My Treadmill & Me

About a month ago, my boyfriend R.J. convinced me that we should buy a treadmill. I was hesitant; I've heard too many stories of treadmills becoming clothes hangers (not to mention that there always seems to be a treadmill on any episode/clip of Hoarders).

Nearly three weeks had passed and neither of us had touched it. R.J.'s grandmother put us to serious shame, logging in a total of 15 minutes during her two week stay with us in August. The cold, plastic-y smell of its new material taunted me upon my return home from work each day. Although it stood in the furthest corner of our apartment, I knew it was there: a lonely, unused treadmill.


A couple of weeks later, my guilt was replaced by apathy. I can say that I kind of forgot it was there, but really, I just didn't care that I wasn't using it. Then - I decided to weigh myself.

Baaaaad decision. Weighing myself often makes me feel horrible, as I'm sure it does for many other women (and men - but let's face it, women "have" higher standards to live up to). I know when I'm gaining weight (my clothes feel tighter) and why (I'm neither exercising nor eating healthy). So why do I do it? Why do I step onto the fancy scale R.J. bought, which uses our heights and ages to determine our body fat percentage and all kinds of other stuff? Maybe my subconscious, who isn't quite as apathetic as my conscience, nudged me on.

I won't provide a number, because numbers don't say much. I am probably still within my BMI, but the fact is I feel like crap. And that has to change now! Yes, we can!

So, I am starting a running program. I broke my treadmill in last Thursday and have been on it twice since then. Granted, I am walking for six minutes and running for one (eventually working my way up to a half hour run), but still.

Wish me luck!

These are my... jeggings

I bought a pair of Mavi jeggings yesterday at the Rideau Centre:


And, whether I'd like to admit it or not, they're all I can seem to focus on today. I've suddenly become consumed (no pun intended) by my want for things to go with my jeggings... Manitobah Mukluks, over-the-knee riding boots, long sweaters, long necklaces and long scarves all top my list.

I've had my ups and downs with fashion. It all started after graduating high school when I discovered...


Holt Renfrew. The bags weren't hot pink back then, but the store was just as nice.

My first purchase at Holt Renfrew was a black and white pop-art Burberry purse with a hot pink lining and patent leather strap. It was one of those itty bitty purses, which were 'in' back then. I felt so good as the cashier (who probably had some fancy title like 'Sales Associate') placed it gently into a shoe bag, wrapped it in tissue and, finally, handed me the bag... until I got home and realized I'd spent $400 on a purse. Immediately, an unbearable buyer's remorse began to set in.

I wore it for about two weeks, but every time I felt the weight of it wearing me down. Desperate, I brought it to Hillary's dry cleaners and asked if they could clean the ever-so-slight graying on the white material. "No can do," the woman at the counter responded. "We can't dry clean it because the strap would ruin." The patent leather strap that delighted me days before was suddenly the bane of my existence.

My mom, who would go to any length at even the slightest sign of her children's distress, scrubbed the thing with dish soap and I headed back to the department store with the purse in its shoe bag and my breath in my throat.

The cashier glanced at it quickly, processed the return with a stoic - borderline bored - look and dismissed me within minutes.

Walking out of the store I felt a mix of relief and shame. I wondered, what did the cashier think of me?

Her outfit didn't match this purse. She's not good enough for Burberry.

She probably had to choose between Burberry and food. Food obviously won out.

Poor.

I've fluctuated back and forth between focusing on and neglecting my style. As I entered grad school, I didn't care so much about what I wore, if only for the fact that I didn't have time to care. I still bought some new boots and sweaters for fall, but also wore *all* of my Christmas present clothing (my undergrad self would have gasped!). I cared a lot in my undergrad, since something about the University of Ottawa's downtown campus seemed to turn hallways into runways. I had subsequent - more pleasurable - Holt Renfew experiences with Juicy Couture and Marc by Marc Jacobs, Gucci, Prada and even a return to Burberry.

Funny, how one pair of jeggings can bring me right back there.

One-Minute Book Review: All That We Say Is Ours

All That We Say Is Ours: Guujaaw and the Reawakening of the Haida Nation (Ian Gill)

This book was constantly pulling me in two directions: one, where I enjoyed the format and the content, and another where I couldn't wait to be through with it.

For all intents and purposes, I totally judged this book by its cover. I *loved* its name. It is so simple and powerful, and reflects the title naming process that I (try to) emulate in my essay writing. What I understood to be the format - a mix of oral history, interviews, the author's reflections, legal history, media of the time, and so on - intrigued me as well.

I didn't so much appreciate the writing style. When the (non-Native) author took the text in his own direction, it was so clearly not the voice of the people that I found myself reading in a British accent in my head. He used western idioms and quoted mostly non-Native scholars.

Of course, he has the right to - it's his book and I, as a reader, have chosen to give it a chance. And that is where I started to kick myself in the butt. While reading this book I also picked up Through Black Spruce by Joseph Boyden and This is an Honour Song edited by Leanne Simpson and Kiera Ladner. Particularly as I reached the last couple of chapters I kept thinking, Life is simply too short and there are too many talented Native writers for me to be spending my time on a book like this.

Now, this review could quickly turn into a post about my idea of non-Native people writing about Native peoples. So I will turn to one thing (of a few) I liked. The book ends with (spoiler alert - d'uh) a speech given by Guujaaw (the subject of the book) about the late Bill Reid. The last line of his speech epitomizes a feeling I get that is so hard to describe. It feels like I was born to be Anishinabe, and that that fact is somehow incredible to me.

Final thought: This book might be interesting for Canadians looking to learn a bit more about Haida culture and worldviews, environmentalism and First Nations' experiences in Canadian courts, but it's always better to hear a story told by the people who live(d) it.

Not the Real Thing

I am a huge fan of Adrienne K's blog, Native Appropriations. At times I have to stop myself from treating her website as a basket for all things offensive to us as Native peoples. For example, earlier this week I read about Lady Gaga saying, in regards to Arizona's SB1070, something along the lines of: "If it weren't for all you immigrants, this country wouldn't have shit." (Oooh, I can say shit on the Interweb! Not accustomed to that.) While I'm all for attempts at anti-racist sentiments, you can't throw other nations and cultures under the bus - c'mon now, Gaga.

Anyway, my first instinct was to e-mail this tip to Adrienne K. Then I realized: this has nothing to do with appropriation. It is just downright offensive to me and I want to send it to someone who will put Lady Gaga on blast for it.

Actually, this has nothing to do with the original thought I had to post, but I would like to give kudos to Native Appropriations - it's an awesome blog.

I have many memories of my move, at twelve years old, from my reservation to "the city" for the start of junior high, like being painstakingly behind in math and French class; passing a white girl in the halls and thinking she was the definition of beauty; and being chuckled at and corrected on my rez accent ("It's three, not tree!"). But one memory sticks out like a sore thumb and I've been thinking about it quite a bit since being hooked onto 'Native Appropriations.'

I was flipping through YM magazine with my friend Lisa (the same friend who, I suppose, I can thank for my proper pronunciation today) when we came across a 'trendy' pair of Native-style earrings. I can't remember whether they were feathers, beads or both, but they were very distinct. My immediate reaction was shock and outrage:

"They are stealing from our style!" I exclaimed.

"They're not stealing," Lisa said, matter-of-factly. "You should take it as a compliment that they like your style."

Always a people-pleaser and confrontation-avoider, I shrugged and flipped the page. But I still felt a fire lit under me. I knew something about this was not right.

A couple of weeks later I was back home, having a sleepover with two of my equally girly cousins. We too were flipping through a magazine admiring the latest fashions and laughing at the more "edgy" ones. And then we too stumbled across a page that featured Native-style earrings. The two of them reacted with some level of shock and disgust.

Suddenly, without much consideration, I found myself adopting Lisa's mantra and, as a result, a certain brand of "white knows best" philosophy.

"Relax," I reassured them, my nose a few millimeters closer to the sky than it had been a moment earlier. "We should be taking it as a compliment."

They didn't buy that reasoning. One of my cousins in particular shot it down, steadfast in her beliefs that it was "just copying" and "not the real thing."

Now I can look back on that time and dissect this cultural appropriation, a white response to it and my own embodiment of the dominant discourse. While not standing my ground - and worse, attempting some degree of lateral oppression - is not my finest moment, I will forgive my twelve-year-old self. After all, I never claimed to be a warrior or an activist or even outspoken at that age.

All I can do now is do my part to right (write) those wrongs.

Struggle to Publish

So, I have come to an interesting point in my journey as a scholar: the end.

Well, that might be a little dramatic. As I said in my previous post, "Life lived like a story", I love learning and, more specifically, being a student and would love to someday go back to grad school for a PhD.

I've finished my M.A. and, for the first time in my life, I am not a student. Gasp! Needless to say as a lifelong nerd, I feel a slight void (but luckily that feeling has been tempered by the new job at a university I began almost immediately upon graduation). But I still find myself stealing moments away from my day to browse PhD programs, google scholars and scan journals. I think it is clearly where my heart is.

In order to satiate the nerd within me, I have settled on applying for 2011's Graduate Horizons so that I can explore whether it's possible for me to go to school in the U.S. Well, anything is possible, I guess exploring whether it is do-able is more accurate. (Or is that the same thing?)

Between now and then I am going to concentrate on making myself more PhD-ready. I've already had the amazing opportunity to co-author a chapter for a book with a professor and a Harvard-educated PhD candidate, both of whom I admire.

Now I come to my current dilemma: my struggle to publish. I was very proud of my MA research essay. And, I was happy that my three graders seemed to feel the same way. I knew that I wanted to share my essay with others, having only shared it with my family at this point, and my graders encouraged doing so in their marking scheme...

But I can't start!


Up until now I've blamed my new job. It's been an adjustment and existing within a learning curve can be tiring. So, I'm not going to apologize for that. But every night this week I've wanted to start looking at my essay again, start sending it to friends who've been asking to read it, start e-mailing it to some of the professors who've helped me along the way to ask for advice.

I couldn't understand what was going on. It wasn't my normal procrastination, which usually only happens when I really don't want to do something. I want badly to get rolling, revise and submit my essay. (Whether to submit it to my "dream" journal, SAIL, or a lesser known journal - so much lesser that I don't even have one to name - is yet another untied end.) But I just couldn't.

Then I met with one of my graders who, until that moment, had been 'blind.' Our conversation inevitably turned to my essay and the possibility of publishing. After coming clean about my recent struggles, I was delighted to learn that I wasn't alone. As a newly 'crowned' (haha) PhD she had several publishers knocking on her door, but she's been sitting on her dissertation for two years.

Suddenly three months doesn't seem so bad. I just hope it doesn't turn into three years.

"Life lived like a story."

"Well, I've tried to live my life right, just like a story."

-Angela Sidney

I've always loved this quote. It is from one of the three Elders whose life stories are told in this book, through "author" Julie Cruikshank (my thoughts - although not necessarily fully formed - on non-Native people doing research "about" Native peoples is an entirely separate post, which I have no immediate plans to compose).



Angela Sidney's quote speaks to the power stories have for our people. Our stories and our storytellers are our greatest teachers in life; this is not something that is new to our people. (Yet, it seems that writing academically about our stories is a burgeoning field - how did that happen?)

I want to dedicate my life to stories. Listening to them, learning from them, picking them apart, putting them back together. And, maybe even someday, telling them to grandchildren of my own. My research for my master's was about stories. My essay looked at the theoretical/ethical/methodological considerations put forth by Native writers, and was punctuated by my grandfather's oral history and my self-reflexivity. Off the record, I called my essay "a story about stories."

It was well received by my readers. They called it "innovative" and "an excellent contribution." (All of these things, I am not going to lie, went straight to my head.) What's ironic about this is that my essay was the complete opposite of innovative; I was writing about some of our oldest traditions in their modern manifestations. We've always known that stories have power to decolonize, that stories and their tellers have responsibilities, that stories tell us where our home is, and allow our nations and cultures to survive. This is old news!

Now that I've graduated and am working at a job I love, I should feel fulfilled. But I feel like something is missing. It is no longer my main task, as it was when I was a student, to listen to my grandfather's story, to think about my own, and to read the stories, and stories about stories, that other Native writers tell. How can I get back to that place and still make a decent living for myself? One route surfaces as an option: PhD.

And, in strolls irony/trickster, once again, to laugh at me.

In the western world, the modern age, 2010 Canada, in order to "return" to a life lived like a story, I must complete what is commonly accepted as one of the most gruelling career paths out there (not to mention be a broke student for yet another five years of my life). To live and breathe stories, something that was embedded into community life in our "less colonized" days, and still pay my rent, I have to rise to the top of this academic game.

Oh irony/trickster, you've got me again!

The Day the Earth Shook

There was an earthquake today.

Having lived in the uneventful (weather-wise) regions of eastern Ontario/western Quebec all my life, I discovered today that a person can learn so much about herself during an earthquake. Will you be brave or will you scream and cry? Will your life flash before your eyes or will you draw a blank? And (funnily enough), will you even know an earthquake is what is causing the shake?

On day two of my new job, I sat at my in my borrowed office - while mine was being built - doing the usual first week reading and familiarizing. I am enthusiastic and energetic and everything seems right with the world. That is when the earth began to shake.

I knew immediately that it was an earthquake, incredulous as it was. Almost as some sort of coping mechanism, my brain tried to convince me that it was being caused by construction workers, possibly doing some kind of drilling. But I knew better. Sure enough, I stepped into the hallway where the other women in my office had gathered in doorways, their faces mirroring the shock and confusion I felt.

I realized that I am braver than I think (as are the women I work with, although I cannot speak to their self-perceptions of bravery or cowardice). Unlike the construction workers who bolted down the stairwell ("Run! Go as fast as you can!"), we took deep breaths and looked into one another's eyes and rode it out. Laughing at the end.

My boyfriend, R.J., had a different experience. In a much taller building than mine, he recounts seriously thinking that the building was going to come crumbling down and that this was the end. Which makes me think. Even though my experience was more calm, it still made me appreciate my loved ones. I was happy to hear their voices on the phone afterward, delighted to see their beautiful faces. Happy to arrive at my home, sit on my own couch, speak to a cousin/friend on the phone, and watch 'The City.' It's the small things that make life worth living.

What I discovered, and I'm sure many others did as well, is that at that moment I was not in control of my life. A force greater than me was. Call it the Creator, Mother Earth, God, whatever you will. Maybe it was a warning or maybe we were saved. Maybe it was just an earthquake. In any event, I am just glad to have my feet planted firmly on the ground.