I don’t like liars.
I’m not talking about those little white untruths, the glossing over of things that most of us do from time-to-time in order to save feelings or avoid engaging in discussions that we know will circle endlessly around on themselves.
I’m talking about deception for deception’s sake- that primary tool in the arsenals of the majority of those who are seeking leadership roles. The false narratives being created to drive soundbites and ad campaigns are repugnant to a shameful degree.
I voted last week- one of more than 3.6 million Canadians who took advantage of the advance polls over the long weekend. Some of us- 71% more of us than voted in advance polling for the 2011 federal election- were likely weary of this never-ending campaign- running, as it did, throughout the summer- but I know that I did so in order to legitimately be able to tune out the fabrications and falsehoods that seemed to increase with each passing day.
Done with that. My die is cast. I can only hope that others see past the prevaricating and patronizingly paternal posturing of the past few months (and past decade, for that matter) and chose progressive change.
Thinking about the false narratives our leaders insist on feeding us gave rise to some personal reflection, and I realized, that while I’m not running for public office, and therefore not beholden to a reasonable degree of personal scrutiny, I’m not sure I have the moral high ground to be calling out kettles of any particular hue.
I’m sort of a fraud, myself.
Since I was off work this past week- taking some time to ‘catch up’ on stuff that too often falls by the wayside in the regular day-to-day of it all- I’ve been trying to focus on getting some writing done. Working on narratives that haven’t seen much action, of late, and feeling a little like a neglectful parent as I’ve done so.
We all have stories, and we all choose to communicate those stories in different ways. I’ve always had an inclination for the written word, so the stories that fill my head most often take the form of fictional narratives.
Around these parts, I tend toward the ‘essay’ or ‘opinion piece’, and I logged my fair share of hours researching and writing non-fiction, in the form of academic papers and that one big book that languishes on the shelf behind me, but my main hankering is for making up stuff- people and places and things that happen.
Even in the non-fiction, though, my voice comes through clearly, I think. When I started this blog, as a newbie- looking for a way to write about things that move me (myths, religion, music, social justice- you know, all that stuff you’ll find if you pop around the past posts)- I was a little daunted by the public nature of the forum. Since I’m a generation (or two) older than those who were born with iPhones clutched in tiny hands, I was suspicious of the potential exposure that might come with putting it all out there.
I was, at the time (and currently- but that’s another story), looking for a new career- having left the academic world following a whole lot of soul searching and self-evaluation. I read all kinds of horror stories about people who were black-listed for opinions or photos shared, a moment’s lapse, the ‘publish’ button accidentally tapped… You know- lives changed in an instant by the judgmental, under-educated trolling types that thrive on the Interweb.
Also, I had concerns about compromising any potential future academic roles (no use burning even hypothetical bridges) by spouting off about the state of post-secondary education, as I see the situation, and so I erred (if erring it was) on the side of anonymous caution.
I made the decision to write pseudonymously. I thought that doing so would afford a measure of security, and offer the opportunity to write in a different voice. Cole Davidson is the name of the narrator of a fictional piece of something I’ve been working on for a very long time.
Interestingly, although I never confirmed or denied one way or another, most of my return readers- many who have become friends over the years- assumed that I’m male, which, given the name, is, I guess, not surprising. Reading some of the earliest posts (and some of them make me cringe, so if you’re feeling curious, please tread lightly) I, at least, can see the struggle between first- and third- person, vying for the post of narrator. Telling my own stories, but doing so as if I’ve told them to someone else who is now recounting them… yeah. That got old fast. Though perhaps not fast enough.
I quickly discovered that this blog had the potential to be an on-going conversation– and the discussions that I’ve had here never cease to amaze me. In order to fully engage in this dialectic, I let go of all traces- save the pseudonym- of the literary conceit that even possibly prevented me from speaking authentically as myself.
A little while ago, one of my former students sent me a PM commenting on one of my posts (since they are linked to my Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter pages- I also have a Tumblr, but I’m rarely over that way, these days- posts are connected to my not-so-secret identity, as well), talking about what I’d written and asking why I assumed a male voice in communicating my ideas. Having listened to me over the course of a year of lectures and study groups, she was quite convinced that the voice was mine- and a little confused as to why I’d assume a male persona while writing about the stuff I used to teach about.
She wasn’t critical- just curious. She is a great writer, and has adopted different voices herself, so was looking to chat about my experience doing so.
I’ve been writing as Cole for long enough now, that I sometimes forget that’s it’s not ‘really’ me putting ‘myself’ out there. If he ever had his own voice (and I hope he still does- in the novel, at least), then he’s been over-shouted by mine, hereabouts.
The fact that I don’t use my real name is the only fictive part of my existence here at colemining. It’s all me- so very much so that I long ago left behind all hopes of sorting out the character whose name I assumed, with all good intentions, in this particular outlet.
Which means, that if the real Cole Davidson is to see the light of day (and I think he deserves to do so- especially since some usurper stole his identity more than two years ago), it will have to be in a different place- the one he was ‘born’, if you will, to inhabit. So I’m working on the fiction again. Stealing time (and who has enough of that, these days?) away from my peeps in this WordPress world, in order to spend some in one that I have created in its entirety (insofar as anyone ever creates anything whole-cloth. That world is recognizably similar to our own, after all).
Divided loyalties, of a sort. But no one ever said that paying attention to all the voices in my head was supposed to be easy.
Those of you who visit regularly, might have noticed that I posted a photo a few months back – and ‘outed’ myself, to a degree, at least. That I didn’t hesitate to do so is an indication that the dividing line between me and Cole has disappeared, assuming there ever was one. Going back over some older posts, I noticed that when I refer to myself it is often in an e e cummings-esque lower case sort of manner – although even that little editorial nuance isn’t terribly consistent. Cole fighting cole, for ascendancy or something Regardless, cole is not really Cole. And never has been.
I’m starting to think, despite our seeming estrangement, we have become a little co-dependent.
I did hang out with him a bit this week. I feel like we’re on the road to re-acquaintance, but it will take some more quality time to really renew a sense of one another and figure out what has changed since we last chatted. It’s been a long time. I think he’s changed – become more like me than I thought possible- but some of that will remain to be seen as we continue our discussions. Despite what some superstition-loving-deniers may think, we humans continue to evolve. And so, too, should our creations.
From one way of looking at things, it shouldn’t matter who I am. If something I’ve said resonates, then groovy. Let’s chat about it. But, as I’ve said before, context matters. A lot. And identity is part of context.
That doesn’t mean I’m unmasking completely. There are even more horror stories out there than when I started this thing. Atheist bloggers are targeted and murdered in parts of this world (not Toronto, admittedly, but still), and writers who speak against established norms lose livelihoods and freedoms under elites who seek to cling to power.
I currently live in a country in which, I’m ashamed to say, scientists are muzzled and unfunded for speaking truths against the government’s agenda and policy-making machine. I’m not confident that civil disobedience and speaking out against social injustice won’t end up getting my name on a CSIS watch list.
I’m hopeful that these things don’t come to full fruition- that the citizens of this nation will vote against politics of fear and division so we can regain our status in the eyes of the world- and, most importantly, live with ourselves.
We’ll find out tomorrow. In between innings of the baseball game. I’ve set my current priorities, and the Jays are top of that heap at the moment. I’m loving the story they’re creating, this Blue October. I’ll re-engage with the political reality once it is actually realized.
Demonstrating, once again, that we seem to share a brain, my lovely Glaswegian friend, Anne-Marie, posted about her decision to, once again, sign up for NaNoWriMo- that interesting social media phenomenon that is supposed to help writers get it together and crank up their word counts.
I did that a couple of years ago. I think it was a good exercise, but here we are now, and the novel of that November is no closer to being finished. Not really. So rather than signing up, I think I’ll just commit to spending more time with that other Cole- and all his friends- as a way of focusing my writing for the next while.
After I finish up an entry to the CBC Canada Writes short story contest, that is. While keeping things short isn’t really my forte (note the word count of this post, for example), if I’m going to diversify as a way of focusing, I might as well go all out.
So I might be around even less, for a little bit (I know, I’ve hardly been here, lately, as it is). My drive to survive- and thrive- through the telling of some stories will be changing direction.
I’ve gotten all fan-girl over Umberto Eco a number of times. He is an inspiration in so many ways. But as I looked for a pithy little saying/graphic to top this latest piece of something, I was torn by the number of quotes out there for the picking. Writers I admire, writers I just plain love. All those creators of stories that make the world a little better.
There’s a difference between narratives that are fictional and those that are intentionally false. The latter are designed to influence the credulous and further the agendas of their creators, orators and those who are complicit in the perpetuation of the lies (no names mentioned certain Canadian media outlets…).
The former, written with best intentions, add insights and truth to our on-going human dialogue.
I’ve set the record straight, at least a little, regarding my own participation in this here narrative space. I go back to work tomorrow. I’m hoping that through the self-evaluation of this mini-break I’ve figured out a way to spend the day fulfilling my work responsibilities, while still retaining enough creative impetus to come home and spend time with Cole et al- for at least a space of time each evening.
The elections results tomorrow will be a distraction (as will the debrief following the whole, sad business), and those Jays have a couple of weeks of baseball left to play (first two games in KC notwithstanding, As I keep reminding myself, there’s no crying in baseball, and we’ve come back from this type of deficit before), but, moving forward, I need to work at drowning out the irrelevant hindrances that serve to do no more than raise my blood pressure and existential ire.
Whatever masks we might wear, as writers or as people, I really believe that our best stories come from places of sincerity and honesty. In them, we can find our best reasons for engaging with the world and our fellow humans. If we cut out all the white noise.
So, a new beginning for me. Perhaps by moderating my propensity to preach to various choirs- both here and in my current day job- I can figure out a way to tell the stories I’ve been wanting to tell for as long as I can remember. Which requires tapping into the voice of my namesake for a time, and seeing what he might have to say about it all if I give him (back) his narrative lead.
There’s a quote (attributed to Charles Darwin but stemming, in all real likelihood from a synopsis of On the Origin of Species presented by some guy named Leon C. Megginson. Ah, misattribution. Hurts my historian-sensibilities) that goes something like this: It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.
I think a change would do me good.
