The most striking effect of Green Grass, Running Water is its ability to arouse readers’ desire to “get” the in-jokes, to track the allusions, and to find answers to a whole series of posed but unanswered questions _{(Fee and Flick 131)}

We each bring stories with us to our understanding of the world, and these stories are part of what makes us different from one another. As such, and as Fee and Flick indicate, not one of us holds all understanding of the wide range of allusions present in Green Grass, Running Water. We all have stories, and all contain some truth – our own truth. This is a crucial aspect of understanding others, of seeing that there are multiple perspectives: a crucial consideration when making assumptions. It is together, through the building of common ground (Paterson), we will begin to broaden our understandings.

For this final blog, I have chosen to focus my close reading on pages 193-204.

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Learning is holistic, reflexive, reflective, experiential, and relational (focused on connectedness, on reciprocal relationships, and a sense of place)

First Nations Education Steering Commitee

Let me tell you a story.

It starts with a seed, no larger than a grain of sand. Embraced by cool, damp earth, this seed takes root and stretches up towards the air – the warmth of the light. Up, up; reaching, growing. Soaking the water into its stem, this plant – no longer can it be called seedling – thrives under the fiery sun. Until, one day, the air, water, and earth grows cold. The plant begins to wither. It dries up. Settles back into the earth.

This is a story that is familiar. It is our story – the story of life. It can take many forms – change the characters or the setting, but the plot remains the same: “birth, youth, parents and elders” (Paterson).

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Within the traditional viewpoint of European literature, First Peoples stories come across as myths and legends. Taking on the label of children’s tales (Miracle), these stories have been stripped of their value.

Few First Nations writers are in a position to take the time to comb through the oratory, story, drama, and poetry in its original form and glean the principles of First Nations story creation from it.

The body of our oratory in its totality and original form, free of the so-called interpretive teachings, is the oldest oratory and constitutes our sacred texts. In order for criticism to arise naturally from within our culture, discourse must serve the same function it has always served. In Euro-society, literary criticism heightens the competition between writers and limits entry of new writers to preserve the original canon. What will its function be in our societies?

Lee Maracle (85)

Maracle writes that there are too few scholars who study “First Nations writing and writers” (84), and many are not First Nations themselves. The experts who are, “automatically becomes an expert” (85) in all First Nations cultures. The bodies of works within this field – within First Nations “oratory, story, drama, and poetry” (85) – are high in numbers, and the time it would take to sort through is too long for scholars to learn the principles that make up First Peoples literature. This poses a problem of bringing in more First Peoples representation into the developing nation of a decolonized Canada.

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Within past EDUC courses, my understanding of ‘literacy’, or being ‘literate’, has been re-defined and expanded upon; literacy is a social practice, and defines how people use reading and writing in their everyday lives. Canadian literature also has a new definition for me. Before this course, ‘Canadian’ literature was Louise Penny, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Wayson Choi. But like literacy’s original understanding (skill level of reading and/or writing), this is a narrow and incomplete canon.

The three blogs I have chosen are ones that have broaden my way of knowing, and have enriched my life and teaching practice. The questions and themes have taken me on the beginning of a exciting journey, and I look forward to what lies ahead.

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Looking at Roughing It In The Bush as a colonial memoir or work of creative fiction (Paterson), Moodie’s story is full of her experiences and reflections. Moodies interactions, feelings, interpretations of events, and actions have all influenced her understandings, and as such have been carried forward into this text. 

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Coyote is a trickster – a “transformer, vagabond, imitator, prankstor, first creator, seducer, fool” (Robinson 8). Coyote is a being that is able to shift at will. Coyote is not bound by time – Coyote is everywhere, yet Coyote is nowhere. 

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Finding the common ground – “a place where what we have in common is neither true nor untrue, a place where we come together in agreement not about what to believe but about what it is to believe” (loc 3187-3193 of 3425). Chamberlain writes about it. We have just explored it. The common ground of our class. Where our lives intersect around the theme of ‘home’, and where they depart from one another. These stories are a part of us. They are out there in the world now (King). 

We have a starting point in gaining deeper understanding of each other. This is a crucial aspect of understanding others, of seeing that there are multiple perspectives: a crucial consideration when interacting with others. 

Over this week, I have learned more about each of you – you who make up a big part of the ‘we’ Erika talks about in lesson 2:1. We are here, we are learning together. 

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After you’ve been many days out to sea, of all of the cities or towns you could go, which is the one that you would call your home? It’s Halifax – with her harbour so grand. Halifax with her mighty sea strands. You can take all the rest from the Thames to the Tyne; it’s Halifax, fair city of mine. 

David Stone, ‘It’s Halifax’

A breeze blows off the water, bringing with it the briny smell of the Atlantic. Though cold, it fills me with a warmth I cannot find anywhere else. Watching the moon guide the waves – pull and push. Pull. Push. Pull. Pull.

This is what calls to me when I think of home. The ocean, strong and powerful. The ocean, steadfast in the evening summer breeze. The ocean, raging against the rocks in the wicked winter storms.

This is what continually pulls me back. Back to where the people who love me most are waiting. Back to who I am.

It has been a long time since I have been here, since I have felt whole.

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a person in possession of a single story, may be at risk of misperceptions and misunderstandings. The same could be said for an incomplete story or even, an evil story…

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When considering J. Edward Chamberlin’s question of “why should underlying title be vested in the storyline of the settler society? […] Why not change underlying title back to aboriginal title?” (loc 3032-3041 of 3425), the power of a name is what first comes to mind.

This theme – the power of a word – is found throughout many eras of literature. Is a name simply a name, as William Shakespeare debates in Romeo and Juliet? Or is there power in a name, as Christopher Paolini explores in his Eragon series? Chamberlin makes the argument for both. He writes that:

Nothing would change if underlying title were aboriginal title. It would be a fiction. The facts of life would remain the same. Yet of course they would not remain the same, because this new title would constitute a new story and a new society. Our understanding of the land would change. Our understanding of aboriginal peoples would change. Our understanding of ourselves would change. Our sense of the origin and purpose of our nations would change. (loc 3051 – 3060 of 3425)

Nothing would change, yet everything would change.

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