legibility and viability

We have a blogging schedule here on saltwaterstories, but I’m afraid that in the busy-ness of administration and end of term, I’ve dropped my part of the ball (can you drop part of a ball?) And so, the timing is all off.

But here I am, in Chester, UK, where the tulips and cherry trees are in full bloom, at the biennial international Talking Bodies conference.

FullSizeRender-4

I can say with full authority that there are no tulips in full bloom in St.John’s right now.

I’ve come to this conference three times – every time, in fact, since its inception in 2013. It’s a highlight on my conference schedule and I’m so very happy that the fantastic creator and organizer of the conference, the incredible and seemingly indefatigable Emma Rees, has seen fit to accept my proposals each time.

There is nothing I like more than thinking and talking about bodies (yes, you can quote me on this). Especially when such conversations happen in a beautiful place like Chester, accompanied by great vegetarian food, and in the company of students, activists, independent researchers, and faculty members from 25 countries.

Sounds like bliss, doesn’t it? I can assure you, it is.

IMG_0931

St. John’s has a cool and colourful downtown, but it doesn’t look at all like this one.

It’s also, as a colleague put it, an endurance test. Emma has us all on a tight and very full schedule! Days begin early and end late. Yesterday was a 12-hour day, with a plenary at 9 pm. The day before was even longer, with a feminist pub quiz to round things out. Tonight we ended just after 9. But earlier today, I played hooky for a couple of sessions to a) pick up a birthday present for my soon-to-be-12-year-old-who-thinks-he’s-a-teenager-already, b) respond to work emails (the curse of being department head), and c) catch up with long-lost blogging.

IMG_0940

One of the things my find-a-birthday-present walk allowed me to do was to really figure out how it was that the different papers I’ve heard fit together. And I think that the comments of one delegate, Emma Hutson, who presented a paper on essentialism and anti-essentialism in cis and trans contexts this morning, summed it up. In response to someone’s commentary about Judith Butler, Hutson replied that it was important to think about the possible tensions between legibility, on the one hand, and viability, on the other. In other words, it is one thing to talk about how one might be properly read and understood in the world – how one is legible enough to be, in Butler’s understandings, grievable) – but the viability of such legibility is something else altogether. That is, sometimes the work of making oneself legible within and against dominant paradigms is just too much.

And here I think that Emma Hutson landed on exactly what I see emerging as a larger theme in the conference (at least in the context of the 24 papers I’ve listened to thus far): the limitations of dominant language and thought systems to articulate the diversity of human experience.

IMG_0943

Hutson’s paper brought me to Delia Steverson’s work on the intersection of disability studies and Black literary studies. In her paper, she examined slave narratives by Moses Roper and William Grimes and observed, during the Q&A, that such slave narratives are always heavily mediated texts, constructed and created with the express purpose of supporting abolitionist causes. To what extent, then, were these texts about making the enslaved legible – as subjects – to a white audience, and what role did the articulation of pain and impairment serve in supporting that move towards legibility? There is, indeed, very little room to manoeuvre in slave narratives; there are accepted stories that can be told, and silences that must be maintained. But what did this mean for those who were not able to work within those parameters?

So, too, was the limitation of language a key element in a trio of papers by Jonathan Hay, Krystina Osborne, and Hanna Etholén that focused on autofiction, a genre that necessarily blurs the lines between autobiography and fiction. Even the term itself is contested. One could argue about the need for a term at all – why not just write and then publish the damn thing, after all? But if there’s anything that’s become clear in this conference (if it wasn’t clear before), it’s that we’ve been organized into needing categories in order to understand our world. There’s a fiction section. There’s an autobiography section. And things get messy in the spaces between. As readers, we tend to fret when we don’t know if something is true of false. We start to fuss about questions of authenticity. What’s real, and what’s not. And here again, the spectre of legibility rears its head: what we think and feel about authenticity lies at the heart of questions of legibility.

But as the author Chris Kraus, referenced by one panelist, indicated:

“It’s all fiction. As soon as you write something down, it’s fiction. I don’t think fiction is necessarily about inventing fake stories. The process of fictionalization is selection – why this and not that? If we look at any moment, what’s in it is practically infinite. Why do I pick up on your eyes and how they set on your face instead of what’s outside of the window? And what do I think when I look at your eyes, what does this moment make me remember? What we select from all this – all these digressions – that’s the process of fictionalization, that’s what we create. As soon as something gets written down, it’s no longer ‘true,’ because there are always 100 other things that are equally ‘true.’ And then everything changes as soon as something gets written down.” 

And while one could argue that this relationship between fact and fiction doesn’t matter so much because it’s fiction, or rather, autofiction, the tensions inherent in this terminology are actually symptomatic of much larger issues. What happens if the categories that exist aren’t enough? And what happens to those who do not fit into the categories? Or those who want to escape those categories? What do we do with their stories? What does it mean to be legible? And what kind of work is involved in that process?

IMG_0919

Chester Cathedral – only visible here because the leaves haven’t quite come out yet.

Garjan Sterk discussed the current status of race and racism in The Netherlands. A people that prides itself on being tolerant and open, the Dutch do not have a real word for ‘race.’ The closest approximation – ras – is thought to be too closely aligned with Nazi discourses. But the end result of not having a word is that the Dutch can very easily – and do very easily – argue that ‘We do not have any racism,’ which is patently untrue. Sterk took us through the various twists and turns of ever-shifting government policies and practices around the naming of various groups of ‘others’ through the also shifting parameters of the ‘allochtoon’ and how this shifting language has also affected political organizing among various social justice groups in The Netherlands. And it’s affected Sterk’s own work: as she has personally navigated the muddy waters of race and politics, she’s also started to discover that the traditional model for thesis writing, as she’s been taught it, may not be suitable for the work she’s trying to do, for the story she’s trying to tell. But are there alternatives available for her? How will she navigate that relationship between legibility – within the mainstream academic context – and viability?

IMG_0930-001

The limitations of current knowledge systems was also front and centre in Katie Myerscough’s paper on the (now infamous) case of Rachel Dolezal, the white American woman who created a Black identity for herself. This is a tough topic to take on at a conference about talking bodies (actually, at any conference) but Katie’s approach, which located Dolezal and the furor surrounding the case within a much longer historical context, was probably one of the more nuanced reading of the situation that I’ve heard or read to date. What was abundantly clear in Myerscough’s argument was that the whole situation (for lack of better way of putting it) – Dolezal’s actions and the responses to it – are the result of centuries of racist policies.

If Rachel Dolezal’s actions have been productive at all, it is because they have shone a blinding light on the messy political, structural, and activist histories around the politics of naming. I don’t think she necessarily intended to do this; her most recent interview, in The Stranger, shows a remarkable level of narcissism and corresponding lack of awareness of the larger context in which her story plays itself out But here we are. As Myercough pointed out, “How we see race might be something we want to think about.” But do we actually have the language to have this conversation?

IMG_0934

And all of this also takes me to my own paper (an expansion and reworking of ideas I explored here). I, too, have hit walls along the way. Walls that point to the failure of the colonial imagination to articulate the humanity of the indentured and the enslaved. Methodological walls that make it challenging to read between, through, behind, and around the archival material that remains. And walls that limit the possible ways for me to tell these stories within the context of academic audiences.

I am increasingly convinced, as my paper for July’s Creative Histories conference  (yaye! Another trip across the pond!) will argue, that the work I have done in this particular research project cannot be adequately captured in a conventional academic format. To make these stories legible in this context, requires some contortions that I am not certain I am fully prepared to make.

I’ll produce some academic articles as a result of this project (I already have), but really, these stories should emerge in another venue. But academia, as it is currently constructed, doesn’t have the language necessary to tell these stories. And as someone trained in this space, I’m not entirely sure I fully have the language yet, either. And so, I muddle along, working it out as I go.

I write.
I rewrite.

I think.
I rethink.

I story.
I re-story.

And in the end, I hope I will find the language to allow the story to tell itself, to emerge the way it wants – and needs – to emerge.

IMG_8868

on the campus at University of Chester

Against KonMari: A Plea for Packrattery

Ok. I’ll start by saying that this is not about Marie Kondo, the famed Japanese organizing guru, as a person. Rather, it’s about the contemporary North American fad for “curating” lives, homes, families, selves, etc. It’s a response to a larger movement that seeks ostensibly to get away from a consumption model of living and to move towards an approach that is simple, streamlined, and elegant.

But what, you might think, is wrong with this? Surely, we want to acknowledge the errors of our capitalist consumption-oriented ways. Absolutely. I’m in total agreement. What do we need more stuff for, anyway?

And hey, I’ve been fed the mantra, too. In grade 2, our guidance counsellor told us that if we wanted to get good marks, we should emulate those who had good marks. And those with good marks generally had neat desks and working environments.

Uncluttered. Organized. Structured. Tidy = Joy. Inspiration. Fulfillment. Intelligence. Success.

That day back in Grade 2, I peered into the nest that was my desk and shrugged. That shit just wasn’t going to happen.

PANO_20140904_160149

No longer in grade 2. But still a nest on the coffee table.

So maybe I’m just projecting my own self-righteous spreadery.

Maybe I’m trying to find a way to rationalize the mess that is our house at the very end of term (who am I kidding? this is the mess that is all the time).

18510_10152981417959272_9131640382807622674_n

Look! It’s genetic. I’ve passed it on to my kids, too.

Maybe I’m passive aggressively responding to our department administrator’s increasingly pointed hints that it’s time to tidy my office and that she’s going to get in there with dusting supplies. Maybe I’ve amassed too many post it notes in too many places. Maybe my pile of books is too high, my clutter of discarded mugs and plates too large. Maybe I don’t want to look to see if there’s an errant tea bag still floating around in a mug that’s been around so long that it’s become part of the display…

For those of us who work with the past, this messiness, this stuff, is what allows us to understand how societies, cultures, families, worlds… life…. operated.

The discarded selfie.
The notes scribbled onto the back of a receipt.
The doodles drawn during a particularly trying meeting (I’m particularly good at those…).

The school photo that went completely awry?
The kid that weeps all the way to camp (or all the way back to the hotel from Legoland Windsor, as the case may be)?

The frozen Cheemo perogies that you forgot in the car for two weeks when the temperature hovered around zero and tried to revive anyway (oops).

The pile of wrappers, pens, lego, notes, silly glasses, and empty juice boxes under your son’s bed, on his desk, scattered across his floor.

10252014_10152232528984272_5411641403291923012_n

The funniest thing about this picture? It was only after I took it that I discovered the screwdriver that we’d been looking for for months. Magpie kid had absconded with it…

The beginnings of cranky emails that fill your drafts folder.

The mush of dirty socks that never make it into the laundry basket even tough you step over them every day.

This shouldn’t be the stuff we discard. This shouldn’t be the stuff that we clean up, beautify, hide.

This is life.
These are the stories that matter most.

IMG_3850

the back side of my attempts at embroidery. pretty sure it’s not suppose to look like this…

One of the things that has frustrated me most in the course of this current research project has been the absence of materials created by those most affected by colonial policies and practices. The colonial infrastructure was enormous, and colonial officials were organized. They’ve left researchers like me endless documents – ledgers, logs, letters, tables, lists – you name it, and it’s there. All of this can tell me an enormous amount about colonial logics.

IMG_4693

organized boxes filled with treasures… Maritime History Archive, Memorial University

IMG_4939

Ship’s Logs, ca. 1870-1880. Maritime History Archive, Memorial University

But there’s precious little to learn about the lives of those whose names officials listed in their ledgers and logs.

How can we understand histories of migration if we can’t find the voices of those who experienced it, or if we find them only sideways, through hints in formal colonial archives?

This isn’t a problem unique to my project. But it’s a big one.

It matters that we can often only “find” the voices of the enslaved through their resistance.

It matters that the remains of indentured lives exist almost solely in their complaints to ship captains, in their refusal to work on the plantation, in the violence that they enacted towards each other or those in power.

It matters that trial transcripts are some of the only places where we can read the voices of marginalized women.

It matters because while all of this stuff is important, none of it gets us to the everyday. Yes, it matters that the enslaved resisted, that the indentured turned to violence, that those on trial told their stories in those spaces.

But what about their daily lives? What were those like?

What did they eat?
Who did they eat with?

What were they thinking aboard the ships that took them so far from everything they’d known? What were they feeling?

What about the anger, joy, love, despair, longing, frustration, agony?

When I researched the life of Suzanne Necker and later, the stories of those who consulted with Samuel Auguste Tissot, I had all of this. After all, these were privileged folks who wrote letters and confided in friends and colleagues. These were folks whose letters were kept for them, and as a result, folks whose stories are still available to us today. In a world that values the evidence of the written word, these folks had it good. And as a consequence, I had it good, too.

But it shouldn’t be only the privileged whose stories remain.

A few days ago, medieval book historian Bex Lyons posted a short thread on Twitter asking women to write in the margins of their books.

The problem, as she sees it, is that a) we know a lot about men of the period because they wrote in their books, and b) our knowledge systems celebrate the written word over all other. As she points out, there are many reasons why women didn’t – or couldn’t – scribble all over their books. And we do need to find ways of working differently with the material that exists.

But here’s the thing – first we need to have stuff to work with. Not just the curated, tidy stuff. Not just the bookshelves organized by colour (who invented that trend, anyway?). Not just the carefully coordinated paint colours. And not just the stuff that others have organized on our behalf, either.

No, we need the stuff of daily life itself. We need the messes. We need the chaos. We need the false starts, the bad hair days, the unfortunate accidents.

IMG_1122

food porn gone wrong. I think it was supposed to be tofu curry.

IMG_0911

recipes escaping their cookbook!

IMG_0889

A tangle of shovels, tossed willy nilly by the house.

This is the stuff that matters. This is where we tell our stories. And this is where those who come after us will find them.

IMG_1558

somewhere near the PowerPlex in St. John’s, sometime in early spring.

It doesn’t matter how many filters we apply or how many hashtags we use.

Life is #messy.
It’s #chaotic.
It’s #neverneatandtidy, no matter how much we might will it to be.

And so here’s my plea – my #manifesto – for packrattery.

Embrace the chaos.
Revel in the mess.
Write in the margins.
Argue with your authors.

Doodle.

Keep every scrap of paper.

Embrace your failures.
Share your grief.
Take pictures of garbage.
Refuse to clean your room.
Accept the assemblage of random trinkets under your bed.

Laugh so loudly that you make others uncomfortable and then record your joyful noise.

Keep the saggy Ron Weasley sweater that your favourite aunt knitted for you.

This mess is the archive of your life, and I promise that historians of the future will love you all the more for it.

IMG_1568

With thanks to Bex Lyons (@MedievalBex) and Will Pooley (@willpooley) whose recent tweets and blog post got me thinking about inspiration, joy, archives, tidying up, and packrattery.

Maneuvering the Master’s House

When I initially began my research about a year ago, I looked mostly to literature on postcolonialism, transnational feminism, and life writing. But as I was primarily interested in how film and gender fit into these general topics, I found myself perusing a book called, Celluloid Ceiling: Women Film Directors Breaking Through (2014). While trying to see if I could find any specific films or filmmakers that might help me hone in on a more specific topic, one paragraph stood out to me:

 Far from Hollywood, Senegalese director Safi Faye realised she could communicate more effectively in visual images rather than words to overcome the multiple languages of her country and avoid using the language of France, the coloniser of her country, Senegal (Kelly and Robson 12).

Although quite short and straightforward – more a survey than anything profoundly theoretical – this quote helped me to think more about the significance of film within (post)colonial contexts.

How does the visual medium of film work through the colonial implications of communication? How does it navigate language differences within (and across) borders? How does it challenge, and engage with, notions of silence?

In a way, Safi Faye’s filmmaking philosophy seems to echo Marlene NourbeSe Philip.

 In man the tongue is

(a) the principle organ of taste.

(b) the principle organ of articulate speech.

(c) the principle organ of oppression and exploitation.

(d) all of the above.

(Philip 59).

the tongue is the principle organ of oppression and exploitation.

Every slave caught speaking his native language shall be severely punished. Where necessary, removal of the tongue is recommended … (Philip 56).

Sometimes I find myself forgetting the histories of power and persecution behind the very words that warp my tongue.

Perhaps I don’t really forget, rather, I fail to notice.

When something becomes seemingly second nature, like language – like my mother-tongue – it becomes hard to defamiliarize it, to distance yourself from it. But this is why it becomes all the more important to remember the many injustices that occur at the level of language.

 English

is my mother tongue.

A mother tongue is not a foreign lan lan lang

language

l/anguish

   anguish

— a foreign anguish.

 

English is

my father tongue.

A father tongue is

a foreign language,

therefore English is

a foreign language

not a mother tongue (Philip 56).

What does this mean then for filmmakers like Safi Faye who are caught between languages? How can the visual help us navigate those colonial histories? Can film maneuver the politics of language more effectively than other textual mediums?

I think also to Audre Lorde, who famously claimed: “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house” (112).

 Those of us who stand outside the circle of this society’s definition of acceptable women … know that survival is not an academic skill … It is learning how to take our differences and make them strengths. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us to temporarily beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support (Lorde 112).

If we think of these “tools” in terms of language, how can we apply this to Safi Faye’s approach to postcolonial filmmaking? Can filmmaking dismantle the ‘master’s house’? Or does filmmaking become yet another tool of the ‘master’?

 What does it mean when the tools of a racist patriarchy are used to examine the fruits of that same patriarchy?” It means that only the most narrow perimeters of change are possible and allowable (Lorde 110-111).

Can filmmakers, with unique, passionate, and critical ways of storytelling, direct their lens in a way that is resistant to their patriarchal, racist surroundings? Can filmmaking effectively contribute to (post)colonial conversations?

 

Sources:

Kelly, Gabrielle and Cheryl Robson, editors. Celluloid Ceiling: Women Film Directors Breaking Through. Supernova Books, 2014.

Lorde, Audre. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. Crossing Press, 1984.

Philip, Marlene NourbeSe. She Tries Her Tongue/Her Silence Softly Breaks. Charlottetown: Ragweed Press, 1989.

© Lesley Butler (lvb717 @ mun.ca), 2017

taste as archive

taste as archive

Lisa M. Heldke has argued that food making is a “‘theoretically practical’ activity — a thoughtful practice” (1992, 203). As Rosalyn Collings Eves observes, recipes might be understood as sites of embodied memory. What we ‘know’ about food is located not just in the ingredients, but in all of the body’s senses; in Heldke’s words, “[t]he knowing involved in making a cake is ‘contained’ not simply ‘in my head’ but in my hands, my wrists, my eyes and nose as well.” (1992, 219).

1374756_10152648650314272_4190851034127046069_n

Cooking up a batch of raspberry jam takes me back to the mosquito-infested patch of raspberry bushes we had in the back yard when I was growing up. Even in 30 degree heat, I’d cover up from top to bottom, sweltering in the heat as I picked, my ears filled with the sounds of mosquito wings….

1907887_10152648650424272_8244851550936696952_n

Taste, these writers suggest, is never just about flavour. It is about texture, look, feel, smell, touch, sound; it is about movement; about a kinaesthetic knowledge (Sutton) located within the very sinews, bones, muscles – the very stuff – of the body itself.

How do I know which pepper to buy? What constitutes a good bulb of garlic? Who can tell me if a watermelon is juicy and sweet?

What constitutes a pinch of salt? How do I know that I’ve put in enough cinnamon? What is the exact science of mingled spices – garlic, ginger, cumin, coriander, turmeric – for my curry?

None of this can be found in a book. Well, it can. But the true understanding of food making exists in the body itself.

“Taste,” writes Barbara Kirsehnblatt-Gimblett, “is something we anticipate and infer from how things look, feel to the hand, smell (outside the mouth), and sound …. Our eyes let us ‘taste’ food at a distance by activating the sense memories of taste and smell” (qtd. in Sutton 2010, 218).

10983417_10152863899809272_6285898567765668083_n

Eating pom, one of two main Creole celebration dishes, with my aunt and uncle in Suriname. Made with a Surinamese taro root, chicken, a stock mixture and orange juice, this is comfort food par excellence. Creamy, rich, flavourful. Served here with cassava, plantain and sauteed Chinese long beans. What I wouldn’t give for some of this right now….

Taste is, in and of itself, an archive of senses, meanings, histories. Consider Julia Kristeva’s visceral accounting of abjection in the form of food loathing:

Food loathing is perhaps the most elementary and most archaic form of abjection. When the eyes see or the lips touch that skin on the surface of milk – harmless, thin as a sheet of cigarette paper, pitiful as a nail paring – I experience a gagging sensation and, still farther down, spasms in the stomach, the belly; and all the organs shrivel up the body, provoke tears and bile, increase heartbeat, cause forehead and hands to perspire. Along with sight-clouding dizziness, nausea makes me balk at that milk cream, separates me from the mother and father who proffer it.” (2-3)

Taste, as Kristeva observes, is more than individual; it is about the self, certainly, but it is also about the social. For Kristeva, the skin floating on top of milk “separates [her] from the mother and father who proffer it” (3); taste here disrupts normative kinship; it also disrupts the intergenerational transmission of food and food memories.So, too, might we consider Fred Wah’s (1996) revulsion at the slivers of ginger floating in his dinner, even as he simultaneously acknowledges their role in his hybrid Chinese-Canadian identity.

None of this can be exactly measured. None of this can be accurately marked. These are knowledges located on our tongues, at our fingertips, in our muscles, between our teeth.

13321806_10153880226829272_4764051616421593313_n

I’m a sushi fan, but I can’t quite wrap my head around the Dutch penchant for raw herring topped with chopped onion. This is my moment of abjection. Doesn’t matter how far back I can trace my Dutch heritage (1750 last time I worked at it), I still won’t eat herring….

15822807_10154461133729272_8659785637938320458_n

Oliebollen, on the other hand…. pass ’em right over! In The Netherlands – and at our house – these donut like balls are New Year’s Eve fare. 

But these archives of taste are also political. Food is never just about the private, domestic sphere of home and family; food – and taste – cross borders, break boundaries, challenge private/public dichotomy (Sutton 2008, 160). David Sutton (2010) references the work of Sydney Mintz, for example, who links the taste of sugar to questions of political economy. Sugar, he argues, is never solely about sweetness; rather, it is intimately linked to questions of morality and politics. In Sutton’s words, “the addictive taste of sugar made it difficult to give up, and thus, a contentious item of anti-slavery boycott, whereas its taste once again led commentators to suggest it would lead the working classes into idleness and women into other desires and illicit pleasures” (2010, 212).

Certainly, foods have long played a role in questions of politics. In a letter to Samuel-Auguste Tissot, one of the most celebrated physicians of eighteenth-century Europe, a correspondent named Lavergne detailed with precision the recipe for his healthy drinking chocolate:

My drinking chocolate is made with 56 ounces of cocoa, 28 ounces of sugar, never vanilla. I distinguish between three different types of drinking chocolate: the first with half an ounce of cinnamon (instead of the full ounce I used in the past), the second with a quarter ounce; the third with no cinnamon at all … if I am missing something in order to consider this a true health drink [chocolat de santé], please let me know.”

(Lavergne l’aîné, October 1772, Bibliothèque cantonale et universitaire de Lausanne, Fonds Tissot, IS784/II/144.01.07.24)

For this correspondent, food and diet were linked directly with questions of health.

As I observe in my 2015 book, Telling the Flesh: Life Writing, Citizenship, and the Body in the Letters to Samuel Auguste Tissot, this framing was integral to Tissot’s own approach to questions of public health. In his Essay on the Disorders of People of Fashion, for example, he contrasts the healthy body and mind of the rural peasant with the disordered body and psyche of the “man of fashion” in the city:

The man of fashion, disturbed by business, projects, pleasures, disappointments, and the regrets of the day, heated by food and drinks, goes to bed with trembled nerves, agitated pulse, a stomach labouring with the load and acrimony of his food, the vessels full, or juices which inflame them, indisposition, anxiety, the fever accompanies him to bed, and for a long time keeps him waking; if he closes his eyes, his slumbers are short, uneasy, agitating, troubled with frightful dreams, and sudden startings; instead of the labourer’s morning briskness, he wakes with palpitations, feverish, languid, dry, his mouth out of order, his urine hot, low spirited, heavy, ill tempered, his strength impaired, his nerves irritated and lax, his blood thick and inflamed; every night reduces his health and fortifies the seed of some disease. (38)

The seductive qualities of rich flavours – cream, meats, wines, sweets – would lead inevitably to a life of excess. Unhealthy eating habits damaged not only the body of the individual, Tissot argued, but also the body of the citizen, and in so doing, undermined the health of the state as a whole.

Taste, then, is never just a matter of intimate relations; it is also a matter of politics writ large.

12079072_10153384935479272_250813108839590067_n

Speaking of too much…. why have one pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving when you can have two? Last year we had four. With lot of whipped cream, of course. 

My students and I experienced this first hand when we considered the politics of presidential cookie baking. In those halcyon days of yore, when Hillary Clinton was but a First Lady in waiting, the Democratic Party thought up a plan to make their candidate’s wife more palatable to the American electorate.

I’m not sure how “We’ll have her bake cookies!” won the day, but the cookie bake off between First Lady wannabe’s has been a tradition ever since (worth noting that I don’t recall Bill Clinton and Melania Trump facing off over the kitchen table during the last election cycle). Taste, in these contests, is not just about flavour, but about home, family, generations, domesticity, class politics, race, religious belief, and more (I wrote about the cookie bakeoff in a post called “Arugula and Chocolate Chips”)

“Cooking,” David Sutton (2001) argues, “is not simply an everyday practice, but an attempt to reconstruct and remember synaesthetically, to return to that whole world of home, which is subjectivity experienced both locally and nationally, if not at other levels as well” (86). Taste, here, operates in multiple registers; while intimately located within the body, it cannot be understood without the larger context in which foods and memories circulate.

Taste is about gender, race, class, ethnicity.
It is about how we locate ourselves within our webs of belonging.
It is about how we remember.

1620608_10152457704214272_2868627116991193678_n

A spectacular dessert concoction dreamed up by a good friend and my younger son, while we were staying with these friends in London. This dessert brings me to conversations we’ve had over the 20+ years we’ve been friends, to the music we’ve made together (both serious and silly), and to evenings of laughter in the back garden in North London.

In a recent article, Lisa Heldke (2016) reflects on the memory itself as a sense, considering the intensely embodied food memories that shape her relationships to her pasts and, inevitably, her futures. She recalls her response to seeing her deceased mother’s handwriting on a recipe card, writing:

It’s not the recipe itself – the list of ingredients, the set of steps – that carries this stunning visceral power….It’s the handwriting that does it, seeing it brings the past – brings her into the present moment with me …. Of course it’s not not the recipe. Indeed, whenever I make a favorite family dish, I purposely ‘go there’; I retell myself a story about this food and its place in our family lore. I invite myself to marinate in memories of when and where and how we might have eaten this food. (90)

What memories do you marinate in?
What tastes do you hold close?

img_1110

Fresh garlic. Where would we be without it?

Food historian Ian Mosby observes that “studying the taste of history is more than just a novel way of engaging with students. In fact, it is a key tool available to teachers for opening students’ eyes to the profoundly important role that the sense have historically played in determining important changes to societies, empires, economies and environments” (170).

What might this sensual archive tell you, if you listen to what it has to say?

10994054_10152869857314272_8300314249242295585_n

Mangoes. My all time ultimate favourite fruit flavour sensation. Look at them all, just hanging there. It’s almost impossible to get a good mango in St. John’s…. 

Works Cited

Boon, Sonja. Telling the Flesh: Life Writing, Citizenship, and the Body in the Letters to Samuel Auguste Tissot. McGill-Queen’s UP, 2015.

Eves, Rosalyn Collings. “A Recipe for Remembrance: Memory and Identity in African-American Women’s Cookbooks.” Rhetoric Review, vol. 24, no. 3, 2005, 280-97.

Heldke, Lisa M. “Foodmaking as a Thoughtful Practice.” Cooking, Eating, Thinking: Transformative Philosophies of Food, edited by Deane W. Curtin and Lisa M. Heldke, Indiana UP, 1992, pp. 203-229.

Heldke, Lisa M. “My Dead Father’s Raspberry Patch, My Dead Mother’s Piecrust: Understanding Memory as Sense,” Gastronomica: The Journal of Critical Food Studies vol. 18, no. 2, 2016, pp. 87-91.

Heldke, Lisa M. “Recipes for Theory Making.” Cooking, Eating, Thinking: Transformative Philosophies of Food, edited by Deane W. Curtin and Lisa M. Heldke, Indiana UP, 1992, pp. 251-265.

Kristeva, Julia. Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. Trans. Leon S. Roudiez. Columbia UP, 1982.

Mosby, Ian. “Eat Your Primary Sources! Researching and Teaching the Taste of History.” Methodological Challenges in Nature-Culture and Environmental History Resaerch, edited by Jocelyn Thorpe, Stephanie Rutherford, and L. Anders Sandberg. Routledge, 2016, pp. 166-72.

Sutton, David E. “A Tale of Easter Ovens: Food and Collective Memory,” Social Research vol. 75, no. 1, 2008, pp. 157-180.

Sutton, David E. “Food and the Senses,” Annual Review of Anthropology vol. 39, 2010, pp. 209-223.

Sutton, David E. Remembrance of Repasts: An Anthropology of Food and Memory. Berg, 2001.

Tissot, Samuel Auguste, An Essay on the Disorders of People of Fashion. London: Richardson and Urquhart, 1771.

Wah, Fred. Diamond Grill. NeWest Press, 1996.

(c) Sonja Boon, 2017 (sboon @ mun.ca)

silky: formlessness/otherness/wetness

My search for trans histories in Newfoundland runs rampant. Something like yearning, reaching, performing. I look for them in the dark, shifting narratives, water. I imagine them as a means to cope with isolation, splitting, the abyss. To keep myself afloat.

I feel something similar to Dionne Brand when she remembers how the ocean surrounding her island home laid at her feet “a sense of leavings and arrivals” (2001: 74). As I have grown on this island, I have watched the ocean carry things away: men from my hometown, kelp, fish heads, plastic bags. Most of the men came back, the sea didn’t swallow them. It was generous when it wanted to be. Somehow I knew my body was connected to water and earth, its materiality climbing over land and seascapes. Years later I would find out that we were all made of the same stuff.

I saw myself in them.
I talked to them.
I learned from others.

As a researcher, interviews and oral history sessions are my main methods of inquiry. Even so, my background in folkloristics has further enlivened a relationship with archives. A few weeks ago, I was fumbling through Memorial University’s Digital Archives Initiative when I happened upon a photograph that has sent me flying through erased and imagined histories, trying to make sense of my present – remembering how I got, and stand, here at this location – while writing myself into the past. In this way, I have felt the rush of temporalities meeting and touching. I have understood, again, how “memory is a research project, an archive (‘a referral to birth’) of connected pasts and others” (Hall 2008: 238).

The photo and the weight it carries meet me at this point in my life without warning. From here I am unfixed and transfixed, locating the scattered (wayfaring) parts of my corporeality I know as hybrid. I am not made one way so I cannot think one way. Like Barbara Bridger, “I am the opposite of single-minded, I work constantly with fragments” (2009: 344). And at once these fragments lay bare: foremothers, hair like silk, fish scales.

The ocean was generous once more.

mermaid_in_st_johns_harbour

Centre for Newfoundland Studies, Newfoundland Images. http://collections.mun.ca/cdm/singleitem/collection/cns_images/id/0/rec/13

I am putting forth the potential to observe trans womanhood in Newfoundland as viscous and amorphous – a collection of representations between colonizer and colonized, between human and other than human, between material and discursive, between water and earth, liquid and solid. I see the mermaid as a maternal prototype for trans women working through the thickness and wetness of hybrid identity and corporeality on this island.

In order to work through this idea, I am combing over seven years of intimate movement / transition / turning. A personal archive of my transition(ing). I am simultaneously traveling through histories of mermaids and selkies, writing our lives coactively: “writing which is constant annotation, writing which takes place in the spaces between, writing over the lines, round the edges, in the interstices” (Bridger 2009: 346).

Liquid into liquid,
we resist emulsion.

Must be written together.

M/other and child.

Polybiographic.

I mull over John Hall’s belief that,

any genealogy that is also in part autobiographical is both an inquiry into and an act of specific ontology: this is who I am and this is how I know it. It is I who speaks thus, with all these others lined up behind and around me, including all those others who are part of the temporal ensemble of my I-through-time and of those various sets to whom I can belong as ‘we’ (2008: 232).

How convenient to jump into the archive, uncovering something precious that can force me to think through moving/mutant bodies.

Yet, I stumble upon and ask this question, once more, 22 years later:

“For who is it in these times who feels dislocated/placeless/invaded?” (Massey 1994: 165).

And another:

“What does a genealogy ‘do’? Is ‘we’ both an augmentation of ‘I’ and a way past it?” (Hall 2008: 233).

Like my graduate research, this theory materializes out of a personal quest to tie together trans affect, resistance and histories specific to this island. In many ways, it is about kinship. In Splittings, Adrienne Rich asks, “does the infant memorize the body of the mother and create her in absence?” (1974: 76). Am I doing this too? Naming the mermaid as mother, as the root, and route back home. One more: “Does the bed of the stream once diverted, mourning, remember wetness?” (76). How can I be sure? How far back can I reach into my “ancestral hybrid zone” (Lexer and Stotling 2011: 3702) before I come into contact with something I don’t want to know?  Should I want to know it?

There is an ache that pushes itself out of genealogical research, especially the metaphorical kind. One comes face to face with borders, ends, locations and relations that wear away. One recognizes “contiguity,” and all things “esoteric…disparate…peripatetic” (Mac Cormack 2003: 59). Yet, if I see parts of myself in the mermaid, I must know how she makes sacrifices, how she is “willing to pay the price and endure the pain of knives and swords for a body that matches the internal identity she claims” (Spencer 2013: 117). I must be comfortable with piercing movements through history, learning to view “movement as a place itself so no motion is homeless” (Mac Cormack 2003: 28).

This is what I’ve wanted. To have a glimpse of, and to touch ambiguity. Marika Cifor writes, “archival touches should be unavoidably intimate, provoking difficult and celebratory experiences and feelings reflective of the intimate and sometimes painful history and memory that made us who we are” (2015: 647). It is performative and unforeseen, “forming a queer connection that transcends normative bounds of space and time, changes both the artifact and me” (Cifor 2015: 648). Think about what happens in the process of revisiting. Think widely, through mutations.

As I continue to look at this photo, I shift locations, from island to ocean: each time I make this trip, I get the queer idea that this is what is waiting at the end of time (Hoagland 2013: 50).

Echoes:

once a selkie has returned to the sea, it will be seven years before he or she is seen again (Heddle 2016: 2).

I started claiming my womanhood seven years ago. Can you see me?

References

Brand, Dionne. 2001. A Map to the Door of No Return: Notes on Belonging. Vintage Canada.

Bridger, Barbara. 2009. “Writing Across the Borders of the Self,” In European Journal of Women’s Studies, 16 (4): 337–52. DOI: 10.1177/1350506809342613

Cifor, Marika. 2015. “Presence, Absence, and Victoria’s Hair: Examining Affect and Embodiment in Trans Archives,” In TSQ, 2 (4): 645-9. DOI: 10.1215/23289252-3151565

Hall, John. 2008. “Karen Mac Cormack’s Implexures: An Implicated Reading’,” In Antiphonies: Essays on Women’s Experimental Poetries in Canada, ed. Nate Dorward, 227-47. Ontario: Willowdale.

Heddle, Donna. 2016. “Selkies, Sex, and the Supernatural,” In The Bottle Imp, 20: 1-3. http://asls.arts.gla.ac.uk/SWE/TBI/TBIIssue20/Heddle.html

Hoagland, Tony. 2013. “Crossing Water,” In Ploughshares, 39 (1): 50-1. DOI: 10.1353/plo.2013.0059

Lexer, C. & K. N. Stotling. 2011. “Tracing the recombination and colonization history of hybrid species in space and time,” In Molecular Ecology, 20: 3701-4. DOI: 10.1111/j.1365-294X.2011.05246.x

Mac Cormack, Karen. 2003. Implexures. Sheffield, UK: West House Books.

Massey, Doreen. 1994. Space, Place, and Gender. Cambridge: Polity Press.

Rich, Adrienne. 1974/1993. “Splittings,” In Adrienne Rich’s poetry and prose: poems, prose, reviews, and criticism. 2nd edition, eds. Barbara Charlesworth Gelpi and Albert Gelpi, 76-7. New York: W. W. Norton.

Spencer, Leland G. 2013. “Performing Transgender Identity in The Little Mermaid: From Andersen to Disney,” In Communication Studies, 65 (1):112-27. DOI: 10.1080/10510974.2013.832691

© Daze Jefferies (dsj272 @ mun.ca), 2017

Julie Dash and the Mysteries of the Celluloid Ceiling

If you’ve read any of my last few blog posts, you could probably tell that I enjoyed Dionne Brand’s A Map to the Door of No Return (2001). It’s true. Brand now holds a very special place on my bookshelf.

Brand’s work is not explicitly theory, in a traditional sense. But that does not mean it is not theoretical.

There is theory in her narrative, in her poetry. There is theory in-between the lines.

There is theory in unexpected places. (As Dr. Boon so aptly pointed out a few months ago)

In fact, I had the pleasure of taking a feminist theory course last semester on this very topic: Finding theory in unexpected places (again, thanks to Dr. Boon!)

In this course, we had an opportunity to write a feminist detective story, using theory to help craft our characters, setting, and plot.

I wanted my story to explore the underrepresentation of women in Hollywood, specifically in roles behind the camera. Or as it is often referred to: The Celluloid Ceiling.

This has been a topic that I find myself returning to over and over again. So I thought it only fitting to make the problem of the “celluloid ceiling” the central mystery of my detective story.

Fast-forward a few weeks and I am deeper into the research side of my story. It was time to add some theoretical meat to my narrative skeleton, so to speak.

While browsing some feminist film theory articles, I came across one in particular that caught my eye. It was Judylyn S. Ryan’s ” Outing the Black Feminist Filmmaker in Julie Dash’s Illusions” (2004), which explores the role of race and identity not only on camera, but behind it as well.

Illusions, set in 1942 Hollywood, follows Mignon Duprée, a black woman who secures an executive position at National Studios because she can ‘pass’ as white. It explores the tensions between illusions and reality, which are in constant play within the film industry, as well as the issues of racism and sexism within Hollywood, and the United States more broadly.

Illusions accomplishes several goals. As a manifesto, alternating among the discourses of history, logic, and prophecy, it recasts Black women’s vocal contribution to American film history, measures the cost and terms of that participation, imagines expanded roles and greater agency for Black women in film, facilitates Black women’s self-empowerment through film, and, in encouraging new modes of critical viewing, provides a new paradigm for constructing interpretive agency” (Ryan 1341).

Wow.

I was captivated, and I had not even seen the film yet.

I immediately started looking more into the work of Julie Dash. I learned that she was the first African American, female filmmaker to have a feature film released theatrically. That film was Daughters of the Dust (1991).

Set in 1902, Daughters follows three generations of Gullah women, descendants of former slaves, living on St. Helena Island off the coast of South Carolina as they prepare to migrate north and settle on the U.S. mainland.

 I thought to myself: how have I not heard of Julie Dash after studying films academically for the past five years?

Does the celluloid ceiling still haunt those who have broke through?

illusions-3

Mignon Dupree (Lonette McKee) and Esther Jeeter (Rosanne Katon) in Julie Dash’s Illusions. Women Make Movies, 1982.

After this introspective hiatus via my detective story, I began to think again to my thesis. Well, here was a filmmaker whose work touched on nearly all of my research interests: identity, race, gender, migration, memory, history, and life writing.

I was even finding connections to the work of Dionne Brand through Black, feminist, geographies!

I felt like my research was finally falling into place. Before, it was as if I had pieces of a puzzle, but was having trouble picturing the final image. Now, I can see it much more clearly (even if the pieces still need to be assembled).

Research is not always chronologically convenient, but moments like these are always worth the wait. Sometimes we have to change gears if we want to go forward.

Isn’t it wonderfully surprising where a feminist detective story can take you? Not only in fiction, but also in ‘real life’?

Sources:

Brand, Dionne. A Map to the Door of No Return: Notes to Belonging. Toronto: Vintage Canada, 2001.

Daughters of the Dust. Directed by Julie Dash. Kino International, 1991.

Illusions. Directed by Julie Dash. Women Make Movies, 1982.

Lauzen, Martha. “The Celluloid Ceiling: Behind-the-Scenes Employment of Women on     the Top 100, 250, and 500 Films of 2015.” Centre for the Study of Women in Television and Film, 2016, http://womenintvfilm.sdsu.edu/research/.

Ryan, Judylyn S. “Outing the Black Feminist Filmmaker in Julie Dash’s Illusions.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, vol. 30, no. 1, 2004, pp. 1319-1344, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.1086/421884.

 

© Lesley Butler (lvb717 @ mun.ca), 2017

Minding the Gaps: Reading for Refusal

While the funding for this project officially began in 2015, the thinking and preliminary groundwork began much earlier, with seeds being sown in Fall 2013. It was just a glimmer, then. A hint of a possibility.

But here we are. I spent Friday organizing all my computer files, Saturday making notes, and Sunday labeling and organizing 35 moleskine notebooks.

img_0643-001

It all looks neat and tidy. This matters because I am, at heart, a spreader. Tidy is not usually a word in my vocabulary, as you might gather from the photo below, a real live picture of my desk taken a couple of years ago.

10942582_10152973802814272_4665636207090147839_n

Right now, everything  feels fresh and new.

But part of me wonders if what I actually engaged in was a form of procrastination, if this was nothing more than busy work distracting me from the bigger picture. I had a friend who used to wash her shower curtain and alphabetize her canned goods when she needed to procrastinate. Another is really good at baking (I’ve used this approach to good effect as well).

So was it just busy work to make it seem as if I’m progressing, when I’m actually not getting very far at all? It’s a fair question. And perhaps, there’s something to it.

But I’ve also spent a lot of time thinking.

All this

stuff

All of my reading, my writing, my analyzing, my walking, my travelling. What am I going to do with it now? How do I best represent the journey that is this research? What responsibilities do I hold in relation to those whose stories are only available in the crumbling pages of colonial records? How will I tell the stories of shadows, of hauntings …. How will I tell the stories, yes, of glimmers that have never fully flared into light?

ckrabfrvaaew7md-jpg-large

I’ve been reading Jennifer Sinor’s The Extraordinary Work of Ordinary Writing: Annie Ray’s Diary in preparation for next month’s #storypast Twitter discussion. As with other #storypast books, it’s arrived at just the right time, and it’s given me much to think about. Sinor’s book is about the diary kept by her great-great-great aunt, Annie Ray, a diary that she struggled to work with, struggled to make sense of, struggled, as she put it, to story. The problem, she found, is that the diary is not extraordinary writing, it is ordinary writing, and, as she puts it:

I want to suggest that what separates ordinary writing from the other (more valued) writing is largely the fact that it does not story, meaning it does not tell a story. Because it is unremarkable – does not mark an event or narrate an idea – it also remains unmarked, unnoticed. (6)

For Sinor, the value of Annie Ray’s diary comes from its “dailiness” – from “the act of writing in the days rather than of the days” (17). Indeed, diaries, she observes, are fundamentally open-ended. They don’t – they can’t – have a narrative arc because they have no beginning and the author doesn’t know if they’ll have an end.

Sinor’s book (and I’ll admit I haven’t yet finished reading it) has made me think a lot about the kinds of stories we leave behind, and how those that come after us will interpret them. But it’s also made me think a lot about the stories we don’t leave behind. The stories we choose not to leave traces of. The stories we choose to destroy. The stories we aren’t allowed to tell. The stories we are forced to tell. The stories that nobody wants to listen to at all. The ones that people throw away, burn, and otherwise destroy. The silences. The absences.

And it’s made me think about how I, as a contemporary teller of stories, might approach the complexities of the past, and not just of ‘The Past’ generally speaking, but my pasts. Because this current research project is not only about mouldering archives of random individuals who lived one, two, three centuries ago, it is about my past. And because of this, it’s also about my present. And my future.

I don’t have ordinary writing to work with. If my ancestors left any writing of their own, it’s long gone. And so I am left only with the colonial archive, and the violence that it enacts. And there’s the rub: how can I research in and write about colonial archives – whose contents include the stories of my own ancestors – without contributing to and/or perpetuating the violence that they enact?

Dutch colonial archives relating to the Indian indenture period in Suriname (ca. 1873-ca.1916) include details about indentured labourers’ bodies, enumerating not only the expected – although contested – categories of age, sex, and place of birth, but also such categories as skin colour, bodily markings, and scars. These are often the only records that remain of those who travelled more than halfway around the world to work on contract in colonial sugar, cotton, and coffee plantations; they are the only stories on which families and researchers might draw in order to recover their histories. And yet, read as a unit, these records can contribute to a dismembering – and, indeed, dehumanizing – of colonized bodies. Is it possible to re-member the past differently? More provocative still: although some of these records concern my own family histories, what right do I have to tell these stories, even if they are the “very [me] of [me]” (Tuck & Yang, 234)?

Not all stories, Tuck & Yang argue, should be told. Not all stories have a right to be told.

“Tissue samples, blood draws, and cheek swabs are not only our own; the DNA contained in them is share by our relatives, our ancestors, our future generations ….This is equally true of stories” (Tuck & Yang, “R-Words: Refusing Research,” 233-4)

And they are right. Just because someone tells you something doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s yours to share. Just because you’ve lived something doesn’t mean that the story is your own. Stories are webs. And jiggling one side of the web can – and will – affect all other parts of the web. As my father used to say, you can’t just pee in one side of the pool. Sooner or later, the whole pool will be affected.

But if, as Saidiya Hartman has argued, stories might be understood as “a form of compensation or even as reparation” (4), then how do we tell such stories? How do we approach the archive differently, when archival fragments are the only bits that remain? What other stories can these materials tell, and how might we equip ourselves to listen for them?

As Hartman asks, “…how does one recuperate lives entangled with and impossible to differentiate from the terrible utterances that condemned them to death, the account books that identified them as units of value, the invoices that claimed them as property, and the banal chronicles that stripped them of human features?” (Hartman, 3)

Tuck & Yang offer a model of ethnographic refusal, an approach to writing and researching that, in their words, “shifts the gaze from the violated body to the violating instruments …. Thus, refusal helps move us away from thinking of violence as an event and toward and analysis of it as structure” (Tuck & Yang, “R-Words: Refusing Research” 241). They offer Ken Gonzales-Day’s “Erased Lynchings”  series as a model for how such an approach might work. In this collection of historical photos of lynchings, Gonzales-Day writes that he has:

“removed the lynching victim and the rope from each image … [in order to] redirect the viewers attention away from the lifeless body of lynch victim and towards the mechanisms of lynching and lynching photography, to allow viewers to see the crowd, the mechanisms of the spectacle, the role of the photographer, and even the impact of flash photography, and their various influences on our understanding of this dismal past.” (http://kengonzalesday.com/erased-lynchings/)

Canadian writer and actor, Lorena Gale, performed a similar act in her acclaimed autobiographical dramatic monologue, Je me souviens. Confronted by the spectacle of lynching while browsing in a Montreal bookstore, she focuses first not on the lynching victim, but rather on the celebratory atmosphere and all the people who came to watch:

“It’s not the smouldering remains of what had been a man that shocks me. His once-Black features charred beyond recognition. It is the twenty or thirty White men that stand behind their pyre, proudly arranged like graduates for a class picture …. Their triumphant smiles Their self-satisfied demeanour. Their total unconcern for the life they took, for that life was of no value to them except in macabre sport. Their shameless hatred. They didn’t even bother to wear their hoods or robes.” (43-4)

The Caribbean poet, writer, and essayist, M. NourbeSe Philip, undoes the logic of colonial language in all of her writing. In her poem, “Discourse on the Logic of Language” (1993), she tangles her tongue in the words, moving from language to anguish. In its structure, too, the poem resists logic. There is no narrative, no clear move from A to B, beginning to end. There are only fragments across four pages of text. The poem has no clear beginning and no clear end. Any fragment can follow any other fragment. And in each reading, each telling, the tongue tangles and struggles.

 

She takes these ideas even further in her work, Zong!, her re-writing of the Gregson v. Gilbert court case, the only written document pertaining to the killing of around 150 enslaved Africans, who were ordered to be thrown overboard from the Zong for insurance monies.

“There is,” NourbeSe Philip writes, “no telling this story” (196).

And so instead, she undoes the story, reducing the violence of the colonial text to sounds, rhythms, spaces. Staging the fragments across the page, she’s imagined waves and oceans, the individual bits and pieces floating against, beyond, and through one another in the carnage of transatlantic slavery.

“I deeply distrust this tool I work with – language. It is a distrust rooted in certain historical events that are all of a piece with the events that took place on the Zong. The language in which those events took place promulgated the non-being of African peoples, and I distrust its order, which hides disorder; its logic hiding the illogic and its rationality, which is simultaneously irrational.” (197)

Like Tuck and Yang, NourbeSe Philip performs refusal. She will not tell the story that the court case determined for her; rather, she will engage in a much more subversive project, a ‘not-telling’ that, in its telling, challenges the very nature of logic itself:

“The not-telling of this particular story is in the fragmentation and mutilation of the text, forcing the eye to track across the page in an attempt to wrest meaning from words gone astray….the resulting abbreviated, disjunctive, almost non-sensical style of the poems demands a corresponding effort on the part of the reader to ‘make sense’ of an event that eludes understanding, perhaps permanently …. In the discomfort and disturbance created by the poetic text, I am forced to make meaning from apparently disparate elements – in so doing I implicate myself. The risk – of contamination – lies in piecing together the story that cannot be told. And since we have to work to complete the events, we all become implicated in, if not contaminated by, this activity.” (198)

NourbeSe Philip suggests that none of us is innocent, that we are all implicated in the violence that begot the massacre on the Zong. As soon as we engage with the text, as soon as we struggle with it, we become part of it. There is no escape.

 

And so, as I muddle my way through my notebooks, my photographs, and my random jottings, I think of the stories that need telling. I think of the silences that need preserving. I think of the stories that are my past, my present, my future, and of the way such stories link me, inevitably, to others. And then I think of the archives and how I might read them differently.

 

References

Gale, Lorena. Je me souviens. Vancouver: Talonbooks, 2001.

Hartman, Saidiya, “Venus in Two Acts,” Small Axe 12.2 (2008): 1-14.

NourbeSe Philip, M. Zong! Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 2008.

NourbeSe Philip, M. She Tries Her Tongue, Her Silence Softly Breaks. Charlottetown: Ragweed Press, 1993.

Sinor, Jennifer. The Extraordinary Work of Ordinary Writing: Annie Ray’s Diary. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2002.

Tuck, Eve and K. Wayne Yang. “R-Words: Refusing Research,” in D. Paris and M. T. Winn, Eds. Humanizing Research: Decolonizing Qualitative Inquiry with youth and Communities. Thousand Oakes, CA: Sage Publications, 2014.

Tuck, Eve and K. Wayne Yang. “Unbecoming claims: Pedagogies of refusal in qualitative research.” Qualitative Inquiry 20.6 (2014): 811-818.

 

With thanks to my colleague, Max Liboiron, who, during a talk entitled “How to Titrate Like a Feminist,” introduced me to the work of ethnographic refusal.

 

Photographs and text © Sonja Boon, 2017. (sboon @ mun.ca)