at the water’s edge…

Lots of stuff happening behind the scenes as our collaborative book moves ever closer to publication. We’re in the middle of copyedits now, a process that has us responding to author queries and looking at every single word through a microscope.

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When your index includes 20 separate entries for fish, you know you’re writing about islands, and this island in particular.

 

We’re also developing the book’s accompanying blog. Designed to support classroom use, it includes prompts and activities, as well as images, links to web-based resources, and references.

 

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Shhh! It’s not live, yet! But isn’t it gorgeous?

Autoethnography and Feminist Theory and the Water’s Edge: Unsettled Islands will be released in July 2018 (can’t wait!) and we’ll host a book launch here on Memorial University’s campus sometime in September.

If you’re really, really keen, you can pre-order the book (e-book or hardcover) on the Palgrave website. Click here for more information.

It can also be found at Amazon.com and Amazon.ca and can be ordered by your favourite bookseller.

 

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quiet

quiet

23131725_10155311939854272_1138406773638582757_nIt’s been quiet in blogland, but as all of us behind the scenes know, it’s been super busy…

We’re not blogging at the moment because … (drum roll) … we’re book writing! That’s right: the three of us – Lesley, Daze and I – are collaborating on a peer-reviewed book that’s under contract with Palgrave!

If you love all things autoethnography, theory, and islands – as we do! – we promise you’ll love this book.

The book will be a series of twenty micro-essays – none more than 1800 words long – each one a rich, velvety, scrumptious tangly bite of theory-making.

We’re also working on an accompanying website that will add pedagogical dimensions – discussion prompts, activities, photos – to each of the essays.

We’re currently working on our second complete draft with the whole manuscript due to be delivered by March 30.

It should be out later this year – stay tuned!

 

 

on holiday

saltwaterstories is on hiatus for a couple of months as we – Lesley, Daze, and I – work on a larger collaborative project. We’ll be back in September.

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North Head Trail, Signal Hill, St. John’s. July 2017. Photo credit: Sonja Boon

sensuous seas, or wading through deep histories

In a dream, I ride out of a cove with my family in an aging, fiberglass speedboat. The sky is dark and cloudy, and there are cold, black lops on lops all around us. The boat and waves crash against each other, spraying me with salty ocean water. We hit a large wave that ruptures over our heads, leaving all of us drenched. The salty fluid stings my eyes and blurs my vision.

As I woke up, I remembered the first time I got saltwater in my eyes. I was eleven years old, and my friends and I were playing on a wharf in a part of my hometown called Deep Tickle. In Newfoundland, ‘tickle’ is a vernacular term for a short, narrow strait. That day was extremely hot, and my pals Jamie and Brandon decided to swim out in the water just off the wharf. I loved swimming, but had never been immersed in saltwater before. I was hesitant and decided I wasn’t going to join them, until an older kid picked me up and threw me over the wharf.

In my hometown, this is the way many children learn how to swim. In fact, when my sister was five, she was thrown over our family wharf by an older cousin. As I revisit both of our experiences being submerged in our familiar yet unknown salty, smelly and slimy oceanic other, I form a new illustration of the way we both expressed corporeal instincts and reflexes to ‘stay afloat’ in an unknown environment. Unbeknownst to me as a child, being tossed into saltwater for the first time would help me understand more clearly historical forms of struggle and stamina needed to survive in rural Newfoundland.

Using the embodied fluid knowledge I discovered in the water beyond the wharf, this post grapples with the tickling “wet ontologies” (Steinberg and Peters 2015) of saltwater swimming. Thinking of the ‘tickle’ as a significant spatio-temporal environment in my life and familial history on an island, as well as a sensuous stimulation of the body, I ask after modes of skin and saltwater encounters to form tingly and murky intimate notions of ‘staying afloat’ in rural Newfoundland.

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Leaving Night Island. August 2015. Photo: Daze Jefferies.

As I was deciding whether I would join my friends in the water or stay on the wharf, I carefully examined the wet substance from which Jamie and Brandon were shouting at me to ‘stop being such a wimp’. The refracting sunlight made me see a bright green pool with seaweed, kelp and other forms of aquatic plantlife with strange textures and colours. We used to hang out on this wharf all the time, but had never thought of swimming in the water. All of us had seen minks crawling and swimming around the wharf. I was afraid one of them might attack or bite me if I were in the water. And before I knew it, I was touching the surface.

And then I was submerged and my fear became more fluid. I opened my eyes underwater: the environment below was a brighter green than the one I had observed from above. The water was thick and made my body tingle. When I lifted my head above the surface, my eyes were irritated and my vision blurry, as if I were peering through a viscous film back into the familiar world from which I was just dislodged. This fluid encounter, the saltwater on my skin and in my eyes, illustrated what Eva Hayward might call “a visual-hapticity that relies on proximity rather than distance” (2011: 265).

There was no denying that my body and the water had created a sensuous splash. My submersion was not graceful or playful, it was quite literally a slap in the face, with my head slipping under the waves and my vision becoming altered. This visual-haptic encounter was one of seeing and touching forces creating their own splash, drawing connections between the boy who had picked me up and thrown me into the water, the burning in my eyes, the salt in my mouth, the goosebumps on my skin from the cold water, and the rippling and distribution of waves I had influenced with my body. Hayward says that “sensations are produced through relationships…sensing is a distributed process” (274). Indeed, sensating the sea because of its closeness, its encircling of my body, can be read as an acknowledgement between bodies and rural environments.

The sea salt tickling my body in the Tickle might constitute both an irritating itch and a titillating and vibrant example of confronting and facing the abject – in this case the dirty, murky water of the cove that was no doubt filled with human disposals. The dream of traveling by boat triggered these reflections, once again allowing me to reconsider my own relations to water and the “churnings, driftings, and reborderings” (Steinberg and Peters 2015: 257) that living and existing in close proximity to the ocean can re/teach me about sensuous seas and rural subjectivities.

Remembering how rural Newfoundlanders have developed relationships with the sea over time – resettlement travels where houses were floated across the water to a new destination, or my grandfather walking across miles of thin ice in February 1962 to bring my grandmother and newborn mother home by sled, as well as sealing and fishing and exploring wet worlds – has taught me, above all, that when the life of a community revolves around water, there’s no point in being afraid of it. Looking back, there were no minks in the water that day, and there was no reason to be scared. I learned how to stay afloat, and how to be just a little more tough.

References

Hayward, Eva. 2011. “Ciliated Sense,” In Theorizing Animals: Re-thinking Humanimal Relations, eds. Nik Taylor and Tania Signal, 255-80. Netherlands: Brill.

Steinberg, Philip & Kimberley Peters. 2015. “Wet ontologies, fluid spaces: giving depth to volume through oceanic thinking,” In Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 33: 247-64. DOI: 10.1068/d14148p

with these hands we touch across ages

Victoria Day 2017 has been a research day spent in bed. I took two breaks to watch the new episodes of Twin Peaks and to do laundry. The latter is the inspiration for this blog post.

Studying folklore has taken me on all kinds of journeys. Somewhere along the way, I was introduced to http://www.folkstreams.net, an archive of documentary films exploring informal/expressive/material cultures as well as performance (and) traditions.

My favourite film from this archive is Clotheslines by Roberta Cantow (1981) which explores women’s relationships to laundry and ‘domestic’ labour, or body work at home. Among other things, the women in the film grapple with family dynamics, laundry and technological change, and the work of washing clothes by hand. Intimately, this documentary shows women reeling in a clothesline to collect and fold socks, shirts and dresses into a basket. Yet, I experience these women attach and reel emotions back out on that line, letting them get air for the first time. In doing so, they allow themselves to breathe, centered. Until this point, these women had never been asked to share their experiences and memories of doing body work at home. Like washing and drying, their emotions spin in patterns of two, frustration and pleasure.

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Still of women washing clothes in a stream, ‘Clotheslines’. 1981.

I enjoy doing laundry, although I’ve never washed clothes by hand. At the same time, I have shared many intimate moments with clothing through touch.

My first experience with fieldwork took place in my second semester of my undergrad when I did a study of thrift store cultures. While a significant portion of my analysis focused on economic relationships to used clothing, what fascinated me most were the stories that clothing can tell. As an avid thrifter since I was 15, I had never considered clothes as objects of memory and history. I had overlooked their ability to narrate their wornness.

After I had collected and analyzed the data from that study, I started to wonder where and who my clothes came from: who had touched them, had worn them, had made memories in them, and had grown out of them enough to give them away.

Somewhere amidst bins and racks and piles of used clothes, I realized that the stories told by the objects we wear are touchable. Over time, and with a giant and always shifting (archive?) closet, I have learned to pay attention to all the things said by every hitch, snag, hole, stain, smell, repair, and customization.

Smell is particularly capable of evoking significant and imaginative meanings/memories. While some thrift stores in St. John’s hang their donated goods for sale just the way they were donated – smelling like perfume, or cigarettes, or a complex blend of scents that cannot be described using words – other stores give them a good wash, and by the time they are touched by someone combing through a bin or rack, they smell only of detergent.

It isn’t always a bad thing. Certain detergents remind me of my childhood home: laundry washed, dried and folded by my mom, the special step perched on the patio so that she could reach the clothesline hanging way above her, the bright orange laundry basket she has had since before I was born.

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Still of drying garments, ‘Clotheslines’. 1981.

This evening I called home and asked her to share her own feelings about laundry. “It was a part of my daily routine,” she noted. “And it never bothered me because I just thought it was something I had to do as a mother.”

I asked if laundry ever frustrated her. She laughed and told me, “the only thing that frustrated me was when I folded it all up and put it on your bed, told you to pack it away, and you didn’t do it.”

Would the clothes on my bed have told me stories? Would I listen?

My own experience of laundry, or body work at home, is a pleasurable mix of touches, smells, and memories. With each encounter, I can never think about clothes the same. I am aware of their voices and histories.

Thank you, mom, for doing the critical work of cleaning.

Thank you for teaching me how to do that work myself.

Reference

Cantow, Roberta. Clotheslines. 16mm. Directed by Roberta Cantow. San Diego: Buffalo Rose Productions, 1981.

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

push and pull of memories: the st. john’s premiere of rozalind macphail’s ‘from the river to the ocean’

On May 12, the St. John’s premiere of Rozalind MacPhail’s latest audio-visual project From the River to the Ocean took place at Suncor Energy Hall, MUN School of Music.

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When I arrive at the theatre I am prepared for an evening of savoury sights and sounds. Then I notice that on each chair lay a tiny surprise, a salt water taffy, courtesy of MacPhail’s husband, filmmaker Josh Caine, who flew to St. John’s from North Carolina for the premiere.

In From the River to the Ocean, Rozalind MacPhail takes the audience along with her on an “inspiring ride” through Wilmington, North Carolina while waves of sound and silent film wash against each other. At times, I can feel the waves brushing against my feet as percussion, guitar basslines, and flute trills boomerang around the theatre.

Like MacPhail’s previous audio-visual projects that are centered around particular places, From the River to the Ocean began as an effort to document, archive, and share her memories of traveling, living, and growing in Wilmington. MacPhail’s three-month-long artist residency at the Cucalorus Film Festival shaped the entire project, where she met the filmmakers whose works radiate beside her, including her husband.

Just before she begins to play her opening track ‘Overture for Pinkhouse’ she has one request of the audience: “Listen for the sounds of Wilmington.”

At just under three minutes long, Pinkhouse captivates me with its soundscape. Since it is the one song on From the River to the Ocean that isn’t complemented by visuals, I am free to imagine sights and sounds and colours as MacPhail’s flute melodies intermingle, rise and fall, twist and turn.

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Rozalind MacPhail performing ‘Overture for Pinkhouse’. May 2017. Photo: Lesley Butler.

As her setlist progresses, this process of blending and weaving becomes more playful as MacPhail builds layers of sweet and flavourful “flute loops” that sing with each other and tell their own stories of Wilmington.

MacPhail’s work grapples with the stories that places tell us as well as the ones we tell about them as we move/shift/travel throughout the world. An undulating narrative, the notion of traveling is integral to the flow of messages told in From the River to the Ocean. In a way, MacPhail’s complex blend of visuals, vocals, electronics, and flute loops encourage the audience to travel (back) to Wilmington with her. ‘Greenfield’ in particular has the power to momentarily transport an audience from St. John’s, with its stories and footage of turtles, white cranes and alligators.

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MacPhail performing ‘Greenfield’ along with footage by Josh Caine. May 2017. Photo: Daze Jefferies.

With each song and film, new ideas about Wilmington are formed, and meanings are made as experimental VHS footage, photography, and hand-processed Super 8 film dance betwixt the music.

When the performance is finished, MacPhail answers questions from the audience. Dr. Ellen Waterman, Professor of Music, asks about the significance of time in this project. MacPhail notes the significance of memory in all of her work, sharing that as she looks to the future and continues to age, From the River to the Ocean will allow her to revisit and remember. She captures this idea most exquisitely on ‘The Gaze’:

You’re looking back
at me from the screen

So deep,
so close,
so heroic

Separated by
half a century

Separated by
an ocean…

I gaze back…

From the River to the Ocean is a beautiful representation of documenting pleasures, pressing social issues, and personal experiences. It also represents the work we do for Saltwater Stories: weaving together creativity and critical interrogation.

Amidst the artisty of Rozalind MacPhail and filmmakers Josh Caine, Shona Thomson, Mariah Kramer, Mandi Edwards, Matt Molloy, and Matt Gossett, I am transported to a “time out of time” where the wondrous intermingling plays on between people and place, past and present, and the push and pull of memories.

hot commodities: thoughts on reproductive politics, enslaved women, and Maria Sybilla Merian’s peacock flower

Reproduction, it is said, has always been a matter of politics.

In England, Henry VIII divorced and then killed off his second wife, Anne Boleyn for her failure to beget a boy. A few hundred years later, a concerned mother wrote to a Swiss doctor, worried about her daughter’s forthcoming nuptials in the face of newly discovered knowledge about her soon to be son-in-law’s health and its possible implications for their reproductive lives. In Canada, many women have been forcibly sterilized, their reproductive autonomy erased because of their class, race, or presumed psychological fitness for reproduction. In India, a burgeoning international surrogacy industry contracts often impoverished women to rent out their uteri for wealthy North American or European couples. In Ireland, labouring women have been victim – with the blessing of the Catholic church – to the profoundly disabling and medically unnecessary practice of symphisiotomy. In the global South, women have been used as guinea pigs for contraceptive testing, often without their consent or even knowledge. American fetal personhood laws pit the rights of the fetus against those of the mother to be. It was only in April 2017 that the European Court of Human Rights ruled that “the sterilization requirement [for trans people] was a violation of Article Eight of the European Convention on Human Rights” ( see New York Times)

Perhaps nowhere were the politics of reproduction more overt than in the context of the dying days of plantation slavery in the Americas. Numerous historians have observed that slave owners’ perspectives on reproduction changed as the political mood shifted toward abolition (van Stipriaan, Turner, Paton). Before this, owners hadn’t paid much attention to reproduction; after all, a slave population could easily be renewed with the purchase of more slaves (see Newton 1788, for example). But abolitionist talk changed things. Perhaps plantation owners would not always be able to rely on new bodies to fulfil their needs. This became all the more acute after the British abolition of the slave trade. While illegal trading still continued after this point, most slave owners had to rely on their own enslaved women to renew their labour force. In this new political context, women’s uteri became hot commodities (Turner, Morgan, Paton).

As I look back at my family tree, I wonder how these shifting political landscapes shaped the reproductive experiences of my enslaved ancestors. How did they navigate all of this in their daily lives? What might reproduction have meant for them?

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Gezicht op een plantage, waarschijnlijk plantage Jagtlust, vanaf de overkant van de Suriname rivier. NG-2013-22-7. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam. http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.538364

The Dutch historian Alex van Stipriaan observes that there were more children at cotton plantations than at coffee or sugar plantations (54). This could be because the work was much heavier at sugar plantations (Beeldsnijder 1997). It could also be that the cotton plantations, which emerged in Suriname only in the early nineteenth century and were located along what was known as the “Zeekust” along the western coastline of Suriname, were in a healthier region of the colony.

In a 2009 demographic study, van Stipriaan followed 204 enslaved women through the slave registers in the period between 1820 and 1863, the last forty years of slavery in Suriname, with the goal of tracing reproductive patterns. He focused on 6 sugar plantations, 6 coffee plantations, and 6 cotton plantations. He discovered that fully one quarter of the women (24%) did not have children at all (55). Those who did had an average of 4 children each. On average first time mothers were just over 20 years old and there were usually just over 3.5 years between births. He argues that this data suggests that enslaved women exercised a certain amount of authority over their reproduction; for example, it seemed that many women stopped having children once 2-4 reached the age of five. It’s also possible that non-reproductive enslaved women – that 24% who did not have children – were not necessarily unable to bear children, but actively choosing not to by either avoiding sexual relations, or more likely, by using commonly known abortifacients such as the peacock flower (which, according to one of our graduate students, is still used as an abortifacient today among some Indigenous communities in South America) (Schiebinger; for more of Merian’s drawings, see Heard).

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“Peacock Flower with Carolina Sphinx Moth,” by Maria Sybilla Merian. In Maria Merian’s Butterflies, Royal Collection Trust, 2016

All of this data is interesting, and it does indeed shed a light on plantation societies more broadly speaking, but it doesn’t help me to understand my own family histories.

The problem is that my family histories don’t fit these averages at all. Let’s look at my own demographic data.

I have a tiny sample of two, but both fit perfectly into van Stipriaan’s historical parameters. Eva Albertina and Frederica were both born in 1827 on Sarah plantation, one of the cotton plantations along Suriname’s west coast.

So far, so good.

But then, things diverge from van Stipriaan’s model.

Eva Albertina and Frederica had twelve children between them; Eva had five and Frederica had seven. But they lived remarkably parallel reproductive lives. Both had children well before they were twenty (the average age determined by van Stipriaan). Eva was seventeen when her first child was born; Frederica was eighteen. They both had their second children in 1847, their third in 1849 and their fourth in 1851, and their fifth in 1855. At this point, at the age of 28, Eva stopped having children, thus approximately following Stipriaan’s model. But Frederica had two more, in 1857 and finally, at the age of 35 (what we would, today, term a geriatric pregnancy), gave birth to her last child, Leander, in 1862, on the eve of emancipation.

My (albeit tiny) sample suggests that we need to move beyond the broad sweep of van Stipriaan’s model. Frederica and Eva Albertina were younger than the average, had more children than the average, and had them more frequently. Perhaps this is due to the fact that they were enslaved on a cotton plantation where working conditions were better. Perhaps the various owners and overseers of Sarah plantation, conscious of the need to ensure demographic growth, heeded calls to improve maternity care, hygiene, and working conditions for enslaved mothers.

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Gezichten op een kamp van slaven bij een Surinaamse plantage. Onderdeel van het plaatwerk ‘Gezigten uit Neerland’s West-Indien’. NG-1064-9. Rijksmuseum Amsterdam. http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.516156

It’s also possible that one or more of these children were the result of coerced alliances with white or mixed overseers. Such alliances were undoubtedly accompanied by sexual and reproductive obligations on the part of the enslaved women. But they may also have bought Eva and Frederica better living conditions, and with this, better reproductive conditions. In addition to this, they may have offered the possibility of manumission, or freedom, for enslaved children.

Frederica’s first child, a daughter named Annette, was manumitted in the fall of 1862. Eva’s fourth child, a son named Marlon 2, was manumitted under the name Jacob Schove in 1851.

There weren’t a huge number of manumissions at Sarah plantation; thus, two manumissions in the same family stand out.

Women and children were much more likely to be manumitted than men; van Stipriaan observes that men constituted only 21% of the free black population (61). So, too, were children of mixed race much more likely to be manumitted – fully 85% of free black children were listed in the censuses as ‘kleurling,’ of mixed race.

Did Frederica and Eva bargain with the only thing they had available to them: their wombs? Were they able to use their reproductive capacities to try to shape some sort of  positive life for themselves and their offspring? What did reproduction mean for enslaved women on Surinamese plantations?

I only wish I could ask them.

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Leasowes Plantation (next to Sarah plantation). Binnenplaats op plantage, aquarel, Rijksdienst voor het Cultureel Erfgoed [CC BY-SA 4.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

References

Beeldsnijder, Ruud. “Om werk van jullie te hebben”: Plantageslaven in Suriname, 1730-1750, 1997.

Heard, Kate, Maria Merian’s Butterflies. Royal Collection Trust, 2016.

Morgan, Jennifer L. Laboring Women: Reproduction and Gender in New World Slavery. UPenn Press,2004

Newton, John. Thoughts upon the Slave Trade. 1788.

Paton, Diana. “Maternal struggles and the politics of childlessness under pronatalist Caribbean slaver.” Slavery & Abolition 2017, online in advance of print.

Schiebinger, Londa. Plants and Empire: Colonial Bioprospecting in the Atlantic World. Harvard UP, 2004.

Stipriaan, Alex van. “Welke de ware redden zijn, dat Plantaadje negers zoo weinig voortelen’: Demografische ontwikkelingen op Surinaams plantages gedurend de laatse eeuw van slaverij.” Kind aan de ketting: Opgroeien in slavernij toen en nu, edited by Aspha Bijnaar. KIT Publishers, 2009. 50-64.

Turner, Sasha. “Home-grown Slaves: Women, Reproduction, and the Abolition of the Slave Trade, Jamaica 1788-1807” Journal of Women’s History vol. 23, no. 2, 2011, pp. 39-62.