In Conversation On Conversation: Joanne Arnott

I interviewed Joanne Arnott for EVENT magazine.

“Every time I run into Arnott, I have to resist the urge to sit at her feet and ask her to explain everything to me. Many emerging writers feel the same way when they find someone whose work they connect with. Creative writing and mentorship programs are built on this. Arnott’s intelligence is intimidating, but she’s willing to keep communication lines open between herself and readers. In fact, she gives the impression that she’d have it no other way. ”

Read more here.

Check out Joanne’s blog here.

Unsettled

Photo: Aurora Darwin

Photo: Aurora Darwin

I’ve been accepted as a contributor an anthology about colonialism in Canada. My experience as a member of The Peel Project certainly brought about my “lightbulb moment”, as editor Danielle Metcalfe-Chenail calls it, an experience that bought aboriginal-settler relations into sharp focus for me. I’m thrilled to get the chance to contribute an essay to this anthology! More details soon.

John Vaillant turns his attention to fiction with The Jaguar’s Children

I have a new book review in the Globe and Mail today, John Vaillant’s The Jaguar’s Children.

As a fellow Vancouverite, I can tell you Vaillant also walks the walk; he was out on Burnaby Mountain in late November protesting the Trans Mountain pipeline. As a matter of fact, when I was introduced to his work, I misread his name as Valiant and thought: Well, that’s appropriate. His work is fearless and full of heart.

Read more here. 

The Comeback

I reviewed John Ralston Saul’s latest book, The Comeback, for the Globe and Mail.

John Ralston Saul is a mighty thinker and a goddamn national treasure (imagine me saying that with a cigar between my teeth and a scotch in my fist). But if a national treasure pontificates, and the defensive public won’t listen, has he still made a sound?

Read more here.

All These Imperfect Emotions Vol 3. Part 1. I’m no Pocahontas (the accidental neocolonialists)

2014-10-Disney-Pocahontas-38If you’ve been wondering why I haven’t spoken much about the environmental or cultural implications of my trip, it’s because I don’t completely understand what they are yet. I was not an environmental warrior before I paddled the Peel. I was in denial. In the introduction to her latest book, This Changes Everything, Naomi Klein outlines the different cognitive strategies used by those of us who have been ignoring climate change. She nailed my approach, for sure. Maybe yours, too.

“Or we look but tell ourselves that all we can do is focus on ourselves. Meditate and shop at farmers’ markets and stop driving–but forget trying to actually change the systems that are making the crisis inevitable because that’s too much “bad energy” and will never work. And at first it may appear as if we are looking, because many of these lifestyle changes are indeed part of the solution, but we still have one eye tightly shut.”

PREACH. And although I saw incredible things and endured some hardship on the trip, I’m not suddenly an expert on the Peel or the people who make the Peel their home. I was a tourist, albeit a well-intentioned one, and that was obvious every single day of the trip. I’ve done this ass-backwards, dragged myself through a part of the world I was ambivalent about beforehand, hoping to connect with a culture I knew very little about, though perhaps more than my travel-mates. So now, as I write down memories, I’m adding the layers required to tell this story properly. And that can only be achieved by shutting up my opinion hole and doing some reading. I should also add that the environmental and cultural implications of my trip are inextricably linked, since the Nacho Nyak Dun, Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in, and Tetlit Gwich’in people are connected to the Peel. The people and the river are not two separate entities.

So, in my latest research, I’ve been surprised (though I shouldn’t have been) to learn how the FIrst Nations’ connection to their environment has been exploited by the neocolonialist narrative–that is, the social narrative that claims “hey, colonialism happened and really guys, it was for the best.” For this discovery, I can thank my travel-mates, and an unintentional gaffe that was made on the trip. It has to do with Disney, which should be no surprise to anyone. So read on, and keep in mind that this post is meant more as a sorting of ideas and impressions than a definitive voice. I am much obliged to Derek T. Buescher and Ken A. Ono for their article Civilized Colonialism: Pocahontas as Neocolonial Rhetoric. And I suggest you read it, since I am paraphrasing their work in this post.

Hoping to find myself in the landscape was naive. I realized that quickly, and now I feel like an idiot. Looking for myself in the canyon walls, emaciated black spruce, pock-marked beach stones–that was stupid. I’ve been here the whole time, inside my body. My poor broken body, with toes I can no longer feel, fingers that threaten to break off every time I stuff that fucking sleeping bag into its sack. I haven’t taken a shit in seven days, I just dig a hole and cry a little every morning. Twist and turn, stand up, walk around a little with three layers of pants around my ankles. Squat again. My body can’t even do the things it’s built for out here. “Squatting is the most natural way to go,” people keep telling me, solemn faced. God, I want to punch them when they say that. If you’ve grown up taking a shit on a porcelain throne in a Windexed, climate controlled room, then that’s the most natural way to go, right? Nature < Nurture.

So then, maybe I’m here not find myself, but to further define some fuzzy parts. Specifically, my Métis self, since that had been my original intention. But as the days pass it’s obvious that isn’t happening either, not the defining part. Doubt is happening though. Lots of doubt, mostly about whether I have the right to be here, using this trip for creative fuel, whether my puny voice will really convince anyone that they should save the Peel, and whether I have the right to consider my voice a Métis voice at all. Whether I’m mining the aboriginal niche market to try and convince anyone who might read the story that my blood line somehow makes me more of an authority on Canadian identity. I suspect Calder is counting on that–with the best of intentions of course–as my Métis-ness got brought up a lot in the film promo. Look at me, with my long, braided black hair and my tanned skin! And part Icelandic, too, truly a wild woman looking for a place to happen. What a joke. Forget finding a connection to the northern landscape. I can’t even relieve myself on it.

But doubt is useless–harmful really–and a trip like this doesn’t allow me much time or energy for useless pursuits. So when I finally catch my stride about ten days into the trip, I try to re-shape my anxieties into questions. Questions about concrete concerns, like, if I’m not aboriginal enough to call myself Métis, why does it make me so angry when my travel-mates sing songs from Disney’s Pocahontas over and over and over again? I’m sure they’re not riffing off the colonial implications of the film, not intentionally, anyway. But hang on a second here, do I understand the colonial implications of the film? Not really. Not enough to make an intelligent argument to my travel-mates about why I wished they would shut the fuck up. This is fine, me being out here, beating myself up for the cause, but without a proper education, I’m just some earnest schmuck using physical hardship and a tenuous blood link to position myself as a voice of authority on First Nations culture. What I needed… was the internet.

But I didn’t have the internet, and wouldn’t for another ten days, so I held my tongue on the whole “just around the riverbend” debacle. Wrote “Google colonial implications of Disney’s Pocahontas” in my journal.

What I love most about rivers is:
You can’t step in the same river twice
The water’s always changing, always flowing
But people, I guess, can’t live like that
We all must pay a price
To be safe, we lose our chance of ever knowing
What’s around the riverbend
Waiting just around the riverbend

So I guess we know what was actually waiting just around the riverbend for North American indigenous people. War. Assimilation. Genocide. It does make these words seem hideously insensitive, whether or not the Disney version of this (already hopelessly unreliable) story was meant to be historically accurate. As Buescher and Ono point out, Pocahontas was the first time Disney had adapted a historical narrative into a movie.

Call it artistic licence or effective marketing, but Disney turned the 10- to 15-year-old Native American girl … Pocahontas, into a woman; turned the middle-aged man, John Smith, into a young man and their “supposed” meeting into a romance.

A romance between who, exactly? The buxom and forward-thinking Pocahontas, oppressed by her traditional father’s ideas about arranged marriage, chooses Smith–the kinder, gentler and even heroic version of colonial domination by the Europeans. The evil, selfish, destructive colonial was of course played by Governor Ratcliffe. This is kind of like Don Draper giving two advertising options options to a client, one shitty, and one better than shitty, but still not great.

Part 2 next week!

All These Imperfect Emotions, vol. 2. Home.

I think this is Joel's photo.

I think this is Joel’s photo.

I spent most of the summer alternating between getting really pissed and running long distances. I can run a long way with a hangover. Seriously. Both endeavours were effective ways to escape reality. I was scared of what was to come on the Peel trip, and I was afraid of my new single life. I’d get so annoyed when people told me it was good for me to be single, how could anyone enjoy being alone? That sounded like such bullshit. Though I hadn’t particularly enjoyed being a wife, or a girlfriend-wife. So, uh, what else was there?

I’d just started to get it before we left for the Peel. Started to feel the crazy happiness of a night spent playing D&D and eating deep-fried stuff with new friends. Spending time with dudes I had no intention of sleeping with and really enjoying myself. Going out with girlfriends. I’d done these things before, of course, but now I felt more present, more me. Just me. And the bunny, of course. My heart. Besides her, I didn’t have to answer to anyone.

Then it was time to leave for the Peel. I packed up my room completely, since I was going to be moving to an upstairs room when I got home. So that precarious space I’d established for myself was disassembled. Not that I’d really bonded with it much anyway. I was so happy to have the kind of life that allowed me to pull up stakes and go on an adventure like this: no car, no mortgage, no kids. Keep it light enough to travel. That’s me.

Home.

Last night, my room finally felt like home, for about thirty seconds. I looked around at my stuff and thought, “this is where I live, just me,” and it was a nice concept. It was also such a foreign feeling, it staggered me a little and I had the sensation of seeing my room as if for the first time. As if I’d never been there (here) before. Then it started to feel like it was someone else’s room, but a nice room, somewhere I wanted to be. So I had to pull myself back, no, this is my space. This is where I live.

I think having a real bed helped bring on this feeling of homey-ness, that tiny futon I’ve been sleeping on is just ridiculous. Nobody past twelve looks at a single bed and thinks “home.” But I also have a real bookshelf now, with a small percentage of my books unpacked and on display. I have lamps, and side tables. And as soon as I can lug it up the stairs, I’ll have my desk here, too, a beautiful heavy old beast that Betsy Warland gave me. So yeah, I have some stuff. And a place to put it in. I pulled out some sage I’d been saving and smudged the room, cleared out the space for myself and tried to feel my feet on the ground. It’s obvious that really feeling home is going to be a process.

When I was married, I spent most of my time focused on home. Decorating, cleaning, baking bread from scratch, gardening, throwing dinner parties, painstakingly arranging kitchen table centrepieces. My kitchen table centrepieces were cray. Inuksuit made from tiny crab shells hot glued to beach glass and flat stones. Tealights and gerbera daisies and bottles of sand from the gobi desert. I had piles of treasures ready to be combined any way I chose: chunks of melted solder I rescued from somebody’s workshop, driftwood from Wickaninnish beach, jade frogs. And once the centrepiece was crafted, I would pull out the dishes to set and re-set the table. Try different combinations of bowls and salad plates, the bamboo placemats vs. the jute. I actually wove my own placemats, with a simple hand loom my dad made for me. Once I’d found a table setting I liked, I’d look through my cookbooks and decide on what kind of food would look good on the table. Then I’d think about who we should invite over. On the day of the dinner party, I would clean the house so throughly, I’d usually be exhausted by the time the guests arrived. Spend hours on hors d’oeuvres and dessert. This is how you adult, I thought. I had a teapot collection. A TEAPOT COLLECTION.

If this sounds like a Carleigh you can’t possibly fathom, don’t worry, I can’t fathom her, either. When I separated from my husband, and walked away with a few backpacks worth of stuff, I abandoned all concept of home, of being a homemaker. I left the jute placemats. I stopped preparing any meals that weren’t basically going to be eaten out of one bowl. I took one mug, and I’m drinking my coffee out of it right now. Although I did find a cozy bedroom in a house with some ladies with mad homemaking skillz, I usually felt more like their wayward cousin than a woman who had at one point spent hours cramming cumin-avocado foam into hollowed-out cherry tomatoes. The room had a built-in kind of bunkbed, which meant I could hold off a little longer on buying that one piece of furniture that kind of suggests settling. That, and my immediate transition into a relationship with a much younger guy pretty much cemented my status as an adult-in-denial for a few more years.

Before he and I moved in together, the bf and I went to Thailand for five months to live like nomads. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to move in with him when we returned, not because he wasn’t lovely, but because my faith in committed relationships was so shaken. But we tried it on for size. And although I pulled out the handprinted blankets and paper lanterns I’d salvaged from my past life and hung them up, begged and salvaged couches and dishes and cutlery and started cooking multi-pot meals, we never really settled down. We sublet a place for a few months, kind of a purgatory, then moved in to a basement suite with some crazy landlords upstairs, with a pitbull and an alarm system. This was around the time I agreed to do the Peel project. I wondered how I would ever live without him for a whole month! And then we ended things and I moved out, taking a small fraction of the stuff we had amassed. The tiny futon was the lightest and easiest to portage bed-like item we had, so I took that. After a few weeks of couch surfing, one carload of stuff took me to my new place, a spacious room in a rundown house in a sweet location. For the first time since I was twenty-one, I was single.

To be continued!