Right?

Continuing along with my exploration of Aboriginal culture, I’m currently reading “‘Real’ Indians and Others: Mixed-Blood Urban Native Peoples and Indigenous Nationhood” by Bonita Lawrence. All in all, this has been a real engaging read and I find myself getting through it like a hot knife through butter.

I’m approximately 60% through the book and I find that, though she describes very well the issues that have affected and are still affecting Aboriginal identity, both at large as well as in the individual, there hadn’t yet been too much attention specifying what Aboriginal traditions actually consist of. I’m glad that on page 160, the author had begun to elaborate on this topic. The following is a portion of an interview that I just found said so much.

I can say that I’m traditional, coming from being raised by my grandparents, having them raise me in their traditional ways – a Métis way. But it’s not like traditional with the sweetgrass, or other things. We were traditional in that we were isolated. There were not a lot of white people we were exposed to. We didn’t have electricity, or running water … I grew up with trapping. So for me, I’ve seen skinning, I’ve seen meat smoked, fish smoked. I grew up with fish and traditional meats, and they passed all that on. And the uses of certain teas, and bear fat, that are good for certain things. 

But it’s also the way I was raised, right? The language was passed on, the way of raising children – I grew up in an extended family, where children were never hit; you are taught by example. You don’t realize, until you’re an adult, the values you’ve been raised with. My grandmother would teach me things. Like, if I did something bad, she would say, “You shouldn’t do that – think about how that person is feeling!” Right? So we were taught to put ourselves in the other person’s position, so that we would not do something to hurt somebody. And we were taught by example. They gave us verbal examples. That’s the way our morality was taught. So they taught me a lot of things, even though I didn’t realize it until I was an adult.

My recent forays into topics of culture seem to consist of one part lame identity crisis as well as another part of desire to understand the diversity found in the human experience. And, yeah, the passage itself isn’t an exhaustive exposition on native tradition or whatever, but for a second there, I find myself relating to something in those words on a very fundamental level. And, because of this, I feel that, somehow, this topic was a good idea. Right?

文化

I’ve been reading this book on the Mi’kmaw people from Nova Scotia (“First Nations, Identity, and Reserve Life” by Simone Poliandri, for those curious). As I read this work, which focused on aspects of identity and culture, I found myself questioning of where I stood when it came to matters of what I see as my own identity and culture. This has certainly been a growing topic of interest for me for a while (and quite likely one of the reasons I was drawn to this book in the first place).

Quite obviously I’m ethnically Chinese. But, in terms of culture, that’s much more questionable. What is it of my day-to-day that is an expression of “Chinese”. Truth be told, the only overt examples I can think of include my ability (though perhaps “inability” would be a more realistic description) to speak Cantonese as well as my daily consumption of Chinese food. Well, I guess also how pretty much all my friends are Chinese (and pretty much only naturalized, English-speaking ones).

But, truth be told, I don’t know much about “Chinese” culture, and I refer specifically to HK culture since I see myself relating to that more than I ever would with that of mainland China. And so, from the get-go, it’s not even that I can say definitely that such and such aspect is or is not “Chinese”. Nevertheless, the more I reflect on my life, the more I realize the nature of my own cultural ambiguity. And it’s not so much something that I want to be “Chinese” as much as it is just the realization that there can be real and tangible discontinuities between myself and others of my ethnicity.

So, back to the book, language was something that occasionally came up as a measure of cultural identity. Some of those interviewed by the author had outrightly said that to be Mi’kmaq means to speak the language. Furthermore, the unfortunate population that had been subjected to residential schooling would often refer to their loss of lingual fluency as a primary indicator of cultural loss.

And, on that note, I can relate to that line of thinking, in that I do view my inability to speak fluent Cantonese somewhat ruefully. Certainly not because it prevents me from watching TVB shows or listening to Cantonese pop (the latter, in fact, might be for the better). The primary source is probably my inability to communicate meaningfully with my grandparents. I am, and most probably will be, their only grandchild. And whenever I do think on this topic, I can’t help but feel a little remorse that I am willingly letting all that wisdom and cultural wealth acquired over the span of their lives simply end with them, all because I couldn’t be bothered to learn a few extra words and grammatical rules.

And I think it goes further than that. Language also influences the way one thinks. I’m not sure of the specifics but surely words can serve as a constraint upon our understanding of certain ideas. As I reflect on some poorer examples of communication with my mom, I can’t help but begin to wonder how much of it was due to a concept simply lost in translation or due to a perceived implication that was there only because of a literal translation between languages. Although, I guess this is more about language itself, rather than anything to do with culture.

Anyway, those are just a few musings on what is certainly a far-reaching topic. The rabbit hole of cultural limbo surely goes far deeper. 

Essence

A part of a Q program (on CBC Radio 1) I heard a few days ago recounted the life of photojournalist Tim Hetherington. At one point, the interviewee, Sebastian Junger, said that Tim's primary approach wasn't as a photographer, per se, but as someone who wanted to understand the human experience. That desire was apparently key in his subjects opening themselves up emotionally and ultimately allowing him to capture photographically the essence of whatever particular moment or situation he was pursuing.

Well after many minutes of painstakingly typing and deleting the various attempts I've made to continue this entry, I seem to have lost perspective on what I was initially trying to get at.

I guess I just wanted to note that interesting point that a person's career can be more of an indirect extension of him/herself and that I definitely relate to that desire to understand the human experience, that is, to understand those unique sets of circumstances that each member of our species finds itself in and then attempting to distill all of that into a few essential human components.

Reflection

So yeah, I like wandering around downtown as a means of relieving stress, that's certainly not a new revelation. During my recent meanderings, I've begun to notice something new: all the high-functioning go-getters in the city, you know, productive members of society kind of thing. Of course that's nothing new; the downtown core is where all the business is at, so, unsurprisingly, there is where one would find all these type-A's.

And then I look at myself, who I am, what goes through my mind, and one thing consistently goes through my mind: "Who is this girl I see, staring straight back at me?" (ok, I don't consistently think of the Mulan song but it just happened to pop into my head today, as I was looking into a mirror, in the midst of all these perfunctory thoughts; also, feel free to replace "girl" with any derogatory term that would fit your fancy).

I'm not that. I can't talk on the phone like that guy in the suit, fully convinced of whatever he's trying to push, or that guy walking confidently down the sidewalk in his well thought-out costume plus sunglasses. I mean, I could wear a pretty shirt or walk like a normal person but that'd be it, it'd just be some external piece covering an internal reality that is really disparate in quality.

And I'm sitting here, typing all these words out, and don't really know what to do, as fucking usual, I guess. lol...

Blank

My emotions are useless. Well, no they serve a role, though one that is completely dispensable from my perspective.The emotions that I feel seem to be largely limited to anxiety and regret. Such should not be for a mid-twenties guy like me of course, right? Well, all I can say is that they are my natural responses to stimuli, such are emotions, would that be a fair statement? It's not like I choose to feel certain things because it makes sense. Emotions are not, after all, necessarily rational (interestingly, when typing "are emotions" in Google, the second suggested search string is "are emotions irrational").

Anyway, I'm not complaining about my life. That's silly. My life is great and my perspective has been shaped to recognize that quintessential truth of any (greater or equal to) middle-class person. And that perspective really helps me calm down whenever I find myself going through an episode of one or more of those not-so-pleasant emotions.

But the fact of the matter is, and I say this earnestly, I just generally don't feel good emotions as much as I probably should. And I know that running water and Internet already makes my life so much better than too large of a proportion of our Earth's population. Yet, having that perspective still doesn't serve to evoke any emotional response. And I don't know what to do. Am I just exaggerating my situation? I don't even know. I don't know anything right now. I don't want to know anything right now. I just want to go back into my quiet dark place, assume the fetal position, and just rock back and forth until everything just fades away when I can return to my tabula rasa.

Submission

乖

After many years of conditioning, I think I've finally attained the state of "乖" ("gwai"). It has become one of the more frequently used adjectives when relatives describe and/or attempt to compliment me.

The adjective describing good behaviour or, less glamourously, submissiveness and the expected state of any child. I don't know how conscious a decision it was for me to embody that quality but, for better or for worse, it is now a central aspect of me.

I guess it has its roots in my constant desire to receive good will from others. Since I come into contact with my extended family a lot, naturally, a part of me just tries to play the role of the obedient younger person placating their whatever expectations.

As I look back, I see that attitude spill into the other aspects of my life, most prominently in my volunteerism. I volunteer a lot (i.e. work for free). I've always tried to keep a positive outlook and do my best, even if there really is no apparent benefit other than a gentle nod from my supervisors. The goal was to impress them so that they would finally give me a job but that obviously wasn't always the case. And, sometimes, when I get unlucky, I get the distinct impression that they are slightly taking advantage of my good will.

And now here I am. Certainly, 乖 can describe me. But what use is that now that I'm 24, now that I am no longer a child (or shouldn't be anyway)? After the years of submissive volunteer work and the submissive robotic memorization of two degrees that never required a noticeable level of critical thinking, I sit here realizing that most of the things I've done have been to satisfy demands outside of myself.

A while back I happened across a few talks by Noam Chomsky and he talked about how one of the goals of the school system was to promote obedience and submission, to instill into people the notion of "doing things for the sake of doing them", such as meaningless assignments. And, boy, that sure was an eye-opener. If only it were isolated to my school experience but no, that sense of submission has, unfortunately, permeated quite well into my approach to life.

Well, that's no good, it's no good at all.

Mundane prophecies

There's a guy I bump into periodically, from my program, and we are bonified acquaintances, though I guess that is how I am with most of my classmates.

It is strictly business whenever we talk: school, extracurriculars, and summer plans (not the recreational aspects of it). And, I'll be honest, I'm a little behind others as far as my extra-curriculars go, which was also a huge factor in my prolonged period of anxiety culminating around a month ago. He has a tendency of prodding on those subjects, I imagine he does this in order to keep a current idea of the "pulse" of the general achievements of his colleagues. Well, let's just say, my responses are never quite impressive enough and I always get a huge judgmental vibe from him, pretty much every time. It's a huge turn-off and I hate it when the conversations end up like that, which unfortunately seems to be an inevitability every time.

It happened today again and, yes, the conversation progressed through its predictable course. And, as I reflect on it, I wonder, does he share in the disdain that I have for our conversations? The reason I can't stand our conversations is because, probably, we just don't have the same priorities and so when we talk, we just completely fail to relate to one another, making it a wholly futile exercise.

A similar thought came up yesterday. I was walking around the neighbourhood and happened to cross two yuppie-phased men and one was talking about some aspect of his work and he seemed to talk about it with such conviction. It dawned on me that that sort of attitude is so far removed from my experience. I don't just don't rank work-related issues (ok, not that I'm working right now) very high at all in terms of things I actually give thought to.

And so, it is actually curious to think about how my dear acquaintance views the conversations we have. He probably thinks I'm some ambitionless dumbass who doesn't apply himself nearly enough if he actually wants to get anywhere in this short life of ours, someone who would be much better off in some dark cave on Trill (DS9 7x03, duh). We certainly don't talk normally and so I imagine that he doesn't take our conversations to be the highlights of his days either.

Hopefully, though, I don't come off as an asshole.

Sunshine lollypops and ...

So here I am again, a familiar environment for sure. But, this time it is much different: it is completely optional. There are assignments to complete, no tests to prepare for, no nagging obligations to take care of. A strange vacation in the place where I usually am.

I got a Metropass this month so that I wouldn't have that disincentive of using tokens. I feel this was a good call as now I can finally go explore all those nooks and crannies of this city as well as be in a better position to read all those books I had short-listed a while back (as well as to catch up on my web development and database skills).

So far, I've found it to be much better in the sun and in the midst of people than to be lounging around in the dark isolation of the house...

Not sure if ironic or...

This post is less... extensive than the past few.

For someone as melodramatic as I am, I find myself quite easily perturbed by the exaggerations of others. When I look for music on Reddit, I oftentimes see embellished titles that are nothing but indulgence. Here are just a couple from /r/postrock that have pushed me to go on this tirade, "Not strictly postrock, but incredible nonetheless" (ok, that one's not too bad) but then there's "Giants - Sleeping False Idol (from 3:07 I just stop counting how many heart attacks I suffer from listening to this song)". Are you being real right now? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Save your heart attacks for something worthwhile, gotdam.

And yes, I've heard this song before. In fact, I quite like it along with the rest of the album. But it doesn't give me fucking heart attacks. Can I rock out to it? Yes, of course. But.. ugh.

You know what, it's post titles like those that give me motherfucking heart attacks.