Educated: Not so much about school as it is about trauma

In urging me to read *An Education*, folks suggested I’d like it for a few reasons: the celebration of the university as the epicentre of ideas and learning (which I don’t hold to be true, but people must think I hold to be true); the fascination of the memoir genre in self-consciously commenting on what can be remembered and what must be fabricated (and the blurring of both) that recalls my enjoyment of historical fiction; and the irresistible lure of a cascading catalogue of trauma and violence, that predictably pulls the reader in wondering what new horror might be visited upon our protagonist.

I did like the book. And for the reasons predicted by my friends and book-recommenders. Though I’d say the first suggestion – and one blatantly made by the title (and certainly in the marketing of the book) – that this book is about the educational transformation wrought by the university, is misleading. Very little of the book is spent at the physical space of the university, and Tara, our protagonist (I suppose in a memoir we don’t call them protagonist so much as author?), seems ambivalent about what the university itself offered her in terms of education or transformation. Rather, and I appreciated this, her ‘education’ takes place in the shift from home to university, the conceptual journey as much as the physical. Sure she learns facts and explores ideas in ways never open or offered to her before, but the book focuses much more on how the space and culture of the university transforms her sense of self and what might be possible for her self, rather than what facts she accumulates.

To step back – by her account, Tara is raised in the Idaho mountains by parents who neither send her to school nor offer formal education at home. Instead she spends her childhood working in the family junkyard and navigating the twin dangers of a physically abusive brother and an emotionally abusive father, and the effects of this abuse on her sense of self and worth. Much is made in the press coverage of the fact that her parents are ‘survivalists’ preparing for the end of days, but I’d caution that the book doesn’t make as much of this aspect of her childhood as the marketers might have you believe, so if you’re hoping for a catalogue of food and fuel stockpiling, you’ll get some of that, but the narrative recognizes the gratuity of these moments of her life and rather than emphasize her difference from the reader, seems intent on demonstrating that while the particulars of her experience may be extreme, the experience ad effect of living in abuse is altogether common.

Long sentence!

Anyway.  It’s not a perfect book and I have some complaints. It fits well with the other books in this genre in that it…

And that’s where I left this post when I started writing it two weeks ago. So I’ll have to trust past Erin that the novel fits well in the genre. And that I have complaints. I bet you have complaints! What didn’t you like about the book? Let’s share responsibility for finishing this post…

 

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The Dying Detective: Swedish Mysteries for the Win

Not to be confused with the Conan Doyle mystery, Leif Persson’s The Dying Detective takes on a 25 year old murder case and the dying detective who will solve it. In the opening chapter our protagonist and detective-hero, Lars Martin Johansson, has a stroke. While in his hospital bed he is asked to solve the cold case of a murdered girl. Disregarding medical advice, he sets about investigating. Lots of phone calls, some strange encounters with socialist-medicine-helpers and an unrelenting (and perplexing) desire to eat herring ensue.

It is in keeping with the genre of Swedish mystery novels (is that a genre? whatever) in equal parts silly and totally absorbing. I had the book with me at the doctor’s office, and my doctor asked whether it would be entertaining enough to keep her captive after a long shift and while her children ran around, and I emphatically argued that it would be. It’s the sort of mindless, page-turning nonsense that you want on a long flight, or in a waiting room. I’ll admit I’m tired of reading about (young) women being murdered, but perhaps that’s a complaint to take up with society rather than the author.

So yeah, enjoy on your next flight or don’t, whatever suits.

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The Keep: Spooky

Just in time for Halloween you can grab Jennifer Egan’s excellent modern gothic “The Keep.” Set in a castle complete with ghosts and dungeons, the novel more than nods to its gothic genre. The psychological suspense of wandering the line between the real and imagined is the stuff of spooky nightmares without actually being all that scary.

Egan proves again to be masterful in the writing, hooking the reader from page one and off we go.

I freely admit this is a boring review. Deal with it.

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Seven Fallen Feathers

Reading Seven Fallen Feathers was tough. Not only because it engages with the history and present of colonialism and genocide, or because of its methodical attention to the ways the Canadian state continues to underfund education on reserves in ways that replicate structures of residential schools (isolation from family and community), but because it drove home for me how completely I’ve been avoiding doing any of the work of reconciliation I need to be doing.

I’ve long thought “oh I should read the compete text of the TRC report” or “I should find out more about rates of I incarceration of indigenous people,” or or and or. And I haven’t. Not for a good reason and certainly for bad reasons: I’ve thought it wasn’t my responsibility. Or not my priority. Or that I’d missed an earlier opportunity and now it was too late and – and I’m ashamed to say this – that I was too proud to admit how very much I don’t know. Like I wanted people to think I was suitably progressive and to say all the right things and be a good lefty social justice human without doing any of the work to actually live those ideals out.

Reading this book hasn’t changed much of this feeling. It does offer an impressively comprehensive and synthesized consideration of the intersections of many threads: missing and murdered indigenous women, the Indian Act, residential schools, treaty rights and intergenerational trauma. And I have some greater understanding as a consequence, but for me what it did best was to call me in to the living present of colonialism and my contribuatory role. Of not letting me get away with shifting responsibility or pretending not to know (or care).

So yeah. I have some work to do. And if you’re reading this with any resonance with my feelings pre-reading, I can’t urge you with enough pep to read this one.

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