Tag Archives: Richard Wagamese

Medicine Walk: Time Out of Time

medicine walk

What makes for a great storyteller? What makes us listen? What can stories reveal about ourselves and others that allow connection and understanding? Richard Wagamese’s novel Medicine Walk explores these questions through the quasi-quest, quasi-bildungsroman narrative of Franklin Starlight. As Franklin accepts the task of helping his estranged father, Eldon, to his death, he also accepts the role of listener. Just as readers assume this position each time they open a new book, Franklin is unsure what to expect, but committed to the hearing.

This metafictional thread is softly woven, but bears consideration: what do we, as readers, assume (both in the sense of ‘to take on’ and ‘suppose to be the case’) when we begin reading? Genre, narrative point of view, diction and phrasing, author biography and context give us the rudimentary tools in the early pages of a story to position ourselves, to ease into a work and find where we sit vis a vis the story we’re hearing (nevermind that our particular readerly moment is one where books come laden with existing expectations – and reviews like these). Whether a story adheres to or troubles these expectations, and whether our expectations predetermine and limit what we’ll read/hear gets played out as Franklin grapples with reframing his feelings about his father and whether and how much he will accept the stories as true or sufficient recompense. These questions get echoed in Franklin’s confrontation with his own expectations of his father and of his own and Eldon’s separate and twinned identities and histories.

It’s an unusual (narrative) relationship. Eldon, an alcoholic and absentee parent, brings his story to Franklin with the ostensible purpose of telling Franklin about his birth, name, and family, but with the attendant – and mutually recognized – hope of earning, through the telling, Franklin’s forgiveness and some kind of reconciliation. The novel, in its exploration of this relationship, brings forward questions of what can be forgiven, what forgiveness entails, what we owe ourselves and our broadly understood family. Whether knowing the cause of an unforgiveable act, whether recognizing the cause as societal or historic or simply not our fault, can lessen the violence of the unforgiveable.

It also exposes the deeply moving selflessness of love, while still worrying about the difference between selflessness and selfishness. It explores the contours of this division in the character of Bucky in one of the more surprising and rich representations of humility and grace I’ve read in recent memory. He is a complex, if oddly unexamined, character in the book. Complex I suppose in that he performs key plot functions and occupies a layered character position; unexamined in these sense that his thoughts and reactions are obscured to us, accessed only in brief dialogue. Still, a poignant character.

One element of the novel that bothered me – at least for the first half – was that I couldn’t seem to place it in time or place. There were references to wars – World War II and Korea – that let me loosely place it but in an ahistorical (or perhaps extra-historical) way; and (stunning and beautiful) descriptions of place that left no doubt of a fully realized setting – just no setting with a corresponding place in reality that I could quickly identify. But as I latched on to the themes of storytelling I recognized that my desire to pin this narrative down in time and place was to try and evacuate it of its catholic impulse. This story of guilt, mortality, paternity, loyalty and love should, and does, move us regardless of place or time.

Which is not to say it isn’t also particular. It is a story of domestic violence, of poverty and of colonialism while also being a story of one boy making sense of who his father is, his (a)filial responsibilities and his capacity for forgiveness. I’d suggest it is also a book for readers of all stories to think about the responsibilities of listening and our capacity to be moved and changed by what we hear. It is certainly a book you ought to read; a story you ought to attend to.



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Filed under Canadian Literature, Fiction

Indian Horse: Hockey Heroes

I’d heard of *Indian Horse* from CBC’s “Canada Reads” competition and from a few fellow readers who told me it was about residential schools and the crimes committed there. So I picked up the novel prepared to encounter a narrative of abuse and its reverberations across generations. 

I suppose that feeling of preparation is indicative of my arrogance – my sense that ‘oh yes, i’ve heard about residential schools, I have leftist politics, I’ve been educated’ – as if a textbook could do justice (ha! what a telling phrase) to the complex narratives and somehow prepare (which is to say, neutralize or assume enough knowledge that I won’t be surprised or learn anything) for the reading.

The novel demanded a different kind of reading. From the opening pages of Saul in a rehab facility, this reader can predict the trajectory of the plot. And, to some degree, the plot follows a line from early childhood spent with his family in the bush, to residential school and the abuse perpetrated there, to the beginning of a life after the school, to an examination of the permanent effects of such abuse, to the investigation of what it might mean to heal. Where the narrative offers deviation from this prepared plot is in its exploration of the pervasiveness of abuse and the exploding of an idea of abuse as a crime committed by one person against one other.

 It would be a mistake, I think, to read this novel as “simply” an exploration of the abuse of residential schools. Instead it is a painful and unrelenting journey through the layers of abuse that make up the nation. Saul’s life and his telling of it explores how single individuals can commit crimes – in the case of the priests and nuns at the school or the white children at hockey games who hurl racist slurs – but also the abuse and crimes of the nation.

As hockey comes to stand for Canada – the game is claimed by other white people and is imagined by Saul as “their game” – Saul’s attempt to make a place for himself – a glorious, gifted player, truly exceptional – and his subsequent rejection and expulsion from the game presents a powerful and depressing metaphor for the nation as a space or idea that cannot allow compromise or inclusion, that rather derives its existence from exclusivity and rigorous defense of its borders even while it needs the demonized other for success. That Saul is the gifted hero and cannot make his way in this bigoted white world – in the metaphorical Canada – compounds and amplifies the injustice because if the white population can see no worth in the hero than what expectations should the ordinary carry? 

The passages of hockey games – and of Saul’s talent – are breathtaking.  The casual descriptions of sexual, physical and emotional abuse are devastating. Saul’s voice – his open admission that the story is his attempt to give voice to his history – demands to be heard; in his demand for an audience that listens to his story he makes each reader consider his/her complicity, but also to what extent the story will be finished when the book closes.

*spoiler alert*

And I suppose this is my only complaint – that the narrative ends with redemption. With Saul’s spiritual healing, with his reconciliation with the game of hockey (and so with Canada) and his decision to continue to engage with those who have, and would like to, continue to dismiss him on the basis of his origins. It’s an odd complaint, but I felt the ending let this reader off to easily. As if to say I need not consider my role in this history any further because Saul – and those like him – have the sole responsibility themselves to heal. And I think that’s its own kind of injustice.


Filed under Canadian Literature, Fiction, Prize Winner