As are many of the books I blog about, The Book of Negroes was a book club selection.  This worked out well for me, as I had picked up the book several months ago on my many jaunts through Chapters.  I’d been wanting to read it for some time.  A few years ago a co-worker couldn’t say enough good things about it, and was incredibly excited to discover that Lawrence Hill would be in Ottawa for a conference.

So this was the context which led me to the story of Aminata Diallo’s story.

For some reason I can’t put my finger on, Book of Negroes seemed to me from the start to be Roots-esque. Again, explaining why is difficult; Roots is far more epic of a story, and they only appear to have one common thread: life as a slave.  I suspect it’s my own failing – I clearly need to explore more stories in this vein so that I can have more comparisons.

It would have been difficult not to be somewhat disappointed in the plot, with such a legend as my only template for how to tell such a story.  BON was bound to fail to live up to expectations in that circumstance, so I did my best to let go of my pre-conceived notions.

Book of Negroes drew me in almost instantly.  Once again I made the mistake of beginning to read a book at 11:00 p.m. just before bed, and ended up awake till 4 a.m. just to finish it. So I can say with confidence that BON was engaging and a quick read.

The story of Aminata (and why does everyone have such a hard time pronouncing her name?  Seems easy enough to me…) begins in her childhood in Bayo (Africa), follows her across the ocean on a slave ship and her life in captivity and through her writing her own name in the Book of Negroes in an effort to gain her freedom.

I enjoyed the characters.  I liked them all – from what we saw of them anyway.  I had a particular curiosity and affinity for Chekura from the start.  And while his relationship with Aminata was incredibly (incredibly!) predictable, I still kind of loved it all the same.  What did bother me was its unrealistic nature.  Or so it seemed to me.  Granted, I’ve never been a slave in the U.S. in the 1700s, but how likely is it that these two would be able to follow each other throughout life?  They both survive being enslaved and manage to find each other again and again despite that captivity – not to mention the sheer size of the United States.  What are the odds of that?

Suspension of disbelief at its best.

My only other point – and here I risk sounding insensitive, I’m aware – is that it seemed Meena had quite a bit of luck in where her life took her.  Now, again, I’m aware that’s relative.  But it seems odd to me that she would have multiple people who were willing to teach her to read and write (a black female in the 1700s).  And her second owner was quite kind, as these things go.

The Book of Negroes is not the only novel to fall into this trap.  I know I have read several novelizations of historical tragedies where it seems the protagonist manages to somehow avoid the incredibly horrible treatment that the world now knows as the norm at that time.

But it’s forgivable.  If Meena were to die of fever on the slave ship, there would be no story then, would there?

I read the book in its entirety in about 5 hours, drawn in not because of the originality or complexity of the plot, but because of my intense sympathy for the character.  Hill makes a brilliant choice in starting Meena’s journey into slavery at 11 years old.  She is a child and we cannot help but want to look after her and know she’s ok. 

And that’s what kept me turning the page.  I wanted her to find someone to care for her.  I wanted Chekura to find her again.  I wanted her to get to keep her children.  I wanted her to somehow get back to Africa again. 

I wanted her to be free.

A great book and a slice of history by a Canadian author. Highly recommended. 

For more on Hill and his book, see the CBC.  For a fascinating look at the real Book of Negroes, see the Government of Nova Scotia’s archive site.

In case you missed it in one of my many very late night posts on facebook, I wanted to share this very moving tribute to the troops in Afghanistan.  While it’s slightly old, and was originally made for specific soldiers who passed away, I think it can be generalized.

It is beautiful.  While I heard of this “highway of heroes” phenomenon, to see it, finally, brought tears to my eyes.  The music may have contributed as well.

Two scenes always get me: The row of police (OPP?) on the side of the highway (there must be at least 6 cars) and the guy standing on the median with his hand over his heart.

The Vimy Ridge Memorial is a common destination for Canadian travellers in France. As previous visitors have discovered, however, it is not the easiest place to reach once you get off the train. Thankfully, there’s been help in the form of the Welcome Man (Windows Media embedded video –clip starts at 11:30). Over the last 13 years Georges Devloo has met the train at Vimy every day, where he offers free transportation to the memorial to confused and lost Canadians seeking to pay their respects. In this time, it’s been estimated that M. Devloo has given rides other assistance to over 1,200 Canadians. Today, we said au-revoir to “le grand-père de Vimy“.

Report says hate speech should not be covered by Human Rights Act

No.  No turning back the clock.  Call me biased and petty, but I like things as they are now.  People like Fred Phelps cannot enter this country with a (clear) intent to promote hate.

Yes, that means limits to free speach.

Reasonable limits, that is.

And I’m okay with that.

Remembrance Day is always an interesting experience in centretown Ottawa.

The obvious ceremony at the National War Memorial is one thing (although I’ve only ever been once, myself).  As part of that ceremony the snowbirds do a flyover in the Missing Man Formation.  For me, 11:11a.m. is virtually impossible to miss because of this, at least for the last 3 years.  My apartment is directly in the flyover path.  Mere seconds after they fly over the National War Memorial, the jets are flying directly over my apartment building.  You can see them, still in formation, from my balcony.  And let me tell you, they are LOUD, loud planes.

So there’s that, the ceremony and the planes.  You walk around downtown and there are men and women in uniform everywhere.  And every year, like so many others, I walk to the memorial to read the wearths, see the personal memorials and flowers citizens have left.  I mentally catalogue all the flags at half-mast, including the one on the Peace Tower.  I remember and think of my grandfather, a veteran tail-gunner from the RAF in WWII.  I leave my poppy on the Tomb of the Unknown.

It feels lucky to be able to be here for Remembrance Day, to pass the day in our nation’s capital.

Today, is also another day of Remembrance.  My stepfather passed away this spring.  Today is his birthday.  It’s ironic that I mentally mark it this year with a dream about him last night (I saw his ghost on the front porch of our house in Guelph.  I asked him how the afterlife was — apparently all is well) and a call to my mother today.  Kenny was a Jehovah’s Witness — he didn’t celebrate his birthday.  But I thought of him today, and I thought of my mother who is still grieving.

Lest We Forget

Remembrance Day 2007

Remembrance Day 2007

Remembrance Day 2007

I’m a pretty patriotic person, I’ll admit it.  And I’ll admit that having a sense of pride in and loyalty to a hunk of randon geography is pretty nonsensical, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling it.

So attempts like this one feels like an attempt to obliterate parts of Canadian culture.  And it makes me angry.

Lower Flag on Nov. 11th only, Panel Urges

The report [argues] for an even stricter policy that would shrink the number of scheduled days the flag is lowered to one — Remembrance Day on Nov. 11.

The proposal would eliminate half-mast treatment for four other days: Vimy Ridge Day on April 9, the Police and Peace Officers National Memorial Day on the last Sunday in September, Workers Mourning Day on April 28 and the National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women on Dec. 6.

I suspect the motion won’t pass, but it still annoys me beyond all words.

So I’ve discovered a new guilty pleasure. CBC premiered a new show about 3 weeks ago called The Border. The basic premise of the show is following around a group of “Immigration and Customs Security” employees. The show is focused on all of the decisions and consequences of national/border security.

So, this show is very fun for me to watch, based on working at CBSA. It’s really entertaining to watch a show that is based on your workplace, because you have an insider’s point of view. You know what they get right, what they get wrong, and when – like many times in The Border – things are clearly exaggerated to make them more exciting for TV.

I’ve got to admit that I’m not sure I’d be watching if I didn’t work for CBSA. That’s not a slight against the show, the fact is that TV has completely slipped off my radar in light of the Writer’s Strike. There were fabulous shows that I loved, that I honestly thought I’d be waiting on the edge of my seat for them to return. But it appears I have barely noticed. Heroes and House could be back on the air now and I would have *no* idea. So I doubt I’d be watching The Border if it wasn’t so patently aimed at me. I hope other people are watching though, because it really deserves to keep going. It’s an intelligent show, with good production values (rare for a Canadian show), and it just hits all the right notes.

I seem to be on a kick these days for semi-autobiographical books about difficult childhoods.  Like The Glass Castle, Lullabies is the story of a young girl growing up in less than ideal conditions.  The main character “Baby” (her name screams something indefinable about her parents right off the bat) is growing up with her father in Montreal.  They live a life of constant moves, illness, hunger, and drugs.  Eventually Baby garners the interest of the neighbourhood pimp, Alphonse.  Heather O’Neill does a remarkable job of giving Baby a voice.  She is easy to believe, and you follow her through the ages of 11-13, as she undergoes many changes with no one there to guide her.  Her mother is dead and her father Jules, who is 27 at the beginning of the book, is a heroin user who tries to raise his daughter but doesn’t quite get there.  The character of Baby is one of the best I’ve seen in this genre, and she walks the line between vulnerable and tough with little trouble.  She is particularly believable in her view of things that happen to her as “no big deal”.  A good example is when for the first and only time at age 13 her father hits her and leaves her with a black eye.  Baby, rather than feeling sorry for herself, or scared, thinks about how cool she’ll look at school on Monday.  They black eye gives her “street cred”.  One more experience to add to her list.  Unfortunately, like many children of bad situations, she doesn’t realize that certain things are supposed to make her scared or uncomfortable.  That line has long been erased.  I really enjoyed this book, and finished it in about 3 hours.  It helped to have a sense of Montreal.  It always helps to be able to visualize your environment.  I could totally picture Baby wandering St. Catherine street.

Good on them! I haven’t checked the news, but I hope they (we?) were able to make a point.

There was a survey from Quebec about aboriginals that was pretty depressing, and I hope the rest of Canada doesn’t feel the same way. Like the natives are “exaggerating”. It’s “not so bad”.

Really?

My father is metis. I have a native heritage I know nothing about. There has been a systematic ruin of the native culture in this country and it is pathetic.

I have seen it. I have seen my relatives brought to their knees. Or deny their culture altogether. Or struggle like I do.

This was mine, but it was taken from me.

- By the people who told me I didn’t “look” indian.

- By my father who didn’t care enough to pass on what he knew.

- By the schools and the systems that made him ashamed to be native and gave him a stutter.

- By his family who called him an Apple (red on the outside, white on the inside) when he married my mom.

- By the government who made me feel I needed their “status” to really be anishnabe

- By the same government who denied me that status because they took it from my grandmother when she married a white man (like they wanted her to).

- By my grandmother who didn’t hold on to her traditions and teach the next generation.

- By all of those who think my heart does not lie with the native people as much as it does in the rest of my heritage.

There is a collective unconsciousness. You may not believe me, but it’s there. And it lives in me. It lives in me for my grandmother who was assimilated, and my father who had a bigger war within him than I do. This native man went to church at the Martyr’s Shrine and did anyone think what that might do to a metis child? That it might make him hate himself in one way or another?

So block the highway. I hope it works.

I just discovered this great blog about my hometown: Inside Guelph.

It seems to have more complete and interesting news than the daily newspaper, that’s for sure.