Source: Second Story Press, Jenny Kay Dupuis & Kathy Kacer/Gillian Newland

While ASTU 100 has allowed students to explore a number of themes and works, this post has given me the opportunity to offer another work that I believe would extend the knowledge of life narratives for my peers and I.  My nomination is I Am Not a Number by Jenny Kay Dupuis and Kathy Kacer, with illustrations by Gillian Newland.  There are a number of reasons for this selection, but for the purposes of this post I will break it into three key points: the target audience, subject matter, and relation to other works in the course.

This is a picture book based on Dupuis’ grandmother’s experience in the residential school system in Canada.  The narrative follows Irene as she and her brothers are forcefully removed from their home, before being separated upon arrival at the school.  There she becomes subject to abuse and neglect, while simultaneously having her identity stripped away from her; she cannot speak her mother tongue and is only referred to by the number 759.

This is a powerful trauma narrative that targets an audience that has not been addressed in ASTU: children.  We have had many discussions about the influence of genre and intended audience on life narratives, however studying the presentation of trauma to children would allow us to analyze through a different theoretical framework.  We would have the opportunity to discuss the sharing of childhood trauma with an equally young audience, while additionally discussing the role the illustrations play in the narrative.

Source: Second Story Press, Jenny Kay Dupuis & Kathy Kacer/Gillian Newland

The second reason I believe we should study this work is because of the content of the story itself.  The residential school system is an important issue that needs to be addressed, especially considering the location of our institution on the unceded land of the Musqueam peoples.  It is our responsibility as guests to educate ourselves about the injustices that have been imposed on the Indigenous peoples of our nation. By studying this book, we will be given the opportunity to further our knowledge of Indigenous issues that will spark necessary conversations on these difficult subjects.

Finally, I believe this picture book would compliment the work that has already been done in the course. As previously stated, I Am Not a Number is based off the experience of the grandmother of one of the authors.  This lends itself for comparisons to be made to Forgiveness by Mark Sakamoto, a memoir that shares the stories of the author’s grandparents during World War II.  Both narratives have a responsibility to both their relatives and their audience to authentically share the traumatic experience. Additionally, the discussion of race would compliment Missing Sarah by Maggie De Vries, a memoir that prompts discussions of contemporary Indigenous discrimination.  The following discussions of Indigenous rights also correspond with the archival studies done in the course, particularly the online archives of residential schools.  In the archives the narratives are shaped by those in power, but this book would provide an alternative view of the experience.

It is for these reasons, I believe that the powerful story of I am not a Number deserves a place on the ASTU 100 syllabus.

Source: https://peelarchivesblog.com/2015/08/26/how-do-archivists-organize-collections/

In 1943, Leo Otsuki was removed from his home of Surrey, BC following the development of government policies that interned Japanese-Canadians in World War II.  From his new home in North Kildonan, Manitoba, Leo kept in contact with school friend, Joan Gillis, through the sending and receiving of letters.  Nearly eighty years later, Leo’s side of the correspondence now resides in the Rare Books and Special Collections at the University of British Columbia.

Though six letters remain of Joan and Leo’s correspondence, this post will analyze the fourth letter written by Leo as an autobiographical document.  The letter provides a clear example of the role of storytelling in written correspondence. Due to the delayed nature of conversation through the post, letters can contain a stream of consciousness that develops when talking to an absent recipient.  Leo demonstrates this through his in-depth and honest recounting of his recent change in location; he has now moved from Manitoba to Montreal to become a student at McGill University.

After addressing the confusion of his new address, he launches into an explanation of how he landed an acceptance at McGill.  He begins by reviewing the grades he received on his high school final exams, boasting averages in the 90th percentile.  Although this information establishes Leo as a highly qualified candidate for higher education, he reveals that he was rejected by over half a dozen Canadian institutions.  By supplying examples of the reasoning for each rejection, it becomes clear that it was never because of his capability in academia.  Furthermore, the tone of his penmanship reveals that he is not ignorant to the real reason behind his rejection. In this period of war and discrimination, his rejection was because he was Japanese.  This knowledge, however, must remain implicit between Joan and Leo; as clearly stated on stamps decorating the letter’s envelope, the letter was analyzed by government officials responsible for tracking communication by Japanese individuals.  This factor inhibits the ability of Leo to be completely transparent, despite the opportunity for uninterrupted openness that typical letter writing presents.  As a result, the true intentions of his letter can only be revealed through an analysis of tone, content and context.

Though feeling discouraged, Leo lastly applied to McGill after his brother in Montreal informed him of the institution’s leniency with admissions.  Leo explains that he only applied out of curiosity, wondering what reason they would give for his rejection. Alas, he received an acceptance and promptly moved to begin his schooling. However, Leo does not attempt to conceal his ill view of the city and campus, constantly comparing it to the University of British Columbia and revealing his longing for his real home. These confessions contribute the importance of this letter as a representation of his true experience, providing both factual evidence and personal insight.

The length and self-reflection of this letter allow it to delve deeper than casual pleasantries shared between two friends.  Leo’s letter, instead, is a story of rejection and discouragement that couple to develop the most prominent theme of displacement.  While Joan had the privilege of remaining in Surrey, Leo was bounced across the country without ever truly belonging.  By recounting the entirety of his experience, Leo’s letter to Joan becomes a form of autobiography.  Though only providing a brief glimpse at his life, the letter is Leo’s story—an individual experience he decided was monumental enough to write down and share.  Its archival presence today allows scholars to analyze the correspondence and develop an understanding of the value of letters in representing an experience.

Works Cited:

Otsuki, Leo. Letter to Joan Gillis. 31 October 1943. RBSC-ARC-1786, Box 2, Folder 4. Joan Gillis

             Fonds. Rare Books and Special Collections, University of British Columbia, Vancouver.

Source: www.monitis.com

Social media has essentially been turned into a highlight reel of the lives its users.  But does the “end of life” truly mean the end of posts?

According to We Are Social’s Digital Report 2018, the world houses 3.196 billion social media users.  With the rise of online interaction, your profiles (typically spanning multiple platforms) and your internet activity contribute to your online identity. Your digital footprint, defined by TechTerms as the “trail of data you create while using the Internet,” increases with every click and search you make on the web.  This accumulation of data creates a new aspect of your personhood, otherwise known as your “digital life.” The extension of the self to an outside source prompts an important question: Will your personhood exceed death due to the existence of your online persona?

Behind every online profile is the assumption of a live person on the other end.  However, when a user dies, what happens to their accounts? It is not uncommon to visit the page of a recently deceased user and see their profile flooded with comments of “#RIP,” emojis of broken hearts, and the intriguing phrase “You will be missed.” The “you” implies that despite the decease of the user, their personhood is still in existence.  Because of the existence of their profile and the ability for interaction with it to still occur, it is as if the person is not entirely gone.

In “Posthumous personhood and the affordances of social media” by James Meese, Bjorn Nansen, Tamara Kohn, Michael Arnold and Martin Gibbs, the authors explore this idea of the digital life exceeding the biological life.  They discuss how the development of services such as DeadSocial allow the deceased to control their social media posthumously.  Through this site, people can write messages and schedule their release for after their death. The ability to send to communicate after passing on blurs the line of constrained interaction between the dead and the living.  While your body may have stopped functioning, your digital life continues on.

Additionally, the authors explore the ability of loved ones to take over the accounts of relatives they have lost.  Despite being operated by another person, the identity of the account still belongs to the deceased. Meese and his co-authors give the example of Greg Murphy, whose wife, Natalie, was a victim of cancer  Following her death, he took over her Facebook profile to continue her work in breast cancer prevention advocacy. Through using her profile to uphold her beliefs, Greg is able to keep not only her memory, but her personhood alive.  Natalie’s Facebook friends still see “her” interacting with them online, almost as if she is still there.

There, of course, are disputes about who has the right to control the digital lives of the deceased.  While some argue access should be granted to friends and family, others believe that the privacy of the individual should be respected.  As the issue becomes more prevalent, new features such as “Memorialization” on Instagram and “Legacy Contacts” on Facebook allow the profiles to outlive the user.  However, the practice of keeping accounts active prolongs the digital life in a way that biology cannot.

This leaves a question to ponder: is social media really only for the living?

Works Cited

“Death and the Internet.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 22 Oct. 2018, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_and_the_Internet.

“Digital Footprint.” Digital Footprint Definition, techterms.com/definition/digital_footprint.

“Digital in 2018: World’s Internet Users Pass the 4 Billion Mark.” We Are Social UK, 30 Jan. 2018, wearesocial.com/uk/blog/2018/01/global-digital-report-2018.

Facebook Help Center. What Is a Legacy Contact and What Can They Do?, www.facebook.com/help/1568013990080948.

Instagram Help Center. What Happens When a Deceased Person’s Account Is Memorialized?, 2018, help.instagram.com/231764660354188.

Meese, James, et al. “Posthumous Personhood and the Affordances of Digital Media.”Mortality, vol. 20, no. 4, 2015, pp. 408-420.

User, Super. “DeadSocial – Digital Legacy Management.” DeadSocial – Prepare for Death Digitally & Build Your Digital Legacy – DeadSocial – Digital Legacy Management, deadsocial.org/.

Traditional art and contemporary politics collide within the “Arts of Resistance: Politics and the Past in Latin America” exhibit at the University of British Columbia’s Museum of Anthropology.

Despite the exhibit being filled with complexity in both content and artistic mediums, I found myself gravitating toward a threesome of crayon drawings.  The collection was entitled “In Search of Safety,” containing three illustrations done by Salvadoran refugee children in the 1980’s. At this time, the Salvadoran military had used bombings, howitzer attacks and mortars to attack suspected communists, resulting in the death and evacuation of many civilians.

But why these drawings?  What is it about the simplicity of a childhood narrative that make them so enticing?  In this blog post, I will explore childhood trauma narratives and their impact on both the child and the world.

A drawing done by Maribel Ayala containing the words, “The soldiers came and killed our families in El Salvador.” Source: Ayala, Maribel. Arts of Resistance: Politics and the Past in Latin America. 17 May- 30 Sept. 2018. Museum of Anthropology at UBC.

A drawing (top) by Nora Alfaro states “When we were crossing the Lempa for a safe place in Honduras, helicopters were shooting on us, and they killed our relatives.” A drawing (bottom) by Luis Leiba says, “In the Lempa river the soldiers made a massacre and killed many children, old people and women. They burned the places where we used to live.” Source: Arts of Resistance: Politics and the Past in Latin America. 17 May- 30 Sept. 2018. Museum of Anthropology at UBC.

The Child

The Medical University of South Carolina defines a trauma narrative as the retelling of a child’s traumatic experience.  The intentions of creating a trauma narrative are so the child can privately come to understand and express their experiences in a healthy manner.  Through difficult and intense thought, the children relive and communicate their experiences in great detail. As seen in the “In Search of Safety” collection, one of the narrative mediums is drawing.  The first image shows soldiers with guns coming to attack the child’s home, while the other two depict the helicopters that came and bombed them. The personal connection was then made through the words they chose to accompany the images.  Blunt statements such as “they killed our families” allow the child to come to terms with what they have witnessed.

The World

Given previous acknowledgements to the privacy of trauma narratives, it is then interesting to see how their emergence into the public eye has made such a large impression. The simple and direct delivery in the narratives has crafted a raw connection between the survivors and their audience.  There is a reason, for example, that Anne Frank’s, “The Diary of a Young Girl” is one of the most well known pieces to emerge from the second World War. By witnessing trauma through a child’s perspective, an undeniably cruel reality is presented which people can no longer feign ignorance to. The drawings in the exhibit, for example, are not necessarily art masterpieces, but they communicate complexity in an implicit manner.  In other words, the art is able to juxtapose the innocent and simple mind of a child with the tragedy of war and violence. Perhaps they would not be found in a traditional art museum, yet they are a critical part of telling the story of Latin American politics. When it comes to violence, it appears that the world is more affected when children are involved.

And Finally, Me

The voice of a child is, in theory, the voice of innocence.  Yet, standing in the “Arts of Resistance” exhibit, I came to realize how untrue that idea was.  Children who experience trauma, whether that be due to political unrest or individual experiences, are no longer innocent.  When I think back to my own childhood drawings, they contained things like a snowstorm or a sunny day; things that I observed in my everyday life.  How horrible to think, then, that the depicted images of murder and violence are what their early memories consist of. The publications of childhood trauma narratives are important because they create awareness in a way that is impossible to ignore.

Works Cited

Arts of Resistance: Politics and the Past in Latin America. 17 May- 30 Sept. 2018.  Museum of Anthropology at UBC.

Medical University of South Carolina. What is a Trauma Narrative? Bridges of Courage Counseling, 2018. www.thechildcenter.com/wp-content/uploads

Frank, Anne. The Diary of a Young Girl. Bantam, July 1993.