It struck me that this faulty method of understanding North American history (or New World history in general) is that the reason we question it is because the people it displaces are around to complain about it -- or for "us" to feel guilty about. Romans displaced previous cultures, but Rome's origin myth is not subjected to scrutiny. Had fragments of those cultures and peoples survived, I'm sure talk of Rome having been the founded by twin sons of Mars that were suckled by a she-wolf would be challenged.
I'm going to explain what I mean by this in my next post, but the next five hours of my life will be sacrificed to last-minute paper writing. My apologies and check back soon for the full version of my comment.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Breathing life into LitCrit
Further to our discussion in class today, I too disliked "How to Breathe Again." I disliked it because I'm bored by stories about drug culture, and because the dialogue technique left me confused more than once. But more than that, I disliked it because I didn't feel it said anything new or specific about Edmonton. Given that it's in an anthology about Edmonton, it should have told me something new about the city. All it told me was that there's drug addicts here. Quel surprise. Take out the place names and you could situate this story in any other city.
Another thing. I think in English we get really caught up with "the text." We reify it; we act as if it could exist without an author, without a reader, without paper or ink. Why and how the author wrote it, who reads it and how and why they read it, and what it looks/feels/smells/tastes/sounds like are usually overlooked, but I think they are just as important as asking "does it work," as if "it" exists in isolation from these other things.
If the writer really doesn't matter in discussions about "the text," why have Darrin Hagen come speak to the class? I don't think the answer is "because he's a drag queen, and we want to know more about that scene." Well, it's not the whole answer. If it were, we could have had any queen talking to us and it wouldn't have made a difference. Most people would say having had Hagen in added to the depth of their understanding of the book, I think.
I recognize that none of these are new ideas, but I think it's too bad we English-types don't consider them more often.
Another thing. I think in English we get really caught up with "the text." We reify it; we act as if it could exist without an author, without a reader, without paper or ink. Why and how the author wrote it, who reads it and how and why they read it, and what it looks/feels/smells/tastes/sounds like are usually overlooked, but I think they are just as important as asking "does it work," as if "it" exists in isolation from these other things.
If the writer really doesn't matter in discussions about "the text," why have Darrin Hagen come speak to the class? I don't think the answer is "because he's a drag queen, and we want to know more about that scene." Well, it's not the whole answer. If it were, we could have had any queen talking to us and it wouldn't have made a difference. Most people would say having had Hagen in added to the depth of their understanding of the book, I think.
I recognize that none of these are new ideas, but I think it's too bad we English-types don't consider them more often.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Downtown Deadmonton
Having grown up in Edmonton, I knew about downtown's bad reputation. It was dead after 4:30, they said. There were lots of bums, they complained. Eaton Centre and Edmonton Centre sucked the life out of the streets, they ranted. Mostly I had ignored these comments. Downtown was very far away from my neighbourhood, so why should I care?
When I started working downtown in 2002 I didn't much consider these issues. My office tower seemed hermetically sealed; all I could ever need between 8:15 and 4:30 was within its confines, from convenience store and dry cleaner to bakery and shoe repair. But one day as I sat in my beige-walled cubicle, staring at my 15 inch CRT monitor while the florescent lights flickered overhead, I decided I wanted a bagel. And not just any bagel: no, I wanted a whole wheat and honey bagel, toasted with strawberry cream cheese. That's right, a Tim Horton's bagel.
I leaned back in my ergonomic chair and reviewed my mental map of downtown for the nearest Timmies, but after a few minutes of searching came up empty. I expanded the search parametres and tried again. With a sinking stomach I stared up incredulously at the greying ceiling tiles. Could it be? The nearest Timmies was in Oliver Square? This was downtown. I thought everybody drank coffee downtown. Why on earth didn't Tim Horton's, that one business in Canada that was ensured of instant franchise success, have a location in the heart of the city?
In that moment of incredulity, I finally understood the concern Edmontonians had for our downtown. In that moment, I was transported from my cubicle down to the middle of a dead-empty Jasper Avenue to witness a tumbleweed roll down the street as a vulture circled overhead and old West music played out of nowhere. If Tim Horton's didn't think it could survive in our downtown, things were a lot worse than I thought.
Seven years later there are three Tim Horton's within a seven-block radius of my old office tower. The Bay building is no longer empty, and Jasper West has experienced a revival. Still, Front Page News closed last fall and a ridiculously big club opened down the road. (I shudder internally any time I open the door to Audrey's, hoping nobody peed on it the night before.) Two steps forward, one step back.
The place isn't perfect, but she's got good bones. And when the soul-sucking cubicle walls close in, a soothing cup of steeped tea is only a block away.
When I started working downtown in 2002 I didn't much consider these issues. My office tower seemed hermetically sealed; all I could ever need between 8:15 and 4:30 was within its confines, from convenience store and dry cleaner to bakery and shoe repair. But one day as I sat in my beige-walled cubicle, staring at my 15 inch CRT monitor while the florescent lights flickered overhead, I decided I wanted a bagel. And not just any bagel: no, I wanted a whole wheat and honey bagel, toasted with strawberry cream cheese. That's right, a Tim Horton's bagel.
I leaned back in my ergonomic chair and reviewed my mental map of downtown for the nearest Timmies, but after a few minutes of searching came up empty. I expanded the search parametres and tried again. With a sinking stomach I stared up incredulously at the greying ceiling tiles. Could it be? The nearest Timmies was in Oliver Square? This was downtown. I thought everybody drank coffee downtown. Why on earth didn't Tim Horton's, that one business in Canada that was ensured of instant franchise success, have a location in the heart of the city?
In that moment of incredulity, I finally understood the concern Edmontonians had for our downtown. In that moment, I was transported from my cubicle down to the middle of a dead-empty Jasper Avenue to witness a tumbleweed roll down the street as a vulture circled overhead and old West music played out of nowhere. If Tim Horton's didn't think it could survive in our downtown, things were a lot worse than I thought.
Seven years later there are three Tim Horton's within a seven-block radius of my old office tower. The Bay building is no longer empty, and Jasper West has experienced a revival. Still, Front Page News closed last fall and a ridiculously big club opened down the road. (I shudder internally any time I open the door to Audrey's, hoping nobody peed on it the night before.) Two steps forward, one step back.
The place isn't perfect, but she's got good bones. And when the soul-sucking cubicle walls close in, a soothing cup of steeped tea is only a block away.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The inhabitants of Nice reclaim their walkways
Nice on Thursday during a nationwide strike.
(Lionel Cironneau/Associated Press)
Unions said more than two million public and private sector workers took to the streets across France to protest against President Nicolas Sarkozy’s handling of the economic crisis, saying too much had been done to bail out fat cats and banks, and not enough to protect jobs and help workers make ends meet.
Air traffic controllers, train drivers, teachers, nurses, and tax inspectors were joined by private sector workers including bank clerks and staff from the firm that runs the Paris stock exchange. Some schools were shut, flights were cancelled, and the Palace of Versailles cwas losed in a rare show of unity between unions, although “Black Thursday” did not bring total transport paralysis.
From The Guardian via evanmorris.com.
Read the article here.
Springtime predictions
Bold prediction: the potholes are going to be atrocious this spring.
Calm down, I'm not psychic. I'm merely an acute observer of winter weather. Having experienced the continual periods of freezing and thawing this January and given my (somewhat sketchy, granted) knowledge of H2O chemistry, I have deduced that come April, drivers' tempers will fray and the airwaves will again be filled with pothole-induced vituperation. They're already evolving, those potholes. Yesterday I just missed falling into one on St. Albert Trail. By April it'll be a monster.
We live in an environment hostile to asphalt. This should be obvious to anyone who has a rudimentary understanding of grade six science. Yet each spring we forget this as completely as we forget each fall what 'winter driving conditions' means. Holy short-term memory, Batman.
But this post isn't about potholes, regardless of the passion that tangent drew forth. It's actually about roller blading. Yeah, I know it's leap. Stay with me. Potholes are caused by ice, and when ice makes an appearance, the sanding trucks get to work. That's good in the short run -- I like skidding across busy intersections as little as the next person -- but in the long run sanding trucks kill my soul a little bit. Come April, not only will potholes dot the roads, but sand will grime the sidewalks.
To walkers like Rebecca Solnit, sandy sidewalks are no big deal. Their shoes are made for walking; sand is no obstacle. But to a rollerblader like me, sand erases any chance of non-car transportation. I simply cannot blade if there's sand on the path. I'm merely an adequate rollerblader; maybe for those more advanced than me sand is no big deal. For me it is a big deal.
I like rollerblading because it's faster than walking, less tedious than biking, and great exercise. Unfortunately, the conditions necessary for rollerblading are more exacting than those for other modes of transportation. The path must be clear and smooth. Crumbling concrete, multitudinous cracks, and above all, sand preclude blading. It's damn frustrating.
I love this city for cutting down on salt use on roads, and I hate it for piling sand on my thoroughfares. I hate it for not sweeping the streets until May, and for missing the sand on the sidewalks on which windrows have melted. I hate it for the lack of city-spanning bike (or blade) paths.
Solnit and the walkers have it easy. All they require for their favoured mode of transportation are their feet. I need the cooperation of the city for mine, and as we all know, the city is niggardly in its handouts.
Another bold prediction: it'll be at least May before I can take to my blades.
Calm down, I'm not psychic. I'm merely an acute observer of winter weather. Having experienced the continual periods of freezing and thawing this January and given my (somewhat sketchy, granted) knowledge of H2O chemistry, I have deduced that come April, drivers' tempers will fray and the airwaves will again be filled with pothole-induced vituperation. They're already evolving, those potholes. Yesterday I just missed falling into one on St. Albert Trail. By April it'll be a monster.
We live in an environment hostile to asphalt. This should be obvious to anyone who has a rudimentary understanding of grade six science. Yet each spring we forget this as completely as we forget each fall what 'winter driving conditions' means. Holy short-term memory, Batman.
But this post isn't about potholes, regardless of the passion that tangent drew forth. It's actually about roller blading. Yeah, I know it's leap. Stay with me. Potholes are caused by ice, and when ice makes an appearance, the sanding trucks get to work. That's good in the short run -- I like skidding across busy intersections as little as the next person -- but in the long run sanding trucks kill my soul a little bit. Come April, not only will potholes dot the roads, but sand will grime the sidewalks.
To walkers like Rebecca Solnit, sandy sidewalks are no big deal. Their shoes are made for walking; sand is no obstacle. But to a rollerblader like me, sand erases any chance of non-car transportation. I simply cannot blade if there's sand on the path. I'm merely an adequate rollerblader; maybe for those more advanced than me sand is no big deal. For me it is a big deal.
I like rollerblading because it's faster than walking, less tedious than biking, and great exercise. Unfortunately, the conditions necessary for rollerblading are more exacting than those for other modes of transportation. The path must be clear and smooth. Crumbling concrete, multitudinous cracks, and above all, sand preclude blading. It's damn frustrating.
I love this city for cutting down on salt use on roads, and I hate it for piling sand on my thoroughfares. I hate it for not sweeping the streets until May, and for missing the sand on the sidewalks on which windrows have melted. I hate it for the lack of city-spanning bike (or blade) paths.
Solnit and the walkers have it easy. All they require for their favoured mode of transportation are their feet. I need the cooperation of the city for mine, and as we all know, the city is niggardly in its handouts.
Another bold prediction: it'll be at least May before I can take to my blades.
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