Fair’s Fair “For Book Lovers”

Today I participated in a several hour long online event put on by NeWest Press, a northern Alberta publishing company. They were discussing the book that I blogged about yesterday Back Roads by Ted Ferguson. It was a fun discussion in many ways, partly because everyone had to figure out the new technology and some had microphones attached to their computers, and some (like me) had to type in our questions due to lack of proper equipment. The questions were then read aloud by a professor at the University of Athabasca. I would have been happy if the discussion had continued for another three hours or so, but I guess the moderators were getting a little weary. While the discussion was a lot of fun, I did feel throughout that I might be thrown off the site if I questioned anything too much. After all, NeWest’s publishers and the university professor, who was also the editor for the book ,were moderating the discussion. But, I think the “real learning” could take place, and I think the process of such online discussion could be intellectually enhancing if one was really allowed to debate issues concerning the book at length. Nonetheless, as said, it was a fun discussion.

As I mentioned in the blog last night, I didn’t have a lot of emotion about the book except for one point. That point is Mr. Ferguson’s son, Alex.

During the discussion, Mr. Ferguson admitted something I certainly felt when I read the work (a Memoir): that Alex in the last five or so years in isolation was angry about it. I don’t blame Alex. I think that raising an only child in severe isolation borders on abuse, no matter what excuse parents give. Mr. Ferguson makes the excuse that he could spend more time with his son. Yes, and he could have done so by remaining in a less isolated area too, since his job as a freelance journalist is portable. I say that raising a child in isolation is abuse out of experience. My early childhood was spent as an only child 32 miles from the nearest neighbour in a place with no electricity or running water, but at least my parents had an excuse. The type of work they did required a certain amount of open space. (Cowboys need somewhere to trot their horses and chase their cows.)

As an only child in an isolated area, one is kept away from one’s peers, forced into adult roles, forced to live with the desire for TV or movies, books, other children, events etc. for lengthy lengthy periods of time and forced to explore the very depths of one’s mind in order to survive. (In my case, when I was a child I wanted to go to church–any church for services other than funerals– but we lived too far away to attend one). One is not given the opportunity to mix with an ethnic population, to hear various perspectives, or discover philosophies other than what one reads (in the limited amount of reading material available)or what one’s parents force upon him or her.

More than one only child in an isolated area has commited suicide when the sense of “nothingness” became too much. A case several years ago, of a boy (thought to be a child prodigy) was discussed at length in the New Yorker. Brandenn Bremmer, raised on a somewhat isolated farm in Nebraska, took a gun, while his parents were in town to purchase groceries, and shot himself in the head. He was fourteen years old. I think it “bloody” lucky that Mr. Ferguson didn’t end up with more than a dead billy goat or two during his time in the isolated north. Alex could easily have done the same. Even most adults can’t stand severe isolation for any length of time.

Only children raised in severe isolation have no opportunity to learn to socialize so when they are thrown into the real world, don’t know all the nuances, “stupid” societal games, and so on that children not raised in isolation learn. (Personally, I know isolation may have helped me become a writer, but it didn’t do much to help me cope in academic jobs, or any jobs that are competitive and aggressive for that matter.) Often, one raised in isolation doesn’t even understand certain gestures that others might “pick up on” quite naturally. I have no doubt to this day Alex feels some social awkwardness. I have no doubt that no matter what he says to appease his father that his childhood was not happy. Whose childhood is? But it is worse for children in isolation, because they have no one but their parents, pets perhaps,and inner resources to turn to when they are unhappy. Parents wouldn’t take a child and lock him or her in an empty, fenced-in park in the city for ten years, so why would they isolate a child in a similar manner?

Only children at the best of times are expected to play whatever role their parents want: daughter, son, oldest, youngest, in between, adult, child . . . . In isolation this is even worse.

Of course, someone will come back with something such as, “if children are raised in the city they might become part of a gang, or not be safe.” But, 90% or more of the time, this is not the case. And, is there safety in raising a child in an isolated area if there is no ready access to hospitals, doctors, and so on? Is there safety in allowing children to drive old farm tractors, or old trucks, or ride “half-broke” horses often unsupervised, because they are expeccted to think and behave like adults and just do whatever the adults (the parents do).

Country schools may have smaller classes, but the child misses out on chemistry labs, computers, access to a major library etc. In small schools, the child also misses out on a variety of perspectives, as isolated communities tend to be quite traditional in terms of culture. This, of course, is somewhat compensated for with computers now, but computers need electricity in order to work. Alex didn’t have this access. Children model themselves after other people, but Alex had only his parents to model himself after. Even though there were a few neighbours they “stuck to themselves” Mr. Ferguson said during his discussion today. What did this do to Alex’s feelings about other human beings, I wonder. Children need models to learn social skills and even the give and take of communication.

Although Mr. Ferguson admitted during the interview that Alex hated the isolation, especially during his high school years, Mr. Ferguson does not write about that in the memoir. In fact, by leaving that information out it comes through strongly. Why did Mr. Ferguson not deal with that aspect of Alex’s life? Why does he make Alex into an outline of a character, rather than depict him in detail? The neighbour Greg’s appearance is described and so is that of Greg’s two wives. They, in fact, stand out more than any description of Alex in the book It makes me wonder if the power and control that one tries to maintain in a workaholic life (the life Mr. Ferguson claims to have led before moving) wasn’t just as great in isolation or greater. After all, there’s no one around to question the control. One would hope this is not the case.

Again, I would like to see another memoir– this one, from Alex’s point of view. I would like a long discussion on workaholics and a discussion on whether or not Mr. Ferguson actually overcomes this addiction as he presents himself in the text. One needs also, I think, to look at what is not said in the Memoir as much as what is said.

All said though, the discussion today was fun, lively, and in my less than humble opinion what many more of us need to be doing if we can get past the fear of technology.

One further question that I wanted to ponder, but found it difficult to do so during the discussion is the notion of journalistic work and literature. I questioned whether Back Roads was journalism or literature, and the professor asked if there was a difference. By “literature” I was thinking about “literariness.” A quick click on the computer keys presents the following definition of “literariness”:

Literary Dictionary:
literariness

literariness, the sum of special linguistic and formal properties that distinguish literary texts from non‐literary texts, according to the theories of Russian Formalism. The leading Formalist Roman Jakobson declared in 1919 that ‘the object of literary science is not literature but literariness, that is, what makes a given work a literary work’. Rather than seek abstract qualities like imagination as the basis of literariness, the Formalists set out to define the observable ‘devices’ by which literary texts—especially poems— foreground their own language, in metre, rhyme, and other patterns of sound and repetition. Literariness was understood in terms of defamiliarization, as a series of deviations from ‘ordinary’ language. It thus appears as a relation between different uses of language, in which the contrasted uses are liable to shift according to changed contexts.

Put in this light, I think Mr. Ferguson’s work is journalism. It’s a quick read. One doesn’t stop to think about the language much, if at all. There is no in depth analysis of the individual human psyche in it. One of the moderators attempted to explain to me that like poetry and prose there is now a blurring of boundaries. (I realize the moderator recognized me as a poet). But, that’s not the point. The point has to do with depth, play of langauge, and complexity. Recently I read the Memoir Istanbul by Orhan Pamuk and Kay Jamison’s Touched with Fire. These memoirs take several days to read and I keep going back to think about what was said. I marvel at the depths, the complexities, the research, the flow of language, and what I learn from the works. Back Roads is definitely a quick read. I read it in less than an hour. There is a book out that talks about Talking about Books You haven’t Read, and with the exception of a few detailed stories, I could have told you how Back Roads would progress–typical isolation in the north (or on the prairies) story–the homestead story. The professor compared the work to Thoreau’s Walden Pond, but I don’t think this book is like Walden, except in its isolated setting,and I suppose as she indicated “the back to nature theme.” Walden has its “literariness.” In fact, much of it is pure poetry (by this I mean the langauge is playful, rhythmical, and intricate), and it is complex–philosophical in many ways as well– although the life portrayed appears simple enough. Moreover, Thoreau didn’t drag his son along into isolation. He made a choice for himself and actually spent less than three years in isolation. (Eventually Thoreau did commit suicide).

This is not to say Back Roads isn’t a worthwhile read; I think it is. What’s an hour out of one’s life? But Back Roads just doesn’t have the depth and breadth and shear “awesomeness” of a Pamuk or Jamison or the earlier writers such as Herman Hesee. It doesn’t love language as much as just getting through the story. This of course leads me to the question of what to read when there are so many millions of books to read, but that’s all for another “blog.”