Culture shock (of approximately 10 million volts)

Today in class, we were discussing what is meant by the term "violence." One girl accused Americans of "violently" going in and taking away the culture of India by diverting customer support and industry there. Not the US or the government. Americans. I had my objections to raise about that, but unfortunately, the discussion had to move on.

The conversation after class boiled down to America's apparent tendency to kill other cultures. I mentioned that yes, I'm an American and I'm going around wielding my cultural knife. Someone suggested a scythe as a better weapon, and someone else mentioned the grim reaper...this is the image it sparked in my mind, put onto paper (sorry for the crappy quality, but I only have a webcam, not a scanner).



Then, for fun, I googled "America as grim reaper" and found this (keep in mind mine came first in my thought process, thankyouverymuch):



I really can't decide if that's a blind declaration of patriotism or a political comment. It's actually a fairly insightful idea, but in my book, people who get tattoos of grim reapers aren't likely permanently etch insightful observations on their skin--"fuck the institution" ideals maybe, yes, but not ones that require a lot of thought.

And while this was all supposed to relate to culture, I wonder if the grim reaper should be holding a dollar bill and beckoning at the rest of the world.

This weekend, summarized in epiphanies, observations, and realizations

1) I want to go to Cape Breton.

2) I'd like to re-string my violin and start playing it again.

3) I want to learn how to clog/do jigs/etc.

4) Applications for a Fulbright to Canada and applications to grads program north of the 49th parallel (probably in Canadian studies with a focus on either music or US-Canada relations) will be happening next year. Anybody wanna guess where I'd like to spend a large chunk of my time?

5) I can't dance (that's actually a re-realized epiphany). Though I like the music that accompanies #3 so much that I'm hoping it would help.

6) Every time I read the Post, I get a sinking feeling about having to move back to the States with the current economy.

7) Garlic fingers with donair sauce (Maritime specialty!) accompanied with sangria is just about the best late-night meal in the history of ever.

8) I can actually hold my liquor, I just need to eat something.

9) Theatrical pieces that need to be explained have dubious artistic merit, even if the acting is excellent (at least in my opinion--maybe I'm just not cool enough to understand them. Could be 'cause they're postmodern...).

10) I need to find something to do/make up my mind regarding plans for reading break.

11) "Reading break" seems to be a misnomer to the students, though not to the profs.

12) (Not to get overly nostalgic or anything) The best memories really do lie in the little things. Like your great-great uncle who came to Christmas Day with lots of dollar bills in tow, and every grandchild got one. Or the coloring contests that your family had every summer. Or the time you met someone doing handstands in the hallway. Or going pottery painting on a damp summer evening. Or deciding that chai, sandwiches, and 10 Things I Hate About You was the best plan for a Saturday night.

13) There is a woman/actress out there who has my name. She looks like this:


Thank you, Google. "Rachel Cannon" seems like a very bland name for a glamourous blond actress...I'd change it if I were her, especially since there seem to be about 7 million people by that name in this world.

How to be smart and philosophical without ever cracking open a book

1) If you're ever trying to explain something and can't, or just don't know how to start, put on a very long-suffering look and say "You wouldn't understand. It's postmodern."

2) If you ever do successfully explain something and someone says they don't understand, say, "Of course you don't. It's postmodern."

3) If a postmodernist happens to be among the listeners, switch gears and claim they wouldn't understand because they're just too postmodern.

4) If you have nothing at all to contribute, look mysterious and broodingly pensive.

They call it the Great White North for a reason

This is what I see when I look out my window right now:


I realize that's probably not all that terrible as far as snowstorms go, and about 50% of that is probably due to blowing snow that was already on the ground, but I've never seen it like this before. I'm wondering if you can call this a blizzard, just so I can finally say I've seen one.

Appropriately enough, we covered Québec culture today in one of my classes--specifically, Maria Chapdelaine--which, if you don't know, is a cornerstone of Québécois literature by a French guy who wanted to write about the hardship of the countryside/la patrimoine of the Québécois (though a good read, it's thoroughly depressing--unless you're like me and read it in French, in which case you won't understand enough of it to be depressed). And it takes place au milieu d'hiver. And as I trudged across piles of snow today with ice pellets slamming my face, my scarf and tuque (yes, tuque) frozen over...I felt for a moment like Miss Chapdelaine. Except, you know, for that whole being French thing...and not having three suitors, a dead mother, or the voice of Québec speaking to me.

And the food that was waiting for me inside was sub-par cafeteria nosh and NOT a vat full of maple syrup (which, I like to imagine is what they ate before poutine was invented--funny they were all so sad. If all I ate was maple products I'd amuse myself by bouncing off the walls).

Still. It was an experience. And I loved it. Though I need to stop gaping out the windows during class--my profs are going to think there's something wrong with me.

Things that I forgot I don't miss about living in dorms:

1) Burnt popcorn. C'mon guys. 2 minutes. Listen to the pops. Follow the directions.

Things that I forgot I liked about being American:

1) Super Bowl commercials.

Things that I already knew about being a college student:

1) I am addicted to my computer.

Things that I'm learning about Canadian politics:

1) They really keep you on your toes--now that I get how this all works, I'm really enjoying learning about different administrations in history.

Geography and French lessons

Yesterday, a friend and I were reviewing a map of the States so I could show him the 3 cities I've lived in. He was asking if I'd seen a lot of snow because Washington's fairly far north, right?

Him: (pointing to Washington state) And you're from here, right?

Me: No...I live here. (points to the District of Columbia)

Him: Wait....where's the White House?

Me: Here. (points again to DC)

Him: Ohhh....wait, you mean Washington the city is not in Washington the state? Oh wow...I never knew that!

I then cleared up the difference between the state and the district (which, let's face it, is confusing because it's a city but it's also a district and not a state even though it has separate boundaries). I couldn't help but laugh and had to keep assuring him that it's really an easy mistake to make. I'm pretty sure I didn't know the difference for awhile, either. I mean, you've got Quebec, Quebec, New York, New York, so why not Washington, Washington? And I didn't know Ottawa was the capital of Canada until a few years ago, which is probably much worse...

And going with the French theme from last post, I went to dinner at another friend's uncle's house. She kept telling me that I speak French very well (like I'm from France, which she would know, because she lived in France). I still don't believe her, but another friend from Paris told me the exact same thing once. There may be something to that, though, because her mother, grandfather, and the rest of her family were also impressed. Quelque jour, je parlai couramment!

Her mother was explaining to me why Canadians (Maritimers in particular) are so wonderfully hospitable--because the conditions are so harsh, it's almost a survival instinct...stick together and don't leave anyone out or behind. That, she was telling me, is why so many of their activities are group or family-focused. And I have noticed that here--even on campus, people don't go many places by themselves. You rarely see anyone sitting alone at meal hall, and I've noticed that people even go to the grocery store in pairs or groups. That's a distinctive difference from what I'm used to in Washington (DC), where I have no problem doing just about everything by myself. I suppose that also has a lot to do with the small town mentality...but either way, it's one of those subtle differences. And it (like most other things) is a difference that I rather like.

In which I represent the US very well

What a day. So for my Canadian Multicultural Literature class, we had guest speakers Drs. Cecil Foster and Sharon Beckford, two rather prominent black Canadian authors/critics. They held a very interesting discussion with the class on the issue of race in Canadian writing (the details of which I won't go into, though they're probably 5 billion times more interesting than what I'm going to describe).

During the middle of the class discussion, I get hit full-force by a sniffle that's been threatening to overtake my nose all week. Without tissues. So I'm sitting about 4 metres away from three very VERY smart people (my prof is there as well) with my nose dripping. I can't get up to leave because we're right in the middle of a rather intense discussion. And there I am subtlely trying to 1) Keep my nose ring turned around and 2) Conceal all of this. Dr. Beckford keeps looking at me, though that may be my paranoid vanity speaking. What's worse, I decide to go and draw attention to myself by asking a question that, because my head is all congested, comes out nowhere near as intelligently as I was hoping. Something about the dual aspects of race--I have no idea.

Fast forward to Dr. Foster's lecture this evening. I'm transferring all my stuff up a couple rows to sit with friends when the introductions start. The guy on the mic (also a prof of mine) startles me a bit, so I stand up and elbow the guy sitting in front of me in the back of the head. This guy, as it turns out, is Cecil Foster. I stammer an apology, but I have no idea what he says in response because I'm too busy turning beet red. Dr. Beckford also recognizes and says hi to me, and I can't help but wonder if she's thinking "Oh God, there's drippy nose girl again...."

Good lord, am I awkward sometimes.

On another topic, I have decided that my brain speaks French really well (like in my dreams, and when I formulate answers in class in my head). It's just my mouth that can't seem to process whatever's up there. The good news is, I have this problem in English as well. It's why I stammer and talk so fast--and hey, I'm fluent in English. I think a good French immersion program would nudge me over the edge.