| (0:00) |
SpokenWeb Podcast Theme Music: |
[Instrumental Overlapped With Feminine Voice] Oh boy. Can you hear me? I don’t know how much projection to do here. |
| (00:18) |
Hannah McGregor |
What does literature sound like? What stories will we hear if we listen to the archive? Welcome to the SpokenWeb Podcast, stories about how literature sounds. [Spokeweb Podcast music ends] My name is Hannah McGregor. |
| (00:36) |
Katherine McLeod |
And my name is Katherine McLeod and each month we’ll be bringing you different stories that explore the intersections of sound, poetry, literature, and history created by scholars, poets, students, and artists from across Canada. |
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Hannah McGregor |
This month our producer, Nadège Paquette sonically explores what not-knowing sounds like, and feels like, as an alternative to constantly accumulating knowledge. The episode enacts the possibilities of not-knowing, using an associative method that links stories and sounds, forming a non-linear audio collage. |
| (01:13) |
Katherine McLeod |
Listeners are invited to tune in to their affective and embodied responses to works that dwell in the unknown, including a story shared by Lulu Miller on the podcast Radio Lab, Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s horror film Pulse, Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner’s poem “Anointed,” and Tanya Tagaq’s audiobook Split Tooth. Collectively, these works of art give us a language for experiences that, in fact, exceed language, and invite us to pause in the space of uncertainty. |
| (01:42) |
Hannah McGregor |
Here is the second episode of season five of the SpokenWeb podcast, “Listening in Uncertainty.” [SpokenWeb theme music swells briefly and then fades] |
| (02:04) |
Nadège Paquette |
[Pensive music begins] Hi, I’m Nadège. I’m speaking from Tiohtià:ke, also known as Montreal. I’m a white settler and a seeker of ways to live and die with other humans and non-humans on a damaged planet. [Music fades out] I find this process of naming my partial speaking and listening positionalities important.
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Nadège Paquette |
[Sound effect of crickets singing at night followed by the call of a crow] Naming is the way we’ve been taught to apprehend the world, but it might also have the effect of making us fear what we can’t name. This sound work is about the potential of not naming things to linger in uncertainty. It’s about listening through discomfort, tuning in to fear and surrendering to silence. [Cricket sounds stop]
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Nadège Paquette |
Attempting not to name things with spoken words is, however, a contradictory project. I can’t escape language, so I try to let it exceed the meaning I expect of it. [Light percussion music fades in] The question I’m asking throughout this episode in exploring the limits of my understanding is: can not-knowing help us learn to live more justly in compromised worlds? Since in Western sciences, the paradigm of knowledge accumulation is coming to its limits when facing the conditions of global warming, can a posture recognizing the bounds of our understanding be more fruitful?
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Nadège Paquette |
Because while we know a lot about climate change, we’re still unable to act and slow down its processes. This podcast is a sort of collage where I make associations between ideas, sounds and stories. Associations are the glue making sometimes seemingly disparate elements stick together. My hope in calling my process associative is to avoid the expectation that this podcast as a form of narrative should be linear: that is, made of a series of observations where one ideologically evolves into another to reveal a single, coherent meaning. Associations might be more about not knowing where the next idea will take us. [Music fades out] |
| (04:20) |
Nadège Paquette |
The episode will be divided into two parts. The first section follows two stories where characters are faced with the unknown and react with fear. [Ominous music begins] These are stories where a certain version of the world ends, a world where things can be known and mastered through language. There’s the story of a child’s night terror told by Lulu Miller in a podcast episode, as well as the story of people disappearing through computer circuits, which takes the form of the film Pulse by director Kiyoshi Kurosawa. [Music ends]
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Nadège Paquette |
I’ve associated both stories because of the effect of fear they describe and produce. I’ll talk about how fear can be created by acousmatic sounds and uncomfortable intimacy, as well as how we might attempt to tame fear through naming and interpretation. [Calm electronic music begins]
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While the first section is about narratives we could call apocalyptic, the stories of the second section are about surviving and healing after yet another apocalypse, the first being the decolonization of the Americas and the genocide of Indigenous peoples. [Music ends] |
| (05:37) |
Nadège Paquette |
Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner recites a poem where the tale of a son playing with fire meets an account of living on the Marshall Islands, which have been used as sites for “testing” nuclear bombs. [Calm electronic music fades back in] Tanya Tagaq reads her novel where a daughter protects sea creatures from seismic testing. I want to think here about those things that Western science has called “tests” but which are in fact “the real thing” because they are actively destroying worlds. I want to reflect on the challenge that Indigenous knowledges pose to the notion of real versus fictional world and consider how certain worldviews which escape hegemonic frameworks have been deemed by colonial powers to be illegible and thus less real. [Music ends] |
| (06:30) |
Nadège Paquette |
Before diving into stories of fear and stories offering healing, I want to talk about the form of podcasting, about sound’s particular ability to produce effective and embodied responses in listeners. [Dark pensive music begins] I also want to present my method in this episode, how I try to practice what Kaisa Kortekallio calls “becoming-instrument” in order to attend to different associations and what they mean. The medium of sound and the form of podcasting here allow me to invite you to experience effective engagement. [calm but ominous music begins] Sounds create moods and emotions; they can make us feel connected to each other or scared and wary. In both instances, the creative form of intimacy, the feeling of being close to someone or something, or the feeling of being too close. In their series… |
| (07:25) |
Stacey Copeland |
“Why Podcast? Podcasting as Publishing.” |
| (07:28) |
Hannah McGregor |
“Sound-based scholarship,” and… |
| (07:30) |
Stacey Copeland |
“Making Podcasts Count” |
| (07:33) |
Nadège Paquette |
…Academics and podcasters… |
| (07:34) |
Hannah McGregor |
“Hannah McGregor” |
| (07:35) |
Nadège Paquette |
and… |
| (07:36) |
Stacey Copeland |
“Stacy Copeland” [music ends] |
| (07:37) |
Nadège Paquette |
Understand podcasting to be a mode of affect transmission. That means that the affects produced by sound and voice through the quality of their pitch, timber volume and rhythm, stick to the listener and moves them in ways that written form might not accomplish. [Electronic pulsing evolving into soft ambient music] Sound and voice thus activate different ways of understanding and apprehending our academic research. While listening to this podcast, can you attend to your affective responses? Does the sound you hear interrupt your breathing? [Music fades, sinister sound from Pulse’s soundtrack rises and falls]
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Does the voice you reach toward make you move your gaze? [Crickets singing and sound of footsteps] Does walking allow you to listen intently? Is music your favorite mood altering method? But also, how do you affect those sounds? How might your listening bring you to identify the sounds in a way that limits them? Dylan Robinson, xwélmexw writer of the Stó:lō people and author of the book, Hungry Listening, teaches me to be attentive to the ways in which I listen with hunger for meaning. |
| (08:48) |
Nadège Paquette |
This hunger I inherit from my French settler ancestors, who arrived on this continent starving for food, but also for Indigenous lands, knowledges, cultures, and labor. Robinson explains that the drive to satisfy that hunger makes one lose contact with their sense of relationality and reflexivity. [Eerie music fades in and out]
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Rather than holding on to the Western imperative that, as Robinson writes, “all knowledge should be accessible at all times,” I attempt to sit with the limits of my understanding of Indigenous intelligence, voice, song, and stories. My limits can be heard in my imperfect pronunciation of the word xwélmexw, meaning “first nation person” in Halq’eméylem, but also in the fact that I access Indigenous knowledges, not through relations with Indigenous people, communities, lands, and waters, but through texts, and texts that I read in English, which is a colonial language. |
| (09:58) |
Nadège Paquette |
[Dark pensive music begins] I hope that my engagement here with Indigenous thinkers and stories is respectful and fruitful, but I recognize that it might not always be the case. To tune into influences I might not usually perceive because of my positionality and training, I attempt a form of reconfiguration that literary scholar Kaisa Kortekallio calls “becoming-instrument.” Becoming means that one’s own self, body, and mind is always in the process of being done and undone. [Music fades out. Brief chords and sounds from a printer play]
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Instrument means that mind and body like musical instruments and scientific instruments can be calibrated to perform a creative outcome or attend to certain phenomena. [Soft ominous music begins] Kortekallio writes, “the self instrument is tuned and tweaked in order to become more impressionable, that is, more receptable to the various effects of textural ecologies.” Or, in this case, to the effects of sonic ecologies, to the effects of sounds, beings, and environments relating to each other.
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To become-instrument, I actively calibrate myself to become more resectable to the associations that might arise between sounds, stories, and concepts. [Music fades] While their association might become apparent to me, my understanding doesn’t exhaust the potential of these relations. [Eerie music begins] The association I make between the two first stories I will discuss in this episode is their interest in the affect of fear. Naming things can be a way to manage our fear of the unknown, to make it less threatening and more familiar. But, what if this fear of the unknown was indeed acquired because of language, because what we can’t name then becomes threatening? [Music ends] |
| (12:01) |
Nadège Paquette |
I came across this idea when listening to Radiolab’s episode, “The Wordless Place” where co-host… |
| (12:08) |
Lulu Miller |
“Lulu Miller” |
| (12:08) |
Nadège Paquette |
…Relates the first months of navigating the uncertainties of COVID-19 with her wife while their year and a half old son was still peacefully dwelling in the uncertainties of the wordless place. Naming, Miller explains, is… |
| (12:25) |
Lulu Miller |
“…This thing we do all the time, which is to group things together that don’t belong under one word, to preserve a sense of order, or comfort, or control.” |
| (12:33) |
Nadège Paquette |
[Tense light percussion music begins] This also happens with sound. Most people think about sound by reducing it through naming. It is one of the central premises of The Race of Sound by music scholar Nina Eidsheim. When we hear a sound but can’t identify its cause, we may ask the acousmatic question, “What is this?” The term acousmatic signals this perceived rupture between the sound and its source. Asking the acousmatic question reveals the assumption that there can be an answer to it. That the thick event of a sound and especially in Eidsheim’s research, of a voice, can be captured by a word encompassing its source. [Music ends] This belief that by naming we come to know what we name is reassuring. [Eerie music begins] Miller believes it is what reassured her son after he had a particularly intense night terror. Miller’s wife was able to appease him only by bringing him in front of a photograph of a Coptic tapestry and naming the things she thought she could see. |
| (13:39) |
Lulu Miller |
“‘Goat,’ she said tapping the glass, ‘flower, snail.'” |
| (13:44) |
Nadège Paquette |
Miller suspects that her son’s night terror was linked to his recent inquisition of words, which suddenly made him feel that the unknown was a threat. [Music ends]Neurologists say we’re wired to fear the unknown, but, what if, Miller asks… |
| (14:02) |
Lulu Miller |
“What if that fear only starts with the advent of words?” |
| (14:06) |
Nadège Paquette |
We could say that causal listening, that is listening for the cause of the sound, and then naming the source is a process that attempts to remedy our fear of the unknown.
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[Strange sounds rapidly rise and fall]
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Film theorist and composer Michel Chion explains that we’re engaged in causal listening when we ask: what is making a sound? What is the thing, object, being, or phenomenon, producing the sound, and where is its source located? [Dense eerie music begins] Causal listening or the ability to interpret sounds and identify their possible causes is both learned culturally and wired to our survival instinct. Instinctively we understand that loud noises almost always mean danger. But culturally we also learn to identify some loud noises as coming from unthreatening sources, and we’re thus able to respond to them accordingly. Music and drone fade out]
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If I hear loud noise and it triggers fear in me, identifying its cause might bring my fear to dissolve. Naming, once again, is a way to regain a sense of control. [Pensive percussion with sirens begins] The horror film genre is one that attempts to elicit fear in its audience by using unnerving sound effects, but also by playing with the process of revealing a monstrous or threatening force which previously remained partially hidden. In the Western branch of the horror genre, film plots are generally built around this process of making known the unknown. |
| (15:48) |
Nadège Paquette |
Many Japanese horror films, however, reject this framework. J-Horror films produced in the 1990s and 2000’s participate in an aesthetic movement centering non-symbolic or non-representative frameworks. It is not the meaning behind the film or the source behind acousmatic sound that is horrific, but the lack thereof. [Music fades out] The lack of source and lack of meaning are frightening. Japanese director Kiyoshi Kurosawa is an important figure in J-Horror. [Ominous soundscapes from Pulse begin] In his movie Pulse, released in 2001, the sources of fear are many and remain partially unknown. Sonic drones, acousmatic voices, and the sound of computer circuits exchanging information are dislocated from their sources which evade understanding and create fear. |
| (16:49) |
Nadège Paquette |
Pulse is set in the 1990s posed-bubble Japan at the beginning of the Internet. [Ominous soundscapes continue, with sirens] People are disappearing in Tokyo, leaving only a dark stain on the wall, like the ones left after the Hiroshima nuclear bombing which had burned human silhouettes on stone walls. It seems that there’s a computer virus infecting users and turning them into ghosts. Or it could be that the realm of the spirit has attained its capacity and is now overflowing, through internet circuits, into the realm of the living. Soundscapes fade out] Pulse’s ghosts have been interpreted as symbols of the hikikomori. Hikikomori are young adults, mostly men in their 20’s and 30’s, withdrawing from society by refusing to leave their room for months or years at a time. [Eerie music begins] The phenomenon has been described as an epidemic that Japan faces since the 1990s. Some explained the situation as a backlash to the strict demands of the Japanese conformist society, which hikikomori are unable or refuse to fulfill. |
| (18:02) |
Nadège Paquette |
Naming the fearful apparition of a ghost by a known phenomenon, that of hikikomori allows for the reestablishment of the boundaries of the known. Yet the symbolic interpretation leaves out many other possibilities. By focusing on the meaning of the film, it’s affective power is left out. In other words, fear and everything unspeakable in the movie are overlooked. What I’m trying to explain here echoes Susan Sontag’s argument in her essay “Against Interpretation.” She explains that interpretation, too often, favors content over form and thus centers meaning and neglects the work of art’s affective quality. Sontag writes that “Real art has the capacity to make us nervous.” But this nervousness is avoided when the work of art is reduced to its content, and its content to our interpretation. |
| (19:01) |
Nadège Paquette |
In this sense, a non-symbolic reading would allow for the work of art to retain its capacity to make us nervous, to make us feel the effect of fear which uncertainty creates. To perform a non-symbolic reading of the film, I have to decenter abstract meaning to focus on the film’s materiality and my embodied experience of it. [Music fades out]
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When I listen to Pulse’s sounds, I hear layers of complexity. [Birdsongs and sawing sounds overlaid begin] I hear layers of human, machine, element, and animal entanglements. I feel confusion and fear. So why do I like it so much? [Abrupt silence] I tune into those entanglements and those feelings of discomfort, and I feel the excitement of knowing that there is more to the movie than what I understand, that there is more to the world than what I can experience. [Birdsongs and ominous music fade in and out] In Pulse, what travels both through circuits and through sounds are unsettling presences that exceed human understanding.
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[Ominous soundscape from Pulse play] |
| (20:14) |
Nadège Paquette |
What I like so much about the film might be that it makes me feel what philosopher Timothy Morton calls “intimacy.” According to Morton, intimacy is what best explains ecological awareness. Ecological awareness cannot be reduced to the profoundly confirming feeling that we belong to something bigger. [Strings rise and fall] The feeling of belonging is accompanied by the sentiment of intimacy, which is the sense of being close, even too close to non-human presences like ghosts, nuclear radiations, or global warming.
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Intimacy is the sense of having other presences “under one skin,” explains Morton. [Eerie strings continue] Global warming gets under my skin and in my lungs when I breathe the summer air in Montreal. An air heavy with the small particles from the smoke caused by forest fires intensified by global warming. In Pulse, Ryosuke, a university student, experiences intimacy when gesturing to put his hands on the shoulders of a ghost in the hope that they will encounter no resistance, that they will traverse the ghost’s body, that it’s immateriality will convince him that the ghost doesn’t exist. But Ryosuke’s hands stop when they touch the spectre’s shoulders, which they can’t traverse. [Sound bite of object shattering] |
| (21:55) |
Nadège Paquette |
The spectre is material and it is too close to Ryosuke, who becomes infected by the virus and himself eventually becomes a ghost. [String music returns] Perhaps dwelling in uncertainty and living through the effects of fear, nervousness, and uncomfortable intimacy allow me not only to intellectually challenge the Western paradigm of knowledge accumulation, but also to embody this challenge, to feel it. [Music fades out]
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[Soundscapes from Pulse are superimposed with sirens] Pulse ends on an apocalyptic vision of Tokyo burning. The city is deserted by the protagonists and a few other humans that are leaving on a ship to try to find a place on earth the virus hasn’t infected yet. While the end of the film is also the end of the world, the story remains open because the film resists a single overarching interpretation. The story remains open because of the non-human presences traversing its soundtrack. |
| (23:07) |
Nadège Paquette |
[Soundscapes fade out and soft music begins] The stories in this second section, they too are about the end of the world. But they go further than just opening to a new one. They teach me how to survive in the aftermath, and how to live with others in damaged worlds.
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I have associated the following stories because they all offer a representation of a weapon which Western powers have called a “test.” [Music fades out] We could define a test as an experiment which is carried out to establish the performance of something before it is taken into its intended use. The word “test” can be used to sustain a binary between the fictional world, where the test is performed, and the real world, where the tested thing will be used. Following Morton, I tune into the materiality of nuclear bombing by listening to a recording of the Caste Bravo nuclear weapon “test” that was launched on Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands in 1954 by the US Army. [Drone sound fades in and out] Timothy Morton writes, “Words fail to describe the horror with which I heard the first few seconds. I had to tear the headphones off my head.” [Sound effect of someone tearing their headphones off] [Silence] What is maybe even more horrific than the sound of the explosion itself is the seconds of silence preceding it.
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[Dense silence that lasts too long for comfort, from the recording of the Bravo “test” followed by the explosion] |
| (25:41) |
Nadège Paquette |
Can I tune into this silence to hear what is to be annihilated by the explosion? Can I hear the attempted silencing of the Marshallese people’s protests? Are the 26 seconds of relative silence before the detonation enough to remember the 72 hours the US army waited before gathering the islanders? Are the 26 seconds enough to remember the 236 Marshallese who were exposed to the atomic fallout and transported to the American military base where they were to be used as “test” subjects?
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[Eerie music fades in]
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Inhuman geologist, Kathryn Yusoff writes, “The fallout coated Marshallese bodies, ground, trees, breadfruit, coconuts, crabs, fish, and water.” The islanders were returned to the islands to study them as what was called fallout “collectors.” Human and non-human islanders were taken to be instruments serving to record the effects of such “tests” on human life and Pacific Island ecologies. But Yusoff reminds me that there is no such thing as a nuclear “test.” [Music ends]
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The Marshall Islands are not a laboratory and the islanders are not “test” subjects, but people still living in radioactive intimacies causing high rates of leukemia, neoplasm, and thyroid cancers. [Tense electronic music beings] When the US army describes the dropping of nuclear bombs on the Marshall Islands as a form of “test,” the islands are constituted as a sort of fictional world whose destruction is not real. “Test” is a way of naming a form of nuclear colonialism and warfare. It derealizes the life of Pacific Islanders and constructs this ecosystem as a fictional world. The military can get a practice before having to perform in the real world. [Music ends] In her poem anointed… |
| (27:52) |
Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner |
“Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner,” |
| (27:54) |
Nadège Paquette |
…Marshall Islander poet, performance artist, and educator returns to Runit Island in Enewetak Atoll, part of the Marshall Islands. She remembers it as a whole island with breadfruit trees and “women who could swim pregnant for miles.” [Sound of waves from Anointed] She remembers the nuclear warfare waged against the island. She wonders if she will find an island with stories or a tomb. |
| (28:24) |
Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner |
[Tense orchestration begins] “I’m looking for more stories. I look and I look. There must be more to this than incinerated trees, a cracked dome, a rising sea, a leaking nuclear waste with no fence, there must be more to this than a concrete shell that houses death.” |
| (28:46) |
Nadège Paquette |
[Orchestration fades out] Jetñil-Kijiner is looking for stories that weave the relationships that matter to communities of humans and more than humans, but her story tells me that Morton’s account of the recording of the Bravo “test” and Yusoff’s account of “nuclear colonialism” don’t, is the story of ongoing life in cohabitation with disrupted landscapes. [Energized electronic music starts] Jetñil-Kijiner tells the story of a turtle goddess who gifted one of her sons, Letao, a piece of her shell anointed with power. Letao could use the shell to transform himself into anything he wanted and he became kindling to create the first fire that almost burned the islanders alive. [Energized music fades and soft music begins]
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There’s another shell story. Made of concrete, this one is supposed to shield the islanders from the toxicity of nuclear waste collected and dumped in a crater two decades after the end of the “testing.” There’s another weapon that calls itself a “test” and needs stories to weave an alternative discourse to the one of warfare, conquest, and colonization. |
| (29:59) |
Tanya Tagaq |
“Wait, I need to talk to Sedna and tell her to keep her treasures. Humans have damned themselves and it has nothing to do with Satan. It has only to do with greed. What will Sedna do when she hears the seismic testing? |
| (30:26) |
Nadège Paquette |
That was… |
| (30:27) |
Tanya Tagaq |
“Tanya Tagaq.” |
| (30:28) |
Nadège Paquette |
An Inuit artist, improvisational singer, avante-garde composer, and author reading from her novel Split Tooth. [Tense percussion music begins mixed with the sound of ice melting]
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The novel’s protagonist was telling Sedna’s story before being interrupted by the intrusive memory of seismic testing. “Sedna is the sea goddess that came before Christianity.” Seismic testing is the technique used by companies to survey the Arctic Ocean for oil. Airguns are fired into the water from a boat. How the sound waves bounce back up from the ocean floor is captured by the ship sensors to be analyzed for indications of possible oil layers. Airguns are blasted every 15 seconds every hour of the day for several months. [Eerie string music begins] They produce sounds that can reach 230 decibels at close range. That’s louder than a jumbo jet and sound travels faster and further on the water.
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[Dense electronic music starts] 150 decibels can rupture a human ear and anything over 80 decibels means reduced intellectual capacity, slow digestion, altered diction, accelerated breathing, and heartbeat, as well as symptoms of neurosis such as anxiety and depression. Music fades out]
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So when those extremely loud sounds traverse the arctic ocean, they hit creatures living in the waters, including marine mammals that use sound to communicate such as narwhals, belugas, whales and seals. [Music with harsh percussion begins] Narwhals have been disoriented by disturbing sounds in an area where there was seismic testing going on. They changed their migration patterns and found themselves stuck under thick sea ice where they drowned. [Music ends] |
| (32:24) |
Nadège Paquette |
Around 2011, seismic testing companies approached Jerry Natanine, mayor of Clyde River, Nunavut. [Music with harsh percussion returns] When he told his father and uncles about the project, they were, like Tagaq’s protagonist, assailed by the intrusive memory of seismic testing. They remember when, in the 70’s, Panarctic Oils carried out similar tests without consulting the local Inuit communities. The next spring when they went hunting, they noticed the seals were displaying strange behaviors. They did not flee or even react when hunters would approach them. They had pus exuding out of their ears. They were deaf. [Music and sounds fade out] [Silence]
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I couldn’t find sounds of seismic testing on the internet, so I tune into this silence and to what it means. Do narwhals belugas, whales and seals hear a deafening ringing in their ears after airgun shootings and before they can hear nothing else? Do the calves miss their parents’ voices? Are marine mammals deaf so that I can listen to silence induced by noise reduction on my oil soaked headphones connected to my oil soaked computer in a warm library, thanks to heating oil, rendered even more cozy by oil soaked noise absorbing carpets? [Silence]
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[Watery sounds and eerie ambient music begin] When Tagaq’s protagonist wants to tell Sedna to keep her treasures from greedy companies practicing seismic testing in the Arctic, the protagonist is not proposing a form of symbolic reading of Sedna’s story. Sedna is not a character in a fantasy world who would be valuable only if she symbolized a real person, event, or phenomenon in the real world. Sedna is an-other-than-human being living in the protagonist’s world. And the categories of real and fantasy here represent a Western rationalist reading that dismisses Indigenous ways of knowing. Tagaq’s protagonist interacts with Sedna’s story and other Inuit stories to remind us as writes… |
| (34:57) |
Daniel Justice |
“Daniel Justice.” |
| (34:58) |
Nadège Paquette |
Citizen of the Cherokee nation and professor of Critical Indigenous Studies, “that there are other ways of being in the world and those we’ve been trained to accept as normal.” Split Tooth might be what Justice calls a “wonderwork,” a story that brings the past forward and integrates a possible future for Indigenous peoples. In Split Tooth’s possible future, Sedna might hear the seismic testing, and if she does, she might keep the sea creatures in her miles long hair to protect them from the sound, but then the human inhabitants of the Arctic would starve. [Music and sounds end] [silence]
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Natanine, Clyde River’s mayor, explains that the community needs seals, narwhals, whales, and fish. The community and its mayor took the seismic “testing” companies to court to oppose their activities on Inuit land. In 2017, they won their case in the Supreme Court of Canada, which forbade further testing underground that Inuit treaty rights were disregarded, Inuit people inadequately consulted, and their relationship to marine animals dismissed. [Pensive percussion music begins] When companies performing seismic “testing” fail to consider how it will affect seals and other marine animals, the colonial worldview where animals are subordinate forms of life, whose bodies are killable and available to human use is given priority. |
| (36:39) |
Nadège Paquette |
An Inuit worldview where animals are essential partners in Inuit life, is positioned as a fictional world where “tests” can be performed for the benefit of the real world down south. For the human and animal inhabitants of Inuit lands and waters however, seismic testing is not a “test.” Seismic “testing” is already a form of violence that corporations owned by non-Indigenous interests perform. Tagaq’s novel refuses such binary separation between real and fictional world. I thus want to resist the urge to categorize Split Tooth by giving it the name of a particular genre like fiction, memoir, or poetry. Those categories of the Western literary tradition might not help me encounter the work on its own terms.
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[Eerie music fades in] Tagaq’s story is told through a web of Indigenous perspectives. It is a collaborative work that she weaves with her band, community, ancestors, animal and mineral neighbors, with Inuit songs and worldviews, and stories like Sedna’s story and that of Arqsarnic, the Northern Lights. It is what Justice would call “stories that heal.” They contrast those healing stories with the colonial story of “Indigenous deficiency,” which has been told too many times to mask settler’s guilt and shame. [Music ends] According to this colonial story, many Indigenous people are suffering from poverty, homelessness, and addiction, not because of intergenerational trauma caused by colonization and genocide, but because Indigenous individuals supposedly lack in “character or biology or intellect.” |
| (38:33) |
Nadège Paquette |
[Energetic electronic music begins] Split Tooth is not a story of lack but of partial positions and fulfilling relationships. The protagonist is busy with collective reinvention and remembering. Her pain and fear come with pleasure, healing and cunning plans. I love how the novel brings dualities in uncomfortable proximity: humans are both hating and loving, harming and caring.
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Humans are also animals, animals take erotic forms and attract humans. Predators are also prey. Spirits leave and come back to their bodies; bodies are shapeshifters. [Music fades] Listening to Tanya Tagaq’s amazing audiobook Split Tooth late at night, day after day, her soft rhythmic voice began to feel like a haunting. Her “S” sounds were encircling my limbs like tendrils and I started reading my own work with the cadence of her voice.[Dark pensive music begins] I’m even doing it now.
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Tagaq reveals harsh realities and traumatic events with a soft voice and a juvenile tone. [Dark music ends followed by playful music] The voice that she shares with the protagonist seems to me at times childlike, and at times wise and old, and sometimes mischievous and even cruel. Her voice goes from one to the other with only the slightest variation in tone, rhythm, or pace. [Music stops]
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I can’t separate the hero from the villain in Tagaq’s story, and this brings me to reflect on my own position as a white settler. I too am neither simply innocent nor guilty in the ongoing colonial story. I am implicated in the conditions creating trauma and violence in Indigenous communities, and me and my ancestors have benefited from colonial systems. Attending to the discomfort I feel when faced with the ambiguity of Tagaq’s characters helps me sit with the discomfort I feel when reflecting on my own position. I hope that this emotional engagement can help me be more accountable. [Pensive music fades out] |
| (40:49) |
Nadège Paquette |
[Soft energized music begins] Letao’s story and Sedna’s story as told by Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner and Tanya Tagaq are complex webs of situated Indigenous knowledges talking back to imperialists and colonial stories of man as maker and destroyer. Just as stories like Letao’s and Sedna’s have always been important to the Marshallese and Inuit people telling them, they will have to be important to non-Indigenous people like me who would like to cohabit with humans and non-humans within the conditions of global warming. Those stories make speculative leaps toward other worlds that have existed, exist now and might exist in the future. Rational knowledges and facts are not sufficient to live with others on a damaged planet, so the challenge Indigenous stories pose to Western understandings of what is real and what is fiction has to be taken seriously.
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Stories might allow us to walk that thin line between knowing too much and knowing too little. While humans of the 21st century know a lot about global warming, we seem to be unable to act. If rational knowledges, facts don’t bring action, can I turn towards unknowing? [Music intensifies and ends] [Soundscape from Pulse fades in and out] Pulse’s strange sounds like Letao’s and Sedna’s story are not exhausted by any symbolic reading I might make of them. I manage, in the understanding I have of them, a space for feeling nervous, a space not to name things or to cultivate distrust in the names I give. [Eerie music begins]
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The sounds in Pulse like the stories in Anointed and Split Tooth are palimpsestic, layers sedimented one over the other, like the layers of soil saturated with plutonium on the Marshall Islands, like the strata of oil, gas, and sedimentary rock in the ocean bed, like the layers of bodies infiltrated by strontium90, like levels of memories, practices, and knowledges collected in stories. [ Nadège’s voice echoes] There must be more to this. [Music fades out]
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[Soft electronic music fades in] Thank you for listening. Voices are from Hannah McGregor, Stacey Copeland, Lulu Miller, Daniel Justice, Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner and Tanya Tagaq. Music is from Tom Bonheur, merci Tom, and from Blue Dot Sessions. Soundscapes are from Pulse directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa with music by Takefumi Haketa. The recording of the Castle Bravo “test” is from JLiat’s website. Additional sounds from RadioLab, and Anointed, a film by Dan Lin and Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner. Thank you. [Electronic music fades out] |
| (44:20) |
Katherine McLeod |
[SpokenWeb theme music begins to play quietly] The SpokenWeb Podcast is a monthly podcast produced by the SpokenWeb team as part of distributing the audio collected from and created using Canadian literary archival recordings found at universities across Canada. |
| (44:34) |
Hannah McGregor |
Our producer this month is Nadège Paquette, a master’s student in the English department at Concordia University. Our supervising producer is Maia Harris. Our sound designer is James Healy, and our transcription is done by Zoe Mix. |
| (44:49) |
Katherine McLeod |
To find out more about SpokenWeb, visit spokenweb.ca and subscribe to Spokenweb podcast on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you may listen. If you love us, let us know. Rate us and leave a comment on Apple Podcasts or say hi on our social media at SpokenWebCanada. Stay tuned to your podcast feed later this month for ShortCuts with me, Katherine McLeod. Short stories about how literature sounds. [SpokenWeb Podcast Theme Music fades and ends] |
