Going to A.A.-Academia Anonymous

Page 22

THE URBANE INDIAN

Not that long ago, I found myself walking the halls of one of Canada's newest universities and its first Aboriginal one, logically enough named First Nations University, but affectionately known as FNU. (As we say in the humor business, the jokes about the acronym just write themselves.)

The gentleman who was giving me the tour bumped into some of the faculty and introduced me. One woman said she didn't have to be introduced. She knew me, and my work. In fact, she said, "I use him in my Human Sexuality class."

My first thought was, "As well you should." Alas, she was referring to some articles I had written about my research into Native erotica for a proposed National Film Board documentary. To me, though, it was another example of my tenuous and undefined relationship with the world of higher education.

I have two years of community college under my belt. Some might argue that it's not as good as four years of university, but at least it's better than two years less a day of someplace else. But because I am a writer (with my fourteenth book expected out this summer), I find myself constantly being pulled into the world of academia.

Once when I was up in Prince George, B.C. lecturing at the University College of the Caribou, I casually mentioned to a sea of fresh-faced students that I had no idea what post-colonialism or post-modernism are, nor did I care. It wasn't important to me. When I'm writing stories about my childhood, my family or my adventures, putting technical or academic tags on them somehow makes them less interesting or personal.

It's a straightforward case of "I don't know how I do what I do, I just do it." How many traditional storytellers can deconstruct their pre-contact oral narrative? Perhaps the better question is, how many would want to?

My point being is that after telling the English/Canadian lit class this, I got a surprising, rousing round of enthusiastic applause; about 40 seconds worth. Evidently, the students loved my disregard of what the professors were trying to drill into their young, impressionable minds.

Afterward, like a bad boy, I was metaphorically called into the principal's office. This one professor chewed me out for flippantly dismissing two important components of modern English study. Evidently, I was being blasphemous.

To the best of my knowledge I did not urge them to hang William Shakespeare or Michael Ondaaje in effigy. But this man with letters behind his name did not like what I had said. In fact, he felt as though I was implying that all this stuff the teachers were attempting to teach these kids was irrelevant and unnecessary. There was a chance, I was told, that they might believe me.

This situation reminded me of a man I once met who told me he never takes medicine when he is sick. He just doesn't believe in it. He trusts aspirin less than he trusts a cold. I, on the other hand, who heard him say these things, still take an aspirin when I get a headache, or talk to an academic who puts way too much emphasis on what I say. But what do I know? I've never been to university.

Another time, I was at a birthday party for a professor at York University in Toronto. This was a few years back when I only had a half-a-dozen books or so published. This professor, who was understandably well lubricated at his own party, stopped me on my way to the potato chips and engaged me in an interesting bit of conversation. Basically, he asked "How can you, as a leading Native playwright and writer, validate your literary existence without having any academic credentials to support you?"

My first reaction was that I wished I'd gone for the popcorn instead of the potato chips, because they were in a completely different room. My second reaction was to say "Well, for one thing, I prefer to work for a living," but I figured that sounded too mean-spirited. And God only knows, I wouldn't want to start an all-out academic bawl. Thered be dangling participles, deconstructed paradigms and theoretical pedagogy splattered on the walls before you knew it. Instead, I excused myself and went to the bathroom where I wrote a treatise (as opposed to a treaty) on social birthday discourse, and the effects the introduction of alcohol has on such discourse. I'm hoping to get an honorary degree for it.

The bizarre thing is, I support, encourage, and celebrate all forms of higher education. Learning and achievement should never be discouraged. But neither should somebody be asked to rationalize a career or have somebody sit in judgment of the direction a career is taking.

Should the day come when I have children, damn right they're going to university. Then maybe they'll explain to me what post-modernism and post-colonialism are. It will give us something to talk about over the holidays. Until then, I can wait.