Category Archives: Literature
Living on Instinct: Just Born This Way
In my Literature class this week we were assigned, “We So Seldom Look on Love”, by Barbara Gowdy. One of the greatest stories I have ever read.
A quick glance at the title offers you a vivid, cliched scenario between two middle-aged love-lorn loons: a conspiracy theorist obsessed
with his wife’s elusive manner and an artist suspecting her husband’s faith to their marriage. In other words, I judged this book by its cover, and before reading it already became a turn-off. A grave mistake indeed on my part.
We So Seldom Look on Love is a short story about a necrophiliac. Bonus: it’s a young woman. Right? I didn’t expect that either.
I should make it clear right now that this is not a book review and I don’t intend to reveal any plot points or spoilers, so for all you book fanatics, you may relax.
So why did I bring it up? Well… like Sky Burial, I have savored a very special line:
“But something drove me to go through with these compunctions. It was as if I were acting solely on instinct and curiosity, and anything I did was all right, provided it didn’t kill me.”
And how strange it was to let those few words seep into the deepest depths of my mind. They’ve stayed with me every day since they found me. What they said to me was, you were just born this way.
I liked that. Loved it, in fact; the idea of living by instinct. That provoked for me a series of thoughts, analysis and a continuing process of studying human conditioning vs inheritance.
There are things we are taught, lessons we learn and by-laws we hear and speak. We ingest these sets of given beliefs day by day and we can all attest to the notion that we operate on rules which further establish our values. But while most people live among given guidelines from society, there are many others who work against them. The alarming difference: they don’t believe they are doing anything wrong; a feeling the narrator of the story fearlessly demonstrates through her rituals and love-making with male bodies.
The passage itself infers a sense of natural impulse. It is completely natural for them to feel so compelled by their passion to commit what we have deemed as “immoral”, just as it is natural for you to b
reathe – what your enemies may condemn as a sin. Just as it feels natural for those who are homosexual, straight, or insane.
I don’t like the idea of genetics playing the main role in our behaviour or personality – although science is tough to argue. Here’s my opinion: when it is mentioned that genes or blood-cells are the reciprocal of brain development, it almost purposely excludes certain individuals and forces them to bear names or labels. Hence the common teen-hate of ‘categories’. However, I suppose if this weren’t so, I would not be writing about it now.
I like to feel that I live not because I was told how to, but because I already know how. For me.
Flip, flip, flip, thunk.
Flip, flip, flip.
That’s how fast I have ripped through this story. I’ve read it six times already. A definite recommendation for anyone who appreciates the odd, unorthodox and the new!
- J.
A Place of Stories
Many things have happened since August. For starters, I was accepted into the Culinary Arts program at my school. And boy, I’ve been having a blast! It can be difficult sometimes due to stress in the kitchen and missing deadlines could (figuratively) mean your life, but what I learn is teaching me and giving me new perspectives of life, so I see past the fuss and gladly tackle the next challenge with zeal. I can’t wait for next semester.
Speaking of school, there is a subject of material I wanted to bring up on this fine, Autu
mn evening. “What material might that be?” they ask.
It is called, “Sky Burial” by Richard Van Camp.
Now before I go into the details, I feel I must mention the place of stories: my literature class.
Admittedly I wanted Human Sexuality or Drugs & Society as an elective, but it seems I was the little turtle amongst serpents during the crammed application process and so I was forced to pick something else at the last minute. Perhaps it was meant to be.
To say the least, Literature & Short Fiction is fun. That is, when I’m not in the actual classroom. The stories are wonderful; filled with grotesque, Gothic folklore, heroes, mistaken villains and provocative emotion. There is also an appreciable dose of situational irony. But the people I sit next to every Thursday afternoon are, in friendlier terms, strange. Most are alright. Some of them are assholes. Buuuut it’s just people! And I assume we all realize this sad fact since we spend most of our three hours agreeing to disagree. However, every once in a while in class when a discussion is in session, we can sometimes manage to forget personal affliction and actually have thought-provoking conversations. This week I have learned that it isn’t the stories themselves, but the personality behind certain speakers that beget new perspectives. And this week, I have had the pleasure of being one of them.
Sky Burial tells the story of an elder 
who has a heart attack in a mall and he reflects upon his life, his son’s suicide, his daughter’s transformation and how his culture has been inexplicably ‘changed’ over the last century. He meets a little girl who is half Cree, shortly before he ascends into the afterlife in the form of an owl.
There is one line from the story that has stuck with me ever since my eyes fell upon it. It said,
“They ruined Indians.”
I didn’t expect to feel so empathetic. I understood. “They” (in my opinion) refers to White society, or, arguably, the Indian culture itself. Since the dramatic influences of Christianity, boarding schools and the loss of language, the “old Indians” he mentions have changed. They were forced to adapt to this new world. And I say I understand not because of what he meant, but what he felt. Coming from a young girl who knows what it feels like; attempting to bridge the gap between the modern day and old tradition.
I told this to all of them. I nearly cried, much to my embarassment, haha… but when I was finished talking, some of them looked at me and smiled. I was happy they took my words into thought.
There is a boy in our class and he also spoke. He claimed that it was irrational of “us” to assume that Indians are still marginalized and have no reliable resources when we live in today’s society. He also said that we should not look at the culture as a peaceful race, as “they were NOT peaceful with each other, even before the Europeans came!” And while it is true that many tribes/nations could not negotiate an alliance against the colonists, it was a little silly of him to think that poverty does not exist in the present. But, I said nothing. His words took a bit of a jab but I let it go. I didn’t see any real reason to argue. I let Barbara, our Literature prof., take that role and she educated him on the subject quite heatedly. Afterwards, he fell silent. I just smiled. It wasn’t to insult him; part of me actually felt happy for him. He may have learned a few things that day!
There was also a girl who flew up her hand and she rambled on and on about how some people have died participating in sweat lodge ceremonies. Her theory, as she said, was that Indians would die because “they were high”. I had to laugh. She also complained that she didn’t understand why “they” insisted upon going to see a Medicine Man rather than a doctor since a medicine man cannot cure cancer or replace a lost limb. I wasn’t aware doctors could do that! 
But I understand that they both meant well as students and just wanted to understand, as do I. I am thankful we were introduced to Sky Burial and I am happy to know that our teacher welcomes native literature for this generation. When a story evokes strong, riveting emotions from its readers it must be a damn good one. I know I won’t forget it any time soon and I look forward to listening to everyone in the class now. And while the narrator was seemingly cynical and sad, there was still hope. Hope in finding one’s self through living and learning from mistakes and picking back up the pieces through the years.
Miigwetch, Van Camp.
- J.
