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.

Why all the excitement? It's only Edmonton.

Exclamations of affect punctuate this class, have you noticed? Almost every day there is some topic that will set us galloping merrily down one tangent or another, eagerly shouting out our experience, our feelings. It began with hockey -- fierce declarations of love or hatred -- and lately our meanderings have included traffic here and elsewhere and the worthiness of Edmonton as a place to live.

Most of us are in at least our third year of university and, one would imagine, sufficiently educated by this point to feel a sense of ownership over the stuff packed in our heads. But I don't think that's the case. I think we sound out so much in this class because we are finally in a class in which we do know what we're talking about, and the novelty of it is overwhelming. Despite having learned so much, and perhaps because we're constantly in subordinate positions in our classes where we couldn't possibly be the expert on anything, we don't own our knowledge.

I know I know Edmonton. I know 167 Ave turns into Castle Downs Road and then into 113 A Street before running into the dead end of the rail yards; I know that the 9 bus to Southgate carries old grandmas going shopping at Kingsway or downtown, teens on their way to Vic Comp, middle agers heading to their office towers and desk jobs, the odd drunk, lots of moms and dads with strollers and me going to work or home or who knows. I know the petty rivalries of West Side and North Side with their silly, contorted hand signs signaling membership. I know I miss out on a parts of the city familiar and beloved by some because of my particular background, and I know those others miss out on things I love too. I know these things because this is my city, the place I grew up, the place I choose to call my own.

I'm not an Edmonton booster. A lot of the time I think this city is so mediocre, so average, I wonder why people choose to live here. But I know it and it's mine, and the opportunity to speak on a subject I know, with a knowledge I own, is exciting.

I know not everybody feels Edmonton this way, but we all feel this way about some place, the place(s) we call home. Edmonton is enough of a wallflower city that it can stand in for those other places too.

This class is about getting to know this city through the the literary lens. We're learning new things, yes, but for once we're all experts.