, where systems like Meatless Mondays and fundraisers to raise money for the war effort kept the American people active in the war.

As we brought up in our discussions, it is impossible to gain true understanding of reality from the an outsider’s perspective. Even those living the suffering and pain have a skewed understanding of the truth (in fact, as we discussed in class, the truth that we hope to discover is an impossible concept itself). How, then is it possible to truly understand the decisions of our country if we are not allowed to feel them? Ignorance does not point to a bright future in mass political participation.

This is of course not to say that we are lost. One of the benefits of being a university student is that we are exposed to the larger world that exists outside of our bubbles—kudos to us for attempting to be global citizens! I’d just like to put it out there that it is important to be wary of the veil of ignorance. Though it is inevitable, I think it’s important to act as Sacco did, and try to break it down as much as possible.

Thanks for listening, and sorry if I got a little too passionate at times–that itself can blind one’s rationality!

Kristen

In my ASTU 100 class’ discussions of Iranian-French writer Marjane Satrapi’s graphic narrative, Persepolis, we have focused some attention on the element of childhood that is intrinsic to Marji’s story. We follow her through her early adolescent years, from age ten to fourteen, as she juggles the normalcy of everyday life and the not-so-normal chaos of revolution and war. I have been most interested by how Satrapi has chosen to represent childhood: as a juxtaposition of the everyday experience—one that is somewhat universal in nature—with the horrifying, unnatural circumstances of war.

The universality of the everyday, which I have come to understand through the personal connections I have with Marji’s mentalitites and mindset as a child, speaks to the universality of the human condition. While we all have different experiences and cultures, we all had a childhood, we all grew up and navigating the complexities of life. More specifically, the commonness between all children, every childhood, gives Persepolis the ability to act as a memoir, a tender reflection of childhood, and allows each and every reader to connect to Marji in a very personal way. To give a few examples, Marji’s spunk and spirit to understand and revolutionize her world with her Marxist views, the ease with which she assimilates the passions of her parents as revolutionaries, her ignorance of more mature events (in her case, the horrifying inhumanity of torture), and the innocence in which she understands serious issues, such as encroaching fundamentalists forcing her to wear the veil, are all characteristic of the mentality of a child—how every person understands and reacts to events they experience at a certain age.

While this universality of the childhood experience is certainly a real occurrence, another less pleasing explanation for this is what is known as in Sociology as cultural imperialism. This is defined as “the imposition of one dominant culture on other cultures” and often has negative consequences on local culture (Guppy and Ritzer 136). The dominance of Western culture over Marji’s native Iranian culture is clear in her choice of idols as she enters her pre-teen years: Kim Wilde, Michael Jackson and Iron Maiden top the lists. She rebels by showcasing Nike shoes and a jean jacket—elements of Western material culture. She rejects many material aspects of the Iranian culture—wearing the veil and following Muslim practices.

This can be interpreted further as one of the effects of globalization. Part of the imperialist power of Western culture comes from the spreading of ideas and values that globalization expedites. Looking at Marji’s life, how could this embracing of a culture that was not her own have affected her childhood? Is she less Iranian because she embraces these ideas? Does she, in this way, signify the impending global age, where cultural diversity fades away?

Today, American culture is more and more dominating global force. This is actually referred to in our Sociology textbook as Americanization: the encroachment of American values and ideals on local elements of culture. One example of this is the spread of fast food chains like McDonalds and Starbucks (Guppy and Ritzer 136).

There’s no way to have a definite answer, but I ask myself again and again: why do I relate to Marji so well? Is it because of the simple fact that we are both human—we both are individuals, aging and maturing, even through our separate lives? Or is it because of the growing global force of Western ideals, especially American ideals? Is it because Marji, as she grows up, embraces part of my culture, leaving some of her own behind? In this day and age, does being in a non-Western culture involve embracing Western values?

And most importantly, what does this mean for the diversity of humankind? Simply put, is this good or bad?

As an introduction to the broad world of writing and particularly, our focus, scholarly writing, my ASTU 100A class has engaged in discussions about genre and citation in the past few weeks. While this subject area might seem simplistic, I’ve been fascinated by the perspective from which we have approached the ideas of genre and citation.

Genre isn’t just the physical distinctions between different forms of a discipline, such as the difference between rap and hiphop music, but it’s the entire situation in which a genre develops that creates the differences in structure and style—the form of the writing. As Giltrow mentions, “the situation has…imprinted English” (Giltrow 4). But what takes this understanding to a more meaningful level is its implications for community. Giltrow asserts that the effect of genre is to demonstrate “signs of common ground among communities of readers and writers: shared attitudes, practices and habits, positions in the world” (Giltrow 6). This helps to define my interpretation: every genre is itself a culture, a community of individuals linked by their participation in a subject matter.

My exploration of citation takes a similar route. Our readings and discussions developed that, among other purposes, citation is crucial for an academic writer to establish his or herself in the larger community of his or her discipline. Citation allows us to demonstrate that we are part of a community—a field that, similar to genre, connects individuals by the exploration of a common discipline.

Genre and citation are tools that we use to establish our identity as writers in a specific discipline, or, as I’d like to think of it, a culture of thought. By this, I mean to describe a community that transcends generations of thinkers, each building on the ideas of those before them, and using the most ancient concepts to help define themselves as thinkers. For me, this emphasizes the value of the culture embedded within academic disciplines—their history and development. Furthermore, it points to the value of culture in general. Genre and citation define the culture of a discipline. Consequently, individuals are given an identity: a larger support system to identify with. This is the basis of culture, as a general concept: it makes order out of the confusion created by wide variety of different ideas and perspectives.

I’m explaining this in order to attempt to define the connection that I see between these studies of the English language and the ideas I’ve been studying in my Introduction to Cultural Anthropology course. The focus so far has been on the importance of what my professor, Wade Davis, refers to as the ethnosphere, which can be defined as “the sum total of all thoughts and intuitions, myths and beliefs, ideas and inspirations brought into being by the human imagination” (Davis 2). Personally, I take it to refer to all the diverse cultures in the world: more specifically, all of humankind’s different perspectives and experiences—essentially, everything that humans have ever thought. It’s a lot, but it’s all valuable. Why? As I’ve mentioned, culture provides identity. Even more, from each culture’s unique perspective on life, we are provided with so much more knowledge than what is available to us in our own communities.

What is worrisome is the amount of degradation that this plethora of cultures is facing with each passing generation. This is seen most clearly in language loss, which is estimated to decrease by 50 percent in the next few generations (Davis 3). I find that the idea of language loss also ties in with the cultures that genre and citation bring to light. The power of the English language can be seen in genre and citation—these two little elements are able to create communities of thinkers and learners. Here, I see clearly the devastation caused by language and culture loss: I can’t imagine a future without the English language.

I feel that this all comes down to the idea of global citizenship. What is our role and obligation to preserving cultures around the world?

Thanks for listening!

Kristen Lew

Works Cited

Davis, Wade. The Wayfinders. Toronto: House of Anansi Press, 2009. Print.

Giltrow, Janet, et al. Academic Writing: An Introduction, Third Edition. Toronto: Broadview Press, 2014. Print.