Art Spiegelman’s work Maus, a graphic novel, is haunting. It is a portrayal, told through the son of an Auschwitz survivor, of the Jews during World War II. Only, Spiegelman’s work is a little different than the usual representation; within the pages, the Jewish people are drawn as mice, and the Nazi’s as cats. This seemingly simple device has a hugely powerful effect and Maus I: My father Bleeds History and Maus II: And Here My Troubles Began deservingly won the Pulitzer Prize in 1992. “Maus compels us to bear witness in a different way: the very artificiality of its surface makes it impossible to imagine the reality beneath” – Newsweek.

I agree wholeheartedly with this review; it is the very juxtaposition of medium, comics, and content, the Holocaust, that leaves the reader forever changed. The Holocaust, as Spiegelman himself notes in Maus II, has been revisited over and over again, in many different forms. However I think, even when the book was published in 1986, the people of the Western world were already desensitized to the vivid reenactments that were put forth in the visual form, that is movies. We are trained to watch movies that depict the visual terror, and remind ourselves, “this isn’t real”. Which is I think why Maus was so successful; there is something about watching cartoon mice, so innocent and small, getting punished in the pages Spielgelman drew. Because it was something we are not yet desensitized to, Maus punched us in the gut in the way many movies attempted to, but failed.

Which is why, I was disappointed, when doing a little further digging, to discover that Spiegelman published another work as a companion in 2011, MetaMaus: A Look Inside a Modern Classic, Maus. MetaMaus is a compilation of what went into the making of the Maus. It includes Spiegelman’s original interviews with his father, drafts of the work, a DVD of photos and videos, and interviews of Art Spiegelman himself. This unveiling of the process of Maus leaves me underwhelmed; it was Maus’s very disconnect from reality that made it as successful as it was. The Telegraph Review echoes these thoughts: “On the one hand, it [MetaMaus] consolidates Maus’s status as a canonical work, about which we need to know everything, and emphasises its claim to historical testimony… On the other hand, however, the almost overwhelming presence of all this stuff emphasizes that history is far from a straightforward retrieval of “facts”, but rather involves a complex process of accumulation, sifting and construction”. Though their dissatisfaction stems from a slightly different place, it echoes what I’m feeling. It’s like learning how magic tricks work. Once you know, once you see the details, see how the trick was constructed, you can’t see the magic of the trick any more. You can only see the mechanisms behind it.

Again, critically, I wonder what the intention was behind publishing a work like MetaMaus. I can’t help but feel as though it was created mostly because the publishers knew, with Maus’s success, that people would buy the book. And there is no doubt they also knew that publishing MetaMaus would create a resurgence of interest in the original work, giving readers “an opportunity” to read Maus with a different lens. However, I think that this may have backfired. MetaMaus changes the reading of Maus. But it’s not for the better.

The exhibit “Speaking to Memory” in the MOA is framed, from the first plaque beside the door on the way in, as a way to make real the injustices that occurred to those who were taught within St. Michael’s Indian Residential School. In exposing the truth, the exhibit proposes that the nation can “reconcile” with the native people who were wronged, to acknowledge the faults made and learn from it. Several times, these ‘descriptive’ plaques explained that the purpose of the testimonies, and the pictures, were to give those who were affected a voice, to “identify” them with permanence.

But what struck me as most odd was the impermanence in which the victim’s testimonies, in their material sense, were displayed. Any text that was not written by an aboriginal was made much more prominent, much more permanent looking, as a fixture in the exhibit. Just speaking graphically, I found that nearly all of the Commission’s statements were much bigger than the actual testimonies of the native people. The statements about the intention of the Indian Residential School commission, right when you first walk through the door, are huge. They have backdrops, and are written in fancy texts. Likewise, the ‘apology’ section, in which factions of society admit to their part in the wrongdoing, are displayed almost beautifully. They look like scrolls, and give the impression of being formal and important. In stark contrast, the victim’s testimonies are virtually large pieces of paper, in colourful ink, tacked up to the wall. They almost don’t look as though they belong, or that they could easily be ripped down. Similarly, beside the photos that are displayed, there is an explanation, saying that their purpose was to “make visible” the victims, and that they were still in the process of “naming” the photos in order to do so. Yet, the “naming” of people in the photos literally occurred with, what looked like, erasable marker. The description even prompted people to “add to” or “change” the names if they had additional information! This seems like the opposite of validating someone’s existence.

In my eyes, the curation of the exhibit went against what it proposed it was doing. And I can’t help wondering, why? Why make the victims testimonies and pictures seem like the most temporary part of the exhibit? The only thing I could think is that perhaps “they”, the Commission, the government, still wants to downplay what happened. As with my doubts of the TRC, I begin to wonder who this “reconciliation” is actually for? Is it actually to make amends, and help those who were affected move forwards without forgetting what happened? Or is it to assuage the guilt, restore respect of the government, and move past the incident?

I think both. And I do think there are hugely positive things to be said about what it has done for the victims; sharing the truth, and being heard, must have been vindicating to say the least. But I fear the latter may be the true motivation. Consider the context of the actual exhibit: it’s in a museum. When I think of museums, I think of the past. And yes, the residential schools did exist in the past. But it was the very recent past, and the racism and intolerance surely still exists today. By putting this exhibit in a museum, it’s like saying “well, that was a sad thing that happened, thank goodness it’s over”.  Also consider the very specific museum it was chosen to be exhibited in: the Museum of Anthropology.  A museum that, while your walking towards Speaking Memory, boasts native American totem poles and artwork. MOA does not seem dismissive of this culture; rather the museum prides itself on it. How easy then to walk through Speaking Memory and think that it’s just a thing of the past, something that has been “resolved”.

I know it’s cynical, but I can’t help thinking: whose interests is this exhibit really serving?

I’ve been thinking a lot about memoir, and their place in life narratives. Specifically, I am intrigued by the uprising of relational memoirs. By this I mean memoirs that are not actually about the author, but are focused one, sometimes two, important people in the author’s life. There are many popular examples of this. Jeannette Walls’, Glass Castle, though following the chronology of her own life, is primarily about her parents. Missing Sarah, by Maggie De Vries is about De Vries’ sister. Truth and Beauty, by Ann Patchett is about her best friend. The emphasis in these works seems not to be the “memory” aspect of memoirs, but is attached more to the “memorial” aspect. Having read all of these examples, and many more traditional memoirs (where the author’s journey is the most significant), I find the ‘relational memoirs’ to be more successful. This point is seconded by an (very cynical) article in the New York Times, the 4^th bullet down: “If you still must write a memoir, consider making yourself the least important character in it”. And I can’t help wondering: why?

Instinctively, I would think the opposite to be true, that we prefer traditional memoir over relational. When we read non-fiction, we generally have one expectation: that the story be real. That it be true. The author is the expert of his/her experience, and we live vicariously through their words. So then would we feel cheated when the author is not actually the one actually experiencing, but is a bystander of sorts, looking in? Logic tells me yes, we would feel disappointed and steer away from these sorts of memoir, questioning their validity. However, reality tells me that these are often the most insightful, the most touching, subgenre of memoirs.

Perhaps what makes them so insightful is this distance between author and experience. As the article suggests, the idea of “shared experience” is an intriguing one; the author is understanding the phenomena, the circumstance, coming to terms with it, at the same time the reader is. I wonder if perhaps circumstances in memoirs, like addiction, like abortion, like sex-work, feel so foreign to us that we cannot connect to it when it’s explained first-hand. The appeal in relational memoirs is that the author and reader feel the same bewilderment to begin with. It’s not as direct an approach, but I think relational memoirs have equaled the ability to change reader’s perspective as traditional memoirs. If not more.

But then, is that highlighting a bigger societal problem; that we must be able to relate to the life stories presented before us, or at least relate to the narrator of the story, in order to be empathetic?

I am struck, both in the readings and in our discussions, about the concept of “mixing” that occurs in Fred Wah’s biotext The Diamond Grill. “Mixing” is both a theme throughout the work, and, quite literally, a way in which the book is presented. This mixing is, in fact, one of the ways Diamond Grill can be distinguished as a biotext, and not simply an autobiography. Within the pages, as we discussed in class, there is not only narrative, but history, recipes, historical documents. Changes in perspective, footnotes, poems, stream of consciousness. A menagerie of media all ‘mixed’ together to convey what Wah wants to convey. And what does Wah want to convey? Well, I would argue: that medium is the message. The book is a mix, a hybrid, just like Wah. It rejects the standards of traditional autobiography, a linear, logical line, and stands as it’s own genre. Perhaps in the way that Wah wishes for people reading the biotext to reject the stereotypical norms that people, especially people of mixed heritage, often feel forced to squish into. Let them, these people, have their own category, their own genre.

Wah sets this idea of both metaphorical and literal mixing on the second page, which is entitled “Mixed Grill is an Entre at The Diamond Grill”. Again, metaphorically, what follows is a prelude to the mixing of race and identity that occurs throughout the text: “it is part of their [Chinese-Canadians] colonial cook’s training, learning to serve the superior race in Hong Kong and Victoria properly”. This thought, of being a mix of both Chinese and Canadian, Asian and white, authentic and fake, echoes repeatedly throughout the work.

Likewise, I would say that the title of the chapter could very well be referring, quite literally, to the form of the text itself. We can’t forget that the name of the novel is also The Diamond Grill. Thus the mixing that occurs in The Diamond may not just be referring to the restaurant. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.

The idea that mixing has created something new is reinforced on page 98, “even now a half-Ukraine-half-Japanese daughter of a friend of mine calls anyone, white or not, who doesn’t fit, a Geek.” This piece of literature is not a singular genre. It too is a “Geek”.  The Diamond Grill is neither straight memoir, nor historical fiction, nor political novel. It is all and thus, it is none of these things. As Wah says in the last line of his forward “When you’re not “pure” you just make it up”.

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