In our ASTU 100 class this week, we read Zeitoun by Dave Eggers. The book follows Abdulrahman Zeitoun, a Syrian-American painter and contractor who lived in New Orleans while Hurricane Katrina stuck in 2005. In the Katrina aftermath, the American Government, without any semblance of due process (to say the least), unjustly incarcerated Zeitoun. His wife Kathy then must go through the very worst of the bureaucratic system to free her husband.

Our discussion in class often address the fact the Eggers is presenting bias towards Zeitoun and his family. He paints him a hero, with the perfect wife and family, who fell from grace at the hands of massive mismanagement following Katrina.

After reading the novel, we found out that Zeitoun has been charged with abusing his wife, and is spending time in prison. We also know that Kathy has left Zeitoun due to his newfound violence.

We have also read Safe Area Gorazde by Joe Sacco, which chronicles the UN designated safe area Gorazde during the Bosnian War through the form of graphic journalism. Unlike Eggers, Sacco is always present in his telling of other’s stories. He draws himself into the narratives he retells, and the reader is consistently reminded of his humanness as we see him engaging with the residents of Gorazde doing daily activities (watching TV, sharing a meal etc.).

This is not the case with Zeitoun. Eggers presence is rarely, if ever, felt in the book, and we are told the book is a work of nonfiction. Eggers makes a clear truth claim through an appeal to his usage of fact at the start of the novel, in an attempt to validate the story of Zeitoun and his family. Although the new of Zeitoun’s abuse does not logistically conflict with the novel, Eggers’ narrative relied on Zeitoun’s portrayal as a hero, husband and family man. This new information challenges not the story itself, but rather the narrative painted by Eggers that possibly cause the reader to sympathize with Zeitoun and his extreme and unjust hardship.

Perhaps, if Eggers, like Sacco, had situated himself in the book, the news of Zeitoun’s abuse would be less disruptive to the novel overall. As readers, we often consume information without taking note of the careful construction through which it is presented. In the case of Safe Area Gorazde, Sacco goes to lengths to show where his information is coming from. He is up front with the subjectivity, and how it may possibly affect the stories being told.

The fact that Eggers’ voice is absent from the story is only problematic because his narrative has been challenged by new information he was unaware of. If the reader was more involved in the actual presentation of Zeitoun, and was involved in the development of Eggers positionality in presenting Zeitoun’s story, the portrayal of Zeitoun may have come across as less idealistic, and the news of his abuse could have been taken into consideration as a potential result of his incarceration, rather than contrasting the narrative and the truth claim that Eggers made at the beginning of the novel.

In preparation for an essay I will soon write, I have been closely reading the graphic novel Safe Area Gorazde by Joe Sacco. In the book, Sacco reports on the experiences of the townspeople of Gorazde during the Balkan war in the 1990s. To write this book, Sacco combined his journalism and graphic talent to produce a news-like account in the digestible form of a graphic narrative.

Compared to a newspaper, Sacco’s graphic journalism is more understandable, but simultaneously less accessible. It is presumably less accessible simply because it takes longer to get the full story then reading an online article would.

In my creative writing class this week, we learned about literary journalism, and how it differs from regular reporting. Literary journalism can be described as “nonfiction’s answer to fiction”, as it combines literary tactics (such as symbolism, suspense, and characterization) while telling stories that are entirely true, much like a classical journalist would. Further, literary journalists often immerse themselves in their topic for the long term, much like Sacco did. Our professor did not mention where graphic journalism fits into the classification of literary journalism, but Sacco’s novel does have a lot in common with.

What really interests me is what role graphic (or literary) journalism should play in our everyday consumption of news. Of course, it is impractical to assume individuals have the time or perhaps the patience to read a 230 page comic book explaining an issue. Conversely, it is hard to deny the deepened understanding I have gained of the Balkan war since reading Safe Area Gorazde. There is also the accessibility of books like this, as they are far more expensive than a newspaper, and are not free like many online newsites. Additionally, Sacco’s books are more difficult to locate than by a google search. (In my opinion, Amazon still has some work to do.)

But news has always been a pivotal component to any society. Whether it be a newspaper or the town crier, the public must be informed. In this age where statistics are so readily available, perhaps Joe Sacco, and other literary journalist bring an essential dimension to the 24-hour news reel.

The “Other”

In our ASTU 100 class this week, we are attempting to analyze a selection of Judith Butler’s complex book Frames of War: When is Life Grievable?. The book can be understood and interpreted in many ways; in fact we have been reviewing it for almost three classes and have yet to come to a conclusion. However, my understanding of her stance is the notion that all lives are vulnerable, especially to lives that we understand as different from our own. This division creates a distinct “us” and “them”, and in order to protect ourselves—however that is defined—we must harm and create distance from others.

As Butler’s work is primarily theoretical, it is difficult to understand exactly how the “other” occurs in society. She provides some examples, such as the in the early 2000s, America’s “war on terror” demonized Middle Eastern terrorist groups. Even so, there is arguably no concrete definition as to who they were exactly fighting against, aside from the abstraction of “terror”. I think a better example of the “other” would be the characterization of Germany or Japan during the Second World War. Propaganda posters from the time epitomize this us versus them dichotomy.

These images are clear evidence of an active attempt to dehumanize the enemy, to create an “other” to rally against. In a sense, this is expected during times of war. Although the images may be shocking now, it is not that surprising that the Allied governments used this tactic of division to rally support for the war. In modern day society, Butler’s notion of division is perhaps more subtle.

When discussing in class, I considered how vague our understanding of “otherness” truly is. Firstly, I doubt we could provide a coherent understanding of who is included in the other. It is arguably up to the individual to decide, or perhaps be told, who “them” includes. Secondly, we have very little knowledge of the places that we do not identify with. For example, in casual conversation, Africa is often referred to as if it is an independent country. In reality, it is enormously culturally, linguistically, and ethnically diverse. I cannot realistically speak to what extent, because I truthfully do not know. Additionally, it is easier for me to classify an “African country” as part of the “other” then for example America, simply because I have a well-versed understanding of American culture.

This confusion of otherness speaks to the complexity of Butler’s argument. I am not American, or, for example Congolese. But does that mean that California is included in my other? Perhaps otherness exists in degrees. Could it be true that a Californian is less “other” to me than a Congolese, but more “other” than someone from Richmond? And what does this mean for my personal vulnerability, in relation to all of these different people? Defining Butler’s “other” is perhaps more complicated than it seems, and demonstrates its complexity when applied to real life discussion and situations.

Work Cited

Butler, Judith. Frames of War: When Is Life Grievable? London: Verso, 2009. Print.

Earlier in term one, our ASTU 100 class studied Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi and Obasan by Joy Kogawa, both which utilized child narration. In my previous post on this topic, I proposed that perhaps these books tell their story through children to offer a sense of authority through objectivity. This vital due to the fact Kogawa and Satrapi are both presenting in a sense counter narratives to events that they may see as misrepresented, or not told holistically.

In Part 1 of my exploration of child narration, I suggested child narrators are beneficial if the author is attempting to present a relatively unknown story within the context of a wider trauma. For example, Obasan is set in World War Two, a topic we learn about extensively in school. Kogawa’s focus on the Japanese Canadian experience of internment is introducing new and unfamiliar information to the master narrative of World War Two. The objectivity and honesty of a child narrator is an effective tool here, as the story requires an innocent and objective testimony.

Currently, our ASTU class is reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Foer. It follows Oskar, an offbeat nine year old who attempts to grapple with the loss of his beloved father on September 11^th in New York City.

Arguably, Foer is not exactly presenting a counter narrative to the events of September 11^th, 2001, but rather exploring its effects upon Oskar, his family, and how he sees the world. Oskar, Nomi and Marji all share a sense of honest victimization. These narrators are not interested in the political or social effects of the events they experienced, but rather they are focused upon the direct effect they have upon their friends and families. Herein lies the power of child narration. They are able to tell a story from a very personal perspective without its importance to the wider narrative being questioned. They gain a sense of authority from the lack of experience and naivety, and their restricted view of the world.

Marji and Nomi’s narratives can be used to offer another perspective to the Real Truth, and question’s its reliability. However, Oskar’s intense search for the Real Truth demonstrates its futility. As Satrapi and Kogawa aspire to add dimension to a master narrative, Foer nearly dismissed the concept of the Real Truth, and instead suggests that individual narratives and loss are of the highest value. This is mirrored in Oskar’s hunt for the key and Mr. Black, and his obsession with concrete facts. Eventually, Oskar ends up with the realization that searching for definite facts is near arbitrary, and shifts his focus to the existing love around him, such as his relationship with his mother.

Essentially, child narrators allow authors to explore concepts from an honest and unbiased perspective. Child understanding of the world is in general limited to what is fundamentally important, such as familial and platonic love. Consequently, they provide authors with a platform in which complicated and sensitive topics can be explored, examined, and more widely understood.

This week, our ASTU 100 class visited the Kogawa Fonds, to discover more about Joy Kogawa, and her novel Obasan. Obasan is a semi-autobiographical novel, which explores the experience of Japanese Canadians during the Second World War. The class split off to explore around 12 boxes, each containing around 5 folders of archived material. These included letters, book reviews, potential drafts, and much more.

As my partner and I impatiently sorted through a seemingly endless folder of letters from young fans, I wondered if what our chances were of coming across anything that may actually spark our interest. Of course, there were some novelties here and there, a child with a funny drawing, or a potential connection to the novel. For the most part, the letters and reviews to us seemed irrelevant. At the end of the session, we discussed a few interesting things we had found, but none of the groups really discovered anything groundbreaking or terribly memorable.

This is not to say this experience was not helpful or worthwhile. But the sheer amount of information available made it impossible even for a group of 20 to shift through and really understand and interpret the importance and meaning behind each individual document. The Kogawa Fonds is the collection of one author, what would it look like for an entire culture’s details to be archived in boxes? Even with the intense wealth of information, is it possible to document or archive Joy Kogawa’s impact on Canadian culture?

To extend this idea, how does a culture then attempt to explain an entire history in a documented form? When you consider the number of individuals that have existed in a society, can this massive amount of information be accurately summarized? And yet, this is what our society does so often with other cultures, or even our own. Exhibits in museums are held claiming to demonstrate English life in the 1800s, or explain ancient Egypt from the mask of King Tut. In reality, we are shown an extraordinary small sample from a massive collection of material, both discovered and undiscovered.

However, archival material and its presentation are still greatly important. But it is imperative to understand and realize its limitations, its inability to truly demonstrate an accurate depiction, purely due to the complex relationship between human existence and documentation.

It is possible that the most innocent and impressionable human beings written about in literature are children.  With so little life experience and limited understanding, children may perhaps be overly honest and receptive.  In ASTU 100, we have read Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi and Obasan by Joy Kogawa. Both works of literature are told through the perspective of a young girl.  Additionally, they both offer a seemingly new or emerging perspective on events that already have an established history. For example, Obasan is the tale of the Japanese experience in British Columbia during the Second World War. World War Two narratives are commonplace in our culture, but before Obasan, the tale of Japanese Canadians was largely ignored.  The same can be said for Satrapi’s recount of the turmoil in Iran during the 70s and 80s.

So why are youthful narrators so useful? Children have little analytical experience, and they largely lack a holistic understanding of even their own experiences.  However, these traits create a unique narration. A young child’s inability to process their experiences can allow readers to do so for themselves.  Further, children are often unable to change or alter their situation.  When introducing a possibly entirely unique storyline into an overwhelming precedence of accepted history, child narration is a tool an author can use to find a place within the accepted history. A child’s perpsective highlights the lack of control the victims had over their circumstance. It is much more difficult for a reader to blame a child for their experiences, amplifying the tragedy of the event.  Further, a child’s ability to retell an event is often limited in bias.  It allows the author to chronicle events simply by what happened, giving the reader room to draw their own conclusions.

I would argue that child narration is an effective tool for authors to further their exploration of the singular Real Truth.  The nature of the stories told by Satrapi and Kogawa demand some level of witnessing, as (at the time of their publication) their stories had yet to be integrated into the mainstream narrative.  Telling their stories from the perspective of a young girl grants both authors a sense of accountability.  The child has yet to form a bias, but is able to understand and recount the events occurring around them. In this way, a young child is the ideal witness, and therefore narrator.

Kogawa, Joy. Obasan. New York: Anchor, 1994. Print

Satrapi, Marjane. Persepolis. New York, NY Pantheon, 2003. print

In the graphic narrative Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi recounts her experiences as a child growing up in Iran during the 1980s through the eyes of her younger self, Marji. Satrapi uses the form of the graphic narrative, and the common events found throughout Marji’s life to relate her story to others, as well as to express themes of memory, forgetting, and remembering. Early in Marji’s life, she depicts God as an elderly white man with a long beard. She goes so far as to compare God’s image to that of Karl Marx. The concept of God is often confusing for children and can be difficult to grasp.  The level of abstraction can be challenging to relate to for children who have not yet made sense of the physical world, let alone a spiritual one. Satrapi demonstrates this relationship through Marji’s expression of God and religion.

I attended a Catholic school from preschool until grade 3.  I went to church every Friday, said grace before lunch, prayed, and had religion class every day.  Being six years old, the information I learned I tended to take extremely literally.  For example, we learned that the church was the house of God.  My six year old brain therefore concluded that Jesus must be staying somewhere inside of his father’s home.  Luckily, there was a man who worked in our church who had shoulder length brown hair and wore sandals on occasion.  I understood these as clear signs that this man was in fact Jesus.  Another example was my belief that all Catholics must wear sandals, or “Jesus-shoes” as my friends and I called them.  In the images we were shown in our religion textbooks, the disciples of Jesus wore brown-strapped sandals.  Evidently, so did a few of my teachers.  Logically, I concluded that all Catholics who truly wanted to follow the teachings of God would wear his sandals.

Of course, the assumptions I made as a young child are wildly inaccurate, but reflecting upon them, I often wonder the effectiveness of teaching the principles of religion to young children.  My impressionable mind, much like Marji’s, was unable to understand much more than reality.  I had yet to make sense of the physical world, meanwhile I was taught about an entirely different world that I clearly did not have the mental capacity to understand.

Satrapi easily captures this concept in the form of the graphic narrative. Her ability to depict precisely how Marji imagined God, as almost a stereotype of what God should be creates tension with the reader.  Her unrealistic depiction, achieved through the visual form, is a reminder that her story is being told through the eyes of a child, involving both imagination, and oversimplification. Due to this simple connection, I can identify with Marji despite the fact her world is far removed from my own. This associations gives importance and weight to Satrapi’s narrative, as Marji develops into a real and relatable person. Additionally, Satrapi’s emphasis on the process of remembering is tied to my own process, as I had to recall my story that connected me to her in the first place. The anecdote I remembered is very similar in nature to the anecdotes told throughout Persepolis.  This connection furthers my understanding of the process of remembering, and deepens the personal connection I feel towards Marji and her story.

After reading The Role of Interpretative Communities in Remembering and Learning, by Farhat Shahzad, I began to see the overwhelming implications evidence for Shahzad’s argument to the effect of social relations on how we create memories.  Her exploration of interpretive communities, and how they help process events explored the role of figures of authority. The university students she interviewed often discussed the impact of a teacher’s opinion or passion on his or her own.  This discussion inspired me to consider the complex relationship between the diverse networks we live in, including the role authoritative figures play, contrasted to the role of our peers in relation to the act of remembering.

In our society, it is accepted that figures of authority in our lives (for example teachers or coaches) hold a strong influence over those in a place of inferiority.  Their opinions and perspectives tend to hold greater importance over those of our peers. Therefore, figures of authority have more sway over what we believe and interpret.  For example, teachers in high schools control the lesson plan.  Shahzad refers to the instructor’s ability to choose the sources shared or neglected.  The role of figures of authority in sharing their ideas, sources, prejudices and perspectives is fervently important.

However, superiors often lack the emotional closeness we share with our peers.  In matters of politics and world affairs, a teacher or coach’s opinion can heavily influence those of a student or player. Nonetheless, memory and the act of remembering are very personal.  Members of an inferior group do not often share their personal backgrounds or stories with their superiors. The nature of the student to teacher relationship allows for formal influence and learning, but commonly lacks the emotional connection that is correlated with remembering personal events, and the influence these events have on our memory.  Despite the fact that many public events do not directly relate to personal life, worldview and perspectives are often determined by moments and experience outside of formal settings. They accumulate, and form an individual.  Frequently, figures of authority are not present for pivotal moments, or even the constant accumulation of mundane moments that can develop into an emotional connection to an issue.

Essentially, the nature of an inferior’s relationship to a figure of authority calls for a certain emotional distance.  The figure of authority has control over formal ideas and perspectives the inferior may consume, but has little control over the experiences and emotional moments that will create a second kind lens of which to view the world through. The inferior’s peers and equals, and the natural emotional closeness in these relationships, create the second lens. Peers, alongside authoritative figures, occupy unique yet important spaces in an individual’s interpretive community.

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