Why should we be born into our home? I asked myself. Why shouldn’t we be able to choose our homes? And why shouldn’t my home be on Canada’s stunning west coast? After all, I had good friends who lived in Vancouver. I had visited the city numerous times and loved it. And since childhood I had felt that I was meant to live among soaring mountains and beautiful but unpredictable oceans.

So we went for it. We sold our home after only owning it for two years. We both quit our solid jobs. We sold most of our possessions, packed up our car, stuffed our 6 year old dog into the remaining empty corner of the backseat, and drove west. And we made a new home (a much smaller yet, of course, more expensive one) in the majestic North Shore mountains. And we made new friends and found new jobs that we loved and explored new parts of a country that is so vast and so foreign to most of us, despite calling it our “home”. And whenever somebody would ask why we moved (no doubt expecting an answer such as, “For work” or “For school”), we shrugged, smiled, and responded, “For a change.” But the real answer? I was looking for a home that felt like home at that period in my life.

Because home, and the idea of home, is fluid. Your home changes. What you need from a home changes as you go through different periods of your life. When I was 14 and hated my parents and my (at the time) very troubled brother, nowhere felt more home to me than my friend Lisa’s basement, where I shared inside jokes with friends, and watched way too many episodes of The X-Files, and ate obscene quantities of cookie dough. When I was in my late teens and yearning for respect and responsibility, my home was the local swimming pool where I worked every summer, and where kids looked up to me and my wildly unhealthy but oh-so-desirable tan. I met my husband at a BBQ when I was 25 and fell in love instantly; he felt like home to me, that night I went to bed knowing I would marry him. He became my home. When we adopted our lunatic, lovable boxer/pitbull terrier, our home grew. And last year, our home grew exponentially when we welcomed twin boys into our family.

Shortly after their birth, we once again packed up the car, the dog (who at this point had given up trying to figure out what was going on), our few remaining possessions, and our boys, and we drove east. We moved back to Montreal. I guess our reasons for doing so are predictable; help from family members, affordable real estate, and the chance for our boys to grow up knowing their grandparents and aunts and uncles. We were moving back to where we grew up, but we avoided using the term “moving home”. That implies that we have one physical home. And that is untrue.

A few years ago, one of my high school students was a Mohawk girl who lived on a nearby reservation. One winter night her family house burned down. It was undoubtedly a tragic event; while no one was hurt, the family lost all of their possessions. They lost their house, but they did not lose their home. Their home was their family and their community, a community that rallied together to help out this family in every imaginable way.  

My husband and I are now looking to buy a house in a small, semi-rural/semi-suburban town outside of Montreal. When I was a kid I had this great checklist of everything I wanted in my house. That checklist has gotten much smaller. I know it’s not the house that matters- a house is not a home. It may represent an idea of home, but it in itself is not home.

In so many ways, moving from Montreal to Vancouver and back in only a few years seems illogical. Financially, it made no sense. Career-wise, it was impractical. And we certainly confused the heck out of our poor dog. But I absolutely do not regret it. Because my home has grown. My understanding of Canada- a place that is, by default, my home- has grown. My understanding of the people of Canada has grown. My connections to these people has grown. “Home is where the heart is”, goes the old cliche. To me, home is IN my heart. I carry my home with me through my experiences and the relationships I have with the people who have shaped me. My home is in me.

Works Cited

Brownie, Marianne. Hollyburn Mountain in B.C. 2018. Photograph.

Brownie, Marianne. Lac des Poissons Blancs in QC. 2015. Photograph.

Frost, Robert. “The Death of the Hired Man”. Poetry Foundation. N.d. Web. 28 January 2019.

Kreviazuk, Chantal. “Feels like Home to Me”. 18 Dec. 2007. YouTube. Online video clip. 29 January 2019.

“Quebec Government, McGill Partner to study and curb post-graduate exodus.” CTV News Montreal. 23 May 2018. CTV News.Web. 28 January 2019.

I have a great story to tell you.

A long time ago, when our world was still in its early stages, there was a story-telling competition. People from all the nearby lands came together, ready to share a story from their own culture. They brought stories that had been passed down for many generations in their world, stories that they had told many, many times, stories that were of great importance to them and to their people and to their land.

The contestants gathered together in this new land. The first story-teller began. She told an eerie tale of a creature from her land called “owl”. She described this graceful, wise creature in great detail, and explained how, one night many years ago, while a mother owl was sleeping, a large eagle swooped in and snatched up one of her owlets. Despite her exhaustive efforts, her babies were never found, and from that day forward, the owl never slept at night again, instead flying through the forests, crying out, “Who stole my babies? Who? Who? Who?”

As the first story-teller wrapped up her tale and took her seat among the other speakers, the soft rustling of feathers could be heard up in the trees, followed by the haunting hoo hoo hoo of the new land’s first owl.

The second story-teller began. He told the story of a great hero from his land who challenged a renowned maker to craft an unstoppable spear, one that would never fail to find its mark and could penetrate even the toughest hide. The maker sat in his workshop for many days, making spear after spear, each found wanting by the hero. One night, while watching a dark storm rage across the plains, the maker was struck by inspiration, and with all his craft and guile, shaped a pronged spear that crackled with power and energy. So formidable was this weapon that it could be seen from great distances and lit up the night sky. The great hero threw the spear, and watched it obliterate a tree, leaving only a charred stump. Satisfied, he declared that the maker had succeeded in crafting a force like no other.

As the second story-teller returned to his seat, the first lightning bolt to appear in this new land sparked swiftly across the sky.

Others shared their tales. As the competition went on, the world around them filled with the details from the stories, and soon the land was alive with new sights and sounds, smells and sensations.

Finally, it was the last story-teller’s turn. Now, unlike the other story-tellers, he had not taken much time to consider his story. See, he was very handsome, and quite revered in his land. In his experience, the audience enjoyed looking at him so much, it wasn’t necessary for to put much thought into his words. However, he had heard about this new land, and wanted to be a part of the competition, so he too, made his way to this gathering. Truth be told, he hadn’t been paying much attention to the previous story-tellers. He had enough confidence in himself (as well as prior experience) to believe that his audience would be engaged in his words.

He started to share a story that he had heard before from the story-tellers in his land, a story about a brother and a sister who get lost in the woods. The children stumble upon the home of an old woman who had been cast out from her village for her gruesome deformities. Frightened by the woman’s disfigurement, the children run away, but the brother stumbles and falls, hurting his leg. As the cold night descends upon them, the sister realizes that she has no choice but to bring him back to the home of the old woman for help.

At this point in the tale, the beautiful story-teller paused. In the original ending of the story, the one he had heard many times, the children are welcomed into the home of the old woman, who turns out to be kind-hearted and merely one who was wrongly judged by the people of her village. But suddenly, to this particular story-teller, it simply did not seem thrilling enough. How could he win this competition with such a simple and predictable tale?

So he made a hasty decision. Continuing the story, he began to make some changes. Instead of the warm and welcoming cottage owned by the old woman in the original version, the story-teller described a dark and gloomy abode. He described the eerie art on the walls, the chilling silence of of the house, and the stale odours that filled the rooms. And instead of describing a benevolent old woman who gently bandages up the young boy, he described a dark-hearted monster who is cruel and violent towards the young children. It was a story filled with gore and wickedness.

The story-teller looked around, pleased to see that he had the full attention of his audience. They looked horrified, but what did it matter? Were they not hanging on every word? He opened his mouth to continue, but then stopped. Embarrassed, he realized he did not have an ending to this story. He wracked his brain, desperately trying to come up with an ending that would be captivating, but nothing came. So with a forced smile, the beautiful story-teller simply sat down.

The audience was hushed. And then, things changed. Momentarily, the sky darkened, though it returned to normal so quickly it could have easily been confused with a passing cloud. The space chilled, but returned to normal so quickly it could have easily been confused with a sudden breeze. The contestants all felt a flash of pain tear through their bodies, but it was a pain that disappeared so quickly, it could have been imagined. Nonetheless, everybody felt different afterwards. A heavy feeling seemed to permeate the air.

“What’s happening? What is this?” asked the beautiful story-teller, fearful.

Nobody said anything at first. Finally, the oldest story-teller at the competition spoke up.

“This is your story,” she said. “You brought these elements to life. You created a terrible tale, full of horror and evil, and gave it no closure.”

The beautiful man bristled. “It’s a story,” he said. “Only a story. Forget I said anything!”

The older woman shook her head. “That’s not how it works. Once a story is told, it can not be taken back.”

 

Reflection

I’m on maternity leave this year, so my intended audience was my husband, my 7-month old twin boys, and my dog. With that in mind, I tried to keep my story simple and fun, with a little bit of repetition, since I’ve learned that babies are amused (and learn!) by repetition in stories.

I am not a great speaker, which may be ironic since I am a middle school teacher. As a student in elementary and high school, public speaking events were a nightmare to me. If I can read off a paper, I am fine- I think I speak clearly, with good pacing and appropriate tone. When my husband and I first started seeing each other, we spent many hours reading books aloud to one another. However, when I am asked to memorize a story or a speech, I lose all confidence and all momentum. I worry about forgetting details, and become so fixated on including everything that I cannot allow myself to relax and tell a story that- while may not include all the original details- is appropriate for that particular situation. Even in front of babies and my husband, I still stumbled with nervousness, One of the main points I took away from the first chapter in The Truth About Stories is that stories are fluid- there are different ways of telling a story (King’s example is when he explains how he changes Charm’s story a bit when sharing it with younger kids), but the essence of the story is what remains. This is something I need to work on; it’s okay if a story is different each time. As an oral story-teller, you have the opportunity to get immediate audience feedback (even if it’s non-verbal) and tweak your story-telling for the situation.

While writing this story, I also kept thinking about how it would sound. This is not something I think about when writing material that is not intended to be read aloud, nor is it something I teach my own students. We discuss the importance of including a strong voice in a our stories, but in this exercise, I truly felt the value and effect of “voice”.

Works Cited

Zeus undergoes routine health check-up in his eyes. Wildlife Learning Center. N.d. Earth Touch News. Photograph. 22 January 2019.

Bealing, Jacqui. “Again, again! Why repetition in reading help children learn more.” University of Sussex. 17 February 2017. Web. 22 January 2019.

Brownie, Marianne. Listening to a Story. 2019. Photograph.

King, Thomas. The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative. Peterbough: Anansi Press. 2003. Print.

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? Consider this question in context with Chamberlin’s discussion on imagination and reality; belief and truth (use the index).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.

“Except for the idea of a creator, there is no idea quite as bewildering as the idea of home, nor one that causes as many conflicts.” – J. Edward Chamberlin

Indeed, there is great difficulty in attempting to define the place we call home- especially the place that we call Canada. Edward Chamberlin asks, “Can one land ever really be home to more than one people?” (4). A proud Canadian would answer the question with an emphatic “yes”. After all, what does Canada pride itself on if not its inclusivity? Unlike the melting pot that is the United States, Canada boasts (if that’s the appropriate term for a humble Canadian) of being a mosaic, a place where cultures can maintain their traditions and beliefs. However, what we like to believe can be quite different from reality, and Edward Chamberlin does not hesitate to address this misguided notion in If this is your Land, Where are the Stories?

When discussing the idea of “home”, Chamberlin brings in the dichotomy of imagination and reality. Imagination is what we like to believe; most Canadians like to believe that Canada is a multi-cultural, respectful place where we deserve to live, thanks to our inherent “Canadian-ness”. Reality, on the other hand, refers to the objective truth, and in reference to Canada, the objective truth is that we are descendents of colonizers, living on a graveyard of languages and livelihoods.

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). He then rephrases this idea, drawing parallels between the history of settlement and the history of many of the world’s conflicts. Settlement involves dismissing people, language, and livelihoods. Conflicts, he writes, involve dismissing beliefs and behaviors. To “settle” is generally a positive notion (after all, isn’t it desirable to “settle” our conflicts?) yet, ultimately, settlement and conflict stem from the same treatment of others.

What do these ideas mean to our understanding of Canadian history? Historians will say that Europeans settled in the land that eventually became Canada. Their actions are a reflection of Chamberlin’s explanation of settlement; indigenous people were removed from their land (with many sent off to residential schools or reservations), belief systems and cultural practices were banned (perhaps most notable is the banning of the potlatch), and languages were destroyed through the implementation of rules and laws that forbade the use of traditional languages. Consequently, we now have two narratives of Canada: the story of an accepting and progressive society, and the often-dismissed story of cultural genocide.

In Imagined Communities, sociologist Benedict Anderson defines a nation as an “imagined political community- one that is both inherently limited and sovereign” (51). Anderson argues that a nation is imagined because members of a nation will never meet most of their fellow members, but possess “the image of their communion” (51). In a country as spread out as Canada, Anderson is right in saying that we will likely meet only the smallest fraction of other Canadians. However, his idea of communion is flawed. Sadly, the imagined sameness of fellow community members-fellow Canadians- possessed of the same fundamental “Canadian-ness”’ allows for the fantasy of a joining, a togetherness, that is, upon even cursory examination, more imagination than reality.

 

Works Cited

Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 1983. Print.

Chamberlin, J. Edward. If This is Your Land, Where are Your Stories? Finding Common Ground. Toronto: Vintage Canada, 2004. Print.

Palmer, Harold. “Mosaic versus Melting Pot?: Immigration and Ethnicity in Canada and the United States.” International Journal. 31.3 (1976): 488-528. JSTOR. Web. 13 January 2019.

Schneider, Howard. “Canada: A Mosaic, Not a Melting Pot.” The Washington Post. The Washington Post.  5 July 1998. Web. 14 January 2019.

Image of Canadian Flag. N.p., n.d. Queens University. Web. 13 January 2019.

Introduction