| thoughts from a cunning linguist | |
If my grandmother could talk to me right now, she would tell me I'm "some stunned." You see, I thought I had a summer sublet all lined up for my room in NJ. I'm heading back to Canada, to Sudbury, where I'll spend the summer writing and living in the lap of Dr. Fem. (I know, it's a tought life.) But stupid me, I didn't call the sublettor in time. I thought we had it all sewn up via e-mail. Then she contacted me today to tell me that she had found another place. Argh.
Oh, and can't you tell from my blog activity today that I should be writing that conference paper?
I'm a Newfoundlander who no longer lives in Newfoundland. But unlike most other ex-patriat Newfoundlanders, I have always thought that I don't really have a homing device planted in my head. Newfoundlanders are legendary for longing to be home after they've left. I think it's about two things: first, the desire for community and belonging (wanting to live where everyone knows your name) and second, the landscape (being close to the ocean and the ruggedness of the physical environment). I think I am starting to feel more nostalgia for the landscape: the water, the coast, the cliffs, the fog. But I've always had a bit of a vexed relationship to the community thing.
I remember not quite fitting in. Perhaps this was my proto-queerness. And even still, I don't always have the sense of fitting when I return. But there are some things that I do think Newfoundlanders (or at least some of them) do very well in terms of community and some things I have an enormous longing to be part of. One of these is sending off the dead.
Today my cousin (whom I discussed in an earlier blog entry) was buried. In typical Catholic fashion, the family has been having an Irish Wake. In Newfoundland, this means lots of drinking and partying. It's quite the celebration of a life. And I feel a bit robbed because I'm not there. After all, I was there for the tense reports from the hospital and all the updates through last week. It now seems somehow like I don't get to say good-bye after all that.
Irish Wakes are the best laugh ever. Historically, such a wake would be held in the home of the dead person. The corpse would be laid out in one room and people would come for the visitation. They could come day or night--the thing was that no one was supposed to sleep during the wake. If you fell asleep, you could expect to wake up and have your face smeared with lipstick or be the brunt of some practical joke inflicted on your while you slumbered. And while the wake would go on, the booze flowed, cardgames were played, food was replenished by all the neighbours, and stories would be told. Yes, there would be tears, too. But the gathering would always be a mix of sorrow for loss and joy for the life lived.
These days, with the modern funeral home, Irish Wakes are not quite the same. They tend to take place in the homes of families after or between visitations at the funeral home--so no corpse lying in the next room. And there's not usually the same effort to stay up for the three day period. Still, the tradition continues in some circles as people relish the revival of the phenomenon. And by all accounts, there is one hell of an Irish Wake happening right now for a guy who deserves one hell of a sending off.
How is it, exactly, that one can slice oneself into pieces, longing for and resisting things all at one? Today, I feel the homing device kicking into motion and would like to be there when the crowd raises a glass, saying "May the road rise up to meet you and may the wind be always at your back."
(This one's for you, Maurice.)
My grandmother (we call her Nan) has a phrase for every situation--even now as she sits in a long-term care facility, recovering from the massive stroke she had last summer. She could always speak paragraphs with one sound: hmmmmmmm. That "hmmmmm" provides her with as many different "words" as the Inuit (Canada's northern native people) have for snow.
You just know, that when the "hmmmmmm" comes out, you're somehow in trouble or she has noticed something she disapproves of.
And that "hmmmm" precedes many a clever and colourful remark.
For example, in my grandmother's world, one is not a pushover. Rather, someone, is "soft." And not just soft, either--"soft as a cabbage stump." [A cabbage stump, that is, which has been boiled for hours on end stuck in the same pot as salt meat (a saltier, fattier version of brisket for you Americans)].
But there's even more to the saying. The full phrase?
"Hmmmmmmm......She's soft as a cabbage stump. She'd give away her arse and shit through her ribs."
Since Nan might never get to speak that phrase herself again, it's high time the rest of us started putting it to use.