Yesterday the student council president, Sean, and I organized a mock Mayoral election for students. The night before, after we had photocopied and organized ballots, we realized that most students wouldn't be familiar enough with all--or any--of the fifteen mayoral candidates to legitimately and purposefully vote (as opposed to outright guess). And so we went on the local newspaper's website to see if we could find a summary of each candidate to include in the voting packages.
What we discovered there seemed satirical, and I'm still not convinced that it isn't. One candidate, Edward H.C. Graydon, has a platform that consists, almost in its entirety, of hating the local CFL team: "I cannot stand football and believe that the people who go to the games are a minority. As your candidate for mayor, I want the voter to know that I have never gone to a game and I never will, (sic) I don't like it." Oh, and he also threatens to sell our steel plants to the Chinese.
Another candidate, Andrew Haines, has a subliminal image of Abraham Lincoln flash underneath his personal photo on his website. Perhaps he's campaigning as the abolitionist mayor? Then he goes on to quote Jimi Hendrix (non-sequitor?), and to lament the loss of his web graphics company called, aptly, "420 designs," and to explain the respective failures of his small business and his marriage, and how he moved back in with his dad. Oh, also, he loves marijuana and karaoke, specifically after dropping off his partner Rhonda's kids in Niagara Falls and then "go[ing] out for dinner and follow that with a trip to the Clifton Hill Karaoke Patio between the Thriftlodge and the Pizza Pizza on the North side of Clifton Hill"--just in case you were wondering where. He has few bragging rights of his own, with no political experience, seemingly no humanitarian work, and no post-secondary education, but he does manage to brag about his his late grandfather, a lawyer; his father, a police officer; and his deceased mother, an active volunteer. Great job on having an awesome family, Smokey McBongwater, but this says nothing of your own personal merits.
Michael Baldasaro, of course, wants to grow marijuana across the city and use it for everything--food, fuel, clothing. This might appeal to some voters, if only he didn't openly advertise that he is a "Minister Plenipotentiary" of the Church of the Universe, and send Twitter messages that read "If I was in jail, I wouldn't bend over in the showers."
Oh, Hamilton; we've been together now 29 years. And oh, how I love to hate you.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Thanks a lot, Di Ianni
I was driving home from work yesterday at about 5:00pm, which is a common hour to perform such a task, and so I expected the Linc to be busy. Not only was it busy, but there was a full-on traffic jam by the Garth Street exit that forced me to slam on my breaks and the two cars behind me to swerve onto the shoulder. Now this was particularly inconveniencing because I had encountered one of those days so busy that you have time to neither eat nor relieve your bladder. And so I was anxious to get home and do both. Clearly I assumed that someone had had an accident, so of course I wasn't angry to have to stop. I always worry about who could be ahead of me, whether they're okay, and how frightened they must have been that split second before their car collided with another one. I crawled along every few seconds aside everyone else, patiently waiting in a nearly stopped car as it took a carefully timed seven minutes to drive just one kilometre. It was comforting to realize that I hadn't heard any sirens, which suggests that it was a minor fender bender.
That was until I looked up. And saw the true cause of the traffic jam.
Di Ianni.
Mayoral candidate Larry Di Ianni had asked (paid?) some of his supporters (homeless people?) to stand atop the Upper Wellington overpass holding his campaign signs and waving at the now enraged drivers. Drivers had been slowing down to see what was going on up there--was someone going to jump? Why were there children leaning dangerously close to the railing?--before realizing that it was just an arrogant local politician (crook?) who either didn't realize or didn't care that these schmucks standing up there trying to get drivers' attention would turn out to be a hazard. And the worst part about it is that Di Ianni himself didn't even seem to be up there I considered honking to show my disdain, but realized the begrudging sign holders might mistake my contempt for support. And so I sped the rest of the way, bladder full, stomach churning, forehead vein throbbing.
That was until I looked up. And saw the true cause of the traffic jam.
Di Ianni.
Mayoral candidate Larry Di Ianni had asked (paid?) some of his supporters (homeless people?) to stand atop the Upper Wellington overpass holding his campaign signs and waving at the now enraged drivers. Drivers had been slowing down to see what was going on up there--was someone going to jump? Why were there children leaning dangerously close to the railing?--before realizing that it was just an arrogant local politician (crook?) who either didn't realize or didn't care that these schmucks standing up there trying to get drivers' attention would turn out to be a hazard. And the worst part about it is that Di Ianni himself didn't even seem to be up there I considered honking to show my disdain, but realized the begrudging sign holders might mistake my contempt for support. And so I sped the rest of the way, bladder full, stomach churning, forehead vein throbbing.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Feminists and White Men
If you have been following Hamilton's mayoral race, then you will notice something that may strike some as odd in such a diverse and culturally developed city as Hamilton: of the exorbitant number of candidates--fifteen--only ONE is a person belonging to a visible minority group and NOT EVEN ONE is a woman. Thus, there are fourteen white men, albeit with varied platforms, interests, and characters, competing to represent us, Hamiltonians, the majority of whom are NOT white men.
Now, you might be wondering, 'what does she have against white men'? Nothing. I happen to love white men just as much as I do anybody else--so much so that, in fact, I married one. But despite taking legal vows to him, I certainly don't want him to be the only voice representing my unique needs as a woman--nor do I think he should be the only voice representing a city whose population is comprised of more than 20% of citizens who were born outside of Canada (half of whom were born in Asia or the Middle East).
Feminism isn't about being 'against' a particular gender--namely, men--and equity isn't about coming down on any particular race--namely, whites; to think so is to egregiously misunderstand what feminism or equity is. On the contrary, I am quite happy for those candidates who are running in the mayoral race, regardless of race or gender, but I am unhappy that there isn't a more diverse collection of voices added to the repertoire. This being a democracy, however, I guess I shouldn't complain--I should run.
Now, you might be wondering, 'what does she have against white men'? Nothing. I happen to love white men just as much as I do anybody else--so much so that, in fact, I married one. But despite taking legal vows to him, I certainly don't want him to be the only voice representing my unique needs as a woman--nor do I think he should be the only voice representing a city whose population is comprised of more than 20% of citizens who were born outside of Canada (half of whom were born in Asia or the Middle East).
Feminism isn't about being 'against' a particular gender--namely, men--and equity isn't about coming down on any particular race--namely, whites; to think so is to egregiously misunderstand what feminism or equity is. On the contrary, I am quite happy for those candidates who are running in the mayoral race, regardless of race or gender, but I am unhappy that there isn't a more diverse collection of voices added to the repertoire. This being a democracy, however, I guess I shouldn't complain--I should run.
Monday, October 4, 2010
It's Always Sunny at Summer Heights High
After a long hiatus, I have resumed blogging alongside my second batch of Writer's Craft students. Right now we're about to embark upon a short "Writing for the Media" unit (within a larger fiction unit) and I'm going to be showing an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia for what I consider to be impeccable writing. This show is offensive--there is no denying that. But the writers seem to push the boundaries of what is 'tasteful' not to serve some kind of political agenda, but to maintain a spectrum of creativity that allows them to experiment with their writing in ways that avoid cliches and challenge conventional comedy styles. The show centres around four frenemies (two of whom are fraternal twins) who work together and co-own a bar. I would describe the show as Seinfeld-on-crack, with characters who aren't so much 'imperfect' or 'immoral' as amoral, outrageously self-centered pricks with an embarassingly flawed worldview who make their Seinfeld counterparts look like a clique of Girl Guides. It is worth watching for those who don't demand realism in their TV-viewing experience: each episode stands alone and there is no follow-up explanation or resolution, for example, after two of the characters become crack-cocaine addicts in order to qualify for welfare. The next episode simply begins anew as if nothing outlandish ever happened. This kind of postmodern viewing is an acquired taste, but the experimental style makes any absurdities well worth it.
Oh, and it's got Danny Devito as the twins' equally effed father--or, not their father. You have to watch to figure that one out.
p.s. I didn't end up showing this show to my class: I may, but I haven't yet.
Also, I initially intended to write about Summer Heights High as well here, but clearly lost focus--hence the confusing title. Summer Heights High, if you haven't already seen it, is pretty much a gift to all teachers who can relate to the overzealous but preoccupied teacher who is busy lamenting the loss of his former professional glory; the behaviourally-challenged but lovable (and hilarious!) at-risk student; and the sixteen-going-on-thirty-year-old teenaged girl who (thinks she) knows everything, especially how extraordinary she is. Watch it.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Fantasy vs. Realism
My friends are over tonight to watch Entourage together but, leading into it is the vampire show True Blood, which seems (upon first impression) little more than Twilight-meets-Showgirls-meets-Trailer Park Boys. I have never liked the fantasy genre. In fact, I wield a pre-existing determined, almost arrogant bias and--dare I say it?--hatred toward it. Some might call me a cynic or, in this case, perhaps even a buzzkill, because I'm just not that into a show that includes zingers such as "fucktard" and--whispered in a smouldering vampire voice--"we just fucked like only two vampires could," not to mention the consistent use of more double negatives than I care to count. I find the show laughable, but not hilarious enough to actually be entertaining. Plus, if there is one thing I hate more than fantasy, it's the cliched southern tale of benevolent white trash struggling against bigotry and their own set of inner demons--in this case, raging bloodlust.
And then there's Twilight--but Entourage will be on soon and I don't have time to get into my loathing of Stephanie Meyer and her Mormon claptrap.
No, I am a wholehearted realist. I went to see Louis CK last night at the Just for Laughs festival in Toronto. CK's bits don't include hypotheticals and he doesn't rely upon cheap puns or cliches to get a laugh. Instead, he laments his volunteer position at his daughters' elementary school where he tells a little girl that he doesn't "give a shit" about the little boy who used a "bathroom word" because she isn't his kid and he doesn't love her. Now that I can relate to.
And then there's Twilight--but Entourage will be on soon and I don't have time to get into my loathing of Stephanie Meyer and her Mormon claptrap.
No, I am a wholehearted realist. I went to see Louis CK last night at the Just for Laughs festival in Toronto. CK's bits don't include hypotheticals and he doesn't rely upon cheap puns or cliches to get a laugh. Instead, he laments his volunteer position at his daughters' elementary school where he tells a little girl that he doesn't "give a shit" about the little boy who used a "bathroom word" because she isn't his kid and he doesn't love her. Now that I can relate to.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
What irks me
Every morning I watch the CBC with Heather Hiscox as I'm getting ready for the day. Every morning the CBC plays the exact same cycle of commercials. And every morning I find myself cringing when the 'Immunity FX' commercial plays, asking me: "Do you live healthy?" What gets me here is that live is a verb, which means that to be grammatically correct, it should be modified by an adverb, not an adjective. Thus, healthy should be healthily. Apparently this has become a trend in dumbed-down advertisements as researched in the magazine Mental Floss, which questioned whether we have witnessed the death of the adverb. As an English teacher and concerned member of the human race, this irks me.
And you know what else gets me? Plagiarism. Upon reading the Mental Floss article on the death of the adverb, I stumbled across a Boston Globe article on the same subject, written four years ago. I didn't see immediately that the magazine author had credited his newspaper counterpart for taking some of his words and using them verbatim. Upon a more careful reading, however, I saw that I had been mistaken. However, the brief interlude in which I mistakenly thought I had found a real-live version of plagiarism, outside of the microcosm of my classroom, I was both elated and incensed--elated because I had grand visions of busting this alleged plagiarist for being a complete phony in the writing world; incensed because I have dealt with plagiarism enough times to make me want to smack the culprit for wasting my time and insulting my intelligence. I take it very seriously--maybe a bit too seriously, as Lars pointed out as he mocked me in an exaggeratedly nerdy voice, finger wagging, "police, police, I have found an online plagiarist!"
Another so-called pet peeve of mine may, admittedly, seem absurd to some, but I will call it 'unintentional understatement'. Case in point: I have a mixed classic rock CD that I made years ago and have recently rediscovered. There is a ridiculously powerful, spine-tingling live version of Jimi Hendrix's Voodoo Child (Slight Return), known to many as his magnum opus. Upon finishing with his final glorious guitar riff, a British woman in the audience is heard shouting in her hackneyed English accent "Ohhh, that was reeeeeally niiii-ce!" WTF? Seriously? You just sat and listened to JIMI-EFFING-HENDRIX play and "really nice" is your most fitting description? I hate this woman. Every time I listen to this song in the car, I have to be careful to skip to the next song before I hear her idiotic and exaggeratedly mundane comment, which ends up coming across as more insulting than had she said nothing at all.
Relatedly, I saw an episode of the HBO show US of Tara recently, and upon seeing his love interest in a wedding gown (which she was wearing before she was left at the altar by another man, a cliche I am willing to overlook here) he told her she looked "pretty." A woman in a wedding gown does not want to hear that she looks "pretty." Beautiful, extraordinary, stunning, exquisite. Any of these would do. A woman will take pretty when she is going out the door to work, or as a description of her in a photograph--but not in a wedding gown. I'm not suggesting that the unintentional understater make a concerted effort to suddenly start exaggerating everything--that would also be annoying and come off as disingenuous--but a little more carefully planned feeling and articulation of one's statements would be appreciated.
That's all for now.
And you know what else gets me? Plagiarism. Upon reading the Mental Floss article on the death of the adverb, I stumbled across a Boston Globe article on the same subject, written four years ago. I didn't see immediately that the magazine author had credited his newspaper counterpart for taking some of his words and using them verbatim. Upon a more careful reading, however, I saw that I had been mistaken. However, the brief interlude in which I mistakenly thought I had found a real-live version of plagiarism, outside of the microcosm of my classroom, I was both elated and incensed--elated because I had grand visions of busting this alleged plagiarist for being a complete phony in the writing world; incensed because I have dealt with plagiarism enough times to make me want to smack the culprit for wasting my time and insulting my intelligence. I take it very seriously--maybe a bit too seriously, as Lars pointed out as he mocked me in an exaggeratedly nerdy voice, finger wagging, "police, police, I have found an online plagiarist!"
Another so-called pet peeve of mine may, admittedly, seem absurd to some, but I will call it 'unintentional understatement'. Case in point: I have a mixed classic rock CD that I made years ago and have recently rediscovered. There is a ridiculously powerful, spine-tingling live version of Jimi Hendrix's Voodoo Child (Slight Return), known to many as his magnum opus. Upon finishing with his final glorious guitar riff, a British woman in the audience is heard shouting in her hackneyed English accent "Ohhh, that was reeeeeally niiii-ce!" WTF? Seriously? You just sat and listened to JIMI-EFFING-HENDRIX play and "really nice" is your most fitting description? I hate this woman. Every time I listen to this song in the car, I have to be careful to skip to the next song before I hear her idiotic and exaggeratedly mundane comment, which ends up coming across as more insulting than had she said nothing at all.
Relatedly, I saw an episode of the HBO show US of Tara recently, and upon seeing his love interest in a wedding gown (which she was wearing before she was left at the altar by another man, a cliche I am willing to overlook here) he told her she looked "pretty." A woman in a wedding gown does not want to hear that she looks "pretty." Beautiful, extraordinary, stunning, exquisite. Any of these would do. A woman will take pretty when she is going out the door to work, or as a description of her in a photograph--but not in a wedding gown. I'm not suggesting that the unintentional understater make a concerted effort to suddenly start exaggerating everything--that would also be annoying and come off as disingenuous--but a little more carefully planned feeling and articulation of one's statements would be appreciated.
That's all for now.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Another school year bites the dust
My life is--and will continue to be, for the next twenty or so years--measured by seasons. Accountants count their years according to the annual tax season. Healthcare workers record each new cold and flu season. Retailers and markets tally each Christmas season as another one comes and goes.
My year begins in September, of course, as it has since I was not quite four years old. Every year Thanksgiving just serves as a reminder that we have a looooong way to go before we can take an extended breather. I notice the holiday season, of course, but it doesn't have any added significance other than a short break from work and a reunion with family and friends, who I seem to backburner every time a new school year begins and I forget how to manage my busy time after a relatively lackadaisical summer. I barely blink as March Break comes and goes, a pause that is more like a teaser than an actual holiday, since it is spent catching up on marking and lesson planning. May 2-4 weekend reminds us that our lives are once again soon to change, as they do every year, but we soon forget when we return to school and try desperately to get some of our most apathetic students to care half as much about earning a credit before the end of June as we do for them. And finally, just like the year before, the end of another school year bites the dust.
This one will be a particularly difficult one for me. As I have mentioned before, this time of year is always bittersweet. I really need and feel I somewhat deserve the break offered by my summer holidays, but I will miss some of my students terribly. That might sound pathetic or weird to some people; technically, students are considered "clients" or customers by the school board, and our job is to simply deliver curriculum expectations in a safe and equitable classroom environment. But here is where it gets confusing: our job is also to act "in loco parentis," which means to act in place of parents. So we are to act simultaneously like business people--salespeople hocking the product of education--and family members watching over our young as they move through a significant stage of life under our care.
I take this responsibility to heart. Our teachers' union warns us not to come into physical contact with a student. But if one of my students cries, I offer them a hug, as I hope any decent parent would. And I will likely keep in touch with several of them--the ones I feel are people who could use an advocate in life, or just the ones whose company I genuinely enjoy.
I don't want to be BFFs with my students, but I like the idea that a student would graduate and mature to be the type of person that I would like to see or hear from again. There is comfort in knowing that as my years come and go, measured by each passing June, and my students--also my clients and my pseudo-children--move on in life, that a few will have had a close enough connection to keep in touch. Otherwise, what type of businessperson/parent am I?
My year begins in September, of course, as it has since I was not quite four years old. Every year Thanksgiving just serves as a reminder that we have a looooong way to go before we can take an extended breather. I notice the holiday season, of course, but it doesn't have any added significance other than a short break from work and a reunion with family and friends, who I seem to backburner every time a new school year begins and I forget how to manage my busy time after a relatively lackadaisical summer. I barely blink as March Break comes and goes, a pause that is more like a teaser than an actual holiday, since it is spent catching up on marking and lesson planning. May 2-4 weekend reminds us that our lives are once again soon to change, as they do every year, but we soon forget when we return to school and try desperately to get some of our most apathetic students to care half as much about earning a credit before the end of June as we do for them. And finally, just like the year before, the end of another school year bites the dust.
This one will be a particularly difficult one for me. As I have mentioned before, this time of year is always bittersweet. I really need and feel I somewhat deserve the break offered by my summer holidays, but I will miss some of my students terribly. That might sound pathetic or weird to some people; technically, students are considered "clients" or customers by the school board, and our job is to simply deliver curriculum expectations in a safe and equitable classroom environment. But here is where it gets confusing: our job is also to act "in loco parentis," which means to act in place of parents. So we are to act simultaneously like business people--salespeople hocking the product of education--and family members watching over our young as they move through a significant stage of life under our care.
I take this responsibility to heart. Our teachers' union warns us not to come into physical contact with a student. But if one of my students cries, I offer them a hug, as I hope any decent parent would. And I will likely keep in touch with several of them--the ones I feel are people who could use an advocate in life, or just the ones whose company I genuinely enjoy.
I don't want to be BFFs with my students, but I like the idea that a student would graduate and mature to be the type of person that I would like to see or hear from again. There is comfort in knowing that as my years come and go, measured by each passing June, and my students--also my clients and my pseudo-children--move on in life, that a few will have had a close enough connection to keep in touch. Otherwise, what type of businessperson/parent am I?
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Apparently I'm a jerk
My niece, Camryn, "performed" in her first-ever dance recital this morning, though I think both "dance" and "recital" are misnomers. The kids neither danced nor did they recite; instead, they stood awkwardly on stage, sometimes waving to a mom here or a grandpa there, staring like the proverbial deer in headlights and occassionaly looking into the wings to watch their instructor desperately prompt them on--but of course to no avail. Everyone around me laughed, applauded, and oohed and aahed their approval of what they seemed to believe was a display of intrinsic cuteness but what I can only describe as incompetence. These kids sucked. Even Camryn. At least she smiled, and walked on her tip-toes; but her routine, overall, sucked. After "working" for the past two months they accomplished nothing besides forcing 200 family and friends to wake up at 8:00 am on a Saturday morning.
Oh, and one girl somehow mastered the art of simultaneously picking her nose, scratching her behind, and looking up at the ceiling--a child prodigy.
This experience was a fine contrast to last night, where I witnessed another form of "dancing" altogether: hopelessly awkward--and hopelessly hormonal--teenaged boys stood with their knees shoulder-width apart and proceeded to uncomfortably rock back and forth, as if trying to maintain balance in a canoe. Apparently it's called "grinding." It was a sorry sight indeed--but at least more entertaining than the atrocity I witnessed this morning.
Oh, and one girl somehow mastered the art of simultaneously picking her nose, scratching her behind, and looking up at the ceiling--a child prodigy.
This experience was a fine contrast to last night, where I witnessed another form of "dancing" altogether: hopelessly awkward--and hopelessly hormonal--teenaged boys stood with their knees shoulder-width apart and proceeded to uncomfortably rock back and forth, as if trying to maintain balance in a canoe. Apparently it's called "grinding." It was a sorry sight indeed--but at least more entertaining than the atrocity I witnessed this morning.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Teaching
I was at a friend's wedding shower today and met some other teachers who work all over Hamilton and Halton. We chatted about how some teachers don't really seem to like their jobs; in fact, some actually appear to hate teenagers, or to hate the act of standing up and actually teaching stuff.
I said to one of the women I met, Melina, that I honestly can't believe some days how great my job is. I get paid to laugh at the goons in my Writer's Craft class. I get paid to travel to Italy and to see 37 students' faces the first time they explore the sloping streets of Assisi. I get paid to work with the Model United Nations club students who will, undoubtedly, change the world we live in and improve people's lives in tangible ways. I get paid to be surrounded by youthful energy and students like Haakim Nainar or David Yoon exchanging lines from my favourite TV shows with me. I get paid to read original works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry that few other people may ever be exposed to.
I always feel nostaglic at this time of year. I have been teaching at least two grade 12 classes every year since I began at Westdale four years ago, and I always--ALWAYS--cry at graduation. It's always my finest hour: smudged mascara, puffy eyes and sniffling. Watch for me at grad, kids; I'll be the classy broad sobbing in the corner.
I said to one of the women I met, Melina, that I honestly can't believe some days how great my job is. I get paid to laugh at the goons in my Writer's Craft class. I get paid to travel to Italy and to see 37 students' faces the first time they explore the sloping streets of Assisi. I get paid to work with the Model United Nations club students who will, undoubtedly, change the world we live in and improve people's lives in tangible ways. I get paid to be surrounded by youthful energy and students like Haakim Nainar or David Yoon exchanging lines from my favourite TV shows with me. I get paid to read original works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry that few other people may ever be exposed to.
I always feel nostaglic at this time of year. I have been teaching at least two grade 12 classes every year since I began at Westdale four years ago, and I always--ALWAYS--cry at graduation. It's always my finest hour: smudged mascara, puffy eyes and sniffling. Watch for me at grad, kids; I'll be the classy broad sobbing in the corner.
Monday, May 17, 2010
The Death of Embarassment or the Resurgence of Anxiety?
I was just reading an article in an online journal called In Character. The article, by Christine Rosen, laments what she perceives to be the death of embarassment in North American society--from people getting laser teeth whitening in the middle of a shopping mall to people obnoxiously cuddling and making out all over the place. She cites other journalists' studies which blame social networking sites like facebook, online sharing sites like youtube, and reality television for our collective desensitization to embarassing situations and thus our subsequent ability to up the ante of our own personal tolerance for embarassment.
What she fails to acknowledge, however, is how contrived all of these media actually are in the first place. On facebook, people's profile pictures, status updates and comments are carefully constructed (for example, tilt head slightly to the left, hold camera at appropriate distance from head, and try to appear natural, as if the webcam just happened to snap your image without your consent). On Jersey Shore, the producers cast the eight bronzed shore dwellers, make suggestions to them for how to behave, tempt them with copious amounts of booze, and continue filming even when things escalate far beyond the level of ordinary embarassment to which the rest of us are accustomed. When Snooki "fist fights" a group of girls who show up one night on their patio, it is difficult to feel actual embarassment for her because I know how fake the experience is in the first place and how pride, the antithesis of embarassment, is Snooki's primary emotion. Garnering attention is her objective, and thus it would be a waste of my own feelings of embarassment for her.
With the alleged death of embarassment, why do so many of us suffer from anxiety, whihc seems, at times, like an extreme and preemptive version of embarassment? We are so excessively worried about what others will think or say about us that we have panic attacks before leaving the house. Hm.
What she fails to acknowledge, however, is how contrived all of these media actually are in the first place. On facebook, people's profile pictures, status updates and comments are carefully constructed (for example, tilt head slightly to the left, hold camera at appropriate distance from head, and try to appear natural, as if the webcam just happened to snap your image without your consent). On Jersey Shore, the producers cast the eight bronzed shore dwellers, make suggestions to them for how to behave, tempt them with copious amounts of booze, and continue filming even when things escalate far beyond the level of ordinary embarassment to which the rest of us are accustomed. When Snooki "fist fights" a group of girls who show up one night on their patio, it is difficult to feel actual embarassment for her because I know how fake the experience is in the first place and how pride, the antithesis of embarassment, is Snooki's primary emotion. Garnering attention is her objective, and thus it would be a waste of my own feelings of embarassment for her.
With the alleged death of embarassment, why do so many of us suffer from anxiety, whihc seems, at times, like an extreme and preemptive version of embarassment? We are so excessively worried about what others will think or say about us that we have panic attacks before leaving the house. Hm.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Betty White and Nana
Part of the reason I begrudgingly created a facebook account about six months ago was that I had heard there was a "Betty White to host SNL" group--and I wanted in. I simply adore Betty White. I own several seasons of Golden Girls on DVD; I watch the show on reruns as often as I can after work; and I have even been swayed to watch rom-coms, like "The Proposal," when I heard that Betty White had even a minor role. I just can't get enough of her. She truly is "(North) America's Grandma"--or nana, as she was referred to in several sketches last night on SNL.
Despite SNL writers' near exploitation of White with their highly sophisticated formula--old lady + swear words (prison rape and genitilia jokes) = haha--White still managed to pull it off with a wit, charm and sass that only she possesses. I had heard that there would be extra guest hosts (Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, etc.) to ease the burden on an 88.5 year old woman--but White appeared in every sketch and showed no signs of slowing down by the time 1:00 am rolled around. She reminds me of my own nana, who lived to be 89 and only passed away after a slip in a nail salon (she still received regular pedicures, which only made me love her more) led to complications to her internal organs. Before the fall she was healthy, spritely, and lively, and didn't miss a beat when it came to telling a joke or giving a good belly laugh.
My nana, who passed away in my last year of university almost five years ago, meant more to me than perhaps anyone else ever has or ever will. She had that same combination of playful adorableness and astute wisdom that Betty White seems to possess. I loved my nana so much and from such a young age that my first sentence was "I want my nana." As I grew up, we only grew closer. Nana came on every family vacation with us, and would sit in the most uncomfortable seat in the minivan--the middle seat in the back row--just so my brother and I could both lean on her and sleep. She literally sat with an enormous smile on her face the whole time--almost three full days of driving and two overnight stop-overs to Florida--just because she loved being with us.
And as I got older, entering into university and living in student housing, nana treated my every experience, as mundane as it might have been, as a milestone: she bought me a housewarming gift every time I moved into a new abode, and would deliver it herself, climbing the steps to my apartment above Fabutan, or the Westend Pub, or whatever sketchy place I had found to rent at a cheap price. And despite what loser I might have been dating at the time, nana would always make him feel like a part of the family, even though she always knew before I did that it wouldn't last.
I guess I am feeling particularly sentimental since it is Mother's Day and my mom is on vacation. I hope anyone with their own nana, oma, gran, grandma, nona, or jadda appreciates her while she is here.
Despite SNL writers' near exploitation of White with their highly sophisticated formula--old lady + swear words (prison rape and genitilia jokes) = haha--White still managed to pull it off with a wit, charm and sass that only she possesses. I had heard that there would be extra guest hosts (Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, etc.) to ease the burden on an 88.5 year old woman--but White appeared in every sketch and showed no signs of slowing down by the time 1:00 am rolled around. She reminds me of my own nana, who lived to be 89 and only passed away after a slip in a nail salon (she still received regular pedicures, which only made me love her more) led to complications to her internal organs. Before the fall she was healthy, spritely, and lively, and didn't miss a beat when it came to telling a joke or giving a good belly laugh.
My nana, who passed away in my last year of university almost five years ago, meant more to me than perhaps anyone else ever has or ever will. She had that same combination of playful adorableness and astute wisdom that Betty White seems to possess. I loved my nana so much and from such a young age that my first sentence was "I want my nana." As I grew up, we only grew closer. Nana came on every family vacation with us, and would sit in the most uncomfortable seat in the minivan--the middle seat in the back row--just so my brother and I could both lean on her and sleep. She literally sat with an enormous smile on her face the whole time--almost three full days of driving and two overnight stop-overs to Florida--just because she loved being with us.
And as I got older, entering into university and living in student housing, nana treated my every experience, as mundane as it might have been, as a milestone: she bought me a housewarming gift every time I moved into a new abode, and would deliver it herself, climbing the steps to my apartment above Fabutan, or the Westend Pub, or whatever sketchy place I had found to rent at a cheap price. And despite what loser I might have been dating at the time, nana would always make him feel like a part of the family, even though she always knew before I did that it wouldn't last.
I guess I am feeling particularly sentimental since it is Mother's Day and my mom is on vacation. I hope anyone with their own nana, oma, gran, grandma, nona, or jadda appreciates her while she is here.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A Good Ol' Fashioned Fish Smacking
I am in a wedding in July and this past Saturday we ran the stag and doe. I have never helped to oversee a stag and doe before, but apparently there is some kind of rule whereby every guest must purchase, in addition to their $10 door ticket, something called "fish insurance." My friend Kristina, the bride, is a staunch vegetarian and animal rights activist, and so I pointed out the blatant hypocrisy of having one of her guests swallow a live goldfish (which is what happens to the one unlucky guest who hasn't purchased said fish insurance). Instead, she agreed to purchase a dead fish from the grocery store (not a fillet, one with eyes and everything still in tact) and allow a member of the wedding party to smack an uninsured guest across the face.
For some reason, more people seemed to pay attention to the fish carcass than they did the bride. The fish had a prominent place on the front entrance table--on ice, of course--where people proceeded to touch it, talk to it, add cigarettes and gum to the inside of its stiff mouth. I wanted to see the humour in this, but for some reason I felt really bad for that fish. We can be so melodramatic about human death, and reserve such grandeur for the memorialization of the human dead, but we degrade and debase the lives of so many other creatures. I tried to spare the fish any further indignity by hiding it, but it was discovered.
It's difficult to be political when a bunch of drunk people want to see another drunk person get slapped in the face with a fish.
For some reason, more people seemed to pay attention to the fish carcass than they did the bride. The fish had a prominent place on the front entrance table--on ice, of course--where people proceeded to touch it, talk to it, add cigarettes and gum to the inside of its stiff mouth. I wanted to see the humour in this, but for some reason I felt really bad for that fish. We can be so melodramatic about human death, and reserve such grandeur for the memorialization of the human dead, but we degrade and debase the lives of so many other creatures. I tried to spare the fish any further indignity by hiding it, but it was discovered.
It's difficult to be political when a bunch of drunk people want to see another drunk person get slapped in the face with a fish.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Faking it
I came across the following article on the Freakonomics Blog today, and the title alone was obviously enough to intrigue me: “We Pretend We Are Christians.”
Here is an excerpt from a reader who admitted to "faking" a pretty significant aspect of her life:
We are agnostics living deep in the heart of Texas and our family fakes Christianity for social reasons. It’s not so much for the sake of my husband or myself but for our young children. We found by experience that if we were truthful about not being regular church attenders, the play dates suddenly ended. Thus started the faking of the religious funk.
It seemed silly but it’s all very serious business down here. We don’t go to church or teach or children one belief is “right” over another. We expose them to every kind of belief and trust that they will one day settle in to their very own spirituality. However, for the sake of friends and neighbors, we pretend we are Christians. We try not to lie but rather not to disclose unnecessary information. As the children are getting older, this isn’t so easy for them and an outing is probably eminent.
We are not the only ones. We have found a few other fakers out there. I would love it if you ever explored this subject in a future book. I should mention that the friend who recommended Freakonomics to me is the head of the bible study at her church. Interesting.
I am interested in hearing similar stories from readers. I would not be surprised if political ideology is another vibe that gets faked once in a while.
This makes me wonder about myself: how much of my own idealogies might I "fake" to a certain extent, or at least (pardon the expression) bullshit? Despite priding myself on my open-minded liberal humanitarian values and (my consciously ironic) moral relativism, I sometimes cringe at my own reactionary and even--dare I say it?--ahem, conservative judgments and assumptions. When you have to sometimes remind yourself of your values, how much are they natural and how much are they contrived?
Sometimes I also "fake" not liking children. In fact, I have, even recently, told people that I hate children. Hate. I don't hate children--far from it. I am in love with my nieces and nephew, my little cousins, and my friend-since-grade-five Amy's daughter Hailey. But I can't stand, as a relatively newly married, healthy young heterosexual woman who is financially, emotionally, and romantically stable, that everyone assumes that my partner and I want to have--or worse, should have--children. And so I have perhaps exaggerated my opinion of children in order to deter would-be child-pushers from commenting on my choice not to automatically spawn.
Here is an excerpt from a reader who admitted to "faking" a pretty significant aspect of her life:
We are agnostics living deep in the heart of Texas and our family fakes Christianity for social reasons. It’s not so much for the sake of my husband or myself but for our young children. We found by experience that if we were truthful about not being regular church attenders, the play dates suddenly ended. Thus started the faking of the religious funk.
It seemed silly but it’s all very serious business down here. We don’t go to church or teach or children one belief is “right” over another. We expose them to every kind of belief and trust that they will one day settle in to their very own spirituality. However, for the sake of friends and neighbors, we pretend we are Christians. We try not to lie but rather not to disclose unnecessary information. As the children are getting older, this isn’t so easy for them and an outing is probably eminent.
We are not the only ones. We have found a few other fakers out there. I would love it if you ever explored this subject in a future book. I should mention that the friend who recommended Freakonomics to me is the head of the bible study at her church. Interesting.
I am interested in hearing similar stories from readers. I would not be surprised if political ideology is another vibe that gets faked once in a while.
This makes me wonder about myself: how much of my own idealogies might I "fake" to a certain extent, or at least (pardon the expression) bullshit? Despite priding myself on my open-minded liberal humanitarian values and (my consciously ironic) moral relativism, I sometimes cringe at my own reactionary and even--dare I say it?--ahem, conservative judgments and assumptions. When you have to sometimes remind yourself of your values, how much are they natural and how much are they contrived?
Sometimes I also "fake" not liking children. In fact, I have, even recently, told people that I hate children. Hate. I don't hate children--far from it. I am in love with my nieces and nephew, my little cousins, and my friend-since-grade-five Amy's daughter Hailey. But I can't stand, as a relatively newly married, healthy young heterosexual woman who is financially, emotionally, and romantically stable, that everyone assumes that my partner and I want to have--or worse, should have--children. And so I have perhaps exaggerated my opinion of children in order to deter would-be child-pushers from commenting on my choice not to automatically spawn.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Art - Lapham’s Quarterly
I found this image in Lapham's Quarterly and it reminded me of Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own. Woolf asserts that essentially women--as writers, artists and other producers of culture--were limited not only by sexism or their roles as wives and mothers per se, but specifically based upon their lack of two essential elements: independent finances and her own private space in which to write.
Carol Shields also visits this notion in her novel Happenstance. The female narrator and protagonist must have her own space in which to design and make her quilts. Often feeling as if she exists only in her husband's shadow (he is an academic and an historian), she is empowered in her own space, creating her own works of art--so empowered that she decides to attend a crafts convention and ends up having an affair.
I wonder how many of us--male or female--truly have our own space in which to write. Despite being an adult and having moved out of my parents' creatively oppressive home years ago, I still struggle with finding the right space in which to write. I have a bedroom, but I share it with someone else and can't stay up writing into the wee hours of the night. I have an office, but it is full of school supplies, binders, and pedagogical books. I have a living room, but it faces onto the street and we don't have sufficient window coverings to offer an privacy. Then there is the family room, which is typically where Lars and the dog hang out watching sports and scratching themselves (respectively, of course).
My summer project--after three wedding showers, two bachelorette parties (one to the Caribbean), three friends' weddings, a friend's surprise 30th birthday, a two-week trip to Germany for Lars' Oma's 90th birthday, and planning for next year's IB course--is to create a suitable room of my own.
Art - Lapham’s Quarterly
Carol Shields also visits this notion in her novel Happenstance. The female narrator and protagonist must have her own space in which to design and make her quilts. Often feeling as if she exists only in her husband's shadow (he is an academic and an historian), she is empowered in her own space, creating her own works of art--so empowered that she decides to attend a crafts convention and ends up having an affair.
I wonder how many of us--male or female--truly have our own space in which to write. Despite being an adult and having moved out of my parents' creatively oppressive home years ago, I still struggle with finding the right space in which to write. I have a bedroom, but I share it with someone else and can't stay up writing into the wee hours of the night. I have an office, but it is full of school supplies, binders, and pedagogical books. I have a living room, but it faces onto the street and we don't have sufficient window coverings to offer an privacy. Then there is the family room, which is typically where Lars and the dog hang out watching sports and scratching themselves (respectively, of course).
My summer project--after three wedding showers, two bachelorette parties (one to the Caribbean), three friends' weddings, a friend's surprise 30th birthday, a two-week trip to Germany for Lars' Oma's 90th birthday, and planning for next year's IB course--is to create a suitable room of my own.
Art - Lapham’s Quarterly
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Students
Oh, students. I'm not sure if any of you read this, and if you do diligently read your teacher's blog, then these comments likely do not concern you to begin with.
I'm sure many student archetypes remain unchanged since I was in high school just a decade ago. There are the cliched try-hards, the uber-athletes, the misunderstood "mean girls", etc. But you're all so much more interesting and complex than that. However, I have noticed that many of your generation have embraced this Seth Roganesque persona of the intellectual slacker--but not like I knew this stereotype, as the dopey, grungy, rock'n'roller with unwashed hair who was born two decades too late--a new brand of the proverbial lost soul, a precocious cynic trapped in the body (and branded American Eagle jeans) of a North American teenager who has all of the cerebral tools, charisma, and hygiene to render such antiestablishment attitudes redundant.
We teachers keep lamenting the loss of due dates; we worry that none of you will be prepared for post-secondary--whether that means receiving a zero on that late paper in university bio, getting fired from your retail job for three consecutive lates, or even failing to catch your flight from Paris to Berlin on time as you trek across Europe. You've heard this countless times, no doubt, but it is a cause for concern when returning students tell us that we failed them. And I feel ashamed when I realize how many students I am failing right now--both in terms of poor grades, and in terms of poor fundamental life skills.
Keep writing on your blogs and I will keep reading them. Keep submitting work. Or start. Either way, try to compromise your anti-establishment side with the inevitable conformist that, to a certain extent, we all become. Actually submitting your writing to me doesn't make you any less talented. I promise.
I'm sure many student archetypes remain unchanged since I was in high school just a decade ago. There are the cliched try-hards, the uber-athletes, the misunderstood "mean girls", etc. But you're all so much more interesting and complex than that. However, I have noticed that many of your generation have embraced this Seth Roganesque persona of the intellectual slacker--but not like I knew this stereotype, as the dopey, grungy, rock'n'roller with unwashed hair who was born two decades too late--a new brand of the proverbial lost soul, a precocious cynic trapped in the body (and branded American Eagle jeans) of a North American teenager who has all of the cerebral tools, charisma, and hygiene to render such antiestablishment attitudes redundant.
We teachers keep lamenting the loss of due dates; we worry that none of you will be prepared for post-secondary--whether that means receiving a zero on that late paper in university bio, getting fired from your retail job for three consecutive lates, or even failing to catch your flight from Paris to Berlin on time as you trek across Europe. You've heard this countless times, no doubt, but it is a cause for concern when returning students tell us that we failed them. And I feel ashamed when I realize how many students I am failing right now--both in terms of poor grades, and in terms of poor fundamental life skills.
Keep writing on your blogs and I will keep reading them. Keep submitting work. Or start. Either way, try to compromise your anti-establishment side with the inevitable conformist that, to a certain extent, we all become. Actually submitting your writing to me doesn't make you any less talented. I promise.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Sick
So I am home sick from work today--albeit after a beautiful excursion to Italy on a school trip. I actually first got sick on the trip, likely due to the combination of exhaustion, exposure to exotic Italian cold and flu viruses, and, of course, sharing boring old Canadian germs with 42 other people on a poorly ventilated bus. I thought I was getting better, until I came home with a wicked headache and the inability to breathe--in or out--by Wednesday afternoon. The spastic, phlegmy coughing has also intensified since then and here I am, a real treat to be around. A friend called last night and insisted she let me go since she couldn't stand to hear "my gross voice and hacking" anymore. Even the dog won't sit with me.
I used to love getting sick as a kid. I don't know why. Maybe, subconsciously, I still do. Feeling helpless isn't exactly appealing, but for some reason the lack of choices (and responsibility) certainly is. A typical work day is comprised of hundreds of decisions, from the trivial to the profound. An afternoon at home on the couch? Very few options. What to wear? Sweatpants, obviously. What to eat? Soda crackers, of course. What to do? Other than nap, you mean? I guess there is always HBO on Demand or, at worst, HGTV. There is really nothing to decide, and that is liberating.
When I was little I was sick all the time. I have always been an obsessive-compulsive germaphobe, only then I didn't know there was a label for it. I was actually sick so often that I developed projects to be completed on sick days. I figured that if I was home sick, I might as well do something. For some reason, I was inspired to map and remap the City of Hamilton. I used several sheets of bristol board and began with my own neighbourhood, as if the city revolved around me and my family. I would use city maps when I got too far from the epicentre, and then would proceed to replan the city from the perspective of an eight-year-old. I must have used 6 to 8 sheets of bristol board, because the final map was far too big to be unfurled in my bedroom, and instead had to be opened in the basement.
I would also sketch floor plans for my own and my friends' and family's future homes. I had an entire sketchbook full of blueprints. Then I would use the Sears catalogue to shop for and record the items with which I would fill my future house. I actually made spreadsheets to record and organize items according to room allocation and usage. None of this makes any sense to me now.
What does make sense is that I forced my younger brother to play both school and library, two "games" he hated. I wrote grammar lessons on our blue Smurfs chalkboard and even made small envelopes and cue cards to attach to the back pages of all of our books so that my brother could check them out. My mom supported these dreams by buying me a date stamp and a red ink pad, a gift for which I was eternally grateful. But I couldn't play these games while I was sick. No. Sick time was solitude time. Just me, my sketch book, and my bristol board maps.
I used to love getting sick as a kid. I don't know why. Maybe, subconsciously, I still do. Feeling helpless isn't exactly appealing, but for some reason the lack of choices (and responsibility) certainly is. A typical work day is comprised of hundreds of decisions, from the trivial to the profound. An afternoon at home on the couch? Very few options. What to wear? Sweatpants, obviously. What to eat? Soda crackers, of course. What to do? Other than nap, you mean? I guess there is always HBO on Demand or, at worst, HGTV. There is really nothing to decide, and that is liberating.
When I was little I was sick all the time. I have always been an obsessive-compulsive germaphobe, only then I didn't know there was a label for it. I was actually sick so often that I developed projects to be completed on sick days. I figured that if I was home sick, I might as well do something. For some reason, I was inspired to map and remap the City of Hamilton. I used several sheets of bristol board and began with my own neighbourhood, as if the city revolved around me and my family. I would use city maps when I got too far from the epicentre, and then would proceed to replan the city from the perspective of an eight-year-old. I must have used 6 to 8 sheets of bristol board, because the final map was far too big to be unfurled in my bedroom, and instead had to be opened in the basement.
I would also sketch floor plans for my own and my friends' and family's future homes. I had an entire sketchbook full of blueprints. Then I would use the Sears catalogue to shop for and record the items with which I would fill my future house. I actually made spreadsheets to record and organize items according to room allocation and usage. None of this makes any sense to me now.
What does make sense is that I forced my younger brother to play both school and library, two "games" he hated. I wrote grammar lessons on our blue Smurfs chalkboard and even made small envelopes and cue cards to attach to the back pages of all of our books so that my brother could check them out. My mom supported these dreams by buying me a date stamp and a red ink pad, a gift for which I was eternally grateful. But I couldn't play these games while I was sick. No. Sick time was solitude time. Just me, my sketch book, and my bristol board maps.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Post Secret
If you don't visit this blog already, then please start checking it out:
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
This has been around for years and can be truly humorous (as evidenced by the Freshman 15 postcard) and other times truly heartbreaking (as evidenced by the high school postcard).
Either way, these unique pieces of art are inspiring, and I plan to have my writer's craft students experiment with this technique themselves--it takes skill to perfectly pair an image with a small amount of text that can possibly, together, change someone's worldview.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Writing a Film Review Requires Watching a Film...
Lately I haven't had much time to watch any genuinely good movies. Part of the reason is because most of the films in theatres now have names like "Valentine's Day" or "Dear John". The other part of the reason is my own fault, not the directors and screenplay writers of the world: it's because we finally caved and decided to subscribe to HBO on Demand. This means that we can watch every single episode of Six Feet Under over and over again. I am morbidly obsessed with this show from the early 2000s. I knew of it when it first came out, read reviews, and even rooted for the actors and writers come Emmy time. But I couldn't watch it because I was a lowly university student living off of meager Kelsey's tips and OSAP--and that still wasn't quite enough (I literally spent a couple of months eating steamed broccoli to save money; another financial phase I went through involved a box of animal crackers every day, since I found a deal in which they sold for 79 cents each).
So I am making a goal to see more good movies--even if that means driving to Oakville or Toronto to do so. Movies like The Yes Men Fix the World. Movies like The Class, which had only played in Toronto but that we finally rented (and felt like a minor victory against its poorly written and acted counterparts). Movies that have become cult classics and some of my personal favourites: Dazed and Confused, Garden State, Before Sunrise.
So I am making a goal to see more good movies--even if that means driving to Oakville or Toronto to do so. Movies like The Yes Men Fix the World. Movies like The Class, which had only played in Toronto but that we finally rented (and felt like a minor victory against its poorly written and acted counterparts). Movies that have become cult classics and some of my personal favourites: Dazed and Confused, Garden State, Before Sunrise.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Opening Ceremonies
I'm not one for the Olympics--winter or summer. I understand why so many people are, in a prepackaged display of patriotism and oversimplified notions of identity. My husband, Lars, is the consummate athlete--he teaches phys ed, competes in triathlons,wakes up at 5:00 am to coach swimming, participates in the Ride to Conquer Cancer--and so he will likely call in "sick" during some of the most exciting events over the next two-and-a-half weeks. I will likely not bump into him anywhere around the house except in front of the TV; and I will likely not hear a word uttered from him, except, by chance, during a commercial break as he finds a moment or two to summarize the day's highlights.
Anyway, I begrudgingly agreed to watch the Opening Ceremonies with him.
The night began with an homage to our First Nations and aboriginal peoples, introducing the four cardinal points care of the white buffalo, the eagle, the great wolf, and the bear; this was followed by a separation of ice and snow, which we interpreted as a subliminal message about global warming, and anxiously awaited a shirtless Al Gore who would emerge from centre stage weeping, cradling a freshly slaughtered seal pup in his arms.
A majority of the ceremony focused on Canada's distinct and diverse native populations; however, I wonder whether this might come as an insult to people who are so thoroughly neglected, relegated to the periphery of Canadian society as if a distant memory or simply a nuisance? I guess it just feels exploitative, or hypocritical at the very least, to pretend to respect and admire the uniqueness and beauty of peoples in front of a global audience when, unfortunately, I just don't believe that is the case for the majority of our politicians or our population during the other (non-Olympic) forty-nine-and-a-half weeks of the year.
Lars reminds me that I am a cynic; I remind him that if I feel forced to sit through a hyperbolic spectacle of pomp and circumstance, that I will at least find some kind of critical avenue through which to enjoy it.
Besides the aforementioned First Nations hypocrisy, I found it ironic that the performance displaying the theme of nature's transformative power on Canada's artistic community was danced by the Alberta Ballet Company, an organization belonging to our most conservative province, whose Culture Minister Lindsay Blackett, just last week, announced that all Albertan arts groups must brace for a 10-15% cut to their funding.
Then out came a series of fiddlers who looked oddly like pirates or the London cast of "We Will Rock You." Or perhaps Johnny Rotten-meets-William Wallace.
But then: the incomparable lameness of Nelly Furtado's and Bryan Adams' song that cheerily encouraged our athletes to "jump a little higher...so the whole world can hear..."
The ceremonies could have been shortened by approximately one hour. The novelty of seeing a Peter Pan-esque adrogenous adolescent boy awkwardly run-fly through the prairies, or a dozen wannabe Cirque du Soleil performers dressed as snowboarders and skiers suspended from a flowing fabric mountain range wears off within a minute or two, tops.
Maybe I'm just bitter because in light of celebrating Canada's diversity and her aboriginal roots, White Anglo-Saxxons and Francophones were so grossly underrepresented--except by the athletes, of course. And the politicians. And the sea of upper middle-class spectators who could afford thousand dollar tickets. And the CEO of the Olympic organizing committee. And every single one of the eight Olympic flag bearers and all five of the final torch bearers/cauldron lighters. And the elephant of imperialism, domination and oppression lingering in the room. At least the spoken word poet was good--oh, and very, very white.
Anyway, I begrudgingly agreed to watch the Opening Ceremonies with him.
The night began with an homage to our First Nations and aboriginal peoples, introducing the four cardinal points care of the white buffalo, the eagle, the great wolf, and the bear; this was followed by a separation of ice and snow, which we interpreted as a subliminal message about global warming, and anxiously awaited a shirtless Al Gore who would emerge from centre stage weeping, cradling a freshly slaughtered seal pup in his arms.
A majority of the ceremony focused on Canada's distinct and diverse native populations; however, I wonder whether this might come as an insult to people who are so thoroughly neglected, relegated to the periphery of Canadian society as if a distant memory or simply a nuisance? I guess it just feels exploitative, or hypocritical at the very least, to pretend to respect and admire the uniqueness and beauty of peoples in front of a global audience when, unfortunately, I just don't believe that is the case for the majority of our politicians or our population during the other (non-Olympic) forty-nine-and-a-half weeks of the year.
Lars reminds me that I am a cynic; I remind him that if I feel forced to sit through a hyperbolic spectacle of pomp and circumstance, that I will at least find some kind of critical avenue through which to enjoy it.
Besides the aforementioned First Nations hypocrisy, I found it ironic that the performance displaying the theme of nature's transformative power on Canada's artistic community was danced by the Alberta Ballet Company, an organization belonging to our most conservative province, whose Culture Minister Lindsay Blackett, just last week, announced that all Albertan arts groups must brace for a 10-15% cut to their funding.
Then out came a series of fiddlers who looked oddly like pirates or the London cast of "We Will Rock You." Or perhaps Johnny Rotten-meets-William Wallace.
But then: the incomparable lameness of Nelly Furtado's and Bryan Adams' song that cheerily encouraged our athletes to "jump a little higher...so the whole world can hear..."
The ceremonies could have been shortened by approximately one hour. The novelty of seeing a Peter Pan-esque adrogenous adolescent boy awkwardly run-fly through the prairies, or a dozen wannabe Cirque du Soleil performers dressed as snowboarders and skiers suspended from a flowing fabric mountain range wears off within a minute or two, tops.
Maybe I'm just bitter because in light of celebrating Canada's diversity and her aboriginal roots, White Anglo-Saxxons and Francophones were so grossly underrepresented--except by the athletes, of course. And the politicians. And the sea of upper middle-class spectators who could afford thousand dollar tickets. And the CEO of the Olympic organizing committee. And every single one of the eight Olympic flag bearers and all five of the final torch bearers/cauldron lighters. And the elephant of imperialism, domination and oppression lingering in the room. At least the spoken word poet was good--oh, and very, very white.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The First Blog is the Weirdest
I had just begun my Master's Degree in English and Cultural Studies when I discovered the World of Blogging. I had several quirky (and nerdy) English friends who talked incessantly about their most hated political blogs--namely Michelle Malkin, to whom they are diametrically opposed--so I nodded along in agreement, convinced that a blog was a hip new critical theory term that I should but for some reason did not know. So, rather than speak up and admit my ignorance, I did what any self-respecting pseudo-academic would do: I went home and googled it.
Within hours, I was hooked. I immediately loved the very concept of blogging, which allows anyone who can think and write to contribute to an online community through a democratic medium. Any literate citizen across the western world can, in theory, visit their local public library and write their own blog. You don't need your own laptop, a home Cogeco account, or the upkeep of an expensive website. You need a free email account. And a bunch of ideas. That's it. That's why I began my first blog.
Blogging felt weird at first. I was initially appalled at my own arrogance and self-absorption, assuming that anyone would be interested in reading the musings of a student who hadn't traveled the world, hadn't published anything, and hadn't met anyone more famous than Dustin Diamond, who played Screech on Saved by the Bell. But those supposed shortcomings should never matter to a writer--not a biographer, a poet, a short fiction author, a musician, and certainly not a blogger. And if people didn't want to read my mundane ruminations, then they didn't have to. Surprisingly, though, they did. Sure, they were my friends and family, but eventually strangers would stumble upon it and contribute their own insights to my postings. That is what we are going to try to do together over the upcoming semester. We are going to write, of course, and we are going to share: share our writing and share our opinions and ideas on one another's ideas.
Although I erased my original blog when I first became a secondary school teacher, I have vowed to write alongside you, my students, for the duration of the semester . . . and long afterward.
Happy writing.
Within hours, I was hooked. I immediately loved the very concept of blogging, which allows anyone who can think and write to contribute to an online community through a democratic medium. Any literate citizen across the western world can, in theory, visit their local public library and write their own blog. You don't need your own laptop, a home Cogeco account, or the upkeep of an expensive website. You need a free email account. And a bunch of ideas. That's it. That's why I began my first blog.
Blogging felt weird at first. I was initially appalled at my own arrogance and self-absorption, assuming that anyone would be interested in reading the musings of a student who hadn't traveled the world, hadn't published anything, and hadn't met anyone more famous than Dustin Diamond, who played Screech on Saved by the Bell. But those supposed shortcomings should never matter to a writer--not a biographer, a poet, a short fiction author, a musician, and certainly not a blogger. And if people didn't want to read my mundane ruminations, then they didn't have to. Surprisingly, though, they did. Sure, they were my friends and family, but eventually strangers would stumble upon it and contribute their own insights to my postings. That is what we are going to try to do together over the upcoming semester. We are going to write, of course, and we are going to share: share our writing and share our opinions and ideas on one another's ideas.
Although I erased my original blog when I first became a secondary school teacher, I have vowed to write alongside you, my students, for the duration of the semester . . . and long afterward.
Happy writing.
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