six entries!

and one more might arrive before wednesday. if i decide to finish and publish it..

the buddha of suburbia

When reading The Buddha of Suburbia, I was particularly interested in the fluidity of identity. The various characters in the novel were constantly reconstructing their identities, and this process was influenced by various aspects of their place in time and space. In such a limited discussion of this theme, I would like to select one character - Changez - as an example.

We are introduced to the 'idea' of Changez long before he appears in the novel. On page 57, we learn that "Anwar had secretly decided it was time Jamila got married," despite Jamila's opposition to arranged marriage, to an acquaintance of his brother. This man, we learn, is thirty-year old man from Bombay, who, for his dowry, had 'demanded' a warm winter overcoat, a colour television, and the complete works of Conan Doyle. Immediately, as readers, we have begun to sontruct his identity from the clues that have been provided - he is, presumably, an Indian man from a comfortable family, who believes in arranged marraige, but is excited about the Western world.

After Changez's arrival, we see that he has no intentions of keeping shop for Anwar. He states that he is "not a shop keeper" an that "[b]uisness is not [his] best side"; rather, he identifies as "the intellectual type, not one of those uneducated immigrant types who come here to slave all day and night and look dirty" (107). This is important, not only because we see how Changez views himself, but how he actively engages in identifying others as a 'type'.

We watch as he struggles to win Jamila over as a real wife, one who loves him not just on paper, but emotionally and sexually. He is determined to make an arranged marriage work, even after he begins sleeping with Shinko, and he is very upset when he finds that Jamila and Karim have been sleeping together, escribing it as a "blow against the centre of his life" (135). This allows the reader to judge Changez on his hypocrisy, which can be interpreted as patriarchial, old-fashioned, and perhaps, culturally produced (much like arranged marriage).

He remarks that he just "has to put up with all the humiliations that fall on [his] head in this great country," and we can see he is beginning to adjust into a role in London - after he abandoned his Indian identity, the role in which he was prepared to live in Britain did not materialize, and he recognized a need to adjust. Nonetheless, even after beginning a regular relationship with Shinko, he still wishes to make Jamila like him, threatening to terminate his life if she does not fall in love with him, for if his wife does not love him, his purpose in life has been failed (184).

By the end of the novel, however, he appears to have settled into life at the commune. He seems happy, lovingly minding the communal baby (the child of Jamila and another man), accepting responsibilities at the house, and accepting Jamlia's independence; however, on page 278, after Karim hit him with the reality that he was "married to a Lesbian" (273), we see Changrez lash out, force himself on Jamila, and denounce their "damn house of holy socialists" (278). Here, we see that Changez's identity is unstable and that he still is unsure of his role, as an immigrant, as a husband, etc.

The ultimate irony in Changez's shifting identity is Karim's decision to adopt Changez's identity as the basis for a character in a play. Although he portrayed only aspects of Changez's identity, in a certain time and place, in a fictional context, this act puts forth many larger questions about identity construction, about the authenticity of self, and of role-playing in society, which I will elaborate upon further in my final paper.

queen of the tambourine

I read the Queen of the Tambourine during an interesting point in my life. I just recently watched Frederick Wiseman's Titicut Follies, a controversial documentary from the late sixties or so that documents (in cinema verite style) a mental health institution for the criminally insane. The institution, itself, appears cruel and insane--a place where inmates speak but are never heard, where staff are insensitive, at best, and, at worst, sadistic. It prompts the viewer to question their notions of sane and insane, as often times the patients seem much more sane and rational than the doctors who were trying to keep them there.

I found that Gardam created a rather similar effect in her novel. At the beginning of the novel, I felt that Eliza was somewhat 'insane' - righteous, outspoken, concerned with appearances, obsessed with the Church, the 'Dying', the Wives Fellowship. She is 'insane' in a way that is socially acceptable: her social conscientiousness provoked these actions. As her mental health declines throughout the novel, and her neighbours begin to question her sanity, I begin to sympathize more with her character. When she shows disillusionment with the lives of her suburban neighbours, with every rude and outspoken objection - "D'you think I need a minder?" (196), when she calls the Baxter's on being nonplussed (191), during her conversation with Mrs Ingham, etc - I smile. She is delusional, yes, but at the same time, she has more insight than she did when we were introduced at the beginning of the novel. When the 'normal' institutions of the Church, of marriage, of the suburbs, began to fail her, her mental stability was put into question.

I am also currently working on an art installation series that questions the notions of home, and highlights the fact of homelessness, in Vancouver. Mental health and homelessness are intimately linked, and as I was reading of Eliza's deterioration in the suburbs, it echoes many stories I have heard from people who now have no home. When reading this novel, we see Eliza move from a socially acceptable form of poor mental health to a socially unnacceptable one. At the beginning of the novel, while neighbours and acquaintances may have been wary of her character, they were not sceptical of her sanity. By the end of the novel, however, the whole community was concerned with (those aren't quite the right words - bothered by?) her mental state. This suggests the notions of sanity and insanity run congruous to social norms and taboos. When one deviates from these social norms, they are considered, at best, eccentric. After minding Dickie's child, Mick, Dickie remarks that "You're not so eccentric Eliza P., whatever they all say," and this encapsulates many of the themes of the novel (206). Once Eliza's role in the suburbs changed, the community labelled her as eccentric, and her mental health was the subject of neighbourhood gossip. After interacting with Eliza on a human level and viewing her as a resposible mother figure (a 'tribal mother'), Dickie questions the neighbourhood gossip. The irony here, however, is that the reader is aware of Eliza's poor (and often downright dangerous) mothering skills - stuffing him with chocolate cake, dunking him in unsanitary water - in addition to her nonsensical musings, manic delusions, and imagined events. Now that Eliza really is mentally unstable, her neighbours are beginning to accept her eccentricity and she might not be encouraged to seek medical help.

In her final letters, she removes many of the barriers that were preventing her from achieving a happy, healthy mental state - such as silence in her relationship with Henry - and she has admitted to Barry the truth and the fiction in her stories. By acknowledging, discussing, and overcoming these barriers, she is capable of becoming mentally stable. In her final letter, she has been entrusted to nanny Nick Fish's children, after receiving a call from his mother, Joan Fish. There are a number of uncanny coincidences between Joan Fish and Joan (which Eliza heralds as a 'sign') and, as a reader, I was left wondering if this was imagined by Eliza as well. As a reader, I was placed in a sceptical, critical position, for we are being told that she is to become a nanny for three children - after nearly drowning Mick - and the string of uncanny parallels between the imagined Joan and Joan/Vanessa Fish reiterate this sceptical position.

cement garden

This entry has been a long time coming (sorry). It's difficult, because I feel we've covered everything in class in such great detail that anything I have to say is sort of redundant.

What interested me most was the struggle between man (socially conscious, technologically adept, culturally bound to morality) and nature (both in terms of a hobbesian human nature and of the natural world). We are first introduced to this theme when Jack remarks that his father was a "semi-invalid" after having a heart attack (13). Here, we can see how nature dominates over the personal realm of the body - one is powerless, and unable to assert control, over their own body. This theme is reiterated through their father's constipation (13), Tom's bedwetting problem (15), their mother's illness, and Jack's skin and odour problems (15, 21). In an effort to reassert control over his body, Jack refues to uphold personal hygiene (21). He is punishing his body for betraying him, and excercising a sense of control by making a choice to let his hair become greasier, his body odour get stronger, and his acne get worse. Similarly, his frequent masturbation is another effort to control one's body, by responding to a bodily urge that society ad family has warned him was harmful. Tom's crossdessing and recession into an infantile state also hinges n the notion that he needs to create an identity aside from the one he was born into. Even Julie's obssession with tanning exemplifies this struggle to control one's own body despite what nature has provided.

Jack's father struggles to control nature through his garden, where he "constructed rather than cultivated his garden according to plans" (14). He selected flowers for "their neatness and symmetry," and "would have nothing that tangled" (15). He created a pond and transplanted fish (14). But after his first heart attack, he "stopped work on the garden altogether," suggesting, already, that he was now aware of the impossibility to control nature (16). As a result, "[w]eeds pushed up through the cracks in the paving stones, part of the rockery collapsed and the little pond dried up" (16). As a result, his father tries to reassert control by deciding to pave the entire yard "front and back, with an even plane of concrete," rationalizing his decision, in part, by remarking that it will be "tidier" (16).

The "construction" of civilization itself is questioned, as the rest of their street had been demolished and forgotten in a plan to create a motorway (22). The remnants of the neighbourhood were overgrown with weeds, and nature slowly took over. Remaining cement edifices were covered in "collasal stains, almost black, caused by the rain" (24).

When the children decide to bury their mother in the trunk, the cement cracks, and the odour of their mother's body fills the house. Odour again is discussed as they have to keep the kitchen door closed as food rots and bugs fester. The incestual games, desires, and events represent an inability of society or family to repress urges that are aguably against social norms but are a part of human nature.

McEwan, I believe, suggests that nature is victorious.

abigail's party

When reading Abigail's Party, I thought the absense of Abigail was rather significant. Abigail displays the outward characteristics of the punk subculture, with pink-streaked hair and "those jeans ... with patches on, and safety-pins right down the side, and scruffy bottoms” (13). In Hebdige's writings about subculture (and particularly the punk subculture of Britain in the 70s). he emphasizes the importance of sytle as a semiotic weapon. It is more than just a way of distinguishing themselves against the 'masses', for it also reappropriates dominant semiotic symbols and turns them upside-down. Thus, the significance of Abigail following the punk subculture extends beyond being apart from the dominant culture: she is against the dominant culture. As noted by the Artful Dodger, it is generally accepted that punk "was always a double narrative: one the one hand, about art; on the other, about class" -- and not just sociologically, but ideologically (Critical Quarterly 37(2)). Abigail's Party, too, comments on art and class, and one might assume that Abigail would hold opposing views to those presented by the adults in the play.

Continued reference to Abigail throughout the text provides indirect reference to the countercultural notions associated with punk and contrasts these against the experiences of the suburban adults getting together for a few drinks to welcome new neighbours into the neighbourhood. Talk of Abigail is framed by these adults exemplifying concumption, excess, inauthenticity, unhappiness (particularily in marriage). Her party has dangerous and ominous undertones throughout the play, not just from the adults discussing it and deciding they ought to check it out (following much insistance from Beverly), but even upon Tony and Laurence's separate returns. This is contrasted against the supposed innocence of Beverly's get together, in which (as we have discussed at great length), all sorts of dark events take place.

Abigail provides a refferent to a subculture that is (or strives to be) the polar opposite of the middle-class, suburban mass culture. Nonetheless, the punk subculture was a result of (albeit, a reaction to) the very culture that it is criticizing, and Abigail lives with her mother in a suburban home. Still, Abigail's decision to participate, to whatever degree, in the punk subculture demonstrates discontent with mass culture. Abigail and her discontent, however absent, are still made present, as the audience is reminded of pink-haired safety-pin-seamripper Abigail time and again.

Metroland - Growing Up, Selling Out, Buying In, Fading Out…

I have always been wary of the above terms. I have been involved in the local independent music and arts scenes for a number of years (starting with attending punk gigs at age thirteen, when my friends were starting bands in their parents’ basements and things have escalated steadily from there). In writings from both popular culture and intellectual circles that describe artistic or personal changes independent artists and thinkers have undergone, the terms ‘buy in’ and ‘sell out’ are often used. These terms have been coopted from, among others, the DIY punk scene Dick Hebdige discussed in Subculture. While these terms were markedly relevant within that scene at that point in history, I am hesitant about their legitimacy as relevant and honest qualifiers, through my own [postmodern] experience. I have read a lot about selling out, but have never once heard somebody involved with the community use the term. I have only heard it come from ‘above’, from people who are disconnected with the scene – like somebody on television who thinks that they are ‘hip’ with culture. This sentiment is echoed by everyone that I can recall having discussed this with in the local music and arts community - and I once conducted a rather extensive semester-long participant-observation project on this community for an Anthropology course.

The conclusion of the findings for this project, congruent with my personal perspective, is that there is no such thing as buying out or selling in. There is change, however, and this change is usually the result of one of two things. Either somebody removes themselves from the community by ceasing their involvement in the arts (which is demonstrative of a lack of passion), or somebody removes themselves from the community because their initial motivation to get involved in the community was to work towards a larger goal (it was a means to an end). To contextualize, a band that stops playing shows after they graduate university and pursue careers did not sell out or buy in – they lacked the passion to be in a band and to be an active part of that community, and were able to pursue something that they believed they were passionate about – like being a publisher (and perhaps society created this belief, I’m not saying it always comes from the heart). A band that used to play shows in pubs and basements that signs to Warner and sells through Ticketmaster did not want to remain in that community for ever – they always wanted to be professional musicians, to achieve recognition, to reach to most people, but worked their way up through the independent community as a necessary means to achieve this end goal.

I do not believe in growing up either. In the previous examples, the first band, who graduated school, did not ‘grow up’ and grow out of the scene – they simply lacked the passion to be in a band and to be involved with that scene. Does that mean that they were juvenile when they did? I don’t think we should be so judgemental – perhaps they were keen on going into publishing but were underqualified, and once the obtained their qualificiations they put their hobbies aside. And besides, even if they weren’t too keen on publishing this whole time, are they not allowed to change without us slapping some sort of qualified verb on their much more complex actions?

What I find so offensive about these phrases is the stigma attached to these terms. They are inherently classist. They are used only when people are mobilizing “upwards”, socially or economically. They are never used in the reverse. And yes – they originated from ‘below’ and were used to judge people who moved up. But the irony here is that they have lost their original meaning once they were coopted for use from ‘above’, and have become obsolete down ‘below’.

If we saw some right-leaning businessman step down from his corporate position to pursue a career with the lounge band he plays with in pubs on Fridays - because he would like to be able to play with them on weekdays as well - would we accuse him of selling out? No. Of course we wouldn’t accuse him of growing up, but I have not yet heard the term ‘growing down’ - and I do know a 45 year old accountant, with two children, a wife and a house to boot, who quit his job to play in his band. (He is happy. He pursued his passion.) But yes, of course he’s defying social norms, which is another essay to write, and though he will likely be judged for that, it certainly won’t be with a preloaded qualified-verb. Growing down? Buying out? Selling In ... ?

And here we are back again to the fear of the lower-middle classes penetrating the middle class, or god-forbid, the upper class. Call me a Marxist, but if these terms, loaded with negative connotations, are restricted to use by affluent rock or art historians, or middle class armchair enthusiasts, to judge an artist’s upward mobility, then are they not part of the lexicon that perpetuates the status quo? Are artists or musicians or left-leaning activists not allowed to integrate themselves into the dominant culture? Perhaps they pose too great of a risk to dominant culture, for once they’ve been integrated, there is a chance they might be disruptive and work against the status quo – a privilege they can’t exercise from ‘below’.

So there are my preconceptions: I am armed with them. Hence my silence in class during out discussion: “Is Chris growing up or selling out?” – I believe in neither. Just passion, or lack thereof, which is reflected in change. Perhaps one’s passion has changed, but are all people not allowed to change?

(I know that this isn’t really critically engaging with the reading, but it has been on my mind, and perhaps I can elaborate later.)

coming up for air...

One feature of Orwell’s narration in this novel struck me as rather sly. The narration is not just conversational; it interpellates the reader to identify – or to at least sympathise – with Bowling by constructing a sense of otherness in all the other characters that we are introduced to. To construct this alliance between the reader and Bowling, the narrator, Orwell never fails to remind the reader that we are ‘in the know’. He engages the reader to classify people, in accordance with our own experiences and knowledge regarding the intentionally stereotypical characters that he presents. “You know the type,” we are constantly reminded; “the type that…”, “the sort who…”, “the kind that…”, “one of those girls who…”.

Although the reader is invited to classify Bowling, Orwell promptly designated his character into a stereotype we will sympathize with. In the first few pages, we learn that he’s pudgy, he’s fat (but not ‘disgustingly’ so), he’s got false teeth, he’s past his prime, he’s not quite a homeowner – Cheerful Credit has got him by the balls, so to speak – and lives in an uninspiring cookie-cutter suburban housing estate. He’s sort of ‘pathetic’, so we empathize, but he’s also an everyman, so we sympathize.

In Part 1, Chapter 2, Bowling notices two “commercials of the lowest type” identify him as “one of their kind”. When one of the men call him “Tubby,” Bowling points out the politics of being automatically given “a nickname that’s an insulting comment on your personal appearance” by complete strangers – a phenomenon that is generally limited to the experiences of overweight men. We empathize further, despite the fact that Bowling recognizes that “in a way they’re right about fat men,” so perhaps its acceptable for them to call every fat man Fatty or Tubby. It’s sad, it’s pathetic, and when Bowling describes it, it’s comic – we’re being hailed. When Bowling remarks that “[t]here’s really no kind of company, from bookies to bishops, where a fat man doesn’t fit in and feel at home,” the reader is invited to accept Bowling into their company, as a man who fits in to their life, as somebody that they might know, or could know, and would like. Of course, as the novel goes on, Bowling demonstrates hypocrisy and displays qualities that a reader may be unsympathetic towards, but the reader’s relationship with Bowling has already been established and a trust has been built.

As we are introduced to other characters throughout the novel, the reader is encouraged to read the stereotypes negatively. The children are little monsters and ‘Old Hilda’ is a nagging, brooding, joy-killing woman who gets her “main kick in life out of foreseeing [petty] disasters” (for she is too ignorant and dreary to be concerned with anything beyond the price of butter). His mother and father are figures of the past – of an era before industrialization really kicked in – and were completely naive of the changes that it brought. His brother is a trouble child, a runaway, and a constant disappointment. Old Porteus is stuck in his ways – and stuck in antiquity. Hilda’s widow friend, Mrs Wheeler, is a bitter, bargain-hunting woman who convinced Hilda and Mrs Minns to join the Left Book Club, completely unaware of its function, simply because event admission is free. During a Left Book Club lecture, even, each person present is described disapprovingly by Bowling as some “type” or other.

I felt that this was sly, for rather than allowing the reader to process the characters, Orwell accelerated classification by providing a stereotype but referencing the reader’s own activeness in this process: “You know the type. Been in the Labour Party since the year dot…find themselves pitchforked into foreign politics… can’t make heads or tails out of it.” The reader is being told what to think, but being tricked into thinking that they would already agree with Bowling’s position.

just making sure..

that this works.