The Problem with Self-Reflection

As I alluded to in the previous post, I have officially started Teacher's College. It has been an amazing and surreal experience so far. I sense that everything will fly by in a crazy blur of activity until November, when the REAL fun begins.

It's funny, though. I am only taking four courses this semester, and I am only on-campus for three days of the week, but by last Friday, I was SPENT. There is much to learn, and I know that a few of these courses will be intellectually exhausting as we begin to cram in knowledge of our provincial curriculum for our subjects of choice, and as we begin to prepare our professional portfolios.

All Teacher Candidates (TCs) have to create a professional portfolio. These portfolios include our philosophy of education statement, our resumes, some "artifacts" (basically samples of activities or lessons we have planned, and a summary of whether or not we implemented them, whether it was good, etc) and so on. As a language teacher, my portfolio will also include a separate "portfolio langagier" (language portfolio), which also highlights our linguistic identity(ies) as well as our strengths and weaknesses in the French language. Over the weekend, I began to work on this portfolio langagier, since the rough drafts of our statement on our linguistic identity and of our "plan d'action" detailing our strengths and weaknesses are due at the beginning of October. Unfortunately, the process of creating the statement on our linguistic identity has opened a wound which I have been struggling to keep shut for a very long time.



I am an anglophone by default. I am bilingual by choice. My parents both speak English, as does my entire extended family. I am less of a francophone these days as I am a francophile. I love French culture, French movies, French music, and I stand up for myself when people say disparaging things about the French people (a defense that I have had to make several times to people who just don't understand that country I love so much). In my heart, I am as much a franco as someone who was born and raised in France or Quebec. However, aside from a painfully short trip to Quebec City for our grade 12 French class, I have never visited any francophone country or region, ever.

That statement might not sound terrible to you, but it has been a source of my inner turmoil for several years. I struggle even now to try and talk about it.

My family has never been that well off. We lived *comfortably*, but we were never in a place where we could splurge on many things. We never went on vacation, except to a cottage that we would rent from a parishioner that went to my father's church. I think my parents visited England once, in 1980. That was before I was born.

Because I was gifted in French, my teachers always tried to tell me that I should go on an exchange to France. I adored this idea, but my family could never afford it. Each year in high school, I was approached by different people (my French teacher, members of the Rotary Association, among others) and asked if I would consider going abroad. I always had to respond that I would love to, but I couldn't. In university, my program offered a third-year exchange to Nice. Couldn't do that, either. My friend-now-fiancé S planned a trip to visit his mother who was living in France a few years ago. I would never have been able to fund the trip myself with my financial aid, so I asked my parents. I think you will have seen a pattern by now.

It goes well beyond the idea that I simply "couldn't" go.

It has taken me some time to think of an appropriate analogy, so here is my best effort.

Let's say that your family is Irish. You are extremely proud of this heritage, and you do what you can to honour it by eating Irish food, listening to Irish (and Irish-inspired) music, trying your hand at the Gaelic language and dreaming of the green fields of Eire as you sleep. As far as you are concerned, you are an Irish (wo)man in a Canadian's body. You are given a great opportunity to tour Ireland with some friends, who like the idea of going to Ireland, but who aren't simply innately Irish like you are. But you? You cannot go.

That has been the story of my francophone existence since the beginning of high school.

Studies have shown that people who are immersed in a culture and language pick up on it much faster (minus the grammar, which usually suffers without formal instruction) than those who are forced to simply study the language in school. My beloved colleagues in my FSL foundations course have, for the most part, spent time in a francophone region, whether for an exchange or working as an ESL teacher in a francophone country. Their French is melodic and natural. They don't struggle to find their words, and they don't have to think about the translation of basically anything from English into French. But oh man, watch out, because if they have to recite the rules of the subjunctive...I guess I'll excel?

The major problem with this self-reflection, such as my portfolio langagier as well as this blog, is dealing head-on with pain which has been tucked away for a long time. But I suppose that's the point?

Oh, Nintendo.

At some point in the near future, I will make a post chronicling the beginning of my career in my new university. However, today, I feel a distinct urge to post about something much more dire, much more at the forefront of my psyche...something which burns at the edges of our contemporary society and calls for a voice to speak out!

Video games!

Well, maybe I'm exaggerating slightly. But the fact of the matter is that today is a post about video games...or rather, an atrocity which has affected a specific character.

Let me introduce you to Samus Aran.



Samus is a character which was created by Nintendo in the mid 80s. She (yes, she) first appeared in a game simply titled Metroid, a science-fiction fantasy in which Samus is portayed as a bounty hunter who is forced to deal with the likes of Space Pirates (it was the 80s, people). As a fanbase, we later find out through subsequent games that Samus was an orphan who was raised by an ancient alien race, and it is mostly via her connection to this ancient race that gives her the awesome power of being able to turn into a morph ball. She does other things too, mostly via kicking ass, shooting lasers, and generally being an independent female badass with no chip on her shoulder to speak of.

Until 2010.

Enter Metroid: Other M, the latest game in the Metroid series. When Nintendo released the marketing campaign for Other M, it portrayed Samus in a way that had never been seen before. She had a voice, and presumably this game would help to clarify her story as it occurs after the SNES game in the series. Oh yes, I was very excited indeed; we would finally be able to put a voice to the strong female protagonist that has enthralled us, and who has inspired young girl/woman gamers around the world.

Except...I didn't like what I heard.

Among the game's many actual gameplay flaws (which include controls that are confusing/easy manipulated, and a game-breaking glitch which may cause you to be forced to start your game from scratch), the elephant in the spaceship is Samus' greatly-altered personality. Strong independent bounty hunter woman? Not anymore!

Let me break down a scene for you. I promise, this isn't as much spoilery as it is just plain madness.

Samus answers a distress call which is coming from a nearby system. She flies to answer the call. Upon her arrival, she comes across a troop of Galatic Federation soldiers, and the player learns of her previous involvement with this team in particular. What a coincidence! The player meets two characters in particular; Anthony and Adam. Anthony calls her "Princess". Samus gets nostalgic, as "only he called (her) by that name". Adam is the troop commander. Anthony informs Samus that they are there for the same reasons, yay! Adam calls her an outsider - this hurts Samus deeply. Then, this wonderful unimaginability happens.

Samus elects to not use her FULLY OPERATIONAL, FULLY CHARGED SUIT AND WEAPONS UNTIL ADAM SAYS IT'S OKAY. Samus, who FIRST of all doesn't work for anyone, is now taking orders from someone she USED to work with.

And so this mechanic is introduced. In each game, Samus is usually relegated to the task of killing bosses and earning her way (by herself) toward getting new weapons and suit upgrades. In Other M? Samus is fully kitted out from the SNES game, yet she is not allowed to use her extremely helpful abilities.

Not. Allowed.

What message is this sending out to the player? She must submit to someone who a) means nothing to her in the present and b) isn't even her superior, period. Why? There is clearly an inherent undertone of sexism in this portayal of Samus Aran.

Don't believe me? I have another example for your consideration.

Samus' power suit is a very powerful thing which was gifted to her by the ancient alien race, the Chozo. In Metroid: Other M? The suit's structural integrity is affected by Samus' emotional state. At the risk of revealing too much, I will simply point out that Samus begins to lose control of the integrity of her suit because of her emotional response to seeing a certain enemy in-game. I mean, come on. Let's just throw an age-old stereotype of women in there, shall we? Samus is *emotional*, so her suit is clearly somehow affected? Nintendo, what on Zebes were you thinking with this idea?

In a single stroke, Nintendo drastically transformed Samus Aran from a powerful female rolemodel into something from a dating sim.

I am disappointed, and if anyone else mentions this game to me, I am simply going to plug my ears and begin shouting, since as far as I am concerned, this game never happened.

The Zen of Waiting in Line

On Wednesday, September 8th, I woke up bright and early to attend my orientation and registration day at my new university for my new program. After bumbling my way around to try and catch a streetcar, I managed to make it to the building...only to find a line-up outside the door which was about the length of a city block.

This set the tone for the day.

I stood in four different lines that day, costing me about an hour and a half of my time. I stood in line to receive my registration package, complete with class and day schedule and sticker indicating which of two welcome assemblies to attend. This was about a 20 minute wait. I then stood in line to get my picture taken so that my instructors might get to know who I am (a line which was about the size of the lineup outside, except centralized in a cramped hallway, and doubled upon itself). Also about a 20 minute wait.

After the wonderful welcome ceremony, I went upstairs to find the room in which I was to process my financial aid. Very surprisingly, this would prove to be the shortest line of the day. 2-3 minutes tops.

Just a quick side note is needed here. Whenever I have had to wait in line for said financial aid at my old university, I would have to bring a pillow and a book, and expect to miss a class if I had less than 30 minutes before its commencement. This university is about 3-4 times larger (I'm guessing), so my comparably small 2 minute wait was dumbfounding and simultaneously pretty amazing.

That was line number 3.

Line number 4 is where things got pretty epic. After our obligatory cohort meeting, wherein we got to meet our instructors and fellow students, we were given a small textbook list and told that it would be "a good idea" to go purchase them before Monday, since the lineup by then would be "pretty hectic".

Taking those words to heart, I sought the store with the books that I would need.

There was a lineup from the door to the counter, which was probably about 20 meters away.

I stood in that line for 40 minutes.

40 minutes.

But by this point, the extensive standing and waiting had ceased to phase me.

Earlier in the day, I had gone to a welcome assembly, which was led by the Dean of my department. The Associate Dean made a wonderful speech about how Teacher's College will be an experience which is similar to the experience of riding a roller coaster. Everything up until our first practicum is the slow ascent; our careful preparation. The in-class practicum itself would be the first major ride down, complete with loops and the general feeling of helplessness and panic combined with adrenaline. It would be both exhilarating and completely terrifying, but by the end, you will be sad to get off the ride.

This part? The part that involves standing in line and waiting for basically everything this past Wednesday? This was exactly like waiting in line to get on the roller coaster itself. I felt agitated at the fact that I even had to wait, but I didn't want to leave, since I didn't want to lose my spot, and I really, really, really wanted to get to the front so I could get the stuff I needed to get on the ride. Knowing that I just needed to endure these short spurts of standing completely still and waiting for an extensive period of time was basically torture, but I felt surprisingly calm, since I knew I would eventually reach the front of the line and do the next thing necessary to prepare for my wild ride. I wasn't bored, far from it. I was happy to be there, as I am happy now to wait for Tuesday, when I start my first set of classes.

Though I have to say, I felt really bad for the folks who waited in line for textbooks behind me, since as I left, I noticed that the line had quadrupled in size, as it went out the door, and down the street about 80 meters.

Suckers.

Waiting is almost over

I feel conflicted today.

This week is Orientation Week, depending on what school you go to in Canada. Both my alma mater and my new school are having their O-Weeks at the same time.

But this is where that conflict comes in.

I miss my alma mater, the university that I called home for seven school years. I miss my O-Week ritual of walking around campus and watching all the excited first-years navigate around and go to all the various events with their new friends. I miss directing people around the complicated Arts building. I miss the free food and events on the large field in the centre of campus.

BUT.

I am mind-numbingly excited to begin the year at my new university. It won't be the same, for sure, but this excitement is very real. And yet, I can't help but be a little sad about moving on. It's a very strange combination of feelings, to be honest.

I start my new program with an orientation day on Wednesday, officially. I just hope these conflicted feelings will sort themselves out before then, because I just want to be super excited, like I have been over the past, uh, SEVERAL MONTHS.

Wednesday feels too far away.