Back To School

Its been more than a year since Ive been in an academic setting so it was a trip to be back in a university for an academic conference and hearing words like "liminality" and "abject" or terms like "critical geography." Im not taking the stand that academics are incomprehensible. Im saying that, like in any profession, theres a language, a vocabulary, to which those in a university setting share and understand. Im not taking myself out of this loop, either, just because Ive been away from Yale for a year. Writing my dissertation, this is still my trade. That said, its still a trip to hear people use them over and over and see a bunch of heads nodding in agreement.

Today, I took part in a symposium entitled "Count Me In: Writing Public Selves" at SFU. I was invited to read some poetry by Fred Wah who was Writer-in-Residence for the year. In a nutshell, the purpose of the colloquium was for "exploring “the turn to language” as medium and limit in current writing practices." Other than Fred, who's been very nice to me and to whom Im very thankful, I wont mention real names out of courtesy. The panel before the dinner break was titled "Languaging the ‘I’: Writing in Shifty Contexts.” During the Q&A, an academic started talking about "oppositional spaces" and cited Venezuela in what I thought were really uncritical terms especially since he opened with the statement that there were "real" changes for the better that he's seen during his trips to the "global south." He said that Venezuela was a real and genuine example of an oppositional space where they paid their debt, backed out of the World Bank and would start their own regional lending organization. He went on to talk about the Venezuelan constitution and how it was really written by the people and that the two most influential contributors were feminist and aboriginal groups.

Shortly after he finished, I made two comments in response. One was, in terms of Venezuela, it s hard to figure out who to believe. On the one hand, supporters in and out of the country cite it, and Chavez, as a leader in the fight against Bush's empire. On the one hand, Chavez is starting to clamp down on opposition and, just last weekend, closed down a television network he deemed as inciting his overthrow. On both counts, Venezuela is like a new Cuba and Chavez a new Fidel. My other point was asking why do we always romanticize "elsewhere"? It seems like there are always beautiful, wonderful, magical things happening somewhere else. I wanted to know why we dont pay attention to the problems we have "here" and figure out solutions. I closed by saying that it s not my intention to say the local is more important the global but that this turn to the "elsewhere", the reliance on the "over there" was costing us in terms of how we dealt with one another in Canada. A country that prides itself on multiculturalism, we nonetheless interact with each other in similar ways that we talk about other countries and other places. I cited the example of people always asking non-white Canadians "where are you from?" I hate this question. "Where are you from?" may seem like a innocuous question borne from curiousity but theres something really hostile about it. When you ask me where Im from, sometimes I hear "when are you going back?" When you ask me where Im from, I wonder why you cant just deal with me as I am in front of your face. I get hostile back.

"It's a real shitty question to be asked."

Right there, by questioning a white male academic who, up to that point, was being fawningly adored by most people in the room (who were, by the way, white), I wasnt playing along. I guess it was rude to use the word "shitty." But I did think what he was saying was "shitty." Now, Ive never heard of this man before but, during the rest of the day, I determined he was pretty important in this circle. A couple of the writers who read their work mentioned in their bio that they studied under this man. His rank and file closed around in protection of him when I introduced myself to another academic and novelist (who was, interestingly enough, not a white male but a Chinese-Canadian female). After a quick hello she proceeded to answer my question making a clear effort to come to the academic's defense. Over dinner, another academic (a white male who, it was announced, just got hired as an Assistant Professor in the department...cheers all around, yaaaay...) asked me, in very abrupt terms, what my problem was with the professor's statement. Fred Wah, sitting next to this guy, came to my defense. The two professors who were very hostile continued to be frosty throughout my reading and as I left the auditorium after saying my goodbyes to the other readers and to Fred. I stand by my critique. Because some people were so cold and hostile, it was very nice to hear some audience members (2 white women, a black woman, a white man) tell me in private that they agreed with what I said and that it needed to be said.

Reading my poems was a bit anti-climactic. I was processing the afternoon's events and the coldness and hostility I felt from some of the academics including the two I just mentioned. (There were others but, really, I dont have the energy to rehash. Doing two was enough. It's pretty much the same thing.) I was already tired from yesterday's monstrous and emotional tennis match that deserves, and will get, a post of it s own. (It was a draw. I won the 1st set, 7-5. Drew won the 2nd, 6-3. Then it got too dark to play. We're gonna pick it up on Monday is the plan.) I went out for dinner last nite and didnt get home til bout 1 and fell asleep at round 2:30. I got up at 8 cause a friend wanted to take me out for coffee. Im leaving in a few days, Im thinking of what I need to pack, how to scrub clean the two stained pots with burnt millet. Ive got responsibilities and commitments on the academic front, the job front. There are expectations and thats ok. Im the oldest son. Im used to it. Im just saying Im tired and today's academic posturings and pettiness just wore me down. I was really looking forward to reading my poems. Im happy Im writing again. Id read my poems out loud before, like in my living room, but I forgot what it was like to read in front of 200 people, strangers. I was struck by how some lines and thoughts, that I glossed over, caused me to choke a little. I was happy that some things I found sad, others found hilarious. You never know when a crowd's gonna laugh.

Im starting to feel better already. I ran outta space on my disk so it ends kina abrupt.

Good night.