Who am I? A Cultural Narrative

Since my last post, I have been thinking a lot about the future. That's why it surprised me when I came across some of my writing from the past that seemed so relevant to my life right now.

This week, I have been reading a lot of blogs about freelance writing, and researching different opportunities in the world of online freelancing such as Examiner.com or Suite 101. More about that next time...

What inspired this post, however, was a piece of writing I discovered while I was looking for a sample to submit along with an application to one of these freelancing sites. It was written for a course I took in 2009 called "Narrative Possibilities: The Transformative Power of Writing, Story, and Poetry in Personal and Professional Development". I have never shared it with anyone outside of that class before, but I present it to you here exactly as I wrote it two years ago.

It is very personal and reflective. Re-reading it now makes me realize that I still have unanswered questions about who I am and where I am going. Some of my views have changed since this was written, especially when it comes to the question of religion and my spiritual identity, but I will discuss that in more detail in another post. For now...

Assignment:

Write a cultural narrative about your own life or family that contains elements of healing. Demonstrate that you can put this story into a cultural context.

But how can I do that when I don’t even really know or understand my own culture? Everyone is part of one, I know… Even me, though I often feel as if I am missing something in that respect. So what is my culture? What shapes my culture, and my “self”? Who am I, anyway? I am just me…

I fulfill many roles, including daughter, granddaughter, goddaughter, niece, cousin, friend, girlfriend. But although they are all parts of me, these roles do not make up the essence of who I am.

Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in my name. After all, the act of naming is sacred, and my name must provide some clues as to who I am and where I come from. Let’s start with my first name, my “given” name… Given to me by whom? Well, my parents, of course. Katherine. Katie. Kate. From the Greek “katharos” meaning pure – did they know that when they chose it? Or did they just like the way it sounded? I have never asked…

I remember being told that my name was chosen to be original. Many people are named after family members, or someone respected and admired. This kind of naming provides a link, a connection with the past and with someone who is loved. My story is different… I was purposely not named after someone else, so what does that say about me? Does it mean that I am lacking somehow, maybe lacking that familial connection? Or is it a sign of power? I am independent, original. I am the first in our family with this name, and it is mine only. For that, it is special and unique. I am special and unique.

My middle name – Dawn. Chosen because it goes well following Katherine? Because of the image it evokes, of the sun rising and light shining and beauty and newness? I’d like to think so. I have never really felt any attachment to my middle name, however. My mother’s is May, the same as her mother’s. Why was that tradition not passed on to me? Roberta May, Cynthia May, Katherine May… It is even the month of my birth! My father does not have a middle name. None of the nine children in his family do, for reasons unknown to me. On official forms requiring a middle initial, he must leave it blank. I wonder if this lack of a second name means anything? How has it affected them? Perhaps not at all…

Surname, please. “Gillespie.” A good Scottish name. When asked about my heritage, I always say Scottish first. I wonder why that is… On my mother’s side there is German and Irish blood, and it is from my maternal grandmother that I get my red hair with which everyone identifies me. So why do I always answer that I am Scottish? That link to my name, I suppose…

My parents were both born here, in Canada. I am a Canadian, second generation. Grandpa Gillespie was born in Scotland and Grandma in England. They had their first four children in Scotland, but my father was not one of them. He and Aunt Joan (fraternal twins) were the first to be born in Canada. That is something special, I think.

I am proud to be Canadian. But what does that mean? To be honest, I’m not really sure. How do I define it, “being Canadian”? It is more than the stereotypes of surviving cold weather, loving hockey and being nice and polite. And more than simply “not American”.

I am Canadian… I stand at attention when our national anthem is played. I wore a sweatshirt emblazoned with the maple leaf when traveling Europe, to avoid being mistaken for an American. I love living in this country, where there are so many opportunities. Where there is freedom and beauty and now I just sound cheesy… But my respect is genuine and I know I am lucky to be a Canadian citizen, even if I cannot express all of the reasons why in words just now.

My history is inextricably linked to the military as well, though I myself have never served. My father was in the Royal Canadian Air Force for 32 years and retired at the rank of Major. He is a very intelligent, well respected and hardworking man whose values have had a tremendous impact on my own. My dad is my hero. That’s important to know if you want to know me.

Both my grandparents were veterans of WWII. My grandpa’s brother, Uncle Al, was captured and imprisoned in a POW camp during the war. He never spoke about it for years, I am told, but near the end of his life would tell my parents and I stories over a glass of scotch on Sunday afternoons. Two glasses, actually because – “you never fly on just one wing”. My culture, my heritage, my history, my ancestors, my past, whatever you would choose to call it… Scotland and the Air Force both play important roles.

I do not know much about Grandma Gillespie. I remember her voice and her famous sour cream cookies. She came from a family of thirteen or fourteen children. Many of them were killed in a house fire before she came to Canada. No one ever speaks of it, though I’m not sure how much is really known to speak of… She passed away when I was ten years old, from cancer. My grandma was the first person I ever knew to die. Tears still sting my eyes when I think of her, and I wish I had gotten to know her better. My Uncle Bill recently underwent surgery for the same kind of cancer, and my dad was tested early enough to catch the single polyps before they could spread, thank God.

I have not mentioned religion so far because I do not know where it fits into my story. It is part of culture, I know, but I feel no strong connection to any religion. My dad was raised Catholic, and my mom is a Protestant. We went to church when I was little and I attended Sunday School, but I never really understood much of it.

I guess I am a Christian – I celebrate Easter and Christmas – but I do not go to church. For me, it is more about spending time with my family and being together than anything else. My mom goes on Christmas Eve, but to me that seems hypocritical somehow. One year my dad and I went with her, and I felt awkward and out of place. After that, I chose not to attend anymore.

I rarely ever pray, though I have when I felt the need to. I live “in sin”, I suppose, with my boyfriend since we are not married. No one seems to think this way any more though… At least, nobody that I know. The stigma once attached to that seems to have faded, and I do not see anything wrong with the way that we live. Maybe I would feel differently if I had children.

I want to believe in God, and there are times I’m sure that I do. The idea of Heaven and Hell seems strange to me, though. I wonder if my grandparents are really watching over me, as I’d like to think, or if they are really just gone. This is a subject I will have to spend much more time contemplating and writing about in my journal.

Grandma Munk, my mom’s mother, also died of cancer. I was closer to her, especially in the last few years of her life. When I moved to Kamloops, my grandparents and my aunt were the only people in the area that I knew. They lived in Salmon Arm, about an hour away, and I used to visit them a lot while I was going to school. Today, Grandpa Munk is my only living grandparent. He suffered a stroke the same night my grandmother’s cancer came back and they were both hospitalized. He is not the same person anymore. I miss the strongly opinionated man he used to be. Maybe that man is still there somewhere, trapped behind the docile mask that looks so much like the Grandpa I used to know.

So where does culture come from? And who am I, really? Am I any closer to finding the answers?

I am Canadian. I am a daughter. I am a student. I am a redhead. I am Iggy. I am white, I speak English, I am heterosexual and I am on a journey to find myself. This much I know, but I want to find out more. I crave answers, about the world and about myself that I can discover only by pursuing my writing and reflection, and by finding out more about my family history. I cannot say that writing this has healed me exactly, because I’m not sure I have anything I need to heal from…

Nothing related to culture, or a lack of it, anyway. I do believe that this week has forced me to ask more questions and probe for answers that I have not tried to find so far. I want to continue my journey of self-exploration and I hope that I can get to know myself better one day. Maybe I will find some connections to my culture along the way.

Having read this over again, and having cried through parts of it as well, I must admit that I still feel a little lost and unsure of myself. I am hopeful though, and have been left feeling inspired by one of the last lines I wrote, containing an observation I had forgotten until now:

"I crave answers, about the world and about myself that I can discover only by pursuing my writing and reflection, and by finding out more about my family history."

I believed then that through writing and reflection, I would be able to answer the questions I have about the world and about myself. That is exactly what I have set out to accomplish with this blog, as I explained in my first post, through the metaphor of throwing my heart out in front of me and running ahead to catch it. How is it possible that I have allowed myself to forget the importance of this in the past couple of years?

I am glad that I stumbled upon this piece, and am more and more convinced that what I knew then is true now. It may be cliche to say that life is a journey, but that's the best way I can describe it, and I am excited about where my own is leading. I may not know which direction the road ahead will take, but I am looking forward to finding out, and I am more confident than ever that writing will play a huge role in my discovery.