Assignment #4 Creative Learning
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Author Archives: fid461
Provocation number 4
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Not everyone is born and raised in an environment that is welcoming and open to their own private feelings when it comes to who you are as a person. Not everyone is born in the majority group and so they have access to less support groups, making them feel challenged and as though they are alone. Someone who is a straight able-bodied male does not face the same challenges as a bisexual male, or a transgender individual does in their daily lives. The first is able to live life within the normative narrative that society has come to expect; the other two do not have this luxury, they are outside the “norm” and do not have the support of a general majority. “I heard nothing about transgender and transsexual people; it seemed that folks who lived outside the gender binarydidn’t exist in my world. More accurately, I was the only one.” (Clare 2001) Those in the majority are accepted and do not have the pressure from a society that is not understanding enough to view or see things from their own perspective because they have never had to face the same things.
We learn by experiencing and growing through the events that take place within our lives. Because of this our grasp of understanding can sometimes be limited because we were not introduced to the situation and feel scared by how foreign it feels. This fear overcomes us and rather than accepting those who are different from us, society instead views them as somehow flawed and labels them as such. Viewing someone who has had to face a different set of challenges does not make them wrong in someway or “dis”abled by what makes them different. Rather than embracing these differences we put limitations and pressures that otherwise would never be faced, creating an artificial challenge for someone who already has had to face things those in the norm have never had to consider.
Half of a History is Less than Half a Story its Half a Lesson
i) Canada’s Blind Narrative
Tadyn describes a white winter and a story of childhood idols. A childhood of fun attending school and seeing sports heroes such as the Saskatchewan skating team on the television during periods that were spent working in a classroom. Brianna had memories of taking part in a Terry Fox run with her younger cousin and explaining who Terry Fox was and why it was important. My own story was one of a panicked meltdown in the theater and receiving help from my friends at school. All three of these stories center around our schools and finding belonging there but none of them had a connection to the land or the Indigenous peoples that had once called them home. We found support and community in the education system but the idols we were introduced to were not all the faces that should have been represented. We were not being educated on Canada’s entire history and our choice of figures to look up to were only part of a small group. As children grow they naturally seek out authority to learn and emulate from, they look to anyone around them that they can learn from but they are still limited by what is made available to them. While all of our stories talked about a sense of communal belonging they lacked the representation that the face of Indigenous issues deserved.
Growing up you are presented with a narrative of a welcoming homely lifestyle that is consistent throughout the country and filling every house with that same enjoyable childhood. Instead of learning about the blood it cost to make that time seem so peaceful, you are taught that your country loves everyone equally. I was raised believing that Canada was the mediator of the world and that it was our duty as Canadians to be helpful as representatives of that ideal, instead of learning about John. A McDonald’s abuse of the Indigenous population. Rather than learning about a dark past Canada represented itself as flawless even to its own youth and failed to inform those same youths about the second side to our history. When learning about Indigenous culture you would be taught about the germ infested blankets and the dying buffalo but it was written to deflect the blame. Rather than owning up to the intent behind actions you were taught the aftermath of them instead. We were shown a destroyed and forgotten peoples past and so that image perpetuated and made them seem as history rather than living victims.
We as students have come much farther than forgetting our history, instead we are put in roles and positions to empower that change by staying informed. Rather than relying on the narratives we are given being true and unbiased we can choose to be more active than anytime before. With the resources of online databases and the internet, information is more available than ever and so it is more important that we keep it available and accurate. Finding our heroes among the Saskatchewan skating team, Terry Fox, politicians, teachers, and more is as important as it has ever been; however, it is even more important that faces like Jody Wilson-Raybould, and Louis Riel be there with more representation of the Indigenous community that predates our Canada. We have outgrown being told there is only one right way of thinking and in order for us to move past that same one-way mentality then we will be able fight Canada’s racism and no longer allow overly one-sided representation and interests to reign over our best interests.
ii) Destroying a Blind Narrative with Light
Lovelee Cabrera took a different path with the memorable introduction they had to a small piece of Indigenous heritage. Instead of being presented with an overly European learning environment they were presented with a new perspective of Canada’s Indigenous peoples thanks to the least likely of heroes: a talent show. She was introduced to this new perspective by being in the right school at the right time to experience something that was important to the person performing, a sight that otherwise might never have been seen by Lovelee or anyone else there. “The many sacrifices they have made and their beliefs and teachings in which we use, have formed our world. What it means to be Canadian is knowing we are all equal in not just black and white, but in all colors.” She was able to learn from this new experience and be changed for the better by being introduced to a part of Canada that she could never have tangibly grasped through a textbook that would rather forget them.
We are only able to express ourselves within the limitations that have been taught and forced upon us through the narratives enforced at school and in life. Children especially are far more curious and will pursue the paths opened to them with a vibrant energy of youthful ignorance, they are however solely reliant on others to make paths known to them. By not presenting young students the books and stories of Canada’s Indigenous history and the persecution its people have faced since colonialism that narrative is perpetuated as being acceptable and normal. By not representing a half of Canadian history that was here before us we are invalidating the lives and ways of living that nurtured both Canada as a people and as an evolving environment. By not acknowledging that we could not be where we are today as a nation without the sacrifices of Indigenous communities and their knowledge to keep us healthy and living in the untamed northern wilds we are saying that it is ok.
Change doesn’t happen overnight but even after something has been changed in our society its ripples are still felt. Until we see the narrative presented in the classroom change to one more truthful and honest about its own history and the price of actions taken against our Nation’s first peoples we will not feel the long-term effect. However we are feeling the long-term effect that colonialism and its backhanded dealings with Indigenous communities has had and that is something that shows this is a battle worth fighting for. Seeing Indigenous youths feel unrepresented in a country founded on land they have occupied for generations before our borders were established is the ripple that a Colonial narrative has had. Hiding our past to mitigate the guilt of building a nation on the bones of the last while the plot still remained hot from its ashes. Children are only able to learn from a truthful representation of facts and if the introduction of Indigenous perspectives disrupts it then that is just more evidence that Tadyn, Brianna, myself, and more were not shown the full extent of the history of our country. Guidelines four and five of Di Angelo’s “Is everyone really equal?” are important to keep in mind for this reason: until someone who has lived that perspective first hand opens your eyes you won’t know whether you were blind or just ignorant.
Sensoy, Ö., & DiAngelo, R. J. (2017). Is everyone really equal?: an introduction to key concepts in social justice education. Second Edition. New York: Teachers College Press.
Self Story #1: The Olympic Games in the Classroom
(Posted January 18, 2021) By Tadyn Martinook
Writing the Self 1: The Walk of a Proud Canadian
(Posted January 18, 2021) By Brianna Kutas
Writing the Self 1: Raven’s Flight of Panic.
(Posted January 19, 2021) By Francios d’Auteuil
Writing the Self #1 : The Performance That Got to Me
(Posted January 12, 2021) by Lovelee Cabrera
Writing the Self #4 Something to Think About
Sometimes it takes somebody you care about saying something in order for you to really notice it properly. You can walk through the same path a million times over and never see a specific aspect of it because you failed to look at it from the right perspective, learning about gender can be a lot like that at times. I regularly walked with my friend Abby from school to the station and if it got dark I would head back with her to make sure she got back alright. During one of these late night walks to the station she thanked me as we waited under the neon timer sign showing six minutes. She was happy for me heading back with her because she said it made her feel safe, she said it was nice to not have to worry about anything on the way home. I assumed she meant that it was getting dark outside and teased her but that wasn’t the case. She told me of some of the experiences her and her female friends had had in the past at the stations and just in walking home; the constant catcalls and being approached by people that don’t want to go, she explained how often her and her sister walked together to get things from the store because it made these experiences less likely.
The honest truth of the matter is that I had walked her home each time because she was my best friend but I had not considered how different the view of things were from her perspective. I considered it just being nice as I had walked through those same streets and stations countless times following Stampede without any real issues. I had never thought about needing a chaperone or companion to go places in order to secure my safety I had never needed to. Abby and her friends always ensured they had a ride back or group that they were travelling with whereas I as a man had never had to worry about it for more than a brief moment or encounter here and there. Sometimes being a guy by meant that by default I did not have to worry or even consider some things that others had to. Not everybody was able to look at things from my perspective because they did not have the same advantages I did. Encounters with drunks and rowdy crowds was a nuisance to me sure but I rarely had to consider my safety while dealing with them and my tall build kept most away; where I saw paths to walk and people to mutually ignore she saw dangerous areas that she would rather avoid. To me it at first seemed ridiculous because I wasn’t any older than her, nor stab proof to say the least, but I didn’t experience life the same way she did. I had my own set of challenges and difficulties but there were some like these that her, her friends, my sisters, and so many more girls had to deal with; challenges and setbacks that I would never have to, and that left me with something to think about.
Writing the Self #3: Pizza Day March
My brother and I had been (trying) to stay on our best behaviour all morning and it started to show as lunch time began to draw near. He knew as well as I did that instead of our normal routine of biking home for a bologna sandwich and soup we were going to get a slice of pizza and a juice box. All we had left to do was wait the final minute for the bell to ring, then we would walk out and get it; he had been there this morning when I dropped off the signed note to the office on the way. We knew that this time it was our turn to sit down and enjoy it despite the fact we both hated Domino’s pizza. Instead of biking home and back we got to sit down with our friends and eat, we didn’t have to worry about getting back in time because class was steps away.
Waiting for the bell to go off was always the hardest part in mind, you focused on each tick til it was a thunderous cacophony in your head even as your teacher’s still talking in the background but you don’t hear a word. I remember wondering if my brother had stayed out of trouble or he would miss his chance to get pizza spending lunch in the office, I hoped he had. As the seconds ticked down and rounded halfway I was left thinking about home and still the thought of that pizza. Remembering each and every time I had walked into the office empty handed and presented a note just like it, each time that I had been told no or apologized to and sent away, I wondered if anybody else had to do that. I knew that my sisters had had to bring the letters in before, I knew that this wasn’t a new situation to the school and I knew I wasn’t the one who did it when I was the younger brother. Snapped back to reality by the sound somebody opening a Chubby’s pop I looked up at the clock, 10 seconds to go and each dragged on longer than the last until finally …..RINNNNNNNG!
I leapt out the room with my backpack on my arm and went to stand in line as I saw other kids racing past. I turned around the corner joining the ever growing crowd and heard my brother following with his class somewhere behind me, a voice that I had heard for as long as I could remember and that stood out like a sore thumb to me in the crowd. I wait my turn and eventually I am up next for pizza! I say my name and after looking over the sheet I get given a slice of cheese pizza and a grape juice box so I saunter away to find somewhere to eat. Eventually I hear my brother telling the teacher in charge of pizza that day to fuck off and I see him grab some juice boxes and run away. After looking around outside I found him nearby stashed away in a place we enjoyed relaxing, there he explains that he was told he was not on the list and wouldn’t get anything and since she wouldn’t listen he grabbed some juice and ran. It left me angry and despite everything I had gone through that morning I ended up just giving him mine and heading back to class. I knew there wasn’t anything I could really do about it and felt helpless at the fact that was just how life was for us there. This was what we were born into and, like many things that we had no hand in deciding, was just another part of a life that we try to live.
Writing the Self 2: My Brother, You Look Different Today
I remember walking back home with my brother following just behind me, I had several bruises along my chest and arms from getting in a fight with a local bully. I was mad, internally screaming obscenities at my tormentor the whole walk there. As we were nearing the train tracks dividing town, my best friend Ty came lumbering over towards us; he ran over, a crooked smile and familiar scar speeding our way. After he reached us I gave him a firm hug, he was one of the only kids in our town with Indigenous blood besides us and it showed. We walked back and started talking along the way about what happened in class earlier and why I got dragged out. I told him why I got in a fight and how the bully had been talking about my family being dirty Natives. It was easy to talk to him about because he knew that I was not happy with my heritage at the time and that the subject easily provoked me, he also knew that I was very defensive about my family.
We passed the petro, snagging popsicles and heading back out on the rest of the walk home. After dropping my brother off at home me and Ty went back to his house to play some playstation but I could not get the day’s events out of my mind. This particular incident just left a sour taste in my mouth that no amount of sugar was going to fix, I turned to my friend; I looked him over and then again at my surroundings and took in something that I never had before, despite all my own issues my friend had it even worse than myself. We were both bullied and harassed for blood that we had no choice in pumping through our hearts. We were both poor and disenfranchised with where we lived; what divided us and what I had never seen before was that where I had a choice in the matter he had none. I had skin that could hide my heritage in any place that nobody knew me but my friend was a prisoner no matter where he called home. While I could hide behind an ivory wall to protect me from the worst of things, Ty had his identity plastered all over his face as clear as day. I could pretend or deny and there would be no way to dispute it but Ty could never be seen as anything other than what he was.
Then it was my turn to ask Ty a question: how do you do it I asked. At first he was confused thinking I had meant a trick in the game but I told him what it was that I really meant. Looking into his eyes it was like looking into a partial reflection on water, he was both there and not there at the same time, an image poised to fade apart at any moment; but, just as quickly, the life returned with his normal crooked smile and he said something that stood with me. “I cannot choose who my blood parents are no more than I can choose who my foster parents are. I realized that stuff doesn’t matter and that I will do what makes me happy not what makes someone else happy. Why would I run around so somebody else can stay in place.” He turned back to the game and I followed suit but my heart was not in it.
I came to the realization that despite my own issues there was somebody right beside me who had even more than I did. While I had always known that we were both Indigenous I had never stopped to wonder how my appearance had been buffering the storm for me. I may get catcalled and bullied for a part of my history that I cannot change but I was not met with immediate discrimination just for looking Native. Despite spending days and weeks together I had never thought about the differences we had only the similarities that brought us together. I always grouped us together as cut from the same cloth but in many ways we were just as different as we were alike. The friend that I thought of as a brother, who I had always thought of as a twin to my own chaotic life suddenly seemed so different and strange yet nothing had changed at all.
Writing the Self 1: Raven’s Flight of Panic.
The white kernels pop out from the roof, I find myself looking forward yet my eyes were always only drawn to one point. The world was still swimming from earlier but the rush of adrenaline was fading and my muscles were tight and exhausted from getting here. Even as I feel the burn of my legs and the cramp in my back laying on the old carpet yet had never felt more comfortable. Where once i had felt i could never say enough i could barely find a single word or sentence to describe my emotion. I think of what I have heard and I blink away the moment; my hair is being stroked softly and I feel the soft pressure on my head, it feels strangely at home and familiar. I breathe once and my heart settles down, a second breathe then exhale, as I draw in another my eyes reopen and stare back at an ocean of blue. In that moment I realized somebody well and truly was by my side and that room felt safer than any vault. I ask with a ring in my ear “How can you be optimistic when nothing seems to go right?” All I hear is light humming, its pitch goes softly up and then down and think of what got me here: the humming a soft reminder beating to the rush of blood. Up and down the rustle of freshly cut hair becomes a wave of water crashing to the bank, the feeling of panic and feeling trapped creeps slowly out of thought. A few words had tripped me on stage, words that i had known and had allowed the panic to overtake me blocking them from my sight.
I swing up, the feeling of wavy nausea a temporary annoyance that slowly fades away. I look around and see the feathers on the ground and can’t help but wonder how I had made such a mess. I start to gather up the feathers and notice that there is a small pile in the corner, yet again I had been saved without noticing. I settle into the chair and she quickly goes over the eyes and powder so the lights dont glare. As I begin to pace the floor she leaves and I am alone again in the room, it feels colder and yet I still feel back at home. This school had been there and would be there for the rest of my stay under its roof. Those around me would change and fluctuate but I know the cornerstones of my life were underway. I begin to put feathers back in place all along my body and feel as if it has been hours since my last breath but i know it has only been a bit under a minute. Before the handle jiggles I am already saying lines under my breath, the door opens and I feel confident despite the fact I was no different than before.
As I walk out I caw out: “Welcome and rejoice for you are attending the council of the birds! Whether by Owl’s wisdom or Hoopoo’s strength we must find a way, feast feast feast the raven will yet have his day!” I stare forward and am blinded by the light as usual, its glare hiding faces and stress burns away; I fail to see past the light but I know there is a smile that hides behind glasses, blue eyes looking at me and whispering support. Panic melts away and the thrill of the stage takes a grip on my heart. I would be on stage another night and I would not allow house life or another class to out-stage me. Tonight was for the birds but this was opening night, I was on here for two people and could never allow my selfishness to ruin such a moment in this second home. Nobody here was ever the popular one but we could be us just among us like nowhere else.
Blog 1 – Francios d’Auteuil