This is the final leg of Mapping MAMM, the series that delves into the Mapping Ann-Marie MacDonald Research Project and its most interesting topics.
We’ve come a long way in this series, asking numerous questions about the university environment and what goes on in its halls besides lectures and cramming for exams. In chapter one, I introduced the project and how I became involved with it; in chapter two, I examined MAMM as a truly interdisciplinary endeavour; in chapter three, I got into the feminist ethics of care that strengthen MAMM’s work environment; and in chapter four, I explored the complexities of Canadian literature and MAMM’s place in it.
In this final chapter, I’ll get into the unique relationship between MAMM’s researchers and Ann-Marie MacDonald herself, and how such a relationship represents the true strength of the university and the world at large. That may sound like a lot for one article but read on — it’ll all make sense in due time.
First off, it’s important to acknowledge that Ann-Marie MacDonald’s proximity to this project is incredibly unique for a few reasons. History tends to tell us about the tenuous relationship between authors of literature and literary critics. Oftentimes, English students are advised to remove the author from their analysis entirely — that authorial intention is negligible in the study of a text.
Perhaps this makes some sense when the author is long dead, but in the case of living authors, the absurdity of that assumption becomes quickly apparent. Ann-Marie MacDonald acknowledges that when she came of age, there was a “romantic notion” about authors not caring about what anyone else said or thought about their writing. Unsurprisingly, she thought that notion was ridiculous.
“I’m doing it for myself? Are you kidding?” she would say to herself.
The truth of the matter is that, despite what anyone says about keeping streams of knowledge production separate, these things are in constant conversation. Stories are meant to be shared, and once they are, they percolate in the “collective unconscious.”
“I don’t begin and end at the end of my skin,” says Ann-Marie, calling herself a concentration point for these stories, but not the ultimate authority on them or their meaning: “The whole point is the sharing.”
Dr. Neta Gordon cites Death of the Author by Nigerian-American author Nnedi Okorafor as providing an especially topical perspective on that matter. As Neta explains, “separating all of these different forms of knowledge production is silly and also counterproductive, but silly because of course these things influence each other.”
It’s no surprise, then, that MAMM — which, as we’ve already seen, has no qualms about shattering assumptions in academia — considers Ann-Marie’s involvement one of the most critical aspects of the project.
Indeed, Neta and Ann-Marie’s relationship, which we’ve explored in previous articles, is unique and produces a foundation of trust for the project. As Ebru says, “We are building on an established relationality and reciprocity and care.”
“[Ann-Marie is] a very intense person in a really incredible way,” says RA Sloane Gray. “Her enthusiasm is something really special, I think. Like, not only being able to meet the person that you’re doing all your work on, and you’re pouring all this time and energy into, but for them to reciprocate the enthusiasm that you’re putting in and for them to give you that feedback, that incredibly positive feedback, and want to be a part of what you’re doing and want to see the work that you’re doing and contribute in any way that she can. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”
MAMM’s collaborative environment — and especially Ann-Marie MacDonald’s role in it — enforces the idea that shared knowledge is the best kind. Neta calls it “a different kind of reading” which emphasizes collaboration, negotiation and “affective exchange,” a term from geographer Clancy Wilmott.
“It’s changing the relationship between the reader and the text and the reader with other readers,” says Neta.
There is no singular correct reading, no “real truth” of a text, as Pilar and Emily put it, even when the author of that text is alive and available for consultation. Instead, multiple truths can exist simultaneously, all variable on multiple affective readings.
Ann-Marie says that experiences are transferable. Oftentimes, people see themselves in her stories, especially in instances of trauma or other challenges, even if the events are different. “Empathy is core” in storytelling, says Ann-Marie, and writers shouldn’t worry about being appropriative or writing outside of their lived experiences.
“[If you won’t write about something because you haven’t lived it], you’re telling me you’re not a writer, or you’re not going to write fiction,” says Ann-Marie. “If I waltz in with no idea, then I deserve to be called on it. Not because I presumed to write outside my lived experience, but because I got it so wrong.”
Mistakes are necessary for knowledge to be produced, after all, but Ann-Marie’s writing lends itself to the type of collaborative reading experience that MAMM is undertaking. Ann-Marie tells me she likes her work to be experienced on multiple levels, whether by specialists who appreciate references or people who just enjoy reading. It is “intentionally invitational,” as Neta puts it.
Another of Neta’s terms, which describes Ann-Marie’s work, is “strategic unmappability.” As Emily explains, “you’re reading not just to acknowledge, but to actually read the gap in between findable points and literary representations. […] And so as a group, we kind of come together as an assemblage with this text to try and represent it. And I don’t know, but I think that’s a huge responsibility.”
At its core, MAMM’s research gets to the root of why we study literature — why we study anything at all.
“I think that the big skill that attention to literature produces is the skill of empathy,” says Neta. “There’s something about long-form reading, of fiction, which forces your brain to practice empathy, because it forces your brain to practice getting inside somebody’s head for a while and staying there.”
Studying the humanities is studying what it means to be human. I got that from a conversation I had with Neta a long time ago, but it’s stuck with me and feels especially pertinent now. Empathy is the beating heart of the humanities and the Mapping Ann-Marie MacDonald Research Project not only intimately understands this, but it actively disseminates this empathy back into the environment.
“This idea of reciprocity, generosity: I think those things become, for me, significant overarching themes in addition to a feminist ethics of care,” says Dr. Ebru Ustundag. “Research has a very Western-positivist way of understanding, [but] we have discussions on decolonization, anti-racist, like Indigenous, [and] they have been telling us, ‘No, actually, research is about relationality and community building.’”
Ann-Marie tells me it can be disconcerting at first, learning that one can be studied. But “of course you can be,” she says. Artists can get lost in their own worlds, only to lift their heads after several years, surprised at their own age and at becoming an “eminence.” But for Ann-Marie MacDonald, MAMM has given her the “experience of feeling really seen as an artist.”
Telling stories is part of being human and the work of the artists is “to soak up the culture, soak up the discourse [and] create something new,” says Neta, especially when critics are producing that discourse.
One of Ann-Marie’s personal heroes is Northrop Frye. She tells me that she always returns to his words about the imagination and “why we tell the stories we tell at a human level.” Tropes and stories are always recycled from one medium to another, but instead of facing this with a sense of dread, Ann-Marie thinks it’s inspiring and restorative.
“[What strikes me as really valuable is] releasing your work into the hands of people who are going to continue its evolution, its life,” says Ann-Marie. “It’s a way of seeing your work branch off and differentiate, like a tadpole. It’s very exciting, very creative. It’s alive.”
Since I was young, I’ve loved reading and writing stories, but when I started considering pursuing creative writing in academia, I was cautioned. People told me that critically and thoroughly analyzing literature would make me forget why I loved reading and writing in the first place. They said it would be the death of my creativity.
Well, after four years of studying literature, I can confidently tell those people that they were wrong. Analysis doesn’t destroy what makes a story so lovable in the first place; it propagates that story and provides different ways of experiencing it. It gives people like me the chance to talk about stories with other people who actually care. Analysis keeps stories alive, which means universities serve a distinct purpose (and it’s not about neoliberal ideas of efficiency or marketization).
Neta calls the university an “incredibly unique, precious space.” Whether it’s from the COVID-19 pandemic or the age of social media, she says that “young people are lonely […] and that’s another part of the project, is giving young people, or students, the opportunity to work together.”
“In this discipline, especially on the critical side of the house, maybe not so much in the creative side of the house, that’s not always the case,” says Neta. “[At convocation,] I watched some students walk across that stage who I’ve known for years, but I still don’t know the sound of their voice. And that seems unfortunate. […] The more we can give students the opportunity to work through those communication, knowledge-production practices, the better [for] the state of the world and the state of the university.”
At the end of the day, says Neta, “that’s what university is for: having conversations with people that you don’t really get to have anywhere else.”
MAMM teaches us that when the world is on fire, we must come together. We must cherish empathy, and we must cherish each other.
As Sloane says, “there’s a reason why people are interested in the work that we do, in the collaborative, compassionate work that we do, because people are tired of not being compassionate. […] People aren’t born to lack compassion.”
So, let’s try to be more compassionate, yeah? Erin Morgenstern says that “we are all stardust and stories,” so while the world is going up in flames, let’s try listening for once. If we stand together, we can face any challenge.
—
We’ve covered a lot of ground in the last five weeks. For myself — and I hope for you too, dear reader, as I’ve brought you along this journey — studying the Mapping Ann-Marie MacDonald Research Project has given me faith that there is another way to do academia. It has shown me that new opportunities lie around every corner; that it’s normal and good to ask questions; that empathy and compassion are not only traits, but tools for the future; and that we’re truly all in this together.
Creativity binds the world together. It gives us the chance to explore and live and find joy, even in the work environment. Especially in the work environment.
This is the end of my series on MAMM, but I know it’s not the end of the conversation, not while Neta and her wonderful team continue to practice these pedagogies and not while you finish reading this article. I hope that you have come away from this series with something valuable, and I hope that you continue to share the lessons that you’ve learned along the way.
Knowledge production is a community endeavour, after all, and we are nothing if not members of this community, whether that’s in the university, the country or the world.
So, let’s be good neighbours. Let’s have good conversations. Let’s practice empathy.
And let’s do it together.
Disclaimer: As an RA employed by MAMM and Brock University, I was paid to write this series; however, my compensation was not accompanied by any assertions of bias or censorship, and the views expressed in these articles, aside from quoted material, are uniquely my own.