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1250270502
| 9781250270504
| 1250270502
| 3.85
| 2,187
| Mar 04, 2025
| Mar 04, 2025
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it was ok
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Scaachi Koul is a writer I’ve long admired for her craft. I enjoyed her political commentary when she was on the Canadaland Commons podcast back in th
Scaachi Koul is a writer I’ve long admired for her craft. I enjoyed her political commentary when she was on the Canadaland Commons podcast back in the day, and I’ve enjoyed her Buzzfeed articles and other online writing. I’ve taught her essays in English class. Although I didn’t read her first book, I was excited to pick up Sucker Punch. So it’s with a heavy heart I have to admit … I didn’t love this one, and I might not even have liked it? If Koul’s first collection of essays was (at least this is the impression I get solely from what she says about it in this collection) the story of how the love of a good man healed her from the relationships trauma of young adulthood, then Sucker Punch is about how that love was a lie. It’s a dissection of her marriage and her divorce. Maybe I wasn’t expecting that to dominate the discourse within this book, and maybe I just wasn’t in the mood for this story at this time. I’m making excuses because I feel bad. Koul’s writing is still every bit as good as it has been in the past: she’s witty, barbed, yet also incredibly vulnerable and self-aware. She knowingly flirts with stereotypes only to carefully filet them wide open. So I want to make it clear here that this book didn’t work for me because I didn’t resonate with the subject matter more so than any issues with the writing itself. That isn’t to say I have no interest in reading about divorce … but the way Koul has chosen to explore and examine her particular experiences just didn’t work for me. I found myself dragging my heels to finish this book, and I ultimately found it very unsatisfying. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Sep 16, 2025
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Sep 27, 2025
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Oct 05, 2025
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Hardcover
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ALOK
*
| 0593094654
| 9780593094655
| 0593094654
| 4.48
| 13,074
| Jun 02, 2020
| Jun 02, 2020
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liked it
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I picked this up on a whim at my local indie bookshop. It’s a trim and cute little volume, definitely pocket-sized (and yes, many of my dresses have p
I picked this up on a whim at my local indie bookshop. It’s a trim and cute little volume, definitely pocket-sized (and yes, many of my dresses have pockets). Beyond the Gender Binary is an essay about exactly that: what does it mean to be nonbinary? Furthermore, how can our society itself move beyond the idea of binary gender? Alok Vaid-Menon relates some anecdotes from their own life while passionately breaking down the myths, stereotypes, and common nonstarter arguments against a more expansive and inclusive approach to gender. Many people labour under the misconception that moving our society in a less binary direction means everyone needs to ditch gender and become nonbinary. I say this because I thought that way once, long long ago. I had to take a dreary sociology course in first-year university, and the professor had us read The Left Hand of Darkness and discuss (in an online forum) whether gender was necessary in our society. I passionately argued, as far as I can recall, that eliminating gender was not as desirable as eliminating gender roles and stereotypes. Maybe eighteen-year-old Kara deep down sensed that strong internal gender identity that even then was yearning to tell her she was actually a woman, I don’t know. I just remember bristling at the thought of a blanket agender society. This is not, of course, what Vaid-Menon or any gender activist is arguing! They address this in Beyond the Gender Binary, as does pretty much every nonbinary, agender, or genderqueer person who has a conversation with ignorant schlubs like myself. Rather, Vaid-Menon points out how dismantling the gender binary involves challenging our assumptions about what gender means and how we have baked it into everything from conversation to cooking to clothes. At sixty-five A5-size pages, this essay is not a long or difficult read. It’s not really meant for trans people or even cis people who are relatively aware of the current state of this discourse. The target audience is likely cis people who are curious but who have also heard a lot of misinformation, or who want to arm themselves with a little more knowledge. Vaid-Menon doesn’t go into detail while debunking any of these myths, however, so if you are looking for facts, statistics, or a more thorough explanation, you’ll want to read further. Ultimately, this is the kind of essay that probably works better as a digital artifact to be shared in inboxes and on feeds. Nevertheless, the print edition is still cute, and the words are still full of conviction and power. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 08, 2025
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Feb 08, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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Paperback
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1668034905
| 9781668034903
| 1668034905
| 4.28
| 2,217
| Jun 01, 1979
| May 14, 2024
|
it was amazing
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Ursula K. Le Guin is the GOAT. I think the only one who rivals her in my esteem of science fiction and fantasy authors is Octavia Butler. I say this n
Ursula K. Le Guin is the GOAT. I think the only one who rivals her in my esteem of science fiction and fantasy authors is Octavia Butler. I say this not to claim to be an expert on either author or even that I like their work beyond any other SFF author … but those two gals just … have something. So naturally, when I heard that The Language of the Night had been revised and reissued with a new introduction, etc., I jumped on it. This is a collection of essays by Le Guin from the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. Some first appeared in print form; others are transcripts, edited by Le Guin or another, of talks she has given at various events. A couple even have annotations or updates presented as footnotes or even side-by-side! Professor Susan Wood has organized the essays thematically and provided a brief introduction to each theme: “Le Guin Introduces Le Guin” (cute), “On Fantasy and Science Fiction,” “The Book Is What Is Real,” “Telling the Truth,” and “Pushing at the Limits.” It is a book packed with introductions. This new edition has an introduction by Ken Liu, followed by a preface written by Le Guin in 1989 for the ten-year-anniversary edition, followed by the original introduction by Wood. Then you have Wood’s mini intros before each theme. Plus, several of the essays are themselves introductions Le Guin wrote to some of her novels! As a result, The Language of the Night takes on a fun, nesting-doll-esque atmosphere. I love the title to this collection, and I think it’s very appropriate. One thing that shines above all else? Le Guin’s love for, passion about, the SFF genres. Like, this should come as no surprise to anyone remotely familiar with her—but it is one thing to read her books versus hearing her talk about the art and craft of writing SFF. She travels through the genre with such purpose and poise, acknowledging the tension between commercial and artistic endeavours. SFF has historically been a genre of pulp, and writing it a craft rather than an art. Le Guin has no time for this, however; indeed, it is notable how deliberately she avoids engaging with literary fiction as an appreciable genre. To her, SFF is art, should be seen as art, and indeed, SFF authors have a responsibility to take their genre seriously as art. There’s a trace of restrained anger in some of her essays, the tone of a woman very much aware she is one of the few in her field, so used to having to talk to (and be talked at in return) men, yet schooling all of us all the same with her elegant and erudite arguments. This is why Le Guin is the GOAT. She doesn’t let anyone off the hook. Not the readers, not the writers, not the publishers. Certainly not herself. Her constant allusions to Soviet Russia and its science-fiction authors feel almost prescient reading this now in the censorship-heightened atmosphere of 2024/2025. Living through the Cold War, Le Guin understands the stakes for creative freedom and self-expression and the unique way SFF is positioned to deal with these issues. She is happy to critique Tolkien and his contemporaries for their sexism, racism, jingoism, etc., while at the same time hold them up as truly fascinating storytellers. In short, The Language of the Night demonstrates the dexterity I think is typical of Le Guin’s writing. She knows language, and she knows story, and I think it’s the mastery of these two skills in harmony that makes someone stand out as a writer. You might have one or the other and be good, but you need both to be great. And you need a third thing—a kind of ruthless intuition, a sensitivity to the politics of personhood, that Le Guin and Butler both embody in their works in a way that makes them GOATs. I took my time reading this collection, starting it at the end of August 2024 and picking it up and putting it down all throughout the last half year. I have lingered on Le Guin’s language and deliberated on her declarations. I’m not sure I agree with everything she has to say, but I loved hearing her say it. I loved her discussion of how she might have approached gender in The Left Hand of Darkness differently had she written it ten years later—I think when we put certain books from previous eras on a pedestal, we freeze their author in amber and have trouble acknowledging that the author’s views might have changed or their language might have evolved in the years since the book became a classic, and this novel is a fantastic example. To see this cross-section of Le Guin’s thoughts through three decades, hear her acknowledge where her views have changed or which ones have stayed the same, is truly fascinating. Though billed as “essays on writing, science fiction, and fantasy,” one might also call it “essays on writing science fiction and fantasy.” But to be clear, this is not a book that teaches you writing. Nor is it a definitive examination of SFF as a genre or even a particularly opinionated tour of how to write good SFF. (Though, as always, I will forever stan Le Guin for criticizing the more masculine or macho strains of SFF without forever pigeonholing the genre and cynically distancing herself from it like, say, Margaret Atwood, boo.) So if you are coming here hoping for Le Guin’s secrets, I don’t think you’ll find any. Lots of discussion of Frodo and Mrs. Dalloway and Tolkien and Woolf and Solzhenitsyn though! The Language of the Night is the perfect kind of book for a millennial like me. I was born in the year Le Guin wrote her introduction to the ten-year edition. I grew up on flashy nineties science fiction on TV and reading everything from pulpy classics to the more cerebral parts of the genre. I have followed SFF through its modern ups and downs, the trends towards literary fiction and the swing of the pendulum back to doorstopper fantasy now reified into big-budget TV shows by Amazon and the like. What a time to be alive. And a time that never would have come to pass, were it not for Le Guin and her contemporaries. This window is a valuable portal into an era of which I was not a part, and one that I think modern readers would do well to learn about and understand. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Aug 26, 2024
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Feb 08, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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Paperback
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0593230388
| 9780593230381
| 0593230388
| 4.50
| 40,818
| Oct 01, 2024
| Oct 01, 2024
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it was amazing
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Some books are plodding and predictable (even if they are ultimately rewarding). Others are byzantine and meandering (even if they are ultimately rewa
Some books are plodding and predictable (even if they are ultimately rewarding). Others are byzantine and meandering (even if they are ultimately rewarding). The Message is a secret, third type: it is a careful bundle of missives about the struggle for liberation. Writing about events and stories across space and time, Ta-Nehisi Coates unifies these long essays under the guise of talking to his workshop students about writing. The title belies its simplicity by taking on so many meanings. First, Coates visits Dakar, Senegal, and ruminates on being an African American visiting Africa. What does it mean to be Black in a country populated mostly by Black people? I am reminded of Esi Edugyan’s similar reflections in Out of the Sun . This theme, of the way place can reinforce how much race is just a social construct, continues throughout The Message. Coates seeks to understand how even though different communities around the world experience oppression in slightly different ways, we are all connected; the fight is one. This first essay gives way to a longer, more drawn out meditation on resistance in the United States. Located temporally in 2020, that fateful summer of protests triggered by George Floyd’s murder, this essay is spiritually connected to the previous one. What I learned here—what I have been learning, the more I read Black authors like Coates and Lorde and Oluo and others—is how deeply the tradition of African American scholarship goes on the subjects of freedom and struggle. It’s very easy for those of us who are not Black and (in my case) not American to view these subjects in facile ways, to understand the history of enslavement in the Americas as a simplistic story of good people and bad people, White people vs Black people, and so on. Coates’s discussion is a rich one, but he built it on the shoulders of the giants who came before him. There is so much in this essay that I recognized—either as something I related to, or as something familiar to me from my different positionality. For an example of the latter: Coates mentions being a lacklustre student when he was younger, for school didn’t challenge him, yet this was viewed as defiance and noncompliance by his teacher. As a white educator, I am complicit in a similarly racist system here in Canada, where Black students are disproportionately disciplined or viewed as more aggressive than their peers. From here, Coates moves on to discussing the rise in book bans, censorship, and other ills insidiously making their way through classrooms and legislatures in the United States (as well as Canada), including his own personal connection thereto. He deftly weaves in and out of his personal narrative while still offering a wider perspective. At one point, he says:
Mmm. Yes. As an English teacher, as a book reviewer, as a media criticism podcaster … yes, I feel this so hard! I teach English to adults seeking their high school diploma; most are not “readers” in the classical tradition I have grown into. They want a diploma and the skills needed for college courses or the workplace. Yet I never stop trying to connect our English lessons to social justice, to history, to geography. I never stop sneaking in personal essays by marginalized voices or history lessons in the guise of “analyzing a text.” I say sneak, yet I am also explicit with them: I teach about storytelling, and why it is important beyond entertainment. For, as Coates says above, the stories we tell are the constraints we create for the society we can imagine. The next essay underscores this vividly when Coates describes his visit to Palestine and Israel—mere months before the October 7 Hamas attack that initiated Israel’s most recent episode of genocide against Palestinians. While it is important, as Coates notes, that we listen to Palestinian voices on Palestine, his voice here serves an important role as interlocutor and interloper. In the US, Coates is marginalized: a Black man in white supremacist society. In Israel and Palestine, his status is more conditional. Depending on how he is read, which gate he goes through, whom he’s with, he might first be pegged as Muslim, or he might be read as an American. One interpretation gives him far more status than the other. This essay is Coates discovering and attempting to come to terms with America’s inextricable complicity in Israel’s settler colonialism—and by extension, his own complicity. He connects this to the absence of Palestinian voices from the news rooms and journalism circuits where he himself has often been the lone Black journalist. Throughout, Coates writes with an enviable and exquisite command of language. His diction is delectable; his sentence structure second to none. Reading The Message is like floating along a river that is provoking you into deep thought. Whether or not you are well versed in the issues Coates covers here, you owe it to yourself to read this book, for it is simply beautifully written. The Message challenges, documents, describes, decries, and clarifies. It is meditation, mea culpa, and even manifesto. It is a book unfortunately appropriate and sorely needed in the current times, with a second Trump presidency looming and the genocide in Palestine continuing seemingly unabated. With such darkness, hope sometimes feels fleeting. What can I do? What can I do? It seems trite to say that reading is resistance, but reading The Message, with its intention to spur his fellow writers into action, certainly feels like resistance. I guess what matters, of course, is where our reading and our writing goes from here, and the possible politics our art creates. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 15, 2024
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Dec 21, 2024
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Dec 28, 2024
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Hardcover
| |||||||||||||||
052551144X
| 9780525511441
| 052551144X
| 4.13
| 644
| Mar 12, 2024
| Mar 12, 2024
|
liked it
|
Amid the calumnious pushback in the United States against so-called “critical race theory” (it’s not) in schools remains the single truth: you don’t l
Amid the calumnious pushback in the United States against so-called “critical race theory” (it’s not) in schools remains the single truth: you don’t learn the true history of the US in school. The same goes for Canada, where we learn about the enslavement of African people in the US, but we don’t learn about slavery in Canada or our own history of anti-Black racism following abolition. So I do my best to read and learn, especially from Black women. In You Get What You Pay For, Morgan Parker engages with the legacy of slavery and nearly four centuries of anti-Blackness on this continent. Her tone is brutally forthright, holding nothing back as she looks at how the shape of American society has influenced her life. In an era that has too long billed itself post-racial or colour-blind, Parker insists that, yes, you need to see her race in order to see the arc of her life so far. I received an eARC from NetGalley and Penguin Random House in exchange for a review. This is an essay collection loosely masquerading as memoir and following a rough chronology of Parker’s life. She returns to a few regular motifs throughout: her next therapist, the slave ship as a metaphor for living under white supremacy in the US, the impossibility of survival for so many Black people as a result of police brutality. Many of the essays engage with seminal moments of the American zeitgeist in the past couple decades: the ascension of Serena and Venus Williams, Ye’s infamous remark about George W. Bush in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, the trial of Bill Cosby. Parker acknowledges the complexity of her subject while writing with an appealing simplicity. Some of her discussions of her therapists reminded me of It’s Always Been Ours , by Jessica Wilson. Both books were illuminating. We white women often fail to consider race as a factor in our professional interactions, whether it’s therapy, treatment for eating disorders, or in my case, teaching. Which is not to say that race is the only factor in finding a good fit with a professional. But as Parker makes clear in this book, it wasn’t until she found a Black female therapist that she was finally able to connect in a way that was authentic and useful for her. Her white therapists prior lacked the experience and ancestors required to see all of Parker. That’s what we are talking about here. Seeing. Seeing the weight of intergenerational trauma. Seeing resilience not as a buzzword (“oh, you are so strong”) but as a rebellion against being put into a box. Seeing and understanding that racism isn’t simply, “Oh, people are mean to you because of your skin colour?”—racism is a kaleoidoscope of Rubik’s cubes of dominoes that fall every single day. It’s a behemoth, visible and invisible at the same time. You Get What You Pay For is dolorous at times. It lacks the rah-rah inspirational tone that we have come to demand from racialized writers. This is my first time reading anything by Parker that I can recall, so my point of comparison is to Roxane Gay, who is likewise unapologetic in her take-it-or-leave-it attitude towards her opinions. This is something we unthinkingly praise in white writers but often see as too adversarial or cynical in Black writers. While Parker has obviously met with a fair amount of success, she opens up and discusses how that hasn’t always translated into better mental health. This reminds me of Ruchika Tulshyan and Jodi-Ann Burey’s Harvard Business Review article, “Stop Telling Women They Have Imposter Syndrome”. Before I read that article, I probably would have labelled Parker’s description of her experiences as imposter syndrome. Now I know better. Now I know that the driving force is systemic, misogynoir. At the same time, I think it’s important to emphasize that this collection is not hopeless. It’s just honest. You won’t exit it with a warm, fuzzy feeling, and you aren’t meant to. Now, that might not be what you want on your reading schedule right now—and I don’t blame you; I won’t pretend that I revelled in reading this. At the same time, I did fly through it, for as bleak as this book feels sometimes, Parker’s writing is also compelling. Intergenerational trauma is no joke. White supremacy is alive and well in the US, as well as here in Canada. You Get What You Pay For brings a powerful voice to the conversation. Above all else, Parker insists that survival is not enough. She wants her life to be hers, as she should. Freedom on paper is not freedom in reality. Not yet. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 12, 2024
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Mar 14, 2024
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Mar 29, 2024
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Hardcover
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9798888900574
| B0BYDCQ3XQ
| 4.31
| 196
| unknown
| Jul 04, 2023
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really liked it
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White supremacy is a problem for all of us, not just Black people. But Black people are best positioned to critique it—and to defend the need for acad
White supremacy is a problem for all of us, not just Black people. But Black people are best positioned to critique it—and to defend the need for academic responses to it. As Florida and other US states decry “critical race theory” i schools, Our History Has Always Been Contraband: In Defense of Black Studies is just that. Colin Kaepernick, Robin D.G. Kelley, and Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor have selected a treasure trove of historic essays that explicate the need for strong academic programs that focus on studying Black literature, Black histories, Black cultures—both within the African American context and beyond. I received a copy of this book for free in exchange for a review. As I often do with these kinds of books, I like to start off with a positionality disclaimer: I am, of course, a white woman. This book will hit differently for me than it will for Black readers. The book also acknowledges that it is very focused on the United States, and therefore on anti-Black racism through the lens of African American enslavement and oppression. The editors have done this on purpose to make sure the volume is slim and accessible. I understand that desire, and it was probably the right call—yet my biggest takeaway, having now read all these essays, is that I need more. I’m Canadian, so my familiarity with and relationship to the history of slavery and other, often ongoing anti-Black racism will be different from American readers. That being said, Canada desperately needs more Black studies here, at every level of the education system. So much of this book still applies north of the border! Another strength of this book is how it focuses on historic writings over contemporary. The first two parts, the bulk, are taken up by these essays—or more often than not, excerpts from what are much longer pieces. At first I was annoyed by this strategy, but now I see the value in it: if I was moved enough by one of the excerpts, it is easy enough for me to locate the full-length version elsewhere. This way, Kaepernick and the others expose readers to a wider cross-section of discourse from Black thinkers and writers. I like it. Some of the authors are famous names you have (hopefully) heard of, such as Frederick Douglass, Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, etc. Others might be more niche but no less talented, no less important. I particularly want to highlight “Toward a Black Feminist Criticism” by Barbara Smith from 1977. Smith, cofounder of the Combahee River Collective, argues that Black women have too long been invisible in their contributions to literature and art. Black women writers and artists need spaces to share their experiences without being erased by white feminists or by Black men. Smith especially highlights the plight of Black lesbian writers, who face three axes of oppression. In this way I hear a lot of echoes of critiques from Audre Lorde or bell hooks. Indeed, the writing of Black women is so important to elevate and amplify for exactly the reasons that Smith gives in this short excerpt. A feminism built exclusively on the complaints and experiences of white, straight women will never liberate all women. This collection goes hard, by the way—I hope that was obvious from what I said above. These essays don’t pull their punches; if you were looking for something to coddle white fragility, don’t expect anything here. This book makes it very clear that Black people in the US are fighting for survival, still, and that Black studies programs and Black literature are vital to that survival. Part 3 caps the book with three essays written for the collection. They emphasize the need for resistance against the unjust laws and censorship occurring within the academy and the wider education system in the US. Again, as specific as this book is to that context, these ideas are taking root in other places around the world, so these essays are still relevant. This book is an excellent collection of thoughts, arguments, and purposeful expressions of resistance and struggle. It epitomizes why racists are so terrified of allowing critical thinking and history to be taught in schools, of why they are working so hard to ban these books and ideas from classrooms and lecture theatres. Black scholars, Black writers, Black thinkers have always been at the forefront of anti-oppressive thought and action. Now they need our help. Our History Has Always Been Contraband reminds readers that it’s the same dance, just a different tune: the struggle has existed for centuries, and it’s time to fight again. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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2
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Oct 23, 2023
not set
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Nov 04, 2023
not set
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Dec 09, 2023
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Paperback
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0415908086
| 9780415908085
| 0415908086
| 4.44
| 12,872
| Sep 12, 1994
| Nov 12, 1994
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really liked it
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This book was published when I was five years old, yet it remains timeless and in a way prescient. My second bell hooks book, I read this for the book
This book was published when I was five years old, yet it remains timeless and in a way prescient. My second bell hooks book, I read this for the book club I’m a part of. Teaching to Transgress is quite a different vibe from
All About Love
. This one is more practical, more focused on work rather than personal life (though hooks, of course, blurs those lines). I value both books but in different ways. As a teacher, of course, this book really spoke to me. Much of what hooks says feels familiar in what I already do; some of what she said pushed me to do better; all of what she says just feels so true and right, especially in the current climate. At the start of the book, and then returning to it throughout, hooks discusses her experiences with education as a student. As a Black girl, and a Black woman, growing up in the American South during desegregation and integration. As a white woman in Canada, all I was taught was that integration of schools was a good thing—makes sense, right? But hooks points that a lot of Black parents were skeptical of integration, were just as against it as white parents, albeit perhaps for different reasons. She laments that she went from an all-Black school that was full of caring Black educators to a white school that treated her poorly and valued compliance over curiosity and actual learning. This is, alas, a story all too familiar today, even here in school systems in Ontario. Thus we arrive at the first meaning of teaching to transgress: hooks wants us to be complicit, to recognize that the system itself is designed to sabotage students. To make them obedient in replicating structures of oppression. She doesn’t say this quite in that way, of course—as I noted in my review of All About Love, hooks has this incredible facility for making her writing accessible, her sentences short—a skill, you have noticed, that still eludes me. So we must teach our students to transgress this system. Beyond that, we ourselves must transgress the dynamics expected between teacher and student by this colonial, carceral system. That is to say, teachers are expected to wield power in a way that dominates students. To change that, hooks says, we have to be vulnerable. We have to invite students to be a part of the learning process in a way that might frighten us (and them). Writing from the perspective of teaching undergraduate university students, hooks remarks that often students will feel lost, will resist her attempts to democratize her classroom, because they are used to being told what to do. As an adult education teacher I feel this way too—my students are suspicious of anything that is different from the high school experience they recall even though that experience was, in part, responsible for them not being successful. Nevertheless, all we can do as educators is keep trying. I call this book prescient because even though hooks is writing in the early nineties, so much of what she says feels like it applies to classrooms today. She witnessed in her time what we are seeing now—namely, the use of shallow stabs at “diversity and equity” that are little more than public relations gambits in lieu of actual systemic change. Much like contemporary Black women are calling out such hypocrisy right now, hooks cautions us not to fall for such pabulum. I drew great inspiration, especially in her conversations with a white male colleague. There is such unflinching honesty in this book: hooks reflects on her own limitations, criticizes others where she believes they deserve criticism, yet is also willing to recognize that people have the capacity to grow and change and be allies. Those of us who are white who read this book and mull over our role in being antiracist educators must confront the fact of our whiteness. This goes deeper than simply “checking our privilege,” as we are often advised to do by the diversity consultants. It means understanding that we can’t always understand, that our experience literally obscures reality as Black people experience it, and for that reason we have to listen to Black voices on these matters—yet not expect Black people to do all the work. We need to understand how we can wield our whiteness to be accomplices. Nearly thirty years old now, Teaching to Transgress has as much or more power today as it did when it was published. I only regret that bell hooks is no longer with us, for I would have enjoyed hearing her speak. As it is, all I can do is keep catching up on her writing. She is honest, thoughtful, deliberate, sensitive. She acknowledges that feminism hasn’t always extended beyond white woman yet strives to change that rather than set feminism aside. She is aware of the paradoxes in which she exists as a Black woman in our society, yet she challenges other Black people, challenges herself, as much as she challenges white people to do better. This, to me, is the ultimate theme of Teaching to Transgress: for hooks, there is always a way for anyone to learn, to do better, to push further and harder for justice. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Apr 18, 2023
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Apr 23, 2023
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May 06, 2023
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Paperback
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195217774X
| 9781952177743
| 195217774X
| 3.93
| 245
| Mar 07, 2023
| Mar 07, 2023
|
really liked it
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Reading memoirs by people in their twenties makes me feel old (and I am only thirty-three!). Fortunately, Clarkisha Kent makes up for that because her
Reading memoirs by people in their twenties makes me feel old (and I am only thirty-three!). Fortunately, Clarkisha Kent makes up for that because her writing is intense, rich, and thoughtful. Fat Off, Fat On: A Big Bitch Manifesto is a memoir, yes, but I also love that framing of manifesto as well: Kent is bringing forth a type of energy that she wants to see in this world. I received a review copy from the Feminist Press. From the beginning, Kent does not hold back. She gets into some heavy topics here—just a big content warning for mentions of child molestation and abuse, suicide attempts, mental illness, etc. Kent shares her trauma and talks about how it has shaped her. She is also quite critical of herself. At one point, as she is discussing how her religious upbringing influenced her ideas on sexuality, she describes how fervently she attempted to dissuade her peers from same-sex attraction. Kent, who would eventually realize she is bi, did not have the language as a teenager to properly analyze her experience. This resonated with me as a queer woman, and it also made me think, as a teacher, about why it’s so important to have labels and terms for things. If anyone needs convincing that banning books with queer or Black representation in them is a bad idea, reading about Kent’s experience growing up in a conservative southern state is a good place to start. Fat Off, Fat On reminds me in some ways of Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be . Perkins and Kent have much in common at least superficially, from their origins in Tennessee to writing on pop culture and, of course, the experience of growing up as Black women in America. If you like one of these books, you will probably like other. That being said, I don’t want to give the impression that they are extremely similar in content. Each has her own unique story, with a distinct voice. Kent’s memoir exists at the intersections of fatphobia, biphobia, and misogynoir. In particular, she returns time and again to the theme of how being fat in a society that mandates thinness for women and dark-skinned in a society that privileges lighter skin, especially among Black women, fucked up her relationship to her own body and to others. Kent makes the point that it is impossible to analyze any one of these traits by themselves—they are all connected, all a part of her. Add in poverty and mental and physical disability and—well, that’s a lot to contend with. Yet never does it feel like Kent falls into the trap of performing her trauma for our entertainment as is so common within memoirs, especially the memoirs of marginalized people. A lot of white women will read memoirs from Black or Indigenous women as a kind of tourism, and then we love to talk about how much we learned, how grateful we are that this person shared their story of oppression with us. Fat Off, Fat On doesn’t let you do that. This is not the plucky story of someone rising above the obstacles in front of them. That being said, did I learn? Of course I did. Kent’s experiences, her identity, her life are all very different from mine. Was I entertained? Um, hell yes. Kent is hilarious. Her writing style is not just present tense but intensely present on the page, with numerous allusions. There’s a whole chapter where she makes connections to Janelle Monáe and Dirty Computer, and had I not already been sitting, I would have needed to sit myself down and taken a moment just to recover. Like, this is the skill of Kent as a storyteller. But I suspect and hope that the people who get the most out of this book are not thin white women like me. I hope this book reaches young Black women, fat women, baby queers stuck in southern states who need some reassurance that yes, you too can escape—even if it won’t be easy, and even if it might never truly be “over.” Kent’s too honest to make empty promises. As the final chapters attest, Kent is nowhere near done, nowhere near arrived; she has barely got started here. The hardship she has faced from multiple intersecting axes of oppression has neither evaporated nor, in many ways, has it ever let up. We need more memoirs like this, especially from Black women—not as educational aids for white women, mind you, but as the antithesis to that. This is a book designed to be seen and in turn make others feel seen. I really hope it can accomplish that. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 07, 2023
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Mar 10, 2023
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Mar 22, 2023
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Paperback
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1039000657
| 9781039000650
| 1039000657
| 4.47
| 743
| Jun 14, 2022
| Jun 14, 2022
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it was amazing
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This book was the November selection for the Rad Roopa Book Club in which I participate, but it was also one I just really wanted to read soonish (and
This book was the November selection for the Rad Roopa Book Club in which I participate, but it was also one I just really wanted to read soonish (and I’ve purchased a copy as a birthday gift for a friend!). Robyn Maynard’s
Policing Black Lives
was an important book for me a few years ago. I haven’t read anything from Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, but her words here proved just as significant. Rehearsals for Living is a moving and meditative journey through the minds and hearts of two powerful, political women. It gets you thinking—but it should hopefully do more than that; it should get you acting. The book is a collection of letters the two authors wrote to each other over the course of the COVID-19 pandemic. The letters are long and intended to be turned into a book, yet they still feel very intimate. Maynard talks about her struggles with parenting during lockdown and raising a Black child in an anti-Black society. Simpson recalls how land defence actions, like the Oka Crisis at Kanehsatà:ke in 1990, shaped her as a young activist, and connects this with ongoing Indigenous stewardship, sovereignty, and protection of the land. This is not a history book, yet you will learn history from it. It is not a manifesto, yet it left me feeling energized and invigorated. Canada is an unjust society. A lot of people have trouble acknowledging this fact, owing perhaps to propaganda we get fed in school or a reluctance to feel like we are more like our neighbour to the south than we care to admit. Nevertheless, it’s true. We have serious issues with anti-Black racism, anti-Indigenous racism, and structural social problems that prop up a carceral, capitalist state built on colonialism and resource extraction. Now, if you’re looking for a soft introduction to these ideas, then Rehearsals for Living is not the place. This book assumes you are at least somewhat aware of the problems Maynard and Simpson discuss. That’s what I liked so much about it: I really want to move from ally to accomplice, move beyond “antiracism 101: don’t do a racism” lectures that tend to proliferate throughout EDI training. This book is a great step in that journey, both for how it challenges the reader’s assumptions and ideas and for how it demonstrates concrete action. I read this the week after Treaties Recognition Week here in Ontario. The first full week of November has been designated for teaching and learning about the Treaties between Canada (or its predecessor colonial governments) and First Nations. I live on territory that’s part of the Robinson–Superior Treaty of 1850. Usually in my English course, I discuss Treaties in general and then show the NFB documentary Trick or Treaty? , by Alanis Obomsawin, which is about Treaty No. 9, to the north of Thunder Bay. Treaties are an immensely important part of understanding the historical, legal, and cultural relationships between settlers and First Nations. We are all Treaty people. So land was on my mind as I read these letters. I had tried, as best I could as a white woman, to impress upon my students (some Indigenous, some not) how much colonization comes back to land. How different the worldviews of First Nations are from those of settler-colonial institutions when it comes to even the idea of “ownership” of land. Of course, Simpson expresses it so much more eloquently than I ever could! I read some passages from one of her letters out loud to my class. Simpson and Maynard together help to demonstrate how so many seemingly separate injustices are connected and how they have their root in the land. Black and Indigenous activisms are connected because Black and Indigenous people are both overrepresented in Canada’s prison system. Incarceration is another way of controlling who has access to, who is restricted from, certain land. Whether it’s reserves dictated by the Indian Act and Department of Indian Affairs or sentences handed down by judges empowered by jurisdictions more interested in developing land than serving the people who live upon it, the state has always had intense mechanisms available to it to exercise this kind of control. Rehearsals for Living is also inescapably about the pandemic and how it affected life, including activism. On one hand, there was some early release of prisoners to try to stop the spread of COVID-19 in prisons and jails. On the other hand, lockdown increased the isolation of vulnerable people, made group demonstrations and protests riskier and more difficult to coordinate, and increased risks for frontline workers, who tend to be racialized people. The ground shifted between us in the past two years, and Maynard and Simpson take note of this. Their letters capture their frustration with the moment, their exhaustion, but also their irrepressible hope. Because their people are still here. Indigenous people are still here, five hundred years in to colonization. Black people are still here. The centuries-long project of genocide, the attempt to erase people in favour of persons, of labour, has not been successful. However, as these two authors note with sincerity and admonishment, we cannot think our way out of these problems. We cannot write our way out of these problems. Simpson and Maynard both share details of their actions, how they organize, participate in, support, or otherwise enable demonstrations, protests, sit-ins, mutual aid. The state is not going to save us; we have to save ourselves. This is something I think about a lot lately, both as a white woman with a lot of privilege in our society, as well as a trans woman who experiences structural and individual discrimination. It all comes back to community-building, to finding your people, and rallying around the cause. From prison and police abolition to mental health to climate change, Rehearsals for Living tackles the important issues of our day with grace and optimism and unapologetic honesty. Part of me worries that white women like myself will elevate this book as another kind of feather to put into our reading cap—oh, did you read Rehearsals for Living? Touching, isn’t it? Yes, I learned a lot from it—well, onto the shelf it goes! Look at how educated I am! But as tired as I can tell Maynard and Simpson are from dealing with white people, even so-called allies, I can also see a lot of hope in their writing. All of us who live here can play a role. But we need to step out onto that stage, need to take responsibility, need to start living the relationship between ourselves and the land and other people on it. At least, that’s what I took away from this. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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Nov 09, 2022
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Nov 13, 2022
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Nov 23, 2022
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Hardcover
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0060959479
| 9780060959470
| 0060959479
| 4.01
| 135,528
| Dec 22, 1999
| Jan 09, 2001
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it was amazing
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Where do I start? Do I lament sheepishly how I’ve slept on bell hooks my entire adult life, and it is only now, at thirty-three, now that she has pass
Where do I start? Do I lament sheepishly how I’ve slept on bell hooks my entire adult life, and it is only now, at thirty-three, now that she has passed, that I’ve made time to read even one of her books? Do I confess that this was a revelation, that it was exactly the book I needed here and now? This review will be purely encomium, for that is what I feel about All About Love: New Visions. I loved it, every word. A great deal of what hooks writes about certainly pertains to romantic love, yet from the very beginning she makes it clear that she is writing about all kinds of love. As I have shared in many of my previous reviews, I am asexual and aromantic. I have no desire to have or intention of having a partner in the traditional, romantic sense of the word. Yet my platonic relationships are still incredibly important to me—if not more important, consequently—and are loving. So to hear this noted feminist writer who didn’t identify as asexual or aromantic come right out of the gate and frame love in such a diverse and inclusive way? Wow. Powerful. Now, I don’t want to erase what came before. Indeed, something I loved about All About Love is the way that hooks consistently cites her sources. She frequently dropped the name of a book title that I knew I should look up. She is not the first person to write about love this way, nor will she be the last, and her careful acknowledgement of those who came before her reminds us not to read a writer in a vacuum. She is responding to these texts and ideas, building upon them, or considering them and then rebutting them. As you might expect, hooks approaches frameworks of love from a feminist lens. She is rightfully critical of books like Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus —yet she is also perhaps more tolerant, or at least more understanding, of them than I have been, for she has lived longer and loved more than I have so far. This is one of the endearing teachings of All About Love: our society shapes our conception of what love can be and our perception of how we can give or receive it. That was why a book by another Black woman, Refusing Compulsory Sexuality , was so important to me. Sherronda J. Brown’s scholarship around asexuality dovetails with what bell hooks shares in these essays: when we get wrapped up in privileging romantic and sexual love above other types of love, we end up leaving ourselves open to toxic situations and less capable of receiving love from others who would give it to us. So many parts of this book demanded that I record them for posterity. In her second essay, “Justice,” hooks talks about how we love our children and notes
going on to connect this to ideas of corporal punishment being unjust. But it made me think of how the rising tide of anti-trans sentiments in the States (and here in Canada) is metamorphosing into a “parents’ rights” movement of sorts, claiming that what’s happening here is an oppression of parents by the state. This framing makes me deeply uncomfortable, not only for its intersections with the transphobia that is materially threatening both my liberty and my existence, but also because it ignores, as hooks points out, the rights of the child. I am not a parent, and I know I don’t fully understand the emotions a parent will experience as they watch their children grow, mature, endure hardships, etc. But I do know that there is something very unhealthy with the way many parents discuss their children as if they are possessions or extensions of their own person. And this is what hooks is trying to teach us. In math, we have the concept of something being finite yet unbounded (such as the surface of a sphere—finite area, but no boundary) or infinite yet bounded (such as the set of all real numbers between 0 and 1). Love is the latter. We are capable of infinite expressions and depths of love, yet boundaries are necessary for love to flourish. When we lack boundaries—when we see love as something we are owed or something we are duty-bound to give, we twist love. (There’s probably a “Tainted Love” pun very close by but I don’t have the heart to make it.) Later, in her essay on “Values,” hooks remark on the importance of living by our values. She uses the example of domestic violence:
Can I just … give bell hooks a standing ovation right here in my review? Yes, so much this. Again, relating it to current events and my own values and fight for social justice … I see this all the time when people talk about trans issues. A lot of cis people are very happy to say that they support “the LGBTQ+” community or say things like, “Trans women are women.” Cool. But what are you actually doing about it? Are you lobbying for gender-neutral bathrooms? Are you standing up to the transphobes running for our school board? Are you challenging the gender binary and cissexism as it manifests at your workplace, your school, your social club? The above passage is hooks’s succinct way of reminding us that there is a gulf between allyship and complicity. Though this book is deeply personal and vulnerable, it is also with every paragraph political and polemical. Taking aim at patriarchy, capitalism, and white supremacy, hooks demonstrates to me why she is such a revered figure in the arena of social justice. I get it now. I mean, I didn’t doubt, given the little snippets I had read here and there, the thoughts attributed back to her that others have shared … but it’s something else entirely to mainline it. On that note, it took me over a week to read this book (which is a long time for me for such a short book). I was savouring it. I was also aware that I needed time to process each essay. This is very rare for me; even for a collection, I typically read it through in a few short sittings. But I could tell hooks needed my time, needed me to let each essay unpack itself in my mind. That level of care and thoughtfulness for each essay is reflected in her skill as a writer too. Something that jumped out at me, almost from the beginning? Her diction. Her sentence structure. She has a propensity simple sentences and often short sentences. Even her longer sentences, however, tend not to be complex (in the grammatical sense). The result is prose that feels deceptively simple until you actually start parsing it for meaning. I could learn a lot from her style. As you have noticed, my sentences are often as meandering and weighed down by thoughts as the brain behind them! All of this is to say … wow. I need to buy a copy of this book. (I borrowed this copy from my bestie.) I need to buy the other two books in her trilogy on love. I need to read the rest that she wrote—not to consume her, as I know white people often do with Black writers, but to appreciate her. To love her, the mark she left on our world, by being brave enough to write to us. She does here, with her simple sentences, more than I’ve managed to do in nearly two thousand book reviews. Unparalleled. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Oct 04, 2022
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Oct 13, 2022
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Oct 25, 2022
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Paperback
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1250077036
| 9781250077035
| 1250077036
| 4.02
| 45,834
| Apr 06, 2021
| Apr 06, 2021
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really liked it
|
I’ve always maintained that Jenny Lawson is hilarious in the best possible way, and Broken (in the Best Possible Way) only sustains this opinion. What
I’ve always maintained that Jenny Lawson is hilarious in the best possible way, and Broken (in the Best Possible Way) only sustains this opinion. What is the best possible way to be hilarious? With a generous helping of compassion. With self-deprecation that also recognizes that your self is human and valuable too. Even as Lawson makes fun of herself and others, she acknowledges that she deserves compassion and patience. To be broken is not to be without value—a message that our capitalist society forgets at times. If you have read either of Lawson’s previous books, you’ll know what to expect for this one. If you haven’t: basically, it’s a series of essays that pose as memoirs and hilarious stories but are also, often, thoughtful reflections on our lives. Lawson lives with several chronic illnesses, such as rheumatoid arthritis, anxiety, and depression. In several of her essays, she describes to varying degrees her frustrations with her mind, her body, and the insurance company that seems determined not to let her treat either (fuck the American healthcare system, wow). She talks about undergoing transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS). But she also writes about trying to befriend an owl, about shaving her dog’s vulva, and so many other things (actually, a lot of it is animal related, now that I think about it). While the goal is certainly to make us laugh, it’s the kind of laughter that comes with an awareness of the heavier things in life. One part of the book that really got to me was when she described her experiences with family members with dementia. This runs in my family and scares me. I understand that Lawson’s framing of senility as a kind of second childhood is meant to be reassuring, but it left me uneasy (this is not a criticism, just a reflection of my reaction to this essay). This is not something I like to think about, the prospect that one day, I too may begin to lose myself, or at least become unmoored from the linear experience of time and left to drift on the ocean of my memories. It was a little easier to absorb Lawson’s moving discussions of things that feel a little more removed from me. I haven’t experienced depression or serious anxiety, and I appreciate how open she is about her battles with both. In particular, I appreciated her acknowledgement that TMS worked for her but has not cured her, that it is a wonderful treatment and could potentially benefit others but isn’t some miracle therapy we should immediately recommend to everyone. So often, when someone with clout undergoes such a treatment, they stan it so hard that it makes me uncomfortable. Lawson responsibly and honestly documents her experiences, diary-style, in a way that I imagine will resonate with many. I also enjoyed Lawson’s honesty about how difficult a marriage is, and her opinion that the secret to not getting divorced is, in her case, a combination of laziness and a faulty memory! Finally, as someone who has recently started a career as a freelance copyeditor, I enjoyed the chapter where all she does is share notes between her and her editors. Brilliant. I definitely think copyediting this book would have been … interesting. Overall, this was a good read and perfect for my mood when I read it. I do think that Lawson’s sense of humour is the kind to which I become inured over time. Don’t get me wrong—I definitely laughed out loud, multiple times, as I read this book. If anything, I am impressed that Lawson can so consistently produce these quality books. At the same time, I’m struggling to come up with praise that is unique from what I have said in the past. She’s a brilliant, funny writer, and if you want to laugh about the sensitive side of life, come and join her in these pages. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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May 09, 2022
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May 13, 2022
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May 28, 2022
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Hardcover
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1538702746
| 9781538702741
| 1538702746
| 3.85
| 2,862
| Aug 17, 2021
| Aug 17, 2021
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liked it
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Personal essay collections are often hit-and-miss for me. So many elements must align: the writer’s voice and style, the topics of their essays, and w
Personal essay collections are often hit-and-miss for me. So many elements must align: the writer’s voice and style, the topics of their essays, and what I take away from the book. Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be is a great example of an essay collection that I enjoyed reading a great deal, yet I’m not sure I emerged as transformed as I might expect. Which, honestly, is fine—not all reading has to be transformative! Sometimes it’s nice just to have fun. Nichole Perkins shares her thoughts on childhood and adulthood and the ages in between, on growing up, on sex and dating and other such activities, and on how her existence as a Black woman from the southern United States intersects with all these experiences. Although all of the essays are tinged with humour, they also often tackle serious issues of sexism, racism, misogynoir, domestic abuse, etc. Going to be honest: I had a hard time seeing myself in Perkins’s experiences—and no, it’s not because she’s Black. Rather, there are so many stories in here about sex! I find sex very fascinating in general, and I don’t mind reading about it, but there was something about the way Perkins writes about her sexual experiences that left me bemused. For example, the collection opens with “Fast,” in which Perkins describes the ways her body and behaviour were policed so that she wouldn’t be perceived as promiscuous, even in middle school. She includes an extremely graphic depiction of kissing boys on the playground at five years old. And I remember just reading this passage and being totally unable to relate to what she was describing—because I have never kissed anyone, aside from a quick peck on the check for a relative. I want to be clear that this is not a criticism of Perkins or her writing but rather an observation I’m offering up about my reaction as I read. Even though her understanding of her sexuality is so incredibly different from my own, I still thoroughly enjoyed reading about her experiences. Also, in a strange way, I feel like this book brought me closer to my bestie? She’s the one who lent it to me, and as I read it, all I could think was, “This is Rebecca. I am reading about Rebecca’s life.” Well, Rebecca also doesn’t have a lot in common with Perkins, but the way Perkins writes about her sexuality, the confidence and joy that she derives from it, fits Rebecca to a tee. So I am grateful to this book for making me feel almost like I’m talking to my friend on the phone, a long afternoon chat in which I get to listen to the latest in her love life. That’s really what Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be feels like: extended, one-sided phone conversations. I always hate to use trite adjectives like “vulnerable” and “honest” when I revoir memoirs. They never really capture what’s going on between the covers. So instead let me describe this book as a careful consideration of love. Whether she’s talking about her sex life or her family, TV shows or her involvement in message boards … Perkins is really talking about love for oneself and love for one’s community. Hence the title, which invites us to meditate on the what-ifs of our lives (and the possibility that, just maybe, we could indeed be that happy, if only for a time). Do I recommend it? Yes. Does that surprise you, given my ambivalence of spirit? This book perhaps isn’t for me as its ideal reader. I still liked it. I would read more of Perkins’s writing. That alone is enough for me to cast a recommendation out into the world, because some of you out there will love this book, and I hope it finds its way to you. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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May 02, 2022
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May 03, 2022
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May 21, 2022
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Paperback
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1984801252
| 9781984801258
| 1984801252
| 3.98
| 514,451
| Mar 10, 2020
| Mar 10, 2020
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it was amazing
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A few chapters into Untamed, Glennon Doyle opened one of her essays with, “I have a son and two daughters, until they tell me otherwise.” Just like th
A few chapters into Untamed, Glennon Doyle opened one of her essays with, “I have a son and two daughters, until they tell me otherwise.” Just like that, I knew I was safe reading this book. There is an acceptance of the reader here that I found quite powerful. It isn’t just that Doyle is sharing a lot about her past, her traumas, her hopes, her mistakes, her triumphs. It’s that she is willing to take the time to make us feel welcome in these pages. Also, props to her and her publisher for the one-word title with no subtitle. That’s a power move. I first heard of Doyle when she was a guest on Justin Baldoni’s Man Enough podcast. She shared a story, also in this essay collection, about a time that her kids had friends over. She asked if anyone wanted something to eat: all the boys said yes, right away; the girls looked at each other as if trying to figure out a collective answer, and then one of them responded in the negative. Doyle claims this demonstrates a difference between how we socialize boys and girls—the former look within, the latter look to each other when making decisions. It’s an interesting idea vaguely reminiscent of Eugenia Cheng’s ideas of ingressive and congressive behaviours. Anyway, I was intrigued enough by what Doyle had to say that I bought Untamed, bolstered by my bestie’s positive words about it as well. I was not let down. There’s a lot about Doyle’s life that I can’t identify with. She was raised in a relatively conservative Christian upbringing, which led to her marrying her boyfriend when she discovered she was pregnant, having three kids with him, before finally divorcing him at forty and falling in love and marrying a woman. This story unfolds in bits and pieces, not always in order, in Untamed. But as the title of the book implies, Doyle’s thesis is far more general than these specific experiences might imply: often, in our lives, we feel like we have to follow a script. We have to do what is expected of us. We are, Doyle says, tamed. Her journey, then, was one of untaming herself, or as she puts it:
OK, that got me. I’ve told this story before on my blog, but basically, when I was wrestling two years ago with the prospect I might be transgender, I was awake in bed one Sunday night, turning it over in my head. “Ok, if I’m a girl, what would my name be?” I asked myself. Then I did what Doyle describes in this essay: I went deep into myself and knew. The name Kara just felt right to me in a way that was indisputable. But beyond that, Doyle’s idea of being caged by her life until she decided to start living it on her own terms resonated so much with my experience of transition. I spent the first thirty years of my life being told at every turn by our society that I was male—and that this came with certain expectations. To be transgender—and to transition—is ultimately an act of untaming oneself. It’s a declaration that you will not let society dictate your identity any more. It certainly would have been easier for everyone if I hadn’t come out. That’s the message our transphobic society, sometimes with the help of hefty legal sanctions, is trying to foist upon trans people, particularly trans youth. Yet, as I said last year, I have never been happier than I have been since deciding to transition. Because now I am living my life on my terms. So even though Doyle and I don’t share many experiences, her words felt true for me. Even though I’m not a parent, her thoughts on raising kids made me think a lot about how I interact with young people and the impressions I want to leave. Even though I’m not in a romantic partnership, her thoughts on how to love her partner—while also loving herself—made me think a lot about the friendships in my life that provide me the support and succour we often associate with romantic relationships. At every turn, Doyle’s writing had something in it for me to discover, muse about, and ultimately take into my heart. I read this book in a Sunday afternoon a few weeks ago—and then I had a bad week, during which I read nothing, before finally picking up a crappy fantasy novel (on purpose) the week after that. But I’m glad that if I had to enter a brief reading pause, Untamed was the book the preceded it. Even now I can feel the fire in my belly that Doyle’s words lit as I read it. If, like me, you are a white woman, you will probably come away feeling like you want to push back against cisheteropatriarchy—at least I hope so. I won’t claim to speak about how women of colour might read this book—Doyle acknowledges she has made missteps when it comes to being antiracist, and since I don’t know much about her public platform beyond this book, I’m not sure I can comment. So even though I greatly enjoyed this book and, four months into 2022, it’s the best non-fiction book of the year for me so far, I won’t say this is universal. But there is power here. Perhaps the best moment in the book is when Doyle reminds us to “feel it all.” She’s referring to all our emotions, even the ones we usually consider negative. She’s reminding us it’s OK not to be OK, that we can’t be happy all the time, even if that’s the grift society pushes on to us. It’s a sentiment I have long tried to express to my ride or die as she navigates difficult and emotionally tumultuous changes in her life. In a world where women are so often told we are not enough in so many ways, Untamed unapologetically calls out this bullshit and reminds us that we are enough—but we have to start playing by our rules instead of the rigged playbook we grew up with. Oh, and she’s funny too. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Apr 03, 2022
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Apr 03, 2022
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Apr 20, 2022
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Hardcover
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1580911862
| 9781580911863
| 1580911862
| 4.53
| 40,886
| Jun 01, 1984
| Aug 01, 2007
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really liked it
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Audre Lorde is one of those people whom we white people find so quotable yet seldom do we stop to listen to her words (we have done this to Martin Lut
Audre Lorde is one of those people whom we white people find so quotable yet seldom do we stop to listen to her words (we have done this to Martin Luther King, Jr. as well). Every time I see a quotation from Lorde or another prominent Black activist on a T-shirt, I cringe. One of the insidious aspects of whiteness is how it appropriates the radical language of oppressed people (just look at the evolution of the word woke) and distorts it. So after thirty-two years of existence on this plane, I decided I should probably get around to reading something by Audre Lorde, you know? Then I can put a quote of hers on a T-shirt (just kidding). To be fair, I see why she is so quotable—though I’m not sure the quotations I will share in this review are the ones a white girl would wear on a T-shirt. Sister Outsider lives up very much to its title. In these essays from the late seventies and early eighties, Lorde recounts the tension of being a Black lesbian feminist mother academic—how belonging to these various communities put her at odds with people who insist on reducing her down to a single identity. At times for me as a female reader, she feels like my sister, as we talk about shared struggles of womanhood. At other times for me as a white reader, I feel like the outsider, as Lorde teaches me about experiences I don’t have because I’m not Black. But Lorde’s message is emphatically not “you can’t understand my struggle because you’re not Black”—she repeatedly says she is tired of non-Black people using this as an excuse to beg off, for example, from teaching Black writers and artists in English classes. Rather, Lorde wants us to stop being reductive—this is a call for intersectionality before Kimberlé Crenshaw coined that term, a call for us to understand that multiple axes of oppression affect people’s lives in different ways, yet we are stronger when we come together in our diversity to fight for our liberation. Lorde’s words here give me a valuable glimpse into the state of feminism and queer activism just prior to my birth in 1989. At one point, Lorde laments the generational amnesia that seems to affect activists—and certainly I’ve observed that happen in feminism during my lifetime. I really don’t have much of a conception of what the struggle was like in the eighties, and while this book provides only one, narrow window on it, I appreciate everything she has to say nonetheless. Indeed, for some reason, Sister Outsider made me think about Samuel R. Delany, whose novels often have appendices that variously reflect, in or out of character, on the struggles of gay men during the AIDS epidemic. I wonder if Delany and Lorde ever crossed paths in an activist setting. Lorde provides me with valuable perspectives on the intersections of her Blackness, femaleness, and queerness. She discusses the homophobia within Black communities, the way lesbian is used as a slur even by Black feminists, as well as how, in her youth in particular, her feminist activism earned her opprobrium because she should “stand behind her men”—the implication being that Black women should be Black first and women second. (This is a very understandable situation once you learn how mainstream feminism has been heavily white supremacist since day one.) As a teacher, I appreciated when she talked about her own experiences teaching at colleges and universities in New York, her struggles both within the classroom and with her colleagues. This is part of the “outsider” of the collection’s title—Lorde’s skin colour marks her as different no matter how many qualifications, publications, conferences, etc., she has to her name. Now, yes, there were many moments where I could relate to some of what she was saying on a personal level as a trans woman. Although trans people don’t come up directly in these essays, Lorde’s politics are aggressively inclusive and make me feel seen. She is not here to advocate for strict definitions of anything, whether it’s womanhood, lesbianism, Blackness, motherhood, etc. That being said, I am still white, and I recently wrote a blog post about how my whiteness makes me less marginalized even though I’m trans. These are fundamentally different identities, and much as Lorde cannot be reduced to any one of her identities, I cannot be reduced simply to woman, to trans woman, to white woman. I am all of those things at once. In several of these essays, Lorde directly takes on the white woman feminist. In “An Open Letter to Mary Daly,” Lorde says:
Oooohhhhh burn, Mary. Lorde is calling you out on exactly the kind of bullshit I mentioned in my introduction. And this is precisely why I don’t want to draw too many connections between Lorde’s experiences of oppression and my own, because we don’t really have much overlap at all, and I don’t want to appropriate and distort her work for my benefit. In the same essay, Lorde goes on to explain why white women’s insistence that their feminism is feminism for everyone is problematic:
Now this I can relate to as a trans women, because cis feminists do this to us too—that is, make assumptions that the white, cis experience of womanhood is somehow the normative one. This doesn’t account for race, for queerness, for being trans or non-binary, or for being disabled (something that Lorde does mention a couple of times as well). There’s also a great conversation between Lorde and Adrienne Rich (with whom I am unfamiliar), a white woman, and Rich basically acknowledges the fragility of many white women feminists like herself and says, “I know we need to do better.” All of this leads me to one realization: the overbearing and supercilious erasure of Black feminists is nothing new. White feminism has long known about this problem, longer than I’ve been alive, and here we are in the year 2021 and it’s still a problem. Sadly I think that if Lorde were still alive she would be writing very similar things, maybe as a Twitter thread. So yes, Sister Outsider can feel dated in certain ways but remains screamingly relevant to this era of feminism and queer activism. It is a reminder that we are stronger in our diversity and difference, but that we must also recognize the privileges we have and when those might mean we are failing to listen, tone policing, or outright erasing other voices just because they are criticizing our actions in the struggle. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Nov 25, 2021
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Nov 27, 2021
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Dec 10, 2021
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Paperback
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038568634X
| 9780385686341
| 038568634X
| 4.44
| 10,226
| Jan 07, 2020
| Jan 07, 2020
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it was amazing
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Somehow amidst all the well-deserved hype for The Skin We’re In, I missed hearing about its structure! This is Not Your Typical political memoir in th
Somehow amidst all the well-deserved hype for The Skin We’re In, I missed hearing about its structure! This is Not Your Typical political memoir in that Desmond Cole has chosen a very deliberate structure: each chapter is a month in 2017 (with a coda for January 2018). He uses an event from each month of that year as a launching point for discussing issues of anti-Black racism and social justice in Canada. In this way, Cole stays focused and on-message while also making it very clear that anti-Black racism is not an anomaly in Canada; it’s the rule. Not a month can go by without police officers killing a Black man, immigration officials trying to deport a Black person, or a debate happening about whether or not Black Lives Matter Toronto should be “allowed” a float at the Toronto Pride Parade. This is the most important thing to know about this book, I think: although Cole discusses his personal experiences, this is a book about structural injustice and inequity. If it seems like so many chapters focus on the police, that’s on purpose. Cole is not here to call out every random racist incident he and Black people experience from white people on the street. He’s here to point out that the systems in our society are designed to prop up white supremacy. And the policing system, as you might know if you’ve read Policing Black Lives or listened to part 1 and part 2 of The Secret Life of Canada’s wonderful educational podcasts on the origins of the Mounties. Policing in Canada has always been about controlling the bodies and curtailing the livelihoods of racialized people. Now, of course, when you read and listen to those resources, you might think, “But surely that’s in the past? Surely Canada is better now?” This is where The Skin We’re In becomes so crucial. Cole is not discussing historical trends here. He foregrounds things that have happened very recently, many of them in Toronto or its surrounding cities (I’m in Thunder Bay—all of southern Ontario is basically the GTA to me, ok? Don’t @ me), which is one of the most diverse regions of the country. The point is that you might have missed some of these, of course, but if you’ve missed all of them, then you haven’t been watching closely enough. Anti-Black racism exists in Canada, and Cole is here to tell you all about it. I could talk about every chapter, but then we would be here for a long time when really you should just be reading this book. So let me highlight 2 in particular because they are the intersection of law enforcement and education, and I am a teacher. In February, “zero tolerance,” Cole writes:
This chapter is about the fallout around a Peel Regional Police officer handcuffing a 6-year-old Black girl at a Peel District School Board school in September 2016. Cole explores how the media covers the investigation and the girl’s mother. He shows us (white people) how our desire to see the police as forces of good often means we need to justify their actions as a matter of course. If the officer handcuffed this girl, she must have done something wrong. He wouldn’t have handcuffed her otherwise. (This whole situation reminds me of how, last year, Vancouver Police responded to a call from Bank of Montreal and handcuffed a Heiltsuk man and his granddaughter because the bank was suspicious about their desire to open a bank account.) And if we do eventually admit that the victim didn’t do anything to deserve this mistreatment, we write it off as a single “bad apple” of a cop. The reality, Cole argues, is this incident goes deeper than a single police officer making a bad decision. In the same chapter, he chronicles the curious story of Nancy Elgie. Elgie eventually resigned from the York Region District School Board after uttering the N-word in reference to a Black mother who attended a school board meeting. I say eventually, because it took a lot of back-and-forth in the media, with Elgie’s family rallying behind her with an increasingly convoluted series of medical excuses, before Elgie finally resigned. Cole presents this story as a direct contrast to the story of the 6-year-old Black girl. The actions of our state and our media are disproportionately harsh when dealing with racialized people; white people, on the other hand, often get a pass, even when we say and do racist shit. This isn’t merely white supremacy. This is structural white supremacy in action. By the way, if you’re concerned that Cole might be too polemical based on my presentation of these chapters, don't worry. He comes equipped with evidence, with statistics, and he mentions more than once that everything he is saying has already been studied to death. We do not need more studies, more reports, more surveys. We need action. That’s why the November chapter, “community policing” grabbed my attention too. Cole discusses how the Toronto District School Board finally, after much campaigning on the part of activists, voted to end the controversial School Resource Officer program that placed a police officer in many TDSB schools. I remember, growing up in Thunder Bay, seeing a police constable occasionally at our school, being all friendly. It never bothered me. But then again, I was white. Something I have learned over the years is that whiteness doesn’t just exempt me from mistreatment; it often isolates me from even seeing that mistreatment being visited upon racialized people. And maybe that means I should do more listening to racialized people instead of assuming their experience must much my own. This chapter is full of data, but it’s also full of stories. Cole collects experiences of many Black people, youth and adults recalling their treatment by community police officers as youth. There is a common theme, of course: Black youth are treated with suspicion, distrust. They are made to feel like criminals. Police officers intimidate them on purpose. This lays the groundwork for what ends up being a cycle of harassment, including carding, which Cole discusses in another chapter. When you hear these stories, you have to make a choice. Either you invoke a hell of a lot of cognitive dissonance and think that all of these Black people are lying or mistaken … or you accept that your personal experience of the police is not, perhaps, the universal experience. That’s part of the power of The Skin We’re In. With the passion and integrity of a journalist, Cole dredges up all the reports and statistics you’ll want as “impartial” evidence of injustice. With the devotion and dedication of an activist, he brings to light the stories of people whose voices we don’t hear—or sometimes refuse to hear. This is a book that demands we go into our lives with an awareness of history and context. For me as an educator, that means understanding how the lessons I teach, the jokes I make in my classroom banter, the way I assess my students, might be insensitive or even outright racist—not as a result of anything deliberate on my part, but simply because I didn’t think critically enough about how I am approaching subjects, using resources, or addressing skills with my students. Admitting that you are part of a white supremacist system does not mean that you yourself are a bad person. But it means you have a responsibility to recognize how being steeped in that system means you can sometimes uphold it, even without meaning to do so. The other powerful aspect to The Skin We’re In is summed up by its subtitle: A Year of Black Resistance and Power. These are vital words. Cole wants us to understand that Black people are fighting against white supremacy, and that the sparse victories he includes in these books are the result of Black activists on the ground, doing the work. Black people mobilized to oppose the School Resource Officer program. Black people mobilized to prevent the deportation of Beverley Braham, of Abdoul Abdi. Change is and will continue to be in the wind. The question Cole asks us is simple: are we part of this change, or are we, through action or inaction, standing in its way? Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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May 30, 2021
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Jun 2021
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Jun 16, 2021
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Hardcover
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1580056229
| 9781580056229
| 1580056229
| 4.27
| 9,010
| May 14, 2007
| Mar 08, 2016
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liked it
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One of my goals last year was, and for this year remains, to read more works by transgender authors, particularly about trans issues. I have been foll
One of my goals last year was, and for this year remains, to read more works by transgender authors, particularly about trans issues. I have been following Julia Serano on Twitter for a while now, so during my latest shopping expedition I decided to pick up Whipping Girl, which has also been on my radar for a while. Serano is not only a trans woman but also a molecular biologist, providing her with insights into the biological side of the sex/gender equation that many people lack. I went into Whipping Girl with the understanding that, even in its second edition, the book is somewhat outdated in ways—but I thought it was important to read this before I dive into some of Serano’s more recent publications, like Excluded, because I know that these works build upon this one. My overall impression is that, if you can navigate through the parts that do sound and feel outdated, this is a valuable book for cis and trans people alike. Cis people will learn a lot about trans perspectives and their own privilege; trans people (particularly trans women like myself) will learn a lot of vocabulary that might make it easier to describe their experiences. In the first part of the book, Serano advances her own understanding of transgender theory. Aspects of this don’t resonate with me because I grew up later than her and never belonged to the queer communities that she has belonged to in the States. In particular, I’m not a fan of the way she lumps non-trans crossdressers and other gender non-conforming people under the banner of “transgender” and then uses the term transsexual to distinguish between trans people in general and people who have transitioned in a binary way from male to female or vice versa. Please don’t ever call me a transsexual or transsexual woman; I am a transgender woman, trans woman, or preferably just a woman! As far as other groups go, I am very much in favour of labels being descriptive and individualistic rather than prescribed or applied to people: transgender is an umbrella term that you can use if you think it works for you. Non-binary people and agender people are trans in my eyes, but I respect that not every such individual wants to use the trans label for themselves. Similarly, some gender non-conforming people identify as trans, but others don’t because for them gender expression is just that, but their gender identity remains congruent with what they were assigned at birth. For example, before I came out as trans, if I had worn a skirt, I would have been gender non-conforming in my expression (but would still have considered myself cis at the time). Now that I am out as a trans woman and I wear heels and dresses, I am actually very conformative in how I dress. You might see how all of these terms start getting complicated, though, and that’s something I appreciate about Serano’s writing in Whipping Girl: she does a good job distinguishing among related yet distinct concepts, such as cissexism and transphobia and trans-misogyny. Much of what we discuss these days we lump under the umbrella of the middle term when it is better discussed as one of the other two. In particular, I liked that Serano pointed out how people who are otherwise good allies (and therefore usually not transphobic in and of themselves) can often inadvertently display cissexism, for example by assuming being cisgender is “normal” and transgender is an abnormality. Do you need to know all these terms, and the ones I didn’t even mention, to be a good ally? No, absolutely not. Nevertheless, if you are interested in gender theory and feminism, I think that delving into these ideas will provide interesting perspective to help shape the way you engage with the concepts of sex, gender, and gender expression. I also like Serano’s intrinsic inclinations model for explaining why some people experience incongruence with their gender assigned at birth. Serano challenges the widely-held idea that gender is purely a social construct. This theory emerged out of the rejection of the gender essentialism that positions men and women as inherently, biologically different—something that transphobic people often cling to in an attempt to prove that trans people are mistaken or deluded about our gender, despite the harm that gender essentialism poses to feminism as a whole. Nevertheless, some transphobic people are now weaponizing the social construct theory of gender too, claiming that because we have been “socialized” as one gender, it isn’t possible for us to ever truly understand what it is like to be our actual gender, even if we transition and start living outwardly as that gender. So I agree with Serano that both models are unsatisfactory. Her intrinsic inclinations model does what we know is true already for other nature versus nuture questions—namely, establish that it isn’t nature or nurture, but rather a subtle combination that isn’t always easy to inspect. (On a similar note, I appreciate how Serano points out that the idea of using the term “biological male [or female]” is very problematic when we consider trans people who have started hormone therapy.) In general, these are very difficult concepts to investigate! The difficulty for trans people is that we keep encountering people who think they know better than us about our gender, and who think they have “science” and “biology” on their side, when the reality is so much more complex than they would care to admit. Serano also offers poignant critiques of how researchers who study trans people are themselves overwhelmingly cisgender, and this has introduced staggering bias into how transgender psychology is characterized within the medical establishment. Serano has been very critical in particular of Ray Blanchard’s theory of autogynephelia, here and elsewhere, although I like that she branches out and provides a far more comprehensive overview of gatekeeping here. All in all, it comes down to the fact that cisgender researchers of trans people are often inordinately obsessed with linking our transness to some type of sexual deviance—or at best, they view us not as human beings with agency of our own but as a subject of study for the benefit of cis people. In the second part of Whipping Girl, Serano starts to discuss how transgender issues relate to feminism as a whole. Again, aspects of this feel dated—she seems in particular to be pushing back strongly against second-wave feminists, which I totally understand, but I think third and fourth wave feminism have brought new and interesting problems to the forefront. I also disagree with how she uses the terms masculine and feminine, discussing how some women are “masculine” and some men do “feminine” things. I realize this might seem like common usage to most people, but I prefer to say that men are masculine, by definition, and women are feminine. Thus, if I wear a dress, it is a feminine act because I’m female; if a man wears a dress, it’s a masculine act because he’s male. I prefer this conceptualization because it seeks to do away with the idea that certain activities are inherently masculine or feminine. (On the other hand, note that I agree that similar terms like femme, masc, and butch can be applied regardless of gender—I am a femme trans woman, or but other trans women might describe themselves as butch if they end up expressing themselves in ways we often associate with men.) Beyond this splitting of hairs I’m performing here, however, I’ll register that I largely agree with what Serano has to say in these essays. I agree that—in some cases—modern feminism has sought to disavow femininity and feminine expression (but as I mentioned earlier, third wave feminism was, in no small part, an attempt to rectify this). Additionally, Serano engages with the concept of male privilege as it may or may not apply to AMAB trans people. She makes the important point, which I’ve seen made before, that privilege is not an absolute but rather quite dependent upon context. Whipping Girl is a fascinating collection of essays that yields fruitful ideas. This is a great place to begin a reading journey about feminism and trans issues. For trans people, particularly trans women, much of this will resonate and hopefully feel affirming. Timeliness aside, this is not the be-all, end-all of trans writings (nor does Serano position it as such!). It’s very specifically attempting to discuss issues of history, sociology, and gender politics. In between the pages you’ll likely notice opportunities for tangents and intersections that Serano leaves unexplored (at least in this book). After reading this, if you are like me, you will only be motivated to keep on reading. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 16, 2021
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Feb 21, 2021
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Feb 16, 2021
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Paperback
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0385692382
| 9780385692380
| 0385692382
| 4.40
| 10,524
| Mar 26, 2019
| Mar 26, 2019
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it was amazing
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You ever read a book and have an epiphany, only for that epiphany to evaporate before you get around to writing it down or telling others? I think tha
You ever read a book and have an epiphany, only for that epiphany to evaporate before you get around to writing it down or telling others? I think that happened here—I think one of Alicia Elliott’s essays in A Mind Spread Out on the Ground inspired an epiphany regarding my relationship with poetry … yet I have totally forgotten the thought now! I even paged through the book again to see if I could recover it. Nope. Maybe one day it will return. I was drawn to this book by Elliott’s social media presence and some of her other writing online, such as this superb article for Chatelaine about 1492 Land Back Lane and Canada’s ongoing colonialism. Elliott’s writing balances past and present tense in a way that helps us connect how the colonial actions of the past reverberate into the colonial present Indigenous people are experiencing today. A Mind Spread Out on the Ground is a very personal collection of essays. Its title comes from a translation of a Mohawk word that roughly means depression, and a great deal of this book is concerned with the effects of colonialism on Elliott and her family. Yet the essays transcend colonialism, and as Elliott mentions in “Not Your Noble Savage,” she does not want to be pigeonholed as “just” an Indigenous writer. I really appreciate the nuance on display in these essays. For example, Elliott’s parents often appear in her writing. She makes it very clear that she thinks of them fondly—yet at the same time, her childhood and teenage years are full of moments of tension, abuse, even violence. We are so prone to simplifying people in our lives into single stories—a parent is either loving or abusive, rather than loving and abusive. Elliott rejects the dichotomy and displays both the loving moments and the darker ones. Moreover, her intention here isn’t to excuse these contrasts or to show that she has worked through and somehow processed and come to understand all of this. Rather, she admits to us that it can be difficult to fully puzzle out the way we react to, understand, and respond to the people closest to us. Within these pages you’re going to find what you expect: the violence Canada does to Indigenous people (especially Indigenous women), the nasty fallout of racism both systemic and targeted, the pain that comes with uprooting and re-rooting oneself and one’s family and—for Elliott is light-skinned enough to “pass” as non-Indigenous—feeling like one never quite belongs anywhere. However, you will also find the moments that are often erased from Indigenous experiences that make it to the mainstream: the moments of joy—particularly when Elliott is talking about her husband and child; the moments of triumph; the moments of honesty. As she mentions herself in several essays, we place Indigenous writers in boxes. We elevate those who conform to what we expect an Indigenous writer to write, and we find reasons to ignore and erase those whose writing breaks out of those boxes. So as a settler, what I take away from this collection is that reminder that I have to be careful about how I approach the Indigenous storytelling that makes it into mainstream CanLit. (Joseph Boyden’s meteoric rise and subsequent fall from grace is perhaps the textbook case for this issue.) I must do my best to check my preconceptions at the door, not to laud something merely because it meets some subconscious checklist for Indigeneity, nor to reject something from an Indigenous author merely because of its departure from that unspoken norm. And then more generally, I just valued Elliott’s candidness. The way she spoke about her traumas, about her difficulty navigating both the racism and the misogyny of modern Canada. Hers is a life so very distinctive from mine, by dint of so many axes of experience and identity. I appreciate being able to hear her stories and briefly glimpse my country through her eyes, so I can better understand how it is failing other women less privileged than me, how it is failing Indigenous people, how it is silent about survivors of abuse and assault, and how the very structures—such as public education and childwelfare—we supposedly put in place to protect our most vulnerable turn into the most oppressive, most inequitable parts of our society for some. A Mind Spread Out on the Ground is many moments of intensity punctuated by poetical prose and thoughtful ways of weaving facts and education about this country’s colonial attitudes into very personal stories. My mind is not spread out on the ground after reading this, but you can bet that it is buzzing with ideas and interest sparked by Elliott’s essays. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Oct 25, 2020
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Oct 26, 2020
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Oct 25, 2020
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Hardcover
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B0DN23Z7L4
| unknown
| 4.05
| 20
| unknown
| Apr 03, 2017
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liked it
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I picked this up several years ago and am finally diving into it. It’s not what I expected—I was looking for something with essays, including personal
I picked this up several years ago and am finally diving into it. It’s not what I expected—I was looking for something with essays, including personal essays, but this includes a lot more poems and other, shorter and more artistic pieces. IMPACT: Colonialism in Canada is an anthology that makes quite a statement. If it’s what you’re looking for, it’s going to satisfy. In my case, it wasn’t quite what I wanted, but don’t interpret that as a bad thing. Let’s talk about storytelling and colonialism. When my ancestors came to this land that has become Canada, we set out to take away the stories. English and French became the lingua franca. Residential schools and other strategies separated Elders from youth and broke the line of oral storytelling that had been unbroken from time immemorial. Don’t practise your arts. Don’t dance your dances or sing your songs. Don’t tell your stories. I think a lot about the fact that so many stories by or about Indigenous people are told in English or French rather than their original languages. IMPACT is a book that meditates on this by telling us stories, personal and political and old and new, in an attempt to help demonstrate the wide-ranging effect of colonialism. Yes, you will get stories in here about residential schools and other more “obvious” signifiers of colonization. But you also get stories about fitting in. About being an Indigenous woman. About food and family and love and hatred and the difficulty of navigating growing old in a country that doesn’t often treat you like you are human. This is not an academic book, and that’s probably a good thing. If you don’t want academic discussions of colonialism; if you want personal and emotional connections through poetry and song and careful reflection, you’ll get it here. I think the average Canadian wouldn’t do much wrong picking up this book. That generality, that lack of focus in its attempt to include so many voices and conceptions of the effects of colonialism, ultimately is why I didn’t enjoy this as much as I could. That is not a problem with this book, just an incompatibility with what I want: I want to read more focused books about colonialism, books that discuss the impact of colonialism within specific spheres. So if you are looking for depth rather than breadth, you should keep looking. IMPACT is a nice little anthology, but its appeal is for the general, not the specific. Originally posted on Kara.Reviews, where you can easily browse all my reviews and subscribe to my newsletter. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Oct 14, 2020
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Oct 15, 2020
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Oct 15, 2020
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Unknown Binding
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0062413511
| 9780062413512
| 0062413511
| 4.43
| 22,725
| May 01, 2018
| May 01, 2018
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really liked it
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With the news coming out of the United States about abortion bans and lawmakers who actually use phrases like “consensual rape,” this seemed like the
With the news coming out of the United States about abortion bans and lawmakers who actually use phrases like “consensual rape,” this seemed like the right time to read Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture. Also, I was going on a library run and it was available. Roxane Gay collects 30 essays about rape or rape culture, some previously published and others newly written for this book. This is a serious book, sure, about a serious matter—but it’s such an important read. It’s also really important to note that these 30 stories are all extremely diverse in the telling. Everyone’s experiences are different and affect them in different ways. If it does anything, Not That Bad hopefully shatters the stereotype that there is “one way” for a rape victim to act, appear, or share their story. There is a way for each person who speaks up—or, as Zoë Medeiros says, refuses to share because the story belongs to her and no one else. Who gets a voice? is an ever-present theme running throughout this collection. Gay offers space in which victims can speak up. Yet one of rape culture’s most pernicious attributes is how it punishes victims both for speaking and not speaking. I’m not going to get into that here (read the book), but it weighed on me as I read these essays, the idea that, in the end, these people can’t win. There is no way to perform perfectly as “the victim” and not somehow be blamed, shamed, or otherwise marginalized if you tell people about your experience. But all the voices in this collection are just so interesting in terms of what they have to say. There is not a single essay in this collection that didn’t make my heart hurt in some way. All of these vital, significant human beings whose lives were infected with this kind of experience … it’s staggering, when you really think about it. It shouldn’t be allowed—yet time and again, the authors of these essays speak of friends, teachers, counselors, members of communities, who all urged them to stop talking about it. To forget about it. To feel bad for “leading him on.” Which is why that subtitle, Dispatches from Rape Culture, is important. There are stories in here of women (and men) sharing their stories of being raped, etc., including details. But there are also stories that are not about a rape itself but instead the way our society enables rape and blames the victims for being raped—and this is rape culture. In a way, it was these stories that often made me think more deeply about my own involvement in rape culture. I’m a white man, so I have a lot of privilege in our society. I do not worry about walking alone at night, for instance. I don’t ever wonder if the shorts I’m wearing mean that I’m “showing too much leg” and therefore “asking for it.” (The answers, by the way, are, “Yes, but who cares?” and “Um, no thanks….”) As many of the essays in this collection touch on, either directly or indirectly, I can show anger and not be perceived as “shrill” or overly-emotional—indeed, anger from me is considered “macho” (can you feel me rolling my eyes right now?) while any other emotion probably means I’ve been replaced by a pod person. In other words, I benefit from patriarchy and rape culture, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s a good thing, or that this is ultimately good for me. I think a lot about whether I’m being creepy. When I’m interacting with people (of any gender, not just women, mind you) I wonder if what I’m saying is coming across the right way. Part of that is being aware of my status as a man. Part of it also comes with being asexual—I don’t actually understand what flirting looks or feels like, for example, so I live in terror that something I’m saying or doing will be misinterpreted as a come-on when in fact I really just want to offer someone tea. And while not being sexually active means I don’t, at least, worry about misinterpreting signals of consent, that by no means absolves me of such responsibilities. Not having sex doesn’t let you opt out of rape culture. I still hear have a responsibility to push back against “locker room talk” or similar comments. Reading this book was hard, for sure. I can’t imagine what it must be like for people who have actually experienced rape, sexual assault, or abuse to read this book—well done if you did. Honestly, though, I really hope that more men read this book. This is, unfortunately, yet another pernicious facet of rape culture: constantly forcing victims to relive and retell their trauma in order to persuade others their humanity is valid. But as long as these people have shared their stories, we should listen. We should hear. We should believe them. And then we should have a good long think, as I articulated above, about our own position in this culture. Because it extends far beyond how any one person treats women. It’s about the assumptions we hold in our heads and our hearts about women and girls as well. It’s about heteronormativity—assuming straightness—and amatonormativity—assuming everyone wants to hook up in a single, monogamous, long-lasting relationship. It’s about judging people for wearing too much or too little, for acting too slutty or too prudish, for talking too loudly or not enough, for making out with everyone or no one at all, for being gay but sleeping with people of a different gender, for doing anything that goes against the fragile norms we’ve created to put all of us into boxes. It’s Pride Month right now, and I hope all of us who don’t identify as both straight and cis are indeed proud that we manage to exist in a society that is stacked against us. But I also hope all of us think and actively work towards changing that society, that all of us use whatever privilege we happen to have in the most productive way possible. No one deserves to have their autonomy taken away, their choices ignored, their right to consent revoked by strength or ignorance. No one deserves to live with the pain or trauma that follows rape. Not That Bad reverberates with the voices of people who, having experienced rape or rape culture, are shaped by this experience far beyond the event itself. This is something we should all be working to eliminate. And it starts with what we do, with what we say, and with the actions of others—friends and family, coworkers and politicians and celebrities—that we tacitly endorse, when we don’t speak up. Brock Turner got 6 months in prison for raping someone. Rosa Maria Ortega got 8 years in prison for voter fraud because she was confused about the difference between being a US citizen and a resident. One of those two people wilfully harmed another human being and probably hasn’t learned their lesson. But sure, go on and tell me rape culture isn’t a thing. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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really liked it
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One year ago I read Tanya Talaga’s
Seven Fallen Feathers
, in which she remembers the seven Indigenous youths who died far from home while attendin
One year ago I read Tanya Talaga’s
Seven Fallen Feathers
, in which she remembers the seven Indigenous youths who died far from home while attending Dennis Franklin Cromarty High School here in Thunder Bay. In that heartbreaking and essential work, she links these deaths to a structure of colonialism and white supremacy and an ongoing form of cultural genocide in which the government and the rest of us remain complicit. Now Talaga is back with this year’s CBC Massey Lectures; All Our Relations: Finding the Path Forward widens the scope of this discussion to look at the high rate of Indigenous suicides all over the world. Beyond talking just about suicide, though, Talaga wants us to consider how colonialism interferes with Indigenous ways of knowing and being, and how this is ultimately the root cause of the suicides and other issues in Indigenous communities. As its subtitle implies, Talaga is not without hope. This book is an outstretched arm, asking everyone—white settler, Indigenous person, person of colour, etc.—to ask difficult questions of ourselves and our institutions and to create real change so we can save real lives. I love the chapter titles: “We Were Always Here”, “Big Brother’s Hunger”, “The Third Space”, “'I Breathe for Them'”, and “We Are Not Going Anywhere” (yesssss!). These titles alone communicate the arc of Talaga’s talks: first she grounds herself in the history, then she examines the effects of colonialism, before she discusses what so many people within these communities are doing already to try to improve conditions. Finally, Talaga asserts that there is hope, and there are so many viable possibilities out there to prevent youth suicide. What’s really needed is actual commitment to change rather than empty words and promises. As she quotes Mushkegowuk Grand Council Chief Jonathan Solomon saying, “We don’t need another study or inquiry. Everything has been studied and these studies are just collecting dust on a shelf”. The government is very good at promising change; it is much worse at actually delivering change for the better. Talaga does in this book what a journalist does best: she amplifies the voices of so many people across time and space from these communities, uniting their stories into a bigger picture. We hear the palpable frustration, anger, and sadness from so many individuals; we hear the strident confidence, hope, and determination from some of those same individuals who are even now fighting for change and for lives. Alongside these often personal tales, Talaga grounds us in the history of Canada, Norway, Brazil, and Australia. The conditions that create suicidal thoughts in these communities came from somewhere, and this is where All Our Relations shines. Talaga demolishes, directly and forcefully, the idea that traumas inflicted upon Indigenous peoples by settler governments should be located and left in the past. She makes it clear that the physical, biological, and cultural genocides of Indigenous peoples have left a lasting, inter-generational mark on these peoples: “Generations of Indigenous children have grown up largely in communities without access to the basic determinants of health…. Children are not in control of their determinants of health. They are born into them.” I mean, this is not hard to grasp, yet it seems like a lot of people in this country are willing to lay the blame for this on the communities themselves rather than the structures in place that prevent them from having the funding, infrastructure, and independence—the security and sovereignty—to guarantee these determinants themselves. It’s not just a lack of safe drinking water or inadequate access to healthcare, though, that’s at issue. As the title of the book indicates, this is a spiritual issue as well. Suicide rates among Indigenous people are so high because colonialism has harmed not only their physical wellbeing but also their spiritual and emotional connections to the land, to their histories, and to their cultures. Talaga makes this point throughout each and every lecture. In the first chapter she says, “Indigenous people have been trapped in these identity constructions in part because of their near-complete absence from the written narratives of the colonist nations”, arguing that it’s essential Indigenous voices can tell their stories (in their own language as well as that of the colonizers) to pass on Indigenous knowledge and culture. At the end of the last chapter, she says, “All children … need to know who their ancestors are, who their heroes and villains are; they need to know about their family’s traditions and cultures and the community they are a part of”. I mean, when you put it that way … it’s simple, really. This is what we settlers need to realize: Indigenous people have always only ever been asking for the same dignity and respect that we accord each other, the opportunity to live in their ways, pass on their ways, raise their children in their ways. And we have responded, over these past centuries, with the most intense failure mode of empathy a society can experience. It’s past time we change that. I had the privilege of taking my class of adult high school students to a book talk with Talaga ahead of her Massey Lecture here in Thunder Bay tonight. I loved listening to her speak, in response to questions from an interviewer as well as audience questions, about the issues around her books and how they relate to her life, to this land, and to these communities. Her voice as I heard it on stage comes through in these books. Read both of them, and you’ll learn so much history while also understand the vital importance of taking action to change these systems. Throughout her talk to us today, Talaga emphasized that this is an issue of equity. Talaga asks us to examine who we are and where we come from. She reminds us that this is an important exercise, regardless of our race or background. She reminds us that Indigenous people around the world are looking only for what so many people already have: dignity, respect, the ability to retain their culture and beliefs. These are not difficult things to achieve, if we stop standing in the way. All Our Relations makes a case that shouldn’t need to be made, but Talaga makes it with eloquence and empathy. [image] ...more |
Notes are private!
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it was amazing
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it was amazing
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4.45
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Oct 13, 2018
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Oct 13, 2018
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