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Decentring multiculturalism : public and counterpublic spaces in Dionne Brand's What We All Long For… Sharpe, Natasha Larissa 2012

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DECENTRING MULTICULTURALISM: PUBLIC AND COUNTERPUBLIC SPACES IN DIONNE BRAND’S WHAT WE ALL LONG FOR AND TIMOTHY TAYLOR’S STANLEY PARK by Natasha Larissa Sharpe B.F.A, The University of Victoria, 2009 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS in The College of Graduate Studies (English) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Okanagan) November 2012 © Natasha Larissa Sharpe, 2012  ii  Abstract This study explores the usage of public and counterpublic spaces in two Canadian novels, Dionne Brand‘s What We All Long For (2005) and Timothy Taylor‘s Stanley Park (2001). These navigations and explorations reconstitute public space in order to claim that space for marginalized Canadians, challenging the discourse of multicultural tolerance and constructions of Canadian identity as white. These texts challenge current understandings of citizenship based on exclusion in order to promote a citizenship predicated on civic engagement, coalition, and affinity, rather than essentialist identity. I undertake a close reading and comparison of both novels within the context of Canadian literary history, Canada‘s history of multicultural policy, and the intersections of multicultural discourse and Canadian literature, in particular the ways in which literature by Canadian authors designated as ‗multicultural‘ is appropriated by national multicultural discourse to promote Canadian tolerance and preserve white hegemony and centrality in Canada. My work draws upon theories of postcolonialism, postmodernism, and hybridity to explore race, gender, and class as they constitute subjects within relations of power in these novels. While Brand‘s characters at times seek refuge in subaltern counterpublics, they ultimately realize the limitations and failings of those spaces, opting instead to remake and reimagine the public in their own image as a space for civic engagement on their own terms rather than those of the white, capitalist hegemony. Taylor‘s characters, however, abandon the public completely; arguing that the public is too corrupted to be recovered, they establish new counterpublic spaces that re-establish the privilege they meant to escape. In conclusion, the divergences between the two novels indicate two different ways of contesting multicultural discourse; Brand‘s characters resist by remaking the public, and Taylor‘s, by abandoning the public.  In the context of reconstituting Canadian cultural  citizenship, Brand‘s strategy offers challenging but hopeful opportunities for contesting the ii  discourses that construct Canadian identity and public space as the sole province of normalized whiteness while constructing ‗multicultural‘, particularly racialized Canadians, as outside Canadian identity and yet necessary to national myths of Canadian ‗tolerance‘.  iii  Table of Contents Abstract ....................................................................................................................................................... ii Table of Contents ...................................................................................................................................... iv Acknowledgements......................................................................................................................................v Introduction .................................................................................................................................................1 Chapter One: Historicizing Multiculturalism ........................................................................................16 Chapter Two: Transnational Hybridity and Racialized Surveillance in What We All Long For ......49 Chapter Three: Postmodernity and Globalization in Stanley Park ......................................................75 Chapter Four: Interrogating the City and Intervening in Multicultural Discourse .........................101 Works Cited .............................................................................................................................................125  iv  Acknowledgements I would like to acknowledge and thank my supervisor, Dr. Lisa Grekul, for her generosity and guidance. I would also like to thank Drs. Jennifer Gustar and Allison Hargreaves for their consistent encouragement, and thank Drs. Margaret Reeves and George Grinnell for their mentorship. Special thanks go to my family for their unwavering support.  v  Introduction This study examines the ways characters in Dionne Brand‘s What We All Long For (2005) and Timothy Taylor‘s Stanley Park (2000) navigate both public and counterpublic spaces. Both novels use images of individuals moving through public space and creating or abandoning counterpublic spaces to critique the way national identity is constructed in the image of the powerful and to intervene in the self-congratulatory narrative of institutional Canadian multiculturalism, which constructs ‗Canada‘ as a benevolent entity while upholding and concealing whiteness as the hegemonic centre of Canadian national identity. Characters in these novels cross and contest borders in order to reclaim hybridity, re-infusing it with the revolutionary potential it loses when it is appropriated by the postmodern, globalized economy, and pursuing a citizenship founded in agency and strategically chosen affinities. Brand‘s characters recognize their exclusion from public space as well as the violence represented by counterpublics, living their lives as attempts to write their existence into Canadian public space and discourse. Taylor‘s characters, however, abandon what they see as an irredeemably corrupted public in exchange for an anarchic counterpublic. My analysis of Stanley Park questions these lives lived outside and on the run from the public, given that the novel never addresses the violences of counterpublics with which Brand‘s characters struggle. My thesis analyzes these novels in order to critically interrogate the ways multicultural discourse shapes the nation as white and constructs racialized Canadians as ‗outside‘ citizenship. I explore how each novel presents a way of being in the nation founded not on exclusion but on people choosing to work together by acknowledging our implication in each other‘s goals. My use of the first person plural pronoun demands that I position myself and the ‗we‘ in which I include myself in relation to these works and the discourses that I interrogate. As a white woman, I am the beneficiary of racist institutions that privilege white epistemologies and 1  marginalize racialized others. My exercise of Canadian citizenship is unquestioned; I can speak as an ethnically unmarked subject without acknowledging the ways in which my scholarship is influenced by my own experience. It is because of this position of privilege, which I must negotiate and account for but can never fully distance myself from, that I must interrogate my own assumptions. My thesis employs an eclectic, self-reflexive approach grounded in historical material analysis, drawing upon critical race theory and Canadian history as well as postcolonial and indigenous scholarship. Stuart Hall‘s conceptions of identity as not an ‗essence‘ represented through culture but rather as produced through cultural practice and as therefore necessarily hybrid and contingent form the basis of my understanding of hybridity in conjunction with Homi Bhabha‘s postcolonial analyses of identities forged by negotiating multiple subject positions and border crossings. In my thesis, I strive to use the invitational ‗we‘ of Brand‘s title to represent and include all Canadian artists, readers, scholars, and activists, challenging a restrictive and exclusionary Canadian ‗we‘ in order to promote a model of agency and citizenship that rejects the normalized whiteness inherent in national discourses of institutionalized multiculturalism. Multiculturalism conceals and upholds a core hegemonic white ‗Canadian‘ culture at the expense of racialized Canadians‘ exercise of full citizenship. Multiculturalism emerged at a specific historic juncture and is therefore the product of a nation-building project that preserves white hegemony by erasing, managing, and marketing ‗differences‘ arranged hierarchically around an ethnically unmarked ‗core‘. Historically, multiculturalism marks the moment when the state‘s othering gaze deflected from the ‗ethnic‘ subject, usually the Continental Central or Eastern European whose differences were suppressed or assimilated, to the ‗raced‘ subject, produced by post-Second World War diasporas, whose differences could not be overtly rejected because of the country‘s commitment to post-war ideals of human rights, developed by the international community in response to the horrors of the Holocaust (Craig 123). This deflection successfully folded French-Canadian and indigenous peoples‘ demands for sovereignty into the 2  supposedly cultural conflicts multicultural policy was designed to manage, erasing the pretwentieth century histories of ethnically marked and racialized others in Canada, such as Chinese railroad labourers in Western Canada and the descendants of African slaves in Nova Scotia. Narratives of white victimization position ‗Canadian culture‘, assumed to be the culture of white Canadians, as under attack; by identifying themselves as the victims of multicultural policy, hegemonic Canadians both legitimize their resistance to anti-racism and erase the histories of oppression that multicultural policy ostensibly sets out to rectify. Since the institutionalization of multicultural policy, Canada‘s ‗ethnic‘ authors have been read as evidence of Canadian multicultural utopia, while these same authors and their works are simultaneously exoticized and commodified to increase Canada‘s cultural capital in a global economy. In short, multiculturalism‘s colourful ‗mosaic‘, while seeming to celebrate difference, actually keeps Canada‘s colourful ‗other‘ tiles subordinate to the ‗grout‘ of normalized Canadian whiteness. My thesis takes as its point of departure the idea that we must continue to expose the normalized whiteness inherent in multicultural discourse and question ‗celebrations‘ of difference that sidestep commitments to the political pursuit of social justice. In Dionne Brand‘s 2005 novel What We All Long For, four friends living in Toronto struggle to define themselves against both the traditional, ethnically-defined cultures of their parents and a dominant culture that denies them entry into ―regular Canadian life‖ (Brand 47). Tuyen‘s parents were separated from their son Quy as they fled Communist Vietnam: this loss echoes the loss of occupation and identity they suffer in a city that sees them only as the ―Vietnamese food‖ they sell, not as individuals (Brand 66). Tuyen, an artist and a lesbian, defies her parents‘ traditional expectations as she incorporates the images and practices of their traditions into her art. Carla‘s working-class Italian-Canadian mother committed suicide, leaving Carla and her brother Jamal to be raised by their African-Canadian father and his wife. Now in her twenties, Carla tries to keep Jamal safe from the consequences of his criminal 3  activities. She works as bicycle courier, meditating on the border her mother was punished for crossing as she races through the city at high speed. As a child, Jackie moved to Toronto with her African-Canadian parents from Nova Scotia. Her parents found their dreams deferred by racism and economic oppression, but Jackie appropriates the gentrification of city space that closed her parents‘ favourite hangouts but will hopefully increase the profitability of the second hand clothing shop she owns. At the novel‘s opening, Oku has dropped out of graduate studies in English Literature. He tries to define his identity and his future in the face of his Jamaican father‘s bitterness, the pull of the criminal economy, and racially inflected state surveillance that constructs him as criminal. Tuyen, Carla, Jackie and Oku have been friends since high school, where they formed a ―friendship of opposition to the state of things,‖ bound together by ―their common oddness‖ (Brand 19). Disrupting their narrative is a series of first-person chapters narrated by Tuyen‘s lost brother, Quy, who recounts his journey through refugee camps and the Asian criminal underworld as he makes his way to Toronto where he awaits an ambiguous reunion with his family. As What We All Long For illustrates, when we define national public culture as white, racialized citizens are pushed out of the public. In the novel, Brand‘s protagonists ‗push back‘, reclaiming the public for themselves as they forge a politics not of essentialist identity but of affinity. They construct hybrid subjectivities and resist the nation-state‘s racialized surveillance, which mobilizes the discourses of institutionalized multiculturalism to construct their ethnically marked bodies as un-Canadian and preclude them from all of the exercises of citizenship. They forge a coalitional politics that transcends understandings of loyalty based on fixed identity in favour of shifting bonds of affinity. Living against the expectations of their immigrant parents and the restrictions of a society that demands whiteness as a prerequisite to belonging, they build their subjectivities and politics based not on a longing for lost origins or for assimilation into the hegemonic culture but on the creation of affinities across and beyond borders. 4  In his 2001 novel Stanley Park, Timothy Taylor describes the park as a liminal space both central to Vancouver‘s story of itself and the site of all it disavows: the homeless, the criminal, the insane. In 1953, park workers uncovered the remains of two children. Their murder was never solved, and they came to be known as ―the Babes in the Woods‖ (Taylor 26). Professor Papier, an anthropologist, strives to understand these murders as an origin myth for the city, casting Stanley Park itself as a fallen Eden which offers a contingent and illegal protection from the disciplinary forces of the city. Those who seek shelter in the park from political repression, mental institutions, or the enduring legacies of colonization forge connections to the land that contrast dramatically with the alienated mobile elite, products of migration and globalization. Within the economic stratification of global capitalism, the privileged can ignore borders and engage in multinational business, while the economically and politically oppressed suffer forced migration or forced immobility. The Professor moves into Stanley Park, practicing ―participatory anthropology‖ in order to understand ―the individual, the calculated or imposed decision, the personal evidence of allegiance to, or repudiation of, the soil‖ (Taylor 4, 230). The Professor‘s son Jeremy Papier, a chef, divides the culinary world into ―Crips‖ and ―Bloods‖ (Taylor 32). Crips considered themselves ―post-national‖; they reject the constraints of time, space and authenticity, producing meals at once ―copious‖ and ―incoherent‖ (Taylor 32, 340, 50). Bloods like Jeremy, on the other hand, believe in ―tradition‖ and ―veracity,‖ and align themselves with the ―‗local‘ by the inheritance or adoption of a culture, linked to a particular manner and place of being‖ (Taylor 32). Instead of authenticity, derived from biological heritage, Jeremy forges his professional identity through lived allegiance to a chosen tradition. At his own restaurant, The Monkey‘s Paw bistro, his menu articulates a politics not of differences in opposition but of affinities in coalition: not ―of being opposed to imported ingredients, but of preference, of allegiance, of knowing what goodness came from the earth around you‖ (Taylor 51). 5  Jeremy, however, does not possess the financial skills necessary to run a business. As his debt spirals out of control, he sells The Monkey‘s Paw to his financier, international businessman Dante Beale. Dante creates an entirely new restaurant on the same site that easily appropriates Crip internationality and abolishes time and space barriers to consumer goods for the privileged, using the power of global capital to procure foods from any place and any season at any time – for a price. On the restaurant‘s opening night, Jeremy surreptitiously feeds the guests meat and greens harvested illegally from Stanley Park, calling this meal ―a performance about memory‖ and using this platform as one final chance to remind people, under the pretence of Dante‘s commodified hybridity of ―the soil under [their] feet‖ (Taylor 353, 51). Promptly fired, Jeremy abandons the legitimate economy altogether and establishes an underground restaurant in Chinatown. In Stanley Park, uncritical appropriation and commodification of ethnic difference as a product for the wealthy to consume corrupts public space, mirroring multiculturalism‘s commodification of ethnicity for white voyeuristic consumers. Yet the novel‘s championing of apolitical alternative economic spaces fails to convince because the privileged (middle-class) subjects in the novel appropriate working-class aesthetics and revolutionary tactics in the same way that the captains of industry appropriate ethnicity. While the allegiances grounded in an anti-essentialist relationship to place offer possible ways of rethinking citizenship, I argue that, as Brand‘s novel reveals, this fight must be fought on public ground in order to alter the way Canadian think about national identity. In order to examine Dionne Brand‘s What We All Long For (2005) and Timothy Taylor‘s Stanley Park to determine how these novels intervene in multicultural discourse, I must first articulate how this discourse has been shaped and how it, in turn, has shaped Canadian culture. In The Dark Side of the Nation: Essays on Multiculturalism, Nationalism, and Gender (2000), Himani Bannerji argues that Canadian multiculturalism, as a set of public policies, was 6  developed to manage to presence of racialized and ethnically-marked Canadians while maintaining the hegemony of Anglo-European Canada. These discourses are deployed to manage difference constructed as apolitical ‗diversity,‘ promoting ‗tolerance‘ at the expense of dismantling structural racism. By essentializing ethnically-marked and racialized Others in Canada, as well as trivializing their experiences and cultures into commodities for white consumption and voyeurism, multicultural discourse constructs the ‗Canadian citizen‘ as white, normalizing and privileging whiteness while seeming to celebrate ‗diversity‘. Multicultural policy has long been the subject of debate. Public intellectuals on the right, such as Daniel Stoffman in his 2002 work Who Gets In: What’s Wrong With Canada’s Immigration Program and How to Fix It reject even the lip service to anti-racism indicated by the discourse of ‗tolerance,‘ demanding instead that Canada‘s Others ‗integrate‘ or ‗assimilate‘ into an undefined but assumed to be pre-existing ‗Canadian culture‘ by recognizing the supposed universality of white values, especially those that protect the interests of capitalism, patriarchy and heteronormativity in the name of ‗national unity‘. Liberal critics like Will Kymlicka attempt to balance ‗multicultural‘ rights, constructed as group rights, practised in private, with those of the public, the domain of the universalized (white, Western) individual or citizen. Though Kymlicka has published extensively on his theories of multiculturalism1, he fails to recognize the ways in which group membership affects individual rights. His reliance on a public/private binary belies the ways in which raced Canadians, whose ‗multicultural‘ rights are constructed as private, are excluded from engaging with the public on any terms other than those of that entrench white privilege. This binary, mapped roughly onto lived experience, creates the need for the subaltern counterpublics – exclusive public spaces created for and by marginalized groups – that fill Brand‘s and Taylor‘s novels. In contrast, critical anti-racist, Marxist, and 1  Politics in the Vernacular: Nationalism, Multiculturalism, Citizenship (2001), Finding Our Way: Rethinking Ethnocultural Relations in Canada (1998), Multicultural Citizenship: A Liberal Theory of Minority Rights (1995)  7  postcolonial scholars, including Himani Bannerji, Smaro Kamboureli, Sneja Gunew, and Roy Miki, argue that multicultural policy essentializes and trivializes the identities and experiences of racialized Canadians, marginalizing them while upholding the normalization of whiteness. My thesis extends these theorists‘ analyses and applies them to Brand‘s and Taylor‘s novels in order to argue that these texts indict the multicultural discourses that privilege white Canadians and marginalize racialized Canadians, as well as to propose an alternative model of citizenship that relies not on the essentialist exclusion of others but on coalition and affinity, established by working together bound by common goals rather than common identities. I will historicize Canadian multicultural policy, arguing that it must be read as the product of changing attitudes to ethnic and racial difference as well as to the limits not of diversity but of ostensibly acceptable racism and prejudice. I analyze historical Canadian immigration policies and practices to argue that those policies were designed to maintain the hegemony of British Canadians and manage the ‗threat‘ to that hegemony posed by British and American imperial power, indigenous resistance, and ethnic, racial, linguistic, cultural, economic, religious and political difference. In White Civility: The Literary Project of English Canada (2006), Daniel Coleman argues that the universalized values of normalized whiteness, specifically the ‗civility‘ and ‗tolerance‘ of Western liberal humanism, lie at the centre of the nation imagined by this project. Citizens who cannot claim this centre are, by definition, excluded from this imagined Canadian community, marginalized and constructed as the recipients of (white) Canadian benevolence. This ‗white civility‘ demands a performance of citizenship that adopts or expresses British, capitalist, patriarchal values. In this context, I will examine the narratives of white victimization Eva Mackey records among small town Canadians, who construct the attempts of multicultural policy to ‗celebrate‘ or ‗recognize‘ Canada‘s Others as an attack on their own centrality, using their privilege to position themselves as subordinate, setting the limits of ‗acceptable‘ tolerance, 8  multiculturalism, and anti-racism. These discourses preserve white dominance by constructing the multicultural Other and multicultural policy as an attack on the rights and culture of those who, through white privilege, universalize their experiences and stand in for the nation. These narratives are used to defend white Canadians as well as attack racialized authors, constructing the white or normative Canadian as the ‗victim‘ of multicultural policy, as was the case during debates surrounding Appropriation of Voice in the 1980s and ‗90s, as well as the controversy over the Writing Thru Race Conference of 1994. I will argue that the production of the multicultural anthology and celebration of the multicultural author attempt to make multicultural cultural production representative of ‗CanLit‘, increasing the nation‘s global cultural capital and proving Canadian ‗tolerance‘. Via its valorization of marginality, postmodernism risks appropriating the marginalized position of Othered authors without displacing the centre of normalized whiteness made legitimate through narratives of victimhood. In this context, I will discuss the controversy surrounding the publication of Linda Hutcheon‘s and Marion Richmond‘s 1990 anthology, Other Solitudes, the first widely read ‗multicultural‘ anthology of Canadian literature, and interrogate ways in which critics like Hutcheon have retroactively canonized multicultural authors by emptying ethnic and racial difference of their political connotations and historical connections – by, as Smaro Kamboureli argues in Scandalous Bodies: Diasporic Literature in English Canada (2009), turning difference into ‗diversity‘. Finally, I will examine various scholars‘ attitudes toward the future of Canadian cultural citizenship as it pertains to the models of citizenship exercised in the novels under discussion. When I ask how can we create a new citizenship, my first step is to critically interrogate the ‗we‘ in which I include myself – what is this ‗we,‘ and what entitles me to belong to it? Instead of pursuing a unified national identity, I propose a model of citizenship founded in chosen allegiances and affinities held in tension. 9  In Chapter Two, I will discuss What We All Long For and argue that Brand‘s protagonists reject essentialist nostalgia for origins and unambiguous cultural identities in favour of hybridities that allow them to form bonds based on affinity instead of identity, ―positioning‖ themselves ―within the discourses of history and culture‖ (Hall 299). They inhabit what Homi Bhabha describes in ―Border Lives: The Art of the Present‖ (1994) as ―the rim of an ‗inbetween‘ reality,‖ with ―the feeling of living in two dimensions, the look of being on the brink, at the doorway listening for everything‖ (Bhabha 327, Brand 20). In addition to creating new ways of being and forming relationships, I will analyse their resistance of the racialized, ―reterritorializing‖ surveillance of the nation-state, represented by the Toronto Police Service and Mimico Correctional Centre (Dobson 189). In Discipline and Punish (1977?), Michel Foucault writes that surveillance seeks to control minute details of subjects, their position in space, their activity, and their use of time, in order to produce obedience and economic usefulness, ―docility‖ and ―utility‖ (Foucault 137). Racialized surveillance limits the emancipatory possibilities of hybridity, countering the ―drifting‖ Marlene Goldman observes in Brand‘s novels in her essay ―Mapping the Door of No Return: Deterritorialization and the Work of Dionne Brand‖ (2004) (Goldman 13) with what Kit Dobson calls a ―reterritorializing and disciplinary system‖ in Transnational Canadas: Anglo-Canadian Literature and Globalization (2009) (Dobson 189). Brand‘s transnational city threatens hegemony as ―a crossroads for dangerous mixtures, a meeting-place for forbidden circulations‖ (Foucault 144). Through ―an uninterrupted, constant coercion‖ and supervision, nation-states reconstruct transnational subjects as unintelligible and criminal Others (Foucault 137). Through Tuyen‘s installations, Brand invokes ―the Surrealist practice of exquisite corpse—a multi-artist drawing collage,‖ as a response to the mosaic analogy of multiculturalism, which Smyth argues offers ―a unique way to imagine the relationship between parts and whole of a collectivity, and an alternative to nation-based multicultural ideology‖ (Smyth 275). The 10  components of a collage relate to one another in ways that ―illustrate … the relational dynamics of community and difference‖ more productively than a mosaic, in which, as I argue, the individual ethnically marked ‗tiles‘ are neutralized by the ‗grout‘ of normalized Canadian whiteness (Smyth 285 – 6). In Scandalous Bodies, Smaro Kamboureli advocates a ―mastery of discomfort‖ which involves ―shuttling between centre and margin while displacing both‖ as we continue to negotiate rather than assimilate difference (Kamboureli 130). I will apply Kamboureli‘s concept of ‗shuttling between‘ to the novel to uncover a new citizenship which transcends the inclusion/exclusion paradigm. In ―Feminism, Citizenship, and Radical Democratic Politics‖ (1992), Chantal Mouffe argues that a ―new conception of citizenship‖ (Mouffe 409 – 10) can destabilize hegemonic constructions of the nation by identifying Eurocentrism and racism as the centre of our political, economic, cultural and social structures. Brand re-centres her own difference when she asserts that, instead of writing from ―any ‗margin,‘‖ she writes from her own centre, from ―right in the middle of Black literature‖ (Brand 14). Instead of an identity category, access to which is predicated on racial, ethnic, gendered, sexual, and class ‗neutrality,‘ Mouffe contends that citizenship can become ―an articulating principle‖ (Mouffe 413) that allows people to work. Goldman describes this process of working together as the art of ―crafting affiliations‖ (Goldman 14) which Smyth observes ―crosscut foundational identity categories in unexpected ways‖ (Smyth 274). Smyth argues that the practice of creating affiliations that transcend essentialist identity categories can transcend ―the limits of multicultural discourse‖: instead of ―trying to incorporate difference into unity,‖ as in multicultural discourse, ―coalition‖ is ―the difficult work of working together‖ (Smyth 275). Dobson reads Brand‘s use of ―we‖ in the novel‘s title as an invitation: the novel ―invites readers into a coalition through its title and by prompting them to consider their position‖ (Dobson 183). Tuyen, Carla, Jackie and Oku build spaces and hybrid identities for themselves under the threat 11  of state surveillance and the limitations of an institutionalized multiculturalism that bars them from citizenship, tracing the intersections of oppression and building a coalitional resistance. In Chapter Three, I will discuss Stanley Park, examining the ways in which Jeremy, as a diasporic subject whose ethnic heritage is partially unrecoverable, forges an anti-essentialist ideological genealogy for himself by aligning himself with a philosophy of cooking and a connection to place that espouses ‗roots‘ in the face of the postmodern placelessness that characterizes the global economy. The Papiers are dislocated from their own genealogy: their surname was invented by the Professor‘s Polish father upon his arrival to Canada, and Jeremy has resigned himself to his ―permanently erased history‖ (Taylor 39), locating his search for origins in what Mouffe calls ―the history of [his] identifications,‖ (Mouffe 407). I will analyze the ways in which postmodern global capital structures public space and constrains or forces movement within it; within the novel, the freedom to either root or move as one will is predicated upon access to economic power. Without this power, characters in the novel take refuge in subaltern counterpublics; Jeremy‘s father, Professor Papier, explores the relationships to land forges by the homeless as the occupy Stanley Park. Within the restaurant industry, Jeremy rejects the postmodern appropriation of ethnicity, marginality, and hybridity made possible by the global reach of capital; he rejects as well the homogeneity produced by market systems embodied by his financier, coffee mogul Dante Beale. Jeremy‘s restaurant, The Monkey‘s Paw Bistro, inhabits Vancouver‘s Crosstown neighbourhood, ―a colourful, kaleidoscopic place,‖ which offers ―a shifting multicultural client base that nobody could consciously target‖ (Taylor 52, 3). This eclecticism directly contrasts with the marketresearched, heavily homogenized product that Jeremy‘s financier, Dante Beale, sells at his international chain of coffeehouses, Inferno. As well as being freed from the humanizing constraints of time and space, global capital produces a homogeneity that threatens culture and the specificity of place, ―polluting the city with sameness‖ (Taylor 66). Dante represents the 12  power of capital to cross and erase borders: Jeremy muses that ―the Dantes of the world… unplugged themselves from the planet and were doing their business on a plane that hovered just above the actual surface of the earth‖ (Taylor 200). Jeremy describes himself as ―living on the plane below that one,‖ where lives are ―tangled more in the social and personal foliage of the place‖ (Taylor 200). Whereas Jeremy is often refused credit, as Dante‘s partner, he experiences the freedom that accompanies capital: ―All avenues of international supply yawned open‖ to Dante (Taylor 339). Tasked with creating a new restaurant for Dante, Jeremy declares this new restaurant, which is antithetical to his own values, is not ―the restaurant of all places‖ but ―the restaurant of no place‖ available only to those with privilege, those ―who can reach us and understand us and afford us‖ (Taylor 364). Jeremy concludes that the economically controlled and corrupted public cannot be recovered, and takes refuge in the subaltern counterpublic of the criminal economy. I will trouble the ways in which Jeremy problematically appropriates these spaces, importing his own privilege into them; in addition, I will argue that, by abandoning the public, Jeremy refuses Kamboureli‘s task of ―shuttling between‖ (130), allowing coercive global capital to continue to structure the ways in which subjects move through space. In Chapter Four, I will compare these novels by examining the creation of identity and citizenship through movement through the city space that recreates the public and creates alternative publics. In both What We All Long For and Stanley Park, characters positioned as subjects of difference reclaim the political potential of hybridity, crossing and contesting borders in order to reveal their arbitrariness, permeability, and violences. In Brand‘s novel, race and ethnicity are markers of criminality and barriers to power; in Taylor‘s, ethnicity is detached from lived experience and commodified for white consumers. I will examine the apparatus of economic oppression in both novels in both the legitimate and criminal economies. I will analyze the ways in which characters confront and contest the borders of gender and sexuality. Jules Capelli, the co-creator of The Monkey‘s Paw, has no place in Dante‘s sexualized economy. 13  The women of What We All Long For are hyper-aware of the borders they cannot cross: as a lesbian, Tuyen confines expression of her sexuality to counterpublics where she can ―drop her necessary defences to the city‖ (Brand 279). In addition, I will discuss conflicting images of mental (dis)ability, as well as problematic representations of indigeneity. In my examination of citizenship, I will focus on the ways in which Brand and Taylor disrupt binaries between subject and agent, and innocent and experienced. Jackie tells Oku that she is ―not innocent,‖ that she ―[knows] what‘s going to happen to [her]‖ (Brand 73). Jules and Jeremy project their own version of innocence and its implied authenticity onto to the students who frequent the Monkey‘s Paw: one of these students, Benny, challenges their image of innocence by aligning herself with Dante and his values. Inhabiting public space is a key to knowing the ground – both literal and ideological – upon which one stands. I will examine the ways in which characters navigate the city space, resisting power which Dobson writes ―seeks to reterritorialize drifting bodies,‖ as they ―mix and merge‖ to ―[ensure] their ongoing motion‖ (Dobson 181). While movement in itself is not necessarily liberating, undertaken at times without choice or under duress, ―for some, critically considered movement becomes a way of forming community‖ (Dobson 181). In What We All Long For, subaltern counterpublics are a dead end: characters must claim and remake public space. In the context of a fraught, imaginary national identity constantly in crisis and founded on collective amnesia, how do authors mobilize the cityspace to disrupt multicultural discourse, making visible the normalized whiteness preserved at the heart of tolerance? In What We All Long For and Stanley Park, respectively, Dionne Brand and Timothy Taylor use the city space and the interaction between publics and counterpublics to complicate questions of ‗national‘ identity. These novels speak to the failures and the potential of Canadian multiculturalism, and, as my analysis of the novels suggests, we must reframe our discussion of Canadian identity, 14  cultural difference, and citizenship in light of these failures. Specifically, we must jettison the language of ‗tolerance‘ (which privileges the white Canadian, whose identity goes unquestioned, who must ‗tolerate‘ the Other, racialized, not-Canadian) in favour of a reconfigured citizenship based not on identity but on affinity, on political commitment to social justice.  15  Chapter One: Historicizing Multiculturalism Multiculturalism constructs public space as white, driving the production of counterpublics by casting racialized and ethnically marked Canadians outside of national identity. Multiculturalism constructs the groups it claims to represent, essentializing and ossifying Canadians designated as ‗multicultural‘ while commodifying their experiences into cultural artefacts for white consumption and voyeurism. The discourses of ‗diversity‘ and ‗tolerance‘ dehistoricize multiculturalism, erasing histories of oppression while normalizing whiteness, preserving white hegemony, and presenting ‗multicultural‘ Canadians as a threat to homogenously imagined national unity by deploying narratives of whites ‗victimized‘ by multicultural policy. Within Canadian literature, the writing of racialized and ethnically-marked authors is furnished as proof of the successes of ‗tolerance‘ and uses ‗diversity‘ to boost Canadian cultural capital in a global economy. Given that whiteness remains central to notions of Canadian identity, we must interrogate the exclusionary roots of the project of nation-building in order to explore possibilities for a citizenship that transcends this paradigm. Multiculturalism must be read as a product of history rather than simply a feature of the present. Rather than marking a moment when Canada became less homogenous, multiculturalism manages differences and upholds white hegemony under the guise of civility and tolerance. In Haunted Nations: The Colonial Dimensions of Multiculturalisms (2004), Sneja Gunew argues that multicultural discourse deploys the past (or the imagined past) to preserve hegemonic power, using nations of ‗culture‘ and ‗authenticity‘ to mask the workings of oppressive and racist politics. In Scandalous Bodies (2009), Smaro Kamboureli argues that official policies of multiculturalism evolved as a ―reactive gesture‖ in response to the competing demands of Quebec, First Nations, and racialized and ethnically-marked Canadians designed to manage difference defined as a deviation from normalized whiteness which threatens a ‗national unity‘ predicated upon this whiteness (Kamboureli 98). Kamboureli maintains that these 16  discourses of ‗diversity‘ ―dehistoricize multiculturalism by seeing it only as a manifestation of the contemporary moment‖ without addressing the histories and ideologies that produced the ‗moment‘ of multicultural policy (Kamboureli 84). Such decontextualized understandings of multiculturalism obscure histories of colonialism, racism, and class struggle, homogenizing regional histories and privileging British Canadian experience. Multiculturalism was developed and is deployed to alleviate colonial insecurity and the xenophobic ‗threat‘ to homogenous national unity hegemonic Canadians project onto the bodies of ethnically-marked and racialized Others. During the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, these British Canadians invited ethnicallymarked and racialized subjects to materially build the economic base of the nation, while being denied full inclusion in the nation they built. In Racial Attitudes in English Canadian Fiction 1905-1980 (1987), Terrence Craig notes that Continental Europeans, Africans, and Asians were recruited or enslaved to do work British Canadians considered below them, creating a labour force subject to the demands of the British Canadian industrialists. At the turn of the twentieth century, Craig contends that ‗ethnic‘ immigrants could claim only ―a qualified and limited version of Canadianness‖; the power to grant this ‗Canadianness‘ was reserved by those whose claim to citizenship were guaranteed by British Canadian nation-building narratives, which excluded supposedly inferior ‗ethnics‘ by definition (Craig 7). In White Civility: The Literary Project of English Canada (2006), Daniel Coleman argues that this ‗civility‘ ―simultaneously advocated charitable welcome to foreigners . . . and, in the very act, represented those others as beneficiaries, rather than full members, of the civil collective‖ (Coleman 6, emphasis mine). Coleman‘s analysis of historical ‗tolerance‘ of Othered ethnic groups supports my own and others‘ arguments that contemporary multiculturalism similarly advocates that (white) Canadians ‗tolerate‘ (non-Canadian) others. British Canada measured Othered immigrants by how well they could conform to the normalized values of British Canadians, demanding assimilation to 17  these values while using racist discourse to enable and justify the exploitation of their labour. Coleman‘s and Craig‘s analyses support my own argument that the marginalizing moves of multicultural discourse, specifically, the ways in which multiculturalism constructs the Canadian citizen as white and ‗tolerant‘ of the not-quite-Canadian racial Other, are rooted in historical relations of power. Although the material nation-building project rested upon the bodies of ethnicallymarked and racialized subjects, British Canadians violently opposed non-white immigration and excluded non-white Canadians from the nation both legally and culturally. Throughout Canada‘s history, immigration was strictly controlled by governments, heavily influenced by economic need, and driven by a desire to admit only those immigrants who could successfully assimilate to ‗Canadian‘ life. In The Making of the Mosaic, Ninette Kelley and Michael Trebilcock document the ways in which Canadian immigration policy both shaped and responded to public sentiment, serving economic interests and upholding white supremacy. In the 1880s, ―an estimated 15,000 Chinese labourers were brought to Canada‖ to build the Canadian Pacific Railway (Kelley and Trebilcock 95). These workers were sought for their proximity to the West Coast and for the lower wages they accepted; however, white Canadians strenuously objected to their presence, attacking Chinese workers and protesting Chinese immigration. In response, the federal government instituted the Chinese Immigration Act of 1885, which demanded a $50.00 ‗Head Tax‘ on most Chinese immigrants; this tax was subsequently raised to $100.00 in 1900 and to $500.00 in 1903 (Kelley and Trebilcock 98, 145). In 1923, the revised Chinese Immigration Act effectively banned virtually all Chinese immigration (Kelley and Trebilcock 207). In 1907, Japan agreed to voluntarily limit migration to Canada (Kelley and Trebilcock 145). Immigration from India was restricted with a similar Head Tax, introduced at $50 in 1907 and raised to $200 in 1908 (Kelley and Trebilcock 150). Because India was a part of the British Empire at the time, Canada could not afford to bar Indian 18  immigrants outright; the government circumvented this diplomatic concern via the introduction in 1908 of a ‗continuous journey‘ rule, allowing only those immigrants who travelled to Canada in a continuous journey from their country of origin. As steamships from India refuelled in Hawaii, this act effectively barred Indian immigration to Canada without alienating Britain. ―A Hundred Years of Immigration to Canada 1900 – 1999‖, Janet Dench, Executive Director of the Canadian Council for Refugees, reports that the Immigration Act of 1910 allowed the government to bar immigrants ―belonging to any race deemed unsuited to the climate or requirements of Canada‖ (Dench). African, Caribbean and African-American immigrants were rejected on the grounds of ‗unsuitability‘, but they were also desired by industrialists as a source of cheap labour; as a result, while African-Americans were actively discouraged from settling in agricultural communities in Western Canada, African and Caribbean workers were recruited as domestic workers and menial labour in the industrial East (Dench). British Canada‘s obsession with a specifically British whiteness that upheld capitalism and patriarchy informs the nation‘s treatment of ethnically-marked immigrants and Canadians. The War Measures Act of 1914, for example, allowed the government to classify Austrian, Hungarian, German and Ukrainian immigrants as ‗enemy aliens‘, demanding that they carry identification at all times, forbidding them to possess firearms or read or publish in their own languages, denying them the vote in 1917, and interning thousands of these so-called ‗enemy aliens‘ (Kelley and Trebilcock 172). In 1919, the Immigration Act was amended to allow the government to prohibit any group of immigrants deemed ‗unsuitable‘ because of their ―peculiar habits, modes of life and methods of holding property‖; this language was used to justify the rejection of Doukhobors, Mennonites and Hutterites (Kelley and Trebilcock 187). In 1923, a hierarchy of potential immigrants was codified in law, demonstrating a preference for British and American immigrants, followed by Northern or Central Europeans; immigration from Eastern Europe was restricted (Kelley and Trebilcock 203). While at present ethnically-marked 19  Canadians may not be subject to the same kind of surveillance as racialized Canadians, this has not been the case historically; whether constructed as nationalist loyalties to countries with which Canada was at war, or as ‗ethnic‘ deficiencies of character and mind, or the fear of an economic or ideological structure that could challenge capitalism and government authority, certain European immigrants and their descendants have been marked as ‗ethnic‘ and ‗outside‘ national identity based on whiteness. In addition to racial and ethnic prejudices, immigrants and naturalized citizens faced deportation for engaging in ‗undesirable‘, particularly communist, activities; for committing – or being suspected of being about to commit – crimes; for becoming ‗a public charge‘; for illness or insanity; or for being unemployed (Kelley and Trebilcock 160). During the Second World War, Canada interned and confiscated the property of thousands of Japanese-Canadian citizens (Kelley and Trebilcock 259) and resisted the admission of Jewish refugees (Kelley and Trebilcock 257). While by 1938 various social and political organizations including the Canadian Jewish Congress and the Canadian National Committee on Refugees and newspapers like Saturday Night and the Winnipeg Free Press appealed to the government to admit Jewish refugees, the groups‘ pleas were drowned out by the voices of anti-Semitic organizations (Kelley and Trebilcock 258). A 1938 memorandum to Prime Minister Mackenzie King from the Department of External Affairs and the Department of Mines and Resources, which was responsible for immigration at the time, illustrates the contradiction between anti-Semitism and the humanitarianism that would become a valued component of the Canadian mythos and further influence Canadian immigration policy after the Second World War. ―We do not want to take too many Jews, but in the circumstances, we do not want to say so. We do not want to legitimise the Aryan mythology by introducing any formal distinction for immigration purposes between Jews and  20  non-Jews. The practical distinction, however, has to be made . . .‖ (Dench, emphasis mine). These policies reflect British Canadians‘ desire to accept only those immigrants whose differences could be contained and eventually erased as they absorbed and assimilated hegemonic values. After the Second World War, changing social attitudes and public support for a humanitarian approach to immigration began to affect policy. As Canada became involved in the creation of the United Nations, Kelley and Trebilcock report that the post-war Canadian public became aware that ―a large part of the rationale for the war had been to contest the grotesque implications of racial superiority made by the Nazi regime‖; furthermore, they argue, this awareness ―led to a progressive re-evaluation of discriminatory Canadian immigration policies‖ (Kelley and Trebilcock 17). Coleman argues that in the post-war period, Canadians gradually began to foster the image of Canada as a ‗welcoming‘ nation that would lead the world as ―a model of civility‖ (Coleman 27). In 1947, Prime Minster Mackenzie King defended Canadian immigration policy, arguing that the purpose of immigration and its attendant policies was to foster the growth of the Canadian population and economy; therefore, he promised the government would admit immigrants who could ―advantageously be absorbed into [the] national economy‖ and that the values that defined previous immigration policies would not necessarily change: the government kept its focus on admitting ―desirable future citizens‖ and maintaining ―the character of our population‖ by limiting Asian immigration (Kelley and Trebilcock 317). In 1947, Canadian citizens were allowed to sponsor family members as refugees; refuges without family in Canada could also be accepted, provided they were deemed economically viable, healthy, and politically and ethnically acceptable – that is, not Communists or Jews. The Chinese Immigration Act of 1923 was repealed, and Chinese Canadians were allowed to sponsor their wives and children for the first time in twenty four years (Kelley and Trebilcock 319). The 21  1950s saw intermittent progress toward more humanitarian and less overtly racist immigration policy. In 1951, Canada reached an agreement with the governments of India, Pakistan, and Ceylon to admit a certain number of immigrants from those countries (Kelley and Trebilcock 320). The Immigration Act of 1952, however, reiterated the government‘s right to refuse immigrants ―on the grounds of nationality, ethnic group, geographical area of origin, peculiar customs, habits and modes of life, unsuitability with regard to the climate, [and] probable inability to become readily assimilated‖ (Dench). In 1956, Canada strengthened its commitment to humanitarian ideals by admitting Hungarian refugees (Dench). In 1959, however, the government restricted the sponsorship of family members in a bid to curtail Italian immigration; met with public protest, the measure was rescinded a month later, reflecting the ―recognition that explicitly racist immigration policies were no longer defensible‖ (Kelley and Trebilcock 324). In 1962, new immigration regulations removed most racial restrictions, although European Canadians retained the right to sponsor more family members than non-European Canadians (Kelley and Trebilcock 320). In 1967, the last racial restrictions were removed from Canadian immigration and replaced with the Points System, which preferred individuals who could speak either English or French, were of working age, had employment arranged in Canada, had family in Canada, were educated, and were relocating to an area with high employment (Kelley and Trebilcock 354). While Canada could no longer afford, in the postwar political climate, to explicitly reject immigrants on the basis of ethnicity or race, the new immigration policy demonstrated a desire for immigrants who could integrate into the country‘s economic and linguistic framework; under the new Points System, increasing numbers of racialized people immigrated to Canada. In The Dark Side of the Nation: Essays on Multiculturalism, Nationalism, and Gender (2000), Himani Bannerji argues that non-white immigrants began to pose a greater ‗threat‘ to the imagined homogeneity of Canadian whiteness since the extension of legal citizenship to 22  racialized immigrants in the 1950s; previously indentured workers could be relegated to the ―limbo of legal and political non-personhood‖ (Bannerji 43). While the presence of racial Others had historically aroused fear and suspicion in British Canada, the government had been able to dispel or soothe these fears by barring many racialized immigrants from the country and by denying those who were admitted many civil and legal rights. In the face of postwar humanitarian ideology, British Canada needed a new strategy to manage this threat. Multiculturalism first became law in 1971. The institutionalization of multiculturalism after increased non-white immigration to Canada in comparison to the suppression of ethnic difference before the Second World War foregrounds, as Sneja Gunew argues in Haunted Nations (2004), the importance of racialization to understandings of multicultural difference. While marginalized Central, Southern, and Eastern Europeans were designated as ‗ethnic‘, Gunew argues that the language of ―‗visible minorities‘‖ was developed to refer to nonEuropeans, indigenous peoples, and African Canadians (Gunew 16). This shift from the assimilationist demands made of the ethnically-marked Canadian to the multicultural framing of the racialized Canadian allows multiculturalism to be deployed as ―a coded way to indicate racialized differences‖ (Gunew 16). Gunew‘s and Bannerji‘s observations support my own argument that before the establishment of multicultural policy, hegemonic Canadians demanded that the ‗ethnic‘ other assimilate and adopt their values; under multiculturalism, British Canada maintains the primacy and centrality of these values and the normalization of whiteness, seeming to allow racialized and ethnically-marked Canadians to ‗celebrate‘ their differences in the clothes they wore and foods they ate, while demanding that they adopt white values in order to participate in public, civic space, a space constructed as white. Mackey argues that official multiculturalism grew out of the recommendations of Lester B. Pearson‘s Bilingualism and Biculturalism Commission, begun in 1963 (Mackey 63). The Commission faced resistance from ethnically-marked Canadians, who ―rejected the hierarchy of 23  differences‖ implied by ‗biculturalism‘ (Mackey 64). Multicultural policy, therefore, mollified these groups while managing growing separatist sentiment in Quebec. In 1982, the Charter of Canadian Rights and Freedoms promised to uphold the ―preservation and enhancement‖ of Canadians‘ ―multicultural heritage‖; the 1988 Multicultural Act guaranteed the preservation, enhancement and sharing of multicultural heritage. At the same time, separatist sentiment grew in Quebec, where multiculturalism was seen as an attack on the protected status of the province‘s linguistic and cultural uniqueness. In addition, Gunew notes that indigenous peoples ―are occasionally included in multicultural discourses and practices and are also consistently trapped between the French-English divide‖ (Gunew 16); this inclusion erases their specific histories, cultures, and political demands. Constructing racialized Canadians as ‗visible minorities‘ aligns Anglophone with Francophone Canada by offering them an Other against which to define themselves, downplaying Quebecois cultural and linguistic specificity and dismissing separatism and indigenous resistance as the demands of two among many groups of ‗minorities‘. Mackey argues that multiculturalism entrenches British Canadian hegemony over Quebec while constructing racialized Canadians as ―necessary weapons in the war between the two ‗founding‘ nations‖ (Mackey 16). Multicultural policy simultaneously subordinates the political demands of Quebec and those of ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians to British Canadian hegemony in a gesture of appeasement. Multicultural policy cannot be extricated from the conflicts and concerns of the time of its development; in this context, multiculturalism represents an attempt by privileged ‗white‘ Canadians to control, appease, and manage the ‗threats‘ posed by Quebecois separatism, indigenous sovereignty, and racial and ethnic differences. In addition, when British Canada focuses on racialized Canadians as the primary ‗threat‘ to unity imagined as the dominance of white values, they expand the very category of ‗whiteness‘ itself to occasionally include subjects who were previously ethnically-marked: this expansion offers a certain amount of privilege to previously marginalized European Canadians 24  while at the same time obscuring and erasing specific histories of marginalization. UkrainianCanadian scholars like Myrna Kostash, Janice Kulyk Keefer and Lisa Grekul have troubled the homogenizing ideology that obscures historical relations of power and presumes that all people with pale skin have equal access to privilege. In Leaving Shadows: Literature in English by Canada’s Ukrainians (2005), Grekul argues that superficial expressions of multicultural ‗celebration‘ in the 1970s ―masked the profound cultural and linguistic loss that had already occurred among second- and third-generation Canadians by promoting trite, ‗song and dance‘ expressions of ethnicity‖ by those who had been forced to assimilate in order to survive; these ‗celebrations‘ of diversity divorced from a history of difference also mask the oppressions faced by marginalized European Canadians in Europe and in Canada, oppressions like the internment of Ukrainian Canadians between 1914 and 1920. In ―The Shock of White Cognition‖ (1994), Myrna Kostash observes that ―whiteness is provisional‖ (Kostash 4); by homogenizing the category of whiteness to include previously marginalized ethnically-marked Europeans, British Canadians confer some privilege upon these subjects while masking their historical subordination and silencing expressions of the ongoing legacies of oppression. Since the ideology of whiteness measures ‗difference‘ in terms of distance from hegemonic ideals of whiteness, the new position of racialized subjects as legal citizens and therefore a greater ‗threat‘ to Canadian homogeneity made ethnically-marked Canadians seem closer to hegemonic whiteness by comparison; what privilege these Canadians may have gained from this move is offset by the traumas that it hides. Multicultural policies and discourse are not merely the product of the presence of nonwhites in contemporary Canada, but part of the project of nation-building designed to preserve the legitimacy and civility of the settler-colonizer nation-state. British Canada alleviates its colonial insecurity, delegitimizes indigenous claims to land and sovereignty, preserves EnglishCanadian linguistic and cultural dominance over Quebec, and soothes its fear of American 25  cultural and economic imperialism through racist constructions of racialized and ethnicallymarked Canadians as ‗threats‘ to national unity. Multiculturalism allows hegemonic Canada to manage this ‗threat‘ while preserving and promoting the ‗tolerant‘ attitudes appropriate to a postHolocaust world, both masking and maintaining British Canadian hegemony. Anti-racist, Marxist, and postcolonial scholars argue that multicultural policy produces the groups it claims to represent through ―colonial – orientalist and racist – discourses‖ (Bannerji 9) which construct ―restrictive‖ assimilationist ethnicities (Gunew 5) defined ―categorically and not relationally‖ (Kamboureli 112). In Scandalous Bodies (2009), Kamboureli argues that attempts to ‗preserve‘ multicultural ‗heritage‘, as in the 1988 Canadian Multiculturalism Act, attribute to ethnic and racialized subjects a static, essentialized nature at odds with the dynamism of diaspora, transnationalism, and subjectivity (Kamboureli 106). By addressing the subjects of multiculturalism as essentialized groups rather than individual agents whose subjectivity is produced through myriad representations and relationships, multicultural policy both ossifies those groups into stereotypes and demands that individuals adopt the scripts of those stereotypes in order to be recognized and tolerated as ‗multicultural‘. When the homogenously imagined ‗ethnic community‘ ―becomes the representative of and reference point for cultural difference,‖ Gunew argues in Haunted Nations (2004) that women especially lose agency; ethnically-marked and racialized groups ―become characterized externally as static and ahistorical‖ (Gunew 17). Himani Bannerji similarly contends that assuming and demanding traditionalism of Othered communities benefits the conservative elements of those communities and forces ethnicallymarked and racialized subjects, especially women, to bear the burden of ‗tradition‘ (Bannerji 3). Already subject to the racist and gendered discourses of white Canada, minority women face as well the demands made upon them by their own communities that they perform the gendered traditions that will protect the community and the supremacy of the men within it.  26  Kamboureli argues in Scandalous Bodies (2009) that state multiculturalism funds ‗ethnic festivals‘ in order to deploy folk traditions ―both to obscure and to reveal‖; funding for folklore ―furnished proof of the circulation of ethnicity while securing for minority Canadians a space where they remain visible as Others‖ (Kamboureli 107-110, emphasis mine). These opportunities for ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians to express their culture only as a performance for hegemonic Canada essentialize marginalized Canadians into what Kamboureli calls ―objects of national voyeurism‖ (Kamboureli 110). This voyeurism or surveillance demands that marginalized Canadians ease dominant Canadians‘ political anxieties, limiting the avenues of expression available to ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians and punishing those who refuse to perform their difference according to hegemonic scripts. In these ways, multicultural policy imagines and represents the ‗multicultural Other‘ as static and exotic. In Haunted Nations: The Colonial Roots of Multiculturalisms (2004), Sneja Gunew writes that multiculturalism is driven by a desire to define and preserve ―a ‗cultural core,‘‖ a desire challenged by the competing demands of British and French Canadians as well as indigenous peoples, racialized Canadians, and American imperialism. In his essay, ―The Politics of Recognition‖ (1994), public intellectual and political philosopher Charles Taylor argues that minority cultures within Canada desire recognition, which cannot be demanded from the majority but must come out of a genuine respect for minority cultures. In her critique of Taylor‘s ‗Politics of Recognition‘ in Scandalous Bodies (2009), Kamboureli argues that multicultural discourse protects a monolithically imagined ‗mainstream‘ by presenting ‗other‘ cultures as a ‗threat‘ to Western European liberalism (Kamboureli 82). By demanding that other cultures prove their value in relation to the ‗founding nations‘, Taylor asserts his own culture‘s unquestioned value, presenting British Canadian culture as both universal and above examination, and, paradoxically, as at the same time ‗under attack‘ from Canada‘s Others. Bannerji argues that while Taylor‘s ―constant reference to a collective ‗we‘‖ may seem 27  invitational, he extends that invitation only to those who can ally themselves with the British Canadian hegemony that Taylor represents (Bannerji 126). Taylor addresses his readers as a British Canadian ‗us‘ who retain the power to recognize or refuse to recognize Others, a power Taylor refuses to question. Despite the egalitarian aims he articulates, Taylor‘s argument fails to question the ways in which whiteness, constructed as civilization, modernity, culture, and progress, are kept at the centre of ‗Canadian culture. Bannerji rejects his emphasis on ―recognition,‖ insisting instead that marginalized Canadians ―struggle to end exploitation and injustice‖ (Bannerji 147). In Haunted Nations (2004), Gunew asserts that ―the ‗migrant or minority as problem‖ trope dominates sociological discourses and immigration debates; this framing emphasizes ―compatible differences and the need to … conform to the mores of the new country‖ (Gunew 17) in keeping with the assimilationist requirements of Canadian immigration policy. In Scandalous Bodies (2009), Kamboureli critiques the ―sedative politics‖ of multicultural discourses of ‗diversity‘ and ‗tolerance‘, claiming that the Multiculturalism Act of 1988 was designed to ―recognize‖ differences ―in order to manage them,‖ ‗celebrating‘ differences constructed as essential, ahistorical, and apolitical ―without disturbing the conventional articulation of the dominant Canadian society‖ (Kamboureli 82). This recognition and celebration hides histories of racist oppression and colonial trauma; in the introduction to the second edition of Making a Difference: Canadian Multicultural Literatures in English, Kamboureli maintains that colonialism and the identity categories it produces pervade and uphold contemporary institutions and criticism (Kamboureli xiii). Dehistoricized narratives of multicultural diversity cover over histories of colonialism; Gunew argues that while postcolonialism is understood through ―specific historic legacies,‖ multiculturalism upholds ―the often compromised management of contemporary geopolitical diversity‖ (Gunew 15). Uncritical endorsements of the successes of multicultural policy deny both the historical legacies 28  of colonialism and the ways in which colonial relations and discourses continue to structure Canadian society; in Broken Entries: Race, Subjectivity, Writing (1998), Roy Miki calls ―this narrative . . . a fantasy that deflects the colonial history of white supremacist power‖ (Miki 211), highlighting the ways in which multiculturalism is deployed to erase histories of racism in Canada. Kamboureli argues in Scandalous Bodies that such endorsements present Canada as an already anti-racist utopia, ―usurping history, arresting politics, [and] foreclosing the possibility of any interruption of the mechanisms of social formations‖ (Kamboureli 168). When political figures, public intellectuals, and voices within popular culture promote official multiculturalism as proof of the end of racism, they erase histories of marginalization as well as the workings of racism with contemporary Canada, circumventing any honest questioning of the Canadian nation-state. Bannerji writes that hegemonic Canada mobilizes the discourses of ‗diversity‘ and ‗tolerance‘ within the framework of multiculturalism to contain this ‗threat‘. Without a commitment to anti-racist work and social justice, multiculturalism organizes the differences it has created into a hierarchy which normalizes and privileges whiteness, measuring ‗difference‘ in terms of its distance from whiteness and continuing oppression under the guise of liberal democratic humanism. Multicultural policy does not merely demark or ‗celebrate‘ difference: it arranges various differences in a hierarchy beneath the hidden norm of whiteness. The contemporary project of nation-building has its roots in the founding of settler-colonies, which ―imagine themselves from a position of precarious legitimacy‖ and must, as Mackey argues, legitimize themselves with narratives of moral superiority (Mackey 9). Coleman describes one of the central narratives of moral superiority as ‗white civility‘, the belief that whites are superior to barbarous Others who belong to racial group ‗behind‘ whites on a singular path of ‗progress‘. Civility operates as both an innate quality of white people, and as a set of behaviours that these people must perform and that others must imitate (Coleman 12, 13). These narratives of civility, by constructing British 29  Canadians as morally superior to all others, prompted and excused the genocide and oppression of ‗uncivilized‘ and ‗inferior‘ indigenous peoples. The concept of ‗white civility‘ continues to structure hegemonic images of who can be a citizen and how citizens must perform their ‗Canadianness‘. Coleman argues that Scottish settler-colonizers crafted a ‗British‘ ethnicity that positioned them as equal representatives of a British rather than subordinate members of an English imperial enterprise in order to resist the marginality of Scots in the British Isles. These Scots Presbyterians universalized their values and demanded that non-British immigrants adhere to these values in order to access the exercises of citizenship and inclusion in the nation; thus, as Coleman argues, ―Scottish self-improvement and enterprise became central principles of Canadian middle-class concepts of what constitutes civic participation‖ (Coleman 6). These undefined ‗mores‘ stand in for the values and practices of whiteness. Interviewed in an anthology of ‗multicultural‘ fiction, Other Solitudes (1990), Neil Bissoondath insisted that ‗we‘ need ―an across-the-board standard of what it is to be Canadian‖ without providing an example of what could constitute this ‗standard‘ or examining the Eurocentric underpinnings of the existing ‗standard‘ of Canadian identity (Bissoondath 314). Multiculturalism both masks and maintains whiteness as central to ‗Canadian‘ identity, as the ‗core‘ or ‗centre‘ from which difference is distinguished. As Bannerji argues, Canadians who can claim to belong to and represent the nation becomes ―a national we‖ who set the limits and terms of multiculturalism and decide which differences deserve ‗tolerance‘ (Bannerji 42). In his 1994 attack on multiculturalism, Selling Illusions: The Cult of Multiculturalism, Neil Bissoondath exemplifies the Canadian obsession with narratives of civility when he argues that Canada is and has been too civilized for racism: what he calls ―our history of civility‖ makes ―pure racial hatred‖ ―unCanadian‖ (Bissoondath 189). Bissoondath‘s assertions both depend upon and perpetuate the forgetting of racism, oppression, genocide and injustice central to myths 30  of Canadian ‗tolerance‘. While the notion of ‗tolerance‘ may seem benign, this imagined history of a civil nation excludes racialized Canadians from the nation, casting the non-white Canadians and indigenous peoples who are necessary to this myth as the beneficiaries of British Canada‘s benevolence rather than as agents who themselves ‗tolerate‘. Mackey goes further to argue that the discourse of ‗tolerance‘ ―actually reproduces dominance‖ by leaving the power to tolerate – or refuse to tolerate – in hegemonic hands and constructing the recipients of Canadian ‗tolerance‘ as outside of Canadian identity (Mackey 16). In her examination of hegemonic Canadians‘ perceptions of multiculturalism, Mackey argues that hegemonic groups can consolidate their power either by erasing difference and demanding sameness, the tactics used by immigration policy before multiculturalism, or by defining, assigning value to, and managing ‗differences‘ as distinguished from a normative ‗core‘ (Mackey 6), as multiculturalism does. When the nation is constructed as white, the values of whiteness stand in for homogenized ‗national unity‘ and ‗national identity‘, perceived as under attack by those who stand outside homogenized whiteness (Mackey 142). Deviation from this national norm may be ‗tolerated‘, but only where it does not disrupt or supersede the interests of the hegemony. Those Canadians who can claim inclusion in the ‗core‘ of Canada reserve the power to ―define the appropriate limits of difference‖ (Mackey 148).  As Bannerji  and Mackey demonstrate, by universalizing the values of whiteness, those values not only become hegemonic, but prescriptive; they delineate the boundaries within which racialized Canadians must live and the ideals they must aspire to in order to pursue full cultural citizenship. In The House of Difference: Cultural Politics and National Identity in Canada (1999), Mackey records her interviews with white inhabitants of small-town Ontario who defined themselves as ‗ordinary Canadians‘. According to these individuals, the people identified by multicultural discourse are ―foreign outsiders who come to Canada,‖ and who, they believe, ―are not, by definition, born here, and not, by definition, ‗Canadian‘‖ (Mackey 147). Mackey argues 31  that multicultural discourse constructs the identities of these white Canadians as much as it constructs and constrains the identities of ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians. She identifies ―a model of ‗normal‘ Canadianness as white and unmarked‖ by ethnicity, characterized by ―its difference from (and often its ability to tolerate) other marked Canadian identities‖ (Mackey 21). This unmarked status confers privilege and ―cultural authority‖ upon British Canadians, who can define themselves as ―just ‗normal‘ and ‗human‘‖ (Mackey 21, 22) universalizing their values into a standard to which Canadians who cannot claim this centre must adhere. In Selling Illusions (1994), Bissoondath longs for what he calls ―reasonable diversity‖ (Bissoondath 224) and asserts that ―multiculturalism ends where our notion of human rights and dignity begin‖ (Bissoondath 139, emphasis mine). By refusing to identify the ‗we‘ whose ‗notions of human rights and dignity‘ set the limits of multicultural discourse, Bissoondath implicitly aligns himself with and universalizes the values of Western liberalism. Mackey observes that, for the white Canadians in her study, ―the limits of diversity are clearly defined. People who are ‗multicultural‘‖ and therefore, not Canadian ―should not ‗impose‘ on Canadians‖ by demanding political change or social justice; they must be content with practicing their ‗culture‘ and ‗traditions‘ in private without asking that they be represented in the public sphere, the domain of ‗real‘ Canadians (Mackey 147). For those who do ‗come to Canada‘, Bannerji observes that this discourse of ‗tolerance‘ communicates to immigrants that they are ―in Canada on public and official sufferance and [are] to be grateful for being allowed into the country‖ (Bannerji 46). In this way, narratives of civility establish British Canada‘s moral superiority and demand that ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians perform as abject supplicants and grateful beneficiaries of white Canadian ‗tolerance‘. Discourses of ‗diversity‘ and ‗tolerance‘ misrepresent the political, social, and economic needs of ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians as ‗cultural‘ concerns. Bannerji argues that racialized immigrant demands are those ―endemic to migration,‖ particularly low-income 32  migration; these needs are not exclusively or even mostly ‗cultural‘, but instead ―issues of social and economic justice‖ (Bannerji 44). She argues that the reductive ‗translation‘ or politics into culture turns the challenges of migration – deskilling, racist anti-immigration policies, violence, and discrimination in housing and employment – not only ‗immigrants‘ problems‘, but ‗immigrants‘ cultural problems‘, allowing the hegemony to deny the need for structural change and maintain the status quo. Bannerji asserts that ‗diversity‘, as a ―value-free, power neutral indicator of difference,‖ masks the construction and consequences of difference within structures of power and social relations (Bannerji 36). In addition, names like visible minority, immigrant, and new Canadian ―identify those who hold no legitimate or possessive relationship to ‗Canada‘,‖ subordinating racialized Canadians while promoting British Canadian ―identity as universal, as a measuring rod for others, making them ‗visible‘ and ‗minorities‘‖ while preserving whiteness‘ role as the foundation of ‗Canadian‘ hegemony (Bannerji 111). Bannerji goes on to trouble the language of the ‗visible minority‘, arguing that this discourse casts nonwhite Canadians as both visible in their deviation from normalized whiteness and as politically minor subjects who can only enter politics through the very discourse – multiculturalism – that constructs them as other. The discourse of ‗diversity‘ is not innocent. When actual heterogeneity challenges an assumed, imagined, or idealized homogenous ‗Canadianness‘, ‗diversity‘ translates this dissonance into an opposition between homogenous Canadianness which must be protected and its threatening others which must be managed (Bannerji 37). ‗Diversity‘, then, is not simply a more palatable name for anti-racism; it demands much less – and hides much more – from its participants.  Mackey argues that to be ―simply Canadian‖ is a position of privilege; however, the image of the ―'ordinary Canadian‘ is being used by individuals to discount the claims of minorities‖; these ‗ordinary Canadians‘ pictures themselves as ―oppressed and resistant . . . 33  victims of multiculturalism‖ (Mackey 21, emphasis mine). Imagining a ‗core culture‘ threatened by multiculturalism and the presence of Others allows hegemonic British Canada to represent itself as ―disadvantaged‖ while preserving and legitimating its hegemony (Mackey 141). Through this myth of ―white victimisation,‖ British Canada casts ―those defined as ‗multicultural‘ outsiders‖ as the ―hated ‗other‘‖ (Mackey 149). Similarly, Bannerji argues that when Canadian media and intellectuals write apocalyptically that multiculturalism represents ―the end of ‗Canadian culture‘,‖ they construct this culture as homogenous and cast non-white Canadians as ―an invasive force,‖ already outside the culture (Bannerji 4). By presenting ‗Canadian culture‘ as under attack from multiculturalism, hegemonic Canadians cast themselves as victims, obscuring their privilege and legitimizing their attempts to maintain and secure that privilege. Because racist discourse measures difference in terms of its distance from normalized whiteness, with those ‗differences‘ that can most easily be assimilated into whiteness or erased constructed as more human than those ‗differences‘ that cannot, multicultural ‗difference‘ paradoxically threatens the ‗Canadian‘ culture founded on ‗tolerance‘ of difference. These representations of hegemonic Canadians as ‗victims‘ of multiculturalism recalls the mid-century work of Northrop Frye and Margaret Atwood. Though Frye‘s and Atwood‘s theories of Canadian literature no longer represent current scholarship on Canadian literature, their work reflects a settler-colonizer obsession with cataloguing a ‗national culture‘ as proof of a national identity, which grew in response to both external and internal challenges. Externally, British imperialism incited a sense of colonial inferiority, and American economic success, while a foundation of Canadian trade, aroused fears of economic domination and cultural imperialism. Internally, the nation-state struggled to define a ‗unified‘ Canadian culture that could incorporate Quebecois culture, indigenous peoples‘ claims to land and sovereignty, and the perceived threat to British values posed by ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians. In The Bush Garden: Essays on the Canadian Imagination (1971), Northrop Frye imagines ‗Canada‘ as nation caught 34  between the American powerhouse and the menacing North (Frye ii-iv). He describes Canadian literary history as being composed of bands of essentially conservative social groups huddling together in ‗garrisons‘, fighting off the threat of the surrounding wilderness with law and order (Frye 249). Frye‘s work characterizes Canadian experience and Canadian cultural production as the reactions of a threatened people, whether threatened by British and American imperial powers, a harsh landscape, or unwelcoming ‗Natives‘. Margaret Atwood‘s 1972 thematic guide to Canadian literature, Survival, expands upon Frye‘s ‗garrison mentality‘ thesis, organizing Canadian literature around the theme of ‗survival‘, whether the physical survival of settlercolonizers in a hostile environment, the psychological survival of those stifled by conservative and inescapable ‗garrisons‘, or, in the case of Quebecois literature, linguistic and cultural survival. As a result of this constant struggle, Atwood argues that Canadians cast themselves as losers and victims (Atwood 45). Critics of Atwood‘s work have troubled this narrative to ask what purpose this construction of a national identity under attack serves. In Surviving the Paraphrase (1983), Frank Davey argues that works like Atwood‘s homogenize the literature they claim to represent. In their attempts to codify an explicitly national literature, works like Frye‘s and Atwood‘s collapse the regional, cultural, and linguistic specificities of Canadian texts into a national literature which Davey argues privilege Ontario ―as ‗normal Canadian experience‘,‖ divorcing texts from the material conditions of their production to place them in an imagined narrative of cultural homogeneity and erasing difference and producing a totalized and totalizing version of Canadian cultural production (Davey 4). In Broken Entries (1998), Roy Miki critiques Atwood for privileging what he calls an English-Canadian subject position, arguing that her text ―banished racialized Canadians from public space‖ and ―denied them ‗identity‘ in her text of nationhood‖ (Miki 101). In addition, Miki contends that Atwood‘s ―language of victimization,‖ which defines Canada in relation to British and American imperial power, erases ―the relations 35  of dominance‖ that structure social relations within Canada (Miki 132). Within the context of multicultural discourse, these attempts to represent a homogenized and threatened Canadian identity, where that identity is defined as British Canadian and Ontarian, construct those Others who lie outside these categories as the heterogeneity that ‗threatens‘ this identity. Published during the early days of official multicultural policy, Atwood‘s study illustrates the ways in which white, English-speaking British Canadians come to stand in for the whole of Canadian culture, denying or dismissing the work of those who cannot claim this hegemonic position. Narratives of British Canadian victimization construct what Mackey calls ―a national innocence‖ which erases Canada‘s own marginalization of others (Mackey 12); Bannerji also argues that narratives of British Canadian victimhood legitimize and erase settler-colonizers‘ exploitation of indigenous peoples as well as ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians (Bannerji 80). By insisting on their own positions as subaltern in relation to Britain and the United States, as well as under attack from stereotyped indigenous peoples, ethnically-marked and racialized Others, and a hostile landscape, hegemonic Canadians embrace victimhood as a release from responsibility for their roles as oppressors. These narratives of white victimization characterized hegemonic responses to the controversy known as ‗Appropriation of Voice‘. In the late 1980s, racialized and indigenous Canadian writers began to call for white writers to, in Lee Maracle‘s words, ―move over,‖ or, in Lenore Keeshig-Tobias‘s, to ―stop stealing‖ the stories of others; they, among others, argued that white writers risked misrepresenting or stereotyping marginalized cultures (Maracle 9, KeeshigTobias A7). White writers‘ privileged relation to the institutions of literary dissemination – publishing houses, bookselling, and the university – meant that their work overshadowed the works of marginalized authors, often preventing these authors from being published at all. The circulation of images of ethnically-marked and racialized Others produced by white authors and shaped by colonialist and racist discourse effectively silences those Others, obscuring or 36  undermining their self-representations. In ―Representation of Ethnicity as Problem: Essence or Construction‖ (1998), Joseph Pivato argued that ―appropriation of voice, by definition, is not a dialogue among equals but an exercise of power by the appropriator over the minority person, who is thus made an object and not a subject‖ (155). In Broken Entries (1998), Roy Miki critiqued white authors who appropriate Othered narratives ―under the guise of liberal empathy,‖ arguing that their appropriation transforms Othered subjects into ―objects of white discourse‖ (Miki 102, 103). While some authors, like Nourbese Phillips in ―Taming Our Tomorrows‖ (1998), gestured to the powers of the imagination to bridge differences and make possible the ethical and responsible representation of other cultures, others, like Neil Bissoondath, interpreted indigenous and racialized authors‘ claims to their own culture and traditions as ‗reverse racism‘, an attack on their freedom as artists, and an attempt to impose censorship in the name of ‗political correctness‘. Instead of seeing the ways in which their privilege had allowed them to mine the lives of others in both productive and problematic ways, these writers insisted that their right to write superseded the rights of others to their stories. In Selling Illusions (1994), Neil Bissoondath justifies appropriating others‘ voices by claiming to pursue what he calls ―the demystification of the Other‖ (Bissoondath 182), implying by this claim that the Other is always already a mystery which must be decoded and made legible to those who can universalize their own experiences as racially and ethnically ‗unmarked‘ subjects, and that Othered subjects cannot undertake this translation on their own behalf. Even as he defends his right to speak for others, Bissoondath declares that he trusts ―no one who claims to speak in the name of the People,‖ because, he argues, ―the People have their own voice‖ (Bissoondath 185). He fails to see the patronizing nature of arrogating to himself the task of representing others; when he engages in this ‗demystification‘, he himself speaks ‗in the name of the People‘ and refuses to acknowledge  37  that ‗the People‘s voice‘ is routinely silence by those who speak for and over them from positions of power and privilege. The discourses which constructed ethnically-marked, racialized, and indigenous authors‘ resistance to appropriation and oppression as ‗attacks‘ on victimized white authors also shaped public response to the 1994 Writing Thru Race conference, organized by Roy Miki, which came under fire for limiting attendance to racialized writers. The conference organizers and contributors were threatened and punished by the withdrawal of public funding; in Broken Entries (1998) Miki notes that the mainstream media justified the actions taken by whites to preserve their hegemonic status by foregrounding their supposed victimization: ―innocent whites excluded on the basis of their race‖ had no choice but to ‗defend themselves‘ against ―selfcentred writers of colour using ‗taxpayer‘ funds to ―segregate themselves‖ (Miki 146). When Canadian identity is defined by normalized whiteness, hegemonic Canadians can use their status as ‗ordinary‘ Canadians to discount the claims of those they consider ‗minorities‘; Miki points out that opponents of the conference assumed ―that the cardboard cut-out of nationhood, the ‗taxpayer‘, is white‖ (Miki 146). Public funding was withdrawn from the conference in defense of this supposedly victimized white taxpayer. By identifying themselves as victims, hegemonic Canadians legitimized their privilege and defended their position from those who would dismantle the structural racism that produces privilege. In the preface to Trans.Can.Lit: Resituating the Study of Canadian Literature (2007), Kamboureli argues that the institution of ‗CanLit‘ has been deployed by the state to promote hegemonic national narratives, including ―its early fantasies of homogeneity, its strategic cultural and language policies, and its fetishization of its multicultural make-up‖ (Kamboureli viii). In Haunted Nations (2004), Gunew observes that literature marked as ‗multicultural‘, furnished as proof of Canadian tolerance to bolster the nation‘s cultural capital in a global economy, is both financially supported and ideologically deployed by government policy. The project of nation38  building directed and continues to direct the institution(alization) of Canadian literature, in particular its intersection with multicultural discourse and postmodernism. In ―Transubracination: How Authors of Colour Became CanLit‖ (2007) Ashok Mathur writes that ―the notion of ‗writers of colour‘ came into a national literary consciousness as a marginal notation in the 1980s;‖ however, he argues that ―many of these writers . . . have begun to represent CanLit in many quarters‖ (Mathur 141). Comparing the activist 90s with the ‗polite‘ tenor of the 2000s, Mathur writes ―If the mythic nineties were marked by an insistence of presence – disenfranchised groups and individuals demanding to be seen, heard, and included – the current decade‖ defined by militarism, globalization, and postmodernity, is characterized by ―a type of shape-shifting, or more accurately, the grand extension of postmodernity‘s desire to slip freely between identities . . . embracing a type of passing through borrowed appearance‖ in which ―a voicing of identity-location is lost‖ (144-5). Kamboureli writes in the preface to Trans.Can.Lit that within Canadian literature, ―spaces have been made for First Nations and diasporic voices,‖ though ―not without anxiety and resistance‖ (Kamboureli vii). While debates about Appropriation of Voice have receded, we must still trouble the appropriation of marginality represented by apolitical postmodern appreciation of the margins. Linda Hutcheon‘s 1988 text The Canadian Postmodern defines postmodernism as ―our culture‘s ‗narcissistic‘ obsession with its own workings‖ and an attendant scepticism towards ―the ‗master‘ narratives of our liberal humanist culture‖ (Hutcheon 23). Hutcheon argues that this scepticism produces new frameworks of thought that focus on processes rather than structures and that recognize ―the value of difference and multiplicity‖ by using irony and parody to engage with or intervene in one‘s culture without being absorbed into it or vainly attempting to stand outside of it (Hutcheon 23). Postmodernism celebrates an ironically adopted ―ex-centricity‖ (Hutcheon 3), placing itself in the margins; however, when subjects at the centre appropriate ethnic and racial marginality, this ‗ex-centricity‘ becomes politically problematic. In 39  Scandalous Bodies (2009), Kamboureli argues that postmodernism‘s valuing of the ‗ethnic‘ as the ‗ex-centric‘ ―makes ethnicity a sign of cultural excess‖ which upholds the centre by maintaining distance from it (Kamboureli 167). Instead of displacing the centre, postmodernism ―functions as a master narrative, one in close alliance with the master narratives it purportedly sets out to dismantle‖ (Kamboureli 168). Those who can claim the centre appropriate and exoticize the margins while ignoring the political, historical and social origins and consequences of marginality. By ironically appropriating margins while upholding the centre, such postmodern slippage risks detaching culture and criticism from the ‗master narratives‘ that structure their production and dissemination. Postmodernisms which valorize the ‗margins‘ without investigating the political and historical construction and consequences of those margins appropriate and commodify the work of ‗multicultural‘ authors even as they canonize them into representatives of ‗CanLit‘. In Scandalous Bodies (2009) Smaro Kamboureli traces the development and institutionalization of the ‗multicultural‘ or ‗ethnic‘ anthology in Canadian literature, arguing that this mode of dissemination ‗proves‘ the existence of minority writers and British Canada‘s ‗tolerance‘ towards them, as well as marking out a ―designated margin‖ outside of the mainstream of Canadian literature in order to contain these minority writers (Kamboureli 132). The 1970s saw the publication of many anthologies which constituted ―a collective statement‖ made by a group of ethnically-marked or racialized writers; these anthologies were ―virtually ignored‖ by the media and the academy2 (Kamboureli 133). Since the 1990s, ‗multicultural‘ texts have been  2  These anthologies represented writers from many ethnic and racial groups, including African-Canadians (One Out of Many, ed. Liz Cromwell, 1975; Black Chat ed. Camilla Haynes, 1973; Canada in Us Now ed. Harold Head, 1976; Other Voices: Writing by Blacks in Canada, ed. Lorris Elliot, 1985; Voices: Canadian Writers of African Descent, ed. Ayanna Black, 1992), Italian-Canadians (Roman Candles, ed. Pier Giorgio Di Cicco, 1978; Italian-Canadian Voices, ed. Caroline Morgan DiGiovanni, 1984), Mennonite Canadians (Harvest: Anthology of Mennonite Writing in Canada1874-1974 ed. William de Fehr et al.), Caribbean-Canadians (A Shapely Fire: Changing the Literary Landscape, ed. Cyril Dabydeen, 1987), Middle Eastern Canadians (Arab-Canadian Writing: Stories, Memoirs, and Reminiscences, ed. Kamal A. Rostom, 1989), Dutch-Canadians (Transplanted Lives: Dutch-Canadian Stories and Poems, ed. Hendrika Ruger, 1988), Chilean-Canadians (Chilean Literature in Canada, ed. Nain Nomex, 1982), and  40  absorbed into the institution of ‗CanLit‘and are reviewed in mainstream media, addressed by academic critics, and taught in classrooms (list, in footnote, works examined within the frame of multiculturalism). Multiculturalism has become a framework within which to publish, discuss, and study the works of ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians. In Scandalous Bodies (2009), Kamboureli locates this shift in the reception of ‗ethnic‘ writing in a postmodern scepticism that rejects supposedly ―self-evident truths about both ethnic communities and the dominant society‖ (Kamboureli 161); building upon Kamboureli‘s argument, I locate this shift in postmodernist valorization of ‗margins‘, which, when divorced from political context, erases marginalization and boosts Canadian cultural capital in a global economy. The fate of the ‗ethnic‘ or ‗multicultural‘ anthology changed in 1990 with the publication of Other Solitudes: Canadian Multicultural Fictions, edited by Linda Hutcheon and Marion Richmond, the first anthology of ‗multicultural‘ literature to be widely read, studied, and criticized (Kamboureli 162). While the anthology is today remembered more for the controversy it sparked than for its content, in Scandalous Bodies (2009) Kamboureli argues that Other Solitudes was so readily canonized ―because it affiliates itself with two dominant national narratives: that of the mainstream literary canon and that of the official multiculturalism policy‖ (Kamboureli 164). She states that the anthology seems ―designed to erase the marginalization of ethnic writing‖ by narrating a Canadian history that affirms ―the magnanimity of the majority culture,‖ using the ‗celebration‘ of ‗diversity‘ to contain difference (Kamboureli 164). I argue that the anthology achieved its successes by reinstating the ideologies that it, on the surface, seems to disrupt; while acknowledging the failures and limits of multicultural policy, Hutcheon endorses multiculturalism and attempts to retroactively canonize ‗ethnic‘ authors, erasing  Ukrainian-Canadians (Yamarok: Ukrainian Writing in Canada Since the Second World War, ed. Jars Balan and Yuri Klynovy, 1987; Two Lands, New Visions: Stories from Canada and Ukraine, Ed. Janice Kulyk Keefer and Solomea Pavylchko, 1998 ). This list is by no means exhaustive.  41  marginality by homogenizing difference and equating various differences by obscuring their individual histories. In her introduction to Other Solitudes (1990), Hutcheon admits that multicultural policy has not effected structural societal change; however, she argues that multiculturalism ―is gradually working to change how Canadians define themselves‖ (Hutcheon 14). She acknowledges that British Canadian privilege organizes a hierarchy of ethnicity and race, and that racism continues in Canada, ―masked by the rhetoric of tolerance that is an intrinsic part of multiculturalism‖ (Hutcheon 8). Hutcheon disrupts the notion of ―Canada as a tolerant, welcoming nation‖ by urging the reader to remember and acknowledge Canada‘s ―history of intolerance‖ (Hutcheon 11).  Despite her attempts to reject myths of Canadian civility and the  discourse of ‗tolerance‘, Hutcheon reinstates both of these discourses when she describes multiculturalism as ―an innovative model for civil tolerance and the acceptance of diversity‖ (Hutcheon 15). By naming ‗tolerance‘ and ‗acceptance of diversity‘ as the goals of multiculturalism, Hutcheon aligns herself with the hegemonic narratives that structure multicultural policy: her introduction translates ‗difference‘ into ‗diversity‘ and champions ‗tolerance‘ of diversity rather than advocating a dismantling of the structural racism that constructs the figures of the benevolent white Canadian and denies ‗Canadian-ness‘ to the nonwhite recipients of this benevolence. In this introduction, Hutcheon argues that ‗ethnic‘ writing has always composed the Canadian canon, citing Michael Ondaatje, Neil Bissoondath, and Mordecai Richler as examples without examining – and thereby erasing – the historical dynamics that produced these authors as simultaneously ethnic and unmarked. By extending ‗ethnicity‘ to include subjects whose ethnicity is routinely glossed over, Kamboureli argues in Scandalous Bodies (2009) that Hutcheon ―disengages ethnicity from marginality,‖ ignoring and denying the systemic violences enacted on racialized and ethnically-marked bodies (Kamboureli 172). Kamboureli criticizes 42  Hutcheon for endorsing ―a totalized and totalizing heterogeneity‖ which erases the historical production of difference and the racial hierarchy that assigns value to various ‗differences‘ based on their ‗distance‘ from normalized whiteness, making these ―differences homologous to each other‖ (Kamboureli 173). By refusing to address the historical and hierarchical production of ethnicities within social relations, Hutcheon appropriates ―the counter-history of minorities to diversify the social imaginary without actually changing it‖ (Kamboureli 170), perhaps explaining why, as Hutcheon observes, multicultural policy has yet to affect structural racism, and offering little support for Hutcheon‘s hope that multiculturalism will substantially change the way Canadians see themselves. While Hutcheon maintains that the success of ethnically-marked Canadian authors, especially their designation as ‗simply‘ Canadian, indicates that ‗multicultural‘ Canadian authors ―have been – and are becoming – as defining of what is Canadian‖ as British Canadian authors are (Hutcheon 13), Kamboureli contends that embracing ‗multicultural‘ authors in the name of ‗diversity‘, detaching their work from the political nature of their experience, allows the dissemination of ‗multicultural‘ literature to ―soothe the dominant public‘s anxieties about multiculturalism‖ (Kamboureli 88). Hutcheon‘s argument fails to convince; by equalizing and homogenizing ethnic and racial differences, she overlooks the ways in which differences are determined and valued by measuring their distance from the whiteness that is constructed as central to Canadian identity, reaffirming the myth of Canadian multicultural ‗tolerance‘ while commodifying the work of ethnically-marked and racialized authors to bolster Canadian cultural capital. Multicultural literature, while implicated in and shaped by the racist discourses of Canadian nation-building, ‗CanLit‘, and multicultural policy, remains a powerful tool to bear witness to racism and structural violence and create change. While Roy Miki acknowledges in Broken Entries (1998) that the multicultural anthology is often appropriated as ―a marketable 43  container,‖ he argues that such texts can constitute ―an empowering process and an opportunity for exchange‖ (Miki 119). Despite marking and managing difference, these volumes also raise consciousness: the works of ‗multicultural‘ authors must be read, studied, and taught, but never thoughtlessly. In the introduction to his anthology of essays and criticism, Odysseys Home: Mapping African-Canadian Literature (2002), George Elliott Clarke warns that many white critics represent racialized authors as sociologists or pedagogues instead of artists; in their attempts to ‗help‘ the Other or ‗do good,‘ these critics assume a hierarchical power relation to and risk silencing that same Other (Clarke 253). The responsibility of scholars engaging with these works, especially white scholars like me, is to engage with these works ethically, honouring their specificity, refusing to exoticize ethnically-marked and racialized authors, and continually questioning the racist and colonialist discourse that exclude these authors from claiming full inclusion in Canadian identity and citizenship. In the preface to Trans.Can.Lit (2007), Kamboureli argues that ―CanLit is both firmly entangled with this national imaginary and fully capable of resisting it‖ (Kamboureli viii); while it remains ―anchored‖ to these concerns, ―it can disturb and alter the conditions that affect it‖ (Kamboureli ix). Canadian literature‘s deployment by the state does not prevent authors from contesting the ideologies of that state; in fact, many writers, like Dionne Brand and Timothy Taylor, challenge these discourses in their work. Multiculturalism forecloses affinities between marginalized groups, inscribing ‗race‘ upon Othered subjects while obscuring the process of racialization and pitting groups against each other in a race for recognition and funding, as Bannerji argues (Bannerji 47). Even before the contemporary moment of multiculturalism, Terrence Craig notes in Racial Attitudes in English Canadian Fiction 1905 – 1980 (1987) that ethnically-marked Canadians were attacked for banding together to defend their cultures in ‗garrisons‘ that mirrored the victimized position claimed by hegemonic settler-colonizer culture (Craig 8). In contrast to exclusionary 44  multicultural citizenship, which confers legitimacy only upon white subjects, a new citizenship can destabilize hegemonic constructions of the nation by identifying Eurocentrism and racism as the ‗centre‘ of multiculturalism and by re-centring difference, a task I undertake in this thesis by applying the principles of Chantal Mouffe‘s ―radical democratic citizenship‖ based in affinity and coalition (Mouffe 412). In ―Feminism, Citizenship, and Radical Democratic Politics‖ (1992) Mouffe locates the failure of identity politics not only in the instability of ‗identity‘ but in the failure to ―[challenge] the dominant liberal models of citizenship and politics,‖ arguing that we must ―[construct] a new conception of citizenship‖ (Mouffe 409 – 10). Mouffe‘s ―radical democratic citizenship‖ requires that subjects, instead of rallying around difference and fixed identity categories, choose to be ―bound by their common identification with a given interpretation of a set of ethico-political values‖ (Mouffe 412 – 3). ―Citizenship‖ is no longer an identity category, access to which is predicated on access to power and racial, ethnic, gendered, sexual, and class ‗neutrality‘: citizenship becomes ―an articulating principle‖ that allows people to work together (Mouffe 413). This citizenship depends upon affiliations and alliances crafted by subjects who see themselves not as the same but as connected, not necessarily as sharing goals but as implicated in each other‘s projects. Within the project of exclusionary nation-building, Bannerji argues that multiculturalism operates as a partial ‗invitation‘ that confines racialized Canadians to the margins of national identity (Bannerji 90). In order to resist exclusionary narratives of nation-building, Gunew contends in Haunted Nations (2004) that we must ―denaturalize the classificatory categories,‖ such as race and ethnicity, that are ―invoked to stabilize and legitimate all types of nationbuilding‖ (Gunew 29) by ―identifying insiders and outsiders‖ (Gunew 27). Multicultural discourse allows ethnically unmarked ‗Canadian-Canadians‘ to identify themselves as ‗insiders‘ and all others as ‗outsiders‘ who belong to the nation only partially if they belong at all, marginalizing those Canadians who must hyphenate their attachment to the nation. In Selling 45  Illusions (1994), Bissoondath maintains that hyphenated identities allow ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians to ‗dilute‘ their own citizenship, weakening their commitment to Canada; in order to prevent this dilution, he argues that therefore multicultural policy should encourage engagement with Canada rather than with an ancestral country. Bissoondath fails to recognize the ways in which multicultural discourse demands that ethnically-marked and racialized Canadians erase their difference in order to seek inclusion in a ‗Canadian‘ identity reserved for the ethnically-unmarked. In addition, Bissoondath‘s fear of divided loyalties belies the fact that citizens can and do occupy multiple subject positions, which need not prevent them from ‗engaging‘ with any country, but can foster a transnational subjectivity that empowers agents to create affinities between individuals and groups, working together for social justice and political change. Diaspora and globalization have made transnationalism a key feature of contemporary subjectivity. In this light, Lily Cho proposes in ―Diasporic Citizenship: Contradiction and Possibilities for Canadian Literature‖ (2007) what she calls ―diasporic citizenship‖ which refuses to accept the nation-state as the only or primary location of its production (Cho 101). Cho criticizes contemporary understandings of citizenship which demand exclusion and the ―forgetting of difference‖ (Cho 105). She argues that ―diasporic communities are formed through the processes of memory,‖ and that ―diasporic subjectivities emerge not simply from the fact of geographical displacement, but also from the ways in which forgotten or suppressed pasts continue to shape the present,‖ reminding us ―of the losses that enable citizenship‖ (Cho 106, 108). The tension between ‗diaspora‘ and ‗citizenship‘ allows us to recognize ―the contingencies surrounding our choice for citizenship‖ (Cho 108). This recognition can make clear the material and historical politics that define both how citizenship can be exercised and by whom. Despite the limits and failures of multicultural policy, many critics explore avenues through which multiculturalism could be salvaged and redeployed in the service of anti-racism rather 46  than ‗tolerance‘. Bannerji argues that multiculturalism must be ―re-interpreted in more materialist historical and political terms‖ and ―re-articulated to the social relations of power governing our lives, thus minimizing, or even ending‖ minority Canadians‘ ―derivative, peripheral object agent status‖ (Bannerji 118). In ―Multicultural Furor: The Reception of Other Solitudes‖ (1996), Hutcheon responds to the controversy sparked by the text, arguing that multicultural policy attempts to make space for ‗difference‘ within national ―consensus‖ (Hutcheon 11-12). In contrast, Kamboureli contends in Scandalous Bodies (2009) that since consensus necessarily demands homogeneity, we should pursue a ―hybridity‖ that can make room for multiple and shifting subject positions and affinities (Kamboureli 93). Mackey argues that hybridity is too readily appropriated by hegemonic power structures; she critiques the simplistic opposition between ―repressive homogeneity‖ and ―revolutionary hybridity,‖ arguing that we must examine the circulation and interaction of projects (Mackey 164). In Haunted Nations (2004) Gunew also supports a struggle towards a ―critical multiculturalism‖ which can resist becoming ―automatically aligned with and hopelessly co-opted by the state‖ and its ―exclusionary nation building‖ (Gunew 15). In ―Against Institution: Establish Law, Custom, or Purpose‖ (2007), Rinaldo Walcott imagines multiculturalism as a ―major concession‖ that ―opens up vast opportunities for rethinking the nation‖ and ―liberal versions of citizenship and national belonging‖ (Walcott 19). In order to access this opening, Bannerji argues that ―our politics must sidestep the paradigm of ‗unity‘ based on ‗fragmentation or integration‘ and instead engage in struggles based on the genuine contradictions of our society‖ (Bannerji 120). Instead of seeing the lack of a single uniform ‗counternarrative‘ of multiculturalism to pit against the master narrative of hegemonic, homogenous ‗Canadian-ness‘, Kamboureli believes that this lack ―is inevitable, for comprehending and dealing with diversity is a continuous process of mediating and negotiating contingencies‖ (Kamboureli 93). In Scandalous Bodies, she advocates ―a mastery of discomfort‖ that would ―involve shuttling between centre and margin while 47  displacing both‖ (Kamboureli 130). Because, as Gunew asserts, multicultural discourse defines ―who belongs to the nation and who does not‖ (Gunew 23), we can and must ‗imagine‘ other possible Canadas.  48  Chapter Two: Transnational Hybridity and Racialized Surveillance in What We All Long For In Dionne Brand‘s 2005 novel What We All Long For, four young Torontonians construct hybrid subjectivities and resist the racialized surveillance of the nation-state, which mobilizes the discourses of institutionalized multiculturalism to construct their ethnically-marked bodies as unCanadian and preclude them from the exercises of citizenship. They forge a coalitional politics that transcends understandings of loyalty based on fixed identities in favour of shifting bonds of affinity. Living in ways that defy the expectations of their immigrant parents and the restrictions of a society that demands whiteness as a prerequisite to belonging, they build their subjectivities and politics based not on a longing for a lost origin or for assimilation into the hegemonic culture but on the creation of affinities across borders and beyond borders. Tuyen, Carla, Jackie and Oku sidestep the national, subordinating national identity to local urban identifications and global diasporic allegiances. They model a coalitional, resistant citizenship by eschewing limited subaltern counterpublics and transforming public space so that it is no longer constructed to exclude them. Transnational subjects reject essentialist nostalgia for origins and loyalty to unambiguous cultural identities in favour of hybridities that allow them to navigate the spaces they inhabit and form bonds based on affinity instead of identity. In ―Cultural Identity and Diaspora‖ (1990) Stuart Hall, whose work on hybridity and identity is foundational to the discipline of Cultural Studies, Diaspora Studies, and Diasporic Literature, proposes considering ―identity as a ‗production‘ which is never complete, always in process, and always constituted within, not outside, representation‖ (296). In her installations, for instance, Tuyen, an artist, does not seek to ―discover, excavate, bring to light and express‖ essential truths; she creates them (Hall 297). ―Cultural identities‖ are created by ―positioning‖ oneself ―within the discourses of history and culture‖ (Hall 299). Among groups with a shared experience of oppression, the ―common 49  history‖ of colonialism and diaspora, as well as migration and exile, ―does not constitute a common origin‖ (Hall 300). Hall uses Derrida‘s différance, the deferment of meaning through the instability of signification, not to empty identities of political meaning, but to understand identity as ―‗strategic‘ and arbitrary‖ (Hall 301). Representation‘s oscillation between meanings does not imply that meaning, political or otherwise, is inaccessible or empty; rather, these oscillations imply that meaning and identity are always created through experience, and, when chosen mindfully, can be instrumental in making change. In What We All Long For, Brand‘s characters‘ encounter and enact ―heterogeneity and diversity‖ as well as ―a conception of ‗identity‘ which lives with and through, not despite, difference‖ (Hall 305). Jackie, Tuyen, Carla and Oku create ―diaspora identities … which are constantly producing and reproducing themselves anew, through transformation and difference‖ (Hall 305). In ―Border Lives: The Art of the Present‖ (1994) postcolonial scholar Homi Bhabha identifies ―hybridity‖ as ―a difference ‗within‘, a subject that inhabits the rim of an ‗in-between‘ reality,‖ mirroring Brand‘s description of her second-generation protagonists, who have ―the feeling of living in two dimensions, the look of being on the brink, at the doorway listening for everything‖ (Bhabha 327, Brand 20). The experiences of the four protagonists – Vu Tuyen, daughter of Vietnamese immigrants; Oku Barker, son of West Indian immigrants; Jackie Bernard, daughter of Nova Scotian African-Canadians; and Carla Chiarelli, daughter of an Italian-Canadian mother and Jamaican-Canadian father – represent communities that, ―despite shared histories of deprivation and discrimination,‖ conduct ―the exchange of values, meaning and priorities‖ in ways that are not always ―collaborative and dialogical‖ but can be ―profoundly antagonistic, conflictual and even incommensurable‖ (Bhabha 317). Bhabha identifies contemporary political consciousness as a ―move away from the singularities of ‗class‘ or ‗gender‘ as primary conceptual and organizational categories‖ towards ―an awareness of the subject positions—of race, gender, generation, institutional location, geopolitical locale, sexual 50  orientation—that inhabit any claim to identity in the modern world‖ (Bhabha 316). In addition to being outside the mainstream of white Canadian culture, Brand‘s four protagonists experience what Bhabha calls ―the insider‘s outsideness,‖ intersections of oppressions within their own communities based on gender, sexuality, and class (Bhabha 327). Tuyen, for example, keeps her sexuality secret from her parents; at the Pope Joan bar, ―the last eastern outpost of gay life in downtown Toronto,‖ Tuyen meets Iman, who insists, ―downing [a shot of tequila] and biting into a quarter moon of lemon … ‗I don‘t drink, you know. I‘m a good Muslim girl‘‖ (Brand 268, 271). Instead of focussing on ―narratives of originary and initial subjectivities,‖ Bhabha focuses on the ―‗in-between‘ spaces‖ ―produced in the articulation of cultural difference‖ which ―initiate new signs of identity, and innovative sites of collaboration, and contestation, in the act of defining the idea of society itself‖ (Bhabha 317). In ―Mapping the Door of No Return: Deterritorialization and the Work of Dionne Brand‖ (2004), Marlene Goldman also asserts that this ―space of in-betweenness poses a radical challenge to conventional notions of chronology, geography and subjectivity‖ (Goldman 15). Bhabha contends that not only individual identities but ―nationness‖ is negotiated in the ―interstices‖ of ―difference and identity, past and present, inside and outside, inclusion and exclusion,‖ producing a ―social articulation of difference,‖ that, ―from the minority perspective, is a complex, on-going negotiation that seeks to authorize cultural hybridities that emerge in moments of historical transformation‖ (Bhabha 316-7). Brand‘s protagonists experience the pull of multiple affiliations and identifications as their own desires conflict with the expectations of their parents that they will conform to the values of their communities yet ‗translate‘ the dominant culture and succeed within it as well. Tuyen‘s parents expect her to know and navigate the ―rough public terrain‖ well enough to translate report cards and utility bills, but they also expect her to live with them according to their values (Brand 19, 57). These multiple subject positions are both painful and powerful: as she ‗translates‘ the city to  51  her parents, Tuyen learns to outwit her family and ―the surrogate city‖ which influences her subjectivity (Brand 68). In place of an impossible national purity, Bhabha suggests that the forces of postcolonialism and diasporas produce ―a more transnational and translational sense of the hybridity of imagined communities‖ (Bhabha 319). In ―‗Mama, I‘m Walking to Canada‘: Black Geopolitics and Invisible Empires‖ (2006), African-American Studies scholar Naomi Pabst discusses of ‗Canada‘s image in African-American consciousness as a paradoxically white place to fly to freedom. She defines ―a transnational subjectivity‖ as ―one with multiple reference points, one that exceeded national borders‖ (Pabst 116). In ―‗The Being Together of Strangers‘: Dionne Brand‘s Politics of Difference and the Limits of Multicultural Discourse‖ (2008), Heather Smyth finds in What We All Long For a vision of a politics that transcends the limits of the national and the multicultural, arguing that Brand‘s character‘s ―national affiliations bypass the framework of the Canadian nation-state to tie them globally to countries of origin‖ but they are also free to ―shift their affective investment‖ (Smyth 282). Kit Dobson contends in Transnational Canadas: Anglo-Canadian Literature and Globalization (2009) that the novel poses ―the possibility for a resistant politics to articulate itself through concepts of subjectivity that take readers beyond identity politics‖ (Dobson 142). The protagonists‘ ―struggles to liberate themselves within a racist society illustrate the perils of decentred forms of subjectivity under contemporary, imperial forms of capitalism, but also point towards spaces in which the self can push towards an open-ended future‖ (Dobson 142). In ―the chaos of the city and the world,‖ they find ―spaces in which to begin constructing another world, one that is built collectively and from below, across borders and between communities‖ (Dobson 142). This transnational subjectivity allows them to critically interrogate the discourses that construct the ‗nation‘ to exclude them.  52  Marlene Goldman identifies in Brand‘s earlier works a politics of ―drifting‖ as ―an alternative to the boundedness of home and nation-state‖ (Goldman 13). ―Drifting‖ ―underscores the inadequacies of the nation-sate, particularly in its response to demands for social justice in a global era and its long-standing practices of exclusion,‖ revealing ―the exclusionary foundations and ongoing limitations of nationalism‖ (Goldman 13). Brand seems to reject the models of both the exile, who longs for a ―nostalgic‖ ―lost origin‖ and the immigrant, who seeks ―a new home and new national community‖ (Goldman 26). Brand‘s protagonists reject their parents‘ ―dream of returning home‖ and ―of belonging to a new home‖ (Goldman 16). They cannot ―join in what their parents called ‗regular Canadian life‘‖ because ―they weren‘t the required race,‖ but neither do they long for ―the past that had never been their past‖ (Brand 47). Instead of ―seeking a substitute for ‗home,‘‖ like their parents do, Brand‘s protagonists pursue ―the intimate contact with others that shapes shared identifications and investment in a diasporic space‖ like the city, where ―lives … are doubled, tripled, conjugated‖ (Smyth 281, Brand 5). They create ―transnational diasporic communities‖ whose ―broken histories and transnational connections repeatedly challenge the bounded progessivist narratives of nation-states‖ (Goldman 26-7). Goldman identifies Brand‘s ―valorization of drifting as a strategy to counter … the unsavoury politics of belonging‖ (Goldman 24). Her characters ―express a longing for and, ultimately, a rejection of origins, belonging, and possession‖ (Goldman 24). Unable to imagine the communities to which their parents belong, and prevented from ‗belonging‘ to Canada, they must imagine other spaces, predicated on something other than essentialist origins. In ―Biopolitical Production‖ (2000) post-Marxist scholars Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri reject struggles based on the ―solidarity and unity‖ of sameness in favour of ―movements that maintain only loose connections and that shift continuously,‖ like Brand‘s rhizomatic form of resistance, in which one point or subject can connect to any other in order to form 53  ―community across borders‖ (Dobson 145, 181). Dobson writes that under global capitalism, cities are ―interconnected in broad, transnational systems that exceed the connections between nation-states‖ (Dobson 183). Brand‘s protagonists turn such a global city into ―an invigorating and troubling site for struggle work‖ and ―a site for being that is open, neither nostalgic nor caught within the politics of inclusion/exclusion or an inside/outside dichotomy‖ (Dobson 181, 186). Her ―borderless‖ subjects assume ―mobile identities in transnational spaces,‖ using ―local urban identifications‖ to ―bypass the nation-state‖ and ―reach for the global sphere‖ (Brand 213, Smyth 276, 281). They subordinate the national to both the local and the global, short-circuiting the discourses that cast them out of national ‗belonging‘ based on homogeneity and laying the groundwork for an identity and politics based upon chosen loyalties instead of birth. At first glance, the movement of the transnational subject across borders and through identities may seem unambiguously freeing. However, Brand ―refuses to … sentimentalize the struggles of the city‖; she does not ignore or dismiss the reality that transnational mobility depends on access to power (Dobson 189). Bhabha maintains that ―postcoloniality‖ should not obscure the persistence of ―‗neocolonial‘ relations within the ‗new‘ world order and the multinational division of labour,‖ represented in What We All Long For by Tuyen‘s brothers Binh and Quy (Bhabha 321). While Binh operates from Canada and Quy from the criminal underworld of Southeast Asia, both engage in more and less nefarious multinational dealings which illustrate the reach of global capitalism and its dependence on the exploitation of Third World workers. Discussing Hardt and Negri‘s conceptualization of postmodern Empire, Dobson maintains that, far from lacking power, the state must violently reassert itself and its authority in the face of its ―growing obsolescence‖ under global capitalism (Dobson 144). In addition, Dobson argues that ―not all of Brand‘s characters succeed in freeing themselves. For some, an open—or ‗drifting‘—approach leads to painful encounters with the disciplinary structures of the state‖ (Dobson 142). While transnational subjects may reject the limitations of defining 54  themselves in nationalist terms, the nation-state retains its power to define them through surveillance and discipline. Brand draws attention to the inability of several of her characters to transcend the racialization of their bodies by the state, particularly the ways in which the city constitutes young black men as criminal and regulates their public presence. Michel Foucault identifies a pattern, arising in the 18th century, wherein authority took pains to control more and more minute details of subjects, their position in space, their activity, and their use of time, in order to produce obedience and economic usefulness, ―docility‖ and ―utility‖ (Foucault 137). The nation-state, represented in the novel by the Toronto Police Service and Mimico Correctional Centre, uses racialized surveillance to limit the emancipatory possibilities of hybridity, countering ‗drifting‘ with this ―reterritorializing and disciplinary system‖ (Dobson 189). Applying Foucault‘s theory of surveillance to the racialized violence enacted by authorities in the city, I read Brand‘s transnational city as ―a crossroads for dangerous mixtures, a meeting-place for forbidden circulations‖ which threatens the hegemony those authorities represent and uphold (Foucault 144). Rather than waiting for these suspect subjects to violate the law, state authority enacts ―an uninterrupted, constant coercion, supervising the process of the activity rather than its result,‖ and constructing these suspects as criminals (Foucault 137). Nation-states reconstruct transnational subjects as unintelligible and criminal Others, maintaining political power over their lives. Even as these subjects reject the nationstate‘s role in constructing their identities, as ―victims of violence‖ they ―are themselves ‗signified upon:‘‖ their individuality is erased and onto their bodies are ―projected fears, anxieties and dominations‖ of the nation-state (Bhabha 329). Postcolonial and diasporic people battle their construction ―as different and other within the categories of knowledge of the West,‖ as Edward Said demonstrates, but, according to Frantz Fanon, these ―dominant regimes of representation … had the power to make us see and experiences ourselves as ‗Other‘‖ (Hall 298). In resistance to a powerful system that ―seeks to reterritorialize drifting bodies,‖ Brand‘s 55  protagonists ―mix and merge‖ to ―[ensure] their ongoing motion‖ (Dobson 181). While movement in itself is not necessarily liberating, undertaken at times without choice or under duress, ―for some, critically considered movement becomes a way of forming community‖ (Dobson 181). Quy, who ―keeps moving out of wilfulness,‖ recognizes that he must remain in motion to escape the disciplining gaze of the state (Brand 286). Even as the racialized characters fight their invisibility against the backdrop of a racist world, they become painfully visible as being Other when seen by and against state authority. Carla‘s brother Jamal, in prison for carjacking, takes the nickname ―Ghost,‖ physically branding himself with a ―rough, ugly‖ and ―furious-looking‖ ‗G‘ (Brand 30). Carla comments that ―his ghostliness didn‘t stop the police from finding him‖ (Brand 37). While characters like Jamal flout the surveillance of the nation-state, others take their vulnerabilities very seriously: ―Tuyen‘s mother had a mad fear of being caught without proof, without papers of some kind attesting to identity or place,‖ and she laminates or covers in plastic every conceivable document or surface in her home; Tuyen‘s father hides money around the house, anticipating disaster (Brand 62). Her obsession with proof and identity resurfaces later in the novel when Jamal‘s stepmother is barred from visiting him in jail because she cannot provide identification (Brand 235). The police read Oku‘s blackness as criminality; he reminds Jackie that he ―can get jacked up any night by the cops just for walking in the wrong place,‖ affirming Bhabha‘s observation that ―the violence of a racialized society falls most enduringly on the details of life‖ (Brand 46, Bhabha 328). The narrator describes Oku‘s arrest at the age of eighteen, using the language of both surrender to sensual pleasure and religious ecstasy. He raises his arms in ―an accustomed embrace,‖ ―[yielding] his body as if to a lover,‖ and submitting to the officers‘ ―perverse fondling‖ (Brand 164-5). Instead of expressing outrage, the narrator relates that Oku ―had come to expect this passion play acted out on his body any time he encountered authority‖ (Brand 56  165). He contrasts his submission with the resistance of his friends, who ―asserted their rights‖ (Brand 165). Paradoxically, this ―only caused more trouble‖ and ―they ended up in the system fighting to get out‖; Oku knows that the rights his friends claim are not extended to them within a system that marks them as Other than citizens (Brand 165). He is ―silent with the cops‖ because there are ―no words for the doorway the emerged from, no word that would send them back or pacify them‖ (Brand 166). As a young black man, Oku cannot claim the language of citizenship and its attendant rights for himself in a national imaginary that constructs blackness as alien to national belonging. Surveillance, however, need not be enacted by authority on the bodies of its subjects: subjects can internalize this disciplinary gaze, regulating their own behaviours and those of their peers. The narrator first sees Tuyen, Oku and Carla crowding onto a subway car early in the morning, where their laughter disrupts the tense quiet of the other passengers; eventually, ―all three are finally subdued by the taut silence around them, as if succumbing to some law they‘d broken‖ (Brand 2, 3). They have broken ‗laws‘ simply by being young, not white, and not going to work: they have ―no annoying boss to be endured all day‖ and the narrator observes that ―it‘s obvious they‘ve been out all night‖ while the other passengers enviously imagine the three as ―free loaders‖ who have ―never worked a day in their lives‖ but, rather, have been drinking, drugging, and dancing (Brand 2-4). The passengers on the subway train construct three strangers as ‗free loaders‘ with the same disciplinary gaze and discourse that allow the legal-aid lawyers to presume that Jamal‘s guilt is ―something generic, something unavoidable‖ (Brand 36). A woman cautions Tuyen ―to be careful when you speak‖ because ―other people could be listening‖ (Brand 149). In this way, the surveillance put in place by state apparatus continue to circulate through discourse which normalizes the behaviour of the hegemony and pathologizes any ‗deviation‘ from this ‗mainstream.‘  57  When transnational subjects subordinate the national to the local, global, and transnational in identity making, the nation is free to construct itself in ways that exclude subaltern communities, hybrid subjects, and racialized bodies. Pabst points out that ―Canada has officially institutionalized a policy of ‗multiculturalism,‘ yet despite that, racism sets the terms of Canadian existence‖ (Pabst 114). Canadian multicultural discourse constructs Canada as an essentially white nation that ‗tolerates‘ and ‗accepts‘ ethnically marked difference, ―paradoxically … [reinforcing] the idea of a core unmarked white settler Canadian national culture‖ (Mackey 94). Mackey interrogates the role multicultural discourse plays in the identity of Canadians who can claim uncritical or undiluted inclusion in the national imaginary. In comparison to the ambiguous ―we‖ of Brand‘s title, Mackey spoke to Canadians who uncritically spoke of ―possessing ‗our‘ ethnic groups, which ‗we‘ (Canadians) ‗recognise and appreciate‘‖ in order to patronizingly distinguish ‗ourselves‘ from the racial conflict of the United States (Mackey 102). This multicultural moral superiority over the United States obscures national ―perceptions of blacks as having non-Canadian origins,‖ which constitutes ―a form of displacement, alienation and expatriation (or repatriation) from the imagined community that is Canada‖ (Pabst 119). Naomi Pabst points out that Canada is constituted as a white space, even as it is imagined as a utopian destination for black liberation. Pabst argues that AfricanAmericans travel North only to disappear at the 49th parallel; the paradoxical combination of a white site of black freedom preserves ―the notion of blacks having asylum,‖ but not citizenship, of ―being tolerated, but not really belonging‖ in Canada (Pabst 119). In addition to casting racially and ethnically marked subjects outside Canadian identity, multicultural discourse depoliticizes the margins when it is limited to expressing ―‗allowable‘ differences‖ (Mackey 104). Mackey‘s interviewees drew this line ―when others . . . begin to demand political rights‖ and when ―the celebration of cultural difference prevented or threatened the emergence of a unified and whole Canadian identity‖ (Mackey 105). Canadians opposed to multiculturalism 58  claim that it is detrimental to creating ―a unified nation‖ and unified national culture, even though, as Bhabha writes, ―the very idea of a pure, ‗ethnically cleansed‘ national identity can only be achieved through the death, literal and figurative, of the complex interweavings of history, and the culturally contingent borderlines of modern nationhood‖ (Bhabha 319). Multicultural discourses that define Canada as white, ‗limiting‘ the expression of ‗difference‘ to the apolitical and easily commodified, exclude racialized Canadians from citizenship. Brand challenges these limitations in What We All Long For by inviting the reader to compare her protagonists, all of whom were born in Canada but who reject national narratives of identity, with their parents, who ―attempt to work with the schema handed to them by their adoptive nation, pushed into communities divided upon ethno-cultural lines while longing for national acceptance‖ (Dobson 187). Brand‘s protagonists are disappointed to find that multiculturalism ―knows only how to accept difference when it appears in recognizable (stereotypical) forms‖ (Dobson 187). After fleeing Vietnam, Tuyen‘s parents, Vu Cam and Tuan, become ―defined by the city‖: although they pursue recertification as a doctor and civil engineer, respectively, they are blocked by bureaucracy and English, until they are forced to ―see themselves the way the city saw them,‖ as providers of ―Vietnamese food‖ instead of whole subjects (Brand 66-7). The loss of their son Quy mirrors the loss of ―other parts of themselves,‖ such as their professions (Brand 66.) They learn to see themselves – and other immigrants – as ―helpless, weak, unsuitable, and always in some kind of trouble‖ (Brand 55). Similarly, Oku‘s parents‘ ―feelings of belonging are uncertain, and they prevaricate, longing simultaneously for the past and for inclusion in the present‖ (Dobson 188). Members of the first generation accept their peripheral role in Canadian culture and focus their attention on grooming their children to take their rightful place at the centre. As Jackie‘s father tells her, ―You gonna have a high school diploma, Jackie baby. Do better than me. Do better than your mother‖ (Brand 181-2). He describes his and his wife‘s economic and social marginalization as a consequence of being 59  ―country‖ or ―from down home‖ but believes that his daughter will succeed because she ―was going to be from here,‖ a position that Jackie herself questions (Brand 181-2). Members of the second generation, like Jackie, recognize that ―the schema for belonging in Canada assumes that one is white‖ and that belonging is not an option for them (Dobson 187). In response to her family‘s ―ridiculous request … to fit in and stop making trouble,‖ Tuyen declares, ―I‘ll get a blond wig and fit in all right!‖ Instead of seeing the ways the nation constructs her and her daughter as outside and ineligible for belonging, Cam asks her ―to try harder‖ (Brand 19). Carla‘s mother, Angie, commits suicide after she is rejected by Carla‘s father and abandoned by her family and community for having an affair with a black man. Remembering her mother‘s life, Carla articulates the paradox of multicultural discourse: Angie is punished for having ―crossed a border‖ but, Carla wonders, ―wasn‘t that daring! Wasn‘t it hopeful? How come she had to disappear for it?‖ (Brand 112). Because Brand‘s protagonists recognize that their inability to assimilate is structural and not a personal failing they seek ways of being that exceed the limits of multicultural discourse. Smyth argues that ―the articulation of difference that has traditionally been routed, in Canadian criticism, through the lens of national multiculturalism and ethnicity, can be linked instead to a collation of political struggles that have global scope yet are embedded in, and identify with, local urban space‖ (Smyth 276). The multicultural model relies on ―fixed, historical and discrete‖ categorizations of race and ethnicity, and ―cannot imagine the shifting of identifications … or of identifications refracted through other categories‖ that constitute the transnational subject (Smyth 276). Multiculturalism authorizes controlled expressions of difference in order to preserve the fantasy of ―a common Canadian community,‖ effectively ―[limiting] variations from a central norm‖ (Smyth 277). Commenting on the World Cup celebrations, a television announcer remarks, ―I didn‘t know we had a Korea Town‖ (Brand 204). The implicitly white ―we‖ preserves its neutrality and therefore universality by marking 60  Korea Town as ethnic and exotic; Tuyen observes that ―you fuckers live as if we don‘t live here‖ (Brand 204). The narrator attributes her identification with Koreans to the World Cup: ―no Vietnamese team had made it, so today she was Korean‖ (Brand 204). Even more so, the shared experience of racial injustice allows Tuyen to insert herself into the Korean ‗we‘ in a declaration of solidarity. In contrast to exclusionary multicultural citizenship, which confers legitimacy only upon white subjects, a new citizenship can destabilize hegemonic constructions of the nation by identifying Eurocentrism and racism as the centre of multiculturalism and by re-centring difference, the way Brand does when she asserts that, instead of writing from ―any ‗margin,‘‖ she writes from her own centre, from ―right in the middle of Black literature‖ (Brand 14). In Here is Queer: Nationalism, Sexualities, and the Literatures of Canada (1999), Peter Dickinson points out, however, that ―Brand‘s reframing of intra- and extratextual centre-margin relations … tends to get lost on the ‗Can lit crit‘ establishment‖ (Dickinson 163). The discourse of multiculturalism that constructs the Canadian as white has a concrete impact on whose work is published and whose is rejected as ‗ethnic‘ and therefore un-Canadian: Dickinson argues that ―because Brand‘s ‗here‘ is necessarily mediated, provisional, evanescent – in a word, ‗unlocatable‘—her work remains marginal/marginalizable in academic discussions of Canadian literary canons‖; as evidence for this assertion, Dickinson describes early reviews of Brand‘s work which describe her as a ‗West Indies‘ rather than ‗Canadian‘ poet (Dickinson 162). While Brand has received much scholarly attention since Dickinson published his critique, she remains on the margins of the national literary imaginary; in a recent Globe and Mail article, ―Why Mordecai Richler Isn‘t Being Studied in Canadian Universities‖ (2010), John Barber compares Richler‘s status as a household name and simultaneous subordination in the academy to the critical attention paid to Brand, who he identifies as ―comparatively little-known‖ (Barber). Although Dickinson claims that ―Brand‘s race, gender, and sexuality necessarily preclude full 61  participation in national citizenship, and thus prevent her from ever ‗being‘ a Canadian writer‖ (Dickinson 161), in her writing, Brand depicts a ―cosmopolitan urban space‖ that ―offers a critical site for the formation of new and divergent subjectivities‖ (Smyth 277). These new subjectivities pursue activism through shifting and intersecting alliances that echo Chantal Mouffe‘s affinity-based, coalitional feminist politics. Mouffe rejects essentialism and the search for ‗natural‘ origins; she considers ―the social agent as constituted by an ensemble of ‗subject positions‘‖ (Mouffe 408). Mouffe locates the failure of identity politics not only in the instability of ‗identity‘ but in the failure to ―[challenge] the dominant liberal models of citizenship and politics,‖ arguing that we must ―[construct] a new conception of citizenship‖ (Mouffe 409 – 10). Mouffe‘s ―radical democratic citizenship‖ requires that subjects, instead of rallying around difference and fixed identity categories, choose to be ―bound by their common identification with a given interpretation of a set of ethicopolitical values‖ (Mouffe 412 – 3). ―Citizenship‖ is no longer an identity category, access to which is predicated on access to power and racial, ethnic, gendered, sexual, and class ‗neutrality‘: citizenship becomes ―an articulating principle‖ that allows people to work together (Mouffe 413). This citizenship depends upon affiliations and alliances crafted by subjects who see themselves not as the same but as connected, not necessarily as sharing goals but as implicated in each other‘s projects. Goldman reads Brand‘s fiction as ―a meditation on the politics and aesthetics of crafting affiliations‖ (Goldman 14). Brand‘s narrator attributes the bonds that tie the protagonists together to their ―friendship of opposition to the state of things, and their common oddness‖ (Brand 19). Smyth identifies a ―vision of a politics of difference‖ that can transcend ―the limits of multicultural discourse‖ through ―accident, affinity, and collage‖ (Smyth 274). Instead of the essentialism of foundational identity categories, the new politics requires ―provisionality: affinity groups work together only as long as the vectors of their struggles intersect‖ (Smyth 275). 62  Instead of, as in multicultural discourse, ―trying to incorporate difference into unity,‖ Smyth argues, ―coalition‖ is ―the difficult work of working together‖ (Smyth 275). Dobson reads the ‗we‘ of the novel‘s title as an invitation: Brand‘s protagonists, by ―participating in the incremental construction of the city and the world through their actions, suggest possibilities for an open-ended politics that might include the reader as well‖ (Dobson 183). One of the projects of this politics involves producing ―‗national‘ cultures … from the perspective of disenfranchised minorities‖ (Bhabha 320). Instead of insisting on homogeneity as a requirement for political coalition, Bhabha suggests finding ―a form of cultural dissensus and alterity, where nonconsensual terms of affiliation may be established on the grounds of historical trauma‖ (Bhabha 325). In this way, subjects need not share a specific oppression in order to work together to resist intersecting oppressions. Brand‘s protagonists trace the intersections of the various oppressions they face as well as the seeds of a coalitional resistance ―that can imagine difference… outside nation-state parameters‖ (Smyth 284). When discussing Jamal‘s incarceration, Oku maintains that Jamal has trouble with the law because ―black men have no power‖; moreover, he says, ―it‘s a man thing‖ (Brand 47-8). Jackie challenges Oku‘s gendered understanding of racism, insisting that, as a black woman, she is ―the most endangered species‖; when Oku tries to tell her that ―black women don‘t have to deal with this crap‖ because ―they‘re strong,‖ she tells him to ―spare [her] that bullshit!‖ (Brand 48). Tuyen intervenes, blaming the conflicts between black men and women on the ―heterosexual dystopia‖ that demands that men and women conform to corrosive norms of masculinity and femininity (Brand 49). She combines this discussion of race, gender and sexuality with the language of class struggle, proposing a ―labour action. On … on … masculinity.‖ She asks Oku, ―If you don‘t like it, if it‘s so torturous, why don‘t you strike? Like quit‖ (Brand 48-9). Oku and Jackie laugh at her suggestion, but the insight of her analysis and her ability to connect intersecting oppressions provide the foundation for forming provisional, 63  affinity-based coalitions to fight them. Affiliations do not guarantee peace. Tuyen and her brother Binh, both born in Canada, struggle against each other throughout the novel. About to introduce the recently recovered Quy to their parents, Tuyen recognizes ―their commonality,‖ arising from their shared project of translating the world to their parents, despite their rivalry (Brand 307). As this novel illustrates, subjects who live without affinity are more vulnerable to economic exploitation and state surveillance. Carla identifies her ―disconnected‖ (236) brother Jamal‘s inability to create affinities, ―to show loyalty or to see himself as connected to people,‖ as the lack that prevents him from surmounting the racialized surveillance of the state (Brand 36). Jamal‘s inability to form affinities is part of an inability to communicate: Carla observes that ―all their conversations in the last few years were conversations of deliberate misunderstanding‖ (Brand 31); even as a child, Jamal ―never took advice, he never ever seemed to be in the same conversations as you‖ (Brand 236). Quy declares that the boat which separated him from his family, forever altering the course of his life, ―freed [him] of allegiances‖: he eschews alliances (Brand 284), declaring as a child, ―one day I will own myself and not get caught in other people‘s mess‖ (Brand 198). He maintains that ―brotherliness is another feeling I can‘t come up with. Self-interest is what moves the world. People bunch together because they‘re scared. I‘m a loner‖ (Brand 139). These two men are brought together, seemingly by chance, in the last pages of the novel, where Jamal beats Quy, possibly to death. Alone and dozing, Quy‘s ruthless selfinterest abandons him: when Jamal pulls a gun on him, Quy can only registers surprise at being ―caught in such a way‖; he cannot defend himself (Brand 317). Living without affinities is not a liberating way of life, but it is a way of being demanded by the racist public and constraining counterpublics that make up the novel‘s Toronto. Toronto is a presence, almost a character itself in the novel: as a force that drives and directs the movements of its inhabitants, the city is an ambivalent space, as potentially destructive as it 64  is creative, where people can lose or recreate themselves. In addition to being sites for contesting hegemonic discourse, cities, Smyth argues, ―can be sites for more isolated enclosures of difference,‖ for instance in ―the mapping of the city into ethnic neighbourhoods‖ (Smyth 279). In ―‗Streets Are the Dwelling Place of the Collective‘: Public Space and Cosmopolitan Citizenship in Dionne Brand‘s What We All Long For‖ (2008), Emily Johansen compares the first and second generations‘ relations to the cityspace and the revolutionary potential in each. The first generation struggles to conform to Canadian expectations and stereotypes or forms the parallel universes which Johansen refers to as ―subaltern counterpublics‖ (Johansen 49). The ability to form these counterpublics is predicated on economic privilege and is constantly under threat from the encroaching ‗legitimate‘ economy (Dobson 189). Brand reverses the ghettoization of racialized bodies by making the economic and political centres of the city peripheral to her novel, whereas ethnically marked neighbourhoods and public housing form the centre. While her characters engage with counterpublics, they also reclaim and transform public space, bearing witness to the ruptures and spillage that the city cannot contain and resisting capitalist co-option of hybridity, economic oppression, and the reterritorializing, racializing gaze of the nation-state. As young people, Jackie‘s parents spent their weekends at the Paramount, a nightclub and ―place of grace‖ fraught with the danger of violence, financial loss and sexual rivalry (Brand 95). They went to the Paramount and places like it ―to feel in their own skin‖ and ―enjoy the only thing God gave you, your body, without getting into any kind of trouble for it? Well, trouble you could handle anyway—trouble you didn‘t give a shit about, trouble you went looking for‖ (Brand 95-6). The Paramount is a place that the subaltern community can create for itself, with its own rules, though these are not always emancipatory. The Paramount perpetuates an ethnic and gendered hierarchy that privileges Nova Scotian men, reterritorializing West Indian women and disciplining men and women who upset the hierarchy. The Paramount may 65  be exciting, ―hot, urgent, dangerous‖ and exciting, but it is not joyful: everyone there ―was on edge‖ (Brand 94-5). When all of the counterpublic spaces Jackie‘s parents frequented closed one by one and ―all the glamour left‖ their lives, they were cut off from community and ―had to fly solo, go places where nobody knew them‖ (Brand 179). The colour and hope drained out of their lives. As bouncing between jail and dead end jobs eroded Jackie‘s father‘s masculinity, he claimed his penis was ―growing deader year after year,‖ and he directed his anguish and perceived loss of virility onto his wife, who ―began to get terrible bruises on her face and arms, raccoon eyes, and just a low-down feeling in her gut the whole time‖ (Brand 263). The people of Alexandra Park ―could take hard time,‖ but not without ―the relief of the Paramount,‖ because ―what was life if your imagination didn‘t work?‖ (Brand 179). The Paramount was replaced by the Duke, a bar that ―just wasn‘t made up to be glamorous,‖ a place that ―depended on lost hopes‖ and ―crushed spirits, that ―stripped you naked in an ugly kind of way‖ (180). Without the release and companionship, the ability to play life by their own rules, the people who frequented the Paramount shut down when it did; the Paramount did nothing to improve the life of humiliation and oppression they faced in the public. The Paramount presented for Jackie‘s parents an escape from another counterpublic; Alexandra Park, the ―urban warren of buildings and paths‖ that make up the social housing they inhabit (Brand 92). The park ―was turf in the low-level war for such places waged by poor people,‖ whose ―currency was not stocks, wealth and influence peddling, but tough reputations and threats of physical damage; their gains weren‘t stock options and expensive homes but momentary physical control and perennially contested fearsomeness. This war was a more volatile war, perhaps. There was no cushion of security to land on if you lost a skirmish‖ (Brand 256-7). Oku speculates that the ugliness and bareness of Vanauley Way ―must have scared‖ Jackie (Brand 260). The narrator insists that the park could easily have been made beautiful, but ―perhaps‖ the urban planners responsible ―didn‘t think that poor people deserved beauty‖ (Brand 66  260). Living in beautiful surroundings changes the way people relate to each other and to the place they live in; had there been ―a garden instead of that dry narrow roadway, Jackie‘s childhood might have been less hazardous‖ (Brand 261). Better buildings would have ―triggered lighter emotions, less depressing thoughts, a sense of well-being. God, hope!‖ (Brand 261). As a child, Jackie beautified her home by planting a garden in her mind, which she could not share with others (Brand 264). Although Alexandra Park belongs to the poor, it was created and is controlled by the wealthy and the powerful. Tuyen‘s parents live in Richmond Hill, the opposite of Alexandra Park, ―where rich immigrants live in giant houses‖ (Brand 54). The narrator describes Richmond Hill as a place where racialized Canadians hope to escape reminders of previous poverty and of the image of themselves as ‗immigrants,‘ as ―helpless, weak, unsuitable, and always in some kind of trouble,‖ and as a ―self that keeps drawing attention‖ whose appearance or language excludes them from ‗fitting in‘ (Brand 54-5). Once Tuyen‘s family ‗escapes‘ to Richmond Hill, they interpret her return to College Street as a betrayal and rejection of the work they did to flee College Street, first for Alexandra Park and later for Richmond Hill. Tuyen hates their house because she finds it ―artificial‖ and ―contrived,‖ a ―rootless and desolate‖ kind of luxury (Brand 55). Tuyen accuses her father: ―You think because you have a little money, it makes you better?‖ (Brand 58). Fleeing the ‗unsuitable immigrant‘ image of themselves imposed by xenophobic narratives of nation-building, the Vus race toward joyless consumption; by constructing their subjectivities in opposition to the racial stereotypes they attempt to outrun, their lives remain defined by these stereotypes. Smyth observes that ―exile is not unique to those who are cultural migrants within multiculturalism‖ (Smyth 280). Tuyen escapes to the Pope Joan, a lesbian bar where she can be ―openly seduced . . . in no way imaginable within the confines of [her] family‖ (Brand 268). The bar is a ―small public space‖ where ―all that couldn‘t be lived outside was lived‖; cramming a 67  whole life into the short hours the bar was open gave the place ―an urgency‖ and ―a packed force‖ (Brand 268). At the bar, ―any woman could drop her necessary defences to the city . . . and drift‖ (Brand 269). As a temporary respite, Tuyen takes refuge in the Pope Joan but always returns to the public space she remakes with her friends and allies. Quy and Binh participate in global economies, both criminal and legal. Binh ironically refers to human trafficking as ―the free flow of goods and labour,‖ highlighting the subordination of the subject to capital under globalization (Brand 68). Binh holds an MBA and ―a distaste for the straightforward and honest, a mistrust of social welfare, and a religious fervour for what was called the bottom line‖ as well as a ―penchant for ungenerousness‖ and self-centredness (122). In addition to human trafficking, Binh invests in ecstasy manufacturing, distribution and retail, while his associates prostitute trafficked women. Global capitalism has produced ―the Asian tigers‖, the machines of exploitation that Quy and Binh each, in their turn, exploit (217). Oku refers to the criminal economy as ―the jungle‖; this name, applied to a primarily black and masculine space, evokes primitivism and criminality (Brand 45). Hegemonic whiteness, which claims masculinity for itself, constructs the racialized Other as feminine and therefore inferior, but ‗the jungle‘ offers an equally toxic model of black masculinity, defined by violence, intolerance, and criminality. Masculinity clearly poses problems for Oku; he feels like a child, both with his parents and with Jackie, the woman he loves. Oku‘s manhood is not acknowledged by his father, Fitz, whose masculinity depends upon ―manly work‖ and the rejection of emotion (Brand 84). Because his masculinity denies him the ability to express sadness, Fitz lashes out at those around him: when he ―realized that he was on the brink of tears, he would have to get angry and turn on [his wife] Claire and Oku instead‖ (Brand 85). Both Oku and his mother, Claire, know that Fitz‘s violence can be attributed not only to patriarchal masculinity but that it also constitutes a resistance to racist discourses that construct black men as simultaneously hypersexual and feminized: had Fitz been ―a different man in this country, he 68  would be further ahead‖; Oku tries to make himself see his father ―as oppressed, ground down by the system‖ (Brand 86). While Claire defends her husband, insisting that his ―striving‖ has made him ―bitter,‖ Oku contends that Fitz ―acts like a tyrant because . . . because he can,‖ because patriarchy entitles him to recognition and respect (Brand 187). Fitz‘s patriarchal masculinity is best encapsulated by the barbershops, which the narrator describes as ―repositories of all the stifled ambition of men who were sidelined by prejudices of one sort or another. And also a lock-box of the vanities of men so hamstrung,‖ places which produced ―pig-headed‖ and intolerant men who perpetuate injustices to offset their own victimisation (189). Oku decides not to carry that patriarchal model of masculinity into his own life and relationships but he is left wondering how to avoid developing the same broken bitterness as his father. Oku‘s friend Kwesi operates a ―mobile store‖ where he sells stolen goods (Brand 162). While Oku calls crime ―time-consuming‖ ―capitalist bullshit,‖ he finds himself ―envious not only of the money but of the balls, the certainty‖ that Kwesi and black men like him draw from their participation in criminal enterprise (Brand 162-3). Oku helps out with the mobile store, controlling the crowds who come to buy, but he ―[wimps] out‖ when Kwesi asks him to help with a ―pick up‖ (Brand 163). Even as he is attracted to Kwesi‘s masculinity – its certainty, its danger – he finds it ―exhausting‖; although ‗he could become the bad public hard-ass kind of black man everyone appreciated,‖ ―everybody knew it was bullshit‖ (Brand 163-4). Oku is attracted to the romantic danger of this masculinity but he knows that it will keep him from exploring ―the full register‖ of his subjectivity (Brand 164). Oku lives ―in his head‖ in order to stay ―safe,‖ so that he does not ―react reflexively to the stimuli of the city heading toward him with all the velocity of a split atom‖ (Brand 166). Oku constructs himself as a ―cool poet,‖ risking aspersions being cast on his masculinity to avoid ―the ordinary and brutal shit waiting for men like him in the city,‖ men who ―were in prison, although the bars were invisible‖ (Brand 166). Oku compares himself to Jackie‘s white boyfriend Reiner who ―did not, could not 69  possibly see the city as a prison‖; he could and ―must see it as his place,‖ as the entitlement ―of someone in control and certainly not threatened‖ (Brand 176). Oku rejects counterpublics represented both by the violence of the criminal economy and the bitter making-do of his father‘s life. Oku‘s ‗public‘ is the world of words; he decides to return to graduate school ―because he loved that, and what he loved he wasn‘t going to have taken from him or give up‖ (Brand 265). He promises to ―never allow that look to come into his eyes, the wry look, the defeated look, the bitter look‖ in his father‘s and Jackie‘s father‘s faces (265). Oku claims ‗the master‘s tools‘ for himself, for his own ends, to reshape the world in which he lives. Oku rejects the feminization of blackness perpetuated by racist public discourse and the brutality of misogynist criminal subaltern counterpublics. He finds a ‗way out‘ through his deep love for Jackie. The narrator tells the reader that ―what [Oku feels] now was no teenaged crush but a big man‘s love and lust, a powerful pull that told him he would not enjoy his life fully if she were not close to him, if he could not talk to her, if he could not always be in the same orbit of her face‖ (Brand 258). In this face of this ―powerful pull,‖ Oku desires not ownership or possession of Jackie but knowledge of her: he decides ―that if he wanted her, he would have to know what she knew, walk where she walked, and figure out the things that had given shape to her‖ (Brand 258). Oku navigates the pitfalls of black masculinity by using his desire to carefully craft a loving affinity with Jackie through knowing her. Criminal subaltern counterpublics construct themselves as ‗outside‘ or ‗below‘ the law, which then ―positions the community as a focus for policing‖ (Dobson 189). The inhabitants of these counterpublics reject the surveillance and intervention of hegemonic authority, considering police ―another race altogether,‖ and black police officers ―race traitor[s]‖ (Brand 99). They foreclose political coalitional resistance, obscuring the possibilities of alliances between oppressed groups and constraining mobility. These spaces also remain vulnerable to economic exploitation and destruction. Most importantly, subaltern counterpublics do nothing to alter the 70  conditions which make their existence necessary: they do not alter the public constructed to exclude them. Carla‘s social mobility is predicated upon her perceived ‗whiteness‘: because she is not ―phenotypically black,‖ Carla can ―disappear into this white world‖ but chooses not to out of respect for her mother‘s border-crossing (Brand 106). Unlike Tuyen and Oku, Carla holds down a steady, conventional job on the margins of the economic world; as a bicycle courier, she navigates the city on her own terms, and she can ―ignore the world where you had to fit, where you had to play some game she didn‘t understand and just wasn‘t up to‖ (Brand 106). Carla moves through the city on her bike, ―burning off a white light on her body‖; despite her breakneck speed ―she could still make out the particularity of each object or person she saw, so acute this searing light around her, tingling her skin. Could anyone see her? drenched in lightning?‖ (28). This ‗light‘ forces her to keep riding: ―if she could stop, she would have, but she was light and light moves‖ (28). On her bike, Carla choses whether to work with or against ―the current of the city,‖ taking and making space for herself (Brand 42). As a child, Carla understood space, knowing how to behave ―just by the look from her mother or her sometimes father, just by the location of their bodies around the room‖ (240). Her sensitivities made her a ―slender‖ child who ―made room with her own body‖ to avoid surveillance (241). As an adult, Carla uses her body on its bike to make room for herself, room to keep moving, to outrun the misapprehension that erases her experience when it races her as white. As an entrepreneur and fashionista, Jackie absorbs the codes of cultures that construct her as Other and puts them to her own use: ―calling herself ‗Diva,‘‖ she flatters her customers ―into scandalous excess buying‖ (44). Jackie crafts an identity herself drawn from a childhood and adolescence spent in front of a television: she learned to speak ―valley girl, baller, hip-hopper, Brit mod, and French‖ after ―absorbing the television‘s language and culture, and getting familiar with its speakers and citizens,‖ and using these languages to transform herself into a 71  glamorous hybrid who can move between – and remake – the cultural spaces around her, both public and counterpublic (45). Oku accuses her of absorbing too much and leaving material reality behind when he asks her, ―you talking in another language now? You forgotten how life is?‖ (46). Jackie makes the capitalist economy work for her through the gentrification of her store, called ―Ab und Zu,‖ German for ‗now and then‘ (133), which sells ―post-bourgeois clothing‖ in the space ―where Toronto‘s trendy met Toronto‘s seedy‖ (Brand 99). Jackie anticipates the gentrification of the neighbourhood, which will ―sweep the store into money‖ (Brand 99). The diner next door exemplifies this economic movement: there, ―hopeful trendies‖ and ―anarchists‖ share space with representatives of ―the old neighbourhood—the working class, the poor, the desperate‖ (Brand 99). The child who hopefully imagined flowers in Alexandra Park becomes the woman who changes the material face of the city. Across the alleyway from Carla and Tuyen live a group of graffiti artists who visually redraw the boundaries and allegiances of the public by spreading their ‗tags‘ throughout the city: they position their work ―as painting radical imagines against the dying poetics of the anglicized city‖ and filling ―in the details of the city‘s outlines‖; the narrator calls them ―the spiritual presences of Tuyen, Oku, and Carla‘s generation‖ (Brand 134). Their tags—―Kumaran‘s grinning pig, Abel‘s ‗narc‘ initial, then Keeran‘s desert and Jericho‘s lightning bolt‖ (Brand 312)—are ―emblems of duality‖ and ―dangerous dreams‖ (Brand 135). The crew‘s ―fluency, stealth, and agility‖ position them as transnational hybrids who must speak multiple languages and navigate volatile intersections, insisting upon their ―shadowy‖ and ―critical presences‖ (Brand 132). Even though their activities are illegal, by working together and with others, the graffiti artists escape surveillance: they remain ―unnoticed until they felt like being noticed‖ (Brand 135). Their work is not perfect: Carla wishes they would paint something other than their tags, perhaps ―a flowering jungle or a seaside,‖ if they intend to ―paint the whole city over‖ (Brand 32). Near the novel‘s end, the graffiti artists display their ability to pursue coalitional 72  resistance – to ‗paint the whole city over‘ in colours other than their own – when they paint ―a flowering jungle, lianas wrapped around the CN Tower, elephants drinking by the lake, pelicans perched on the fire escapes‖ as well as ―a seaside, a woman in a bathing suit and hat shading her eyes, looking out to sea‖ on the alley way walls (301). Their artistry and creative resistance penetrates and reshapes the public, calling into being a citizenship that is predicated not upon belonging but upon being and longing. Throughout the novel, Tuyen develops an installation through which she can speak to the city and hear its voice; she displays her art in her tiny, chaotic studio apartment, collapsing binaries between public and private space. She first sets out to ―reclaim‖ the Chinese lubaio or political signpost, ―fake‖ versions of which decorate Chinatown, transformed into ―kitsch‖ by multicultural appropriation (Brand 16-17). Tuyen begins to ask strangers what they long for, planning ―to write these longings down and post them on the lubaio,‖ making them ―public‖ (150-1). Heather Smyth offers the image of Surrealist collage as a response and resistance to the mosaic analogy of multiculturalism. Through Tuyen‘s installations, Brand invokes ―the Surrealist practice of exquisite corpse—a multi-artist drawing collage,‖ offering ―a unique way to imagine the relationship between parts and whole of a collectivity, and an alternative to nation-based multicultural ideology‖ (Smyth 275). The components of a collage relate to one another in ways that ―illustrate … diasporic experience‖ as well as ―the relational dynamics of community and difference‖ and ―its paradoxical relationships built along many irreducible axes‖ more productively than a mosaic, in which the individual ethnic ‗tiles‘ are contextualized and neutralized by the ‗grout‘ of white Canadianness (Smyth 285 – 6). In her appropriation of the ―exquisite corpse,‖ given the inclusion of body parts in many Surrealist collages, and in light of the violence threatened in the chaos of the World Cup celebrations and anti-globalization protests, Brand evokes ―dismemberment‖ as much as collage (Smith 285). This evocation of rending violence reminds the reader of the violence of neo-colonialism: as Bhabha writes, 73  ―remembering is never a quiet act of introspection. It is a painful re-membering, a putting together of a dismembered past to make sense of the trauma of the present‖ (Bhabha 123). This remembering, as enacted in What We All Long For by Tuyen‘s installation, has the power to ―translate the fragments of diaspora into beauty, turning personal and unofficial histories into a community‘s messages to each other‖ and ―give concrete form to the particularized local political struggles that reach past the national framework to insert themselves into the global‖ (Smyth 287). Tuyen‘s art also reflects her father‘s effort ―to hold together the constantly slipping limbs‖ of his family (115). Tuyen plans her installation to feature three rooms: one featuring ―the lubaio with all the old longings of another generation‖ and another with ―twelve video projections, constantly changing, of images and texts of contemporary longing‖ (308). The final room will ―be empty, the room silent‖; Tuyen acknowledges that she doesn‘t know why but, once the installation is complete, ―some grain, some element she had been circling, but had been unable to pin down, would emerge‖ (Brand 308). In a similar way, conceptualizing multiculturalism as a collage instead of a static mosaic framed by whiteness makes space for transformative political struggle. Throughout Brand‘s novel, hybrid subjects struggle to create political change and build spaces for themselves, sidestepping the national under the threat of state surveillance and the limitations of institutionalized multiculturalism that bars them from citizenship. These subjects navigate subaltern counterpublics that constrain as much as they empower while resisting their exclusion from the supposedly ‗neutral‘ public, remaking public space in their own image. This intervention in the public has the power to interrupt self-congratulatory discourses of Canadian multicultural ‗tolerance‘ and to expose the terms of cultural citizenship as being predicated on whiteness and power.  74  Chapter Three: Postmodernity and Globalization in Stanley Park Timothy Taylor peoples his 2001 novel, Stanley Park, with characters who ground their critically-chosen, relational subjectivities in the specificity of the places – public and counterpublic – that they inhabit in a world determined by access to economic power. They reject superficial and exoticized multiculturalism as well as the homogeneity created by global capitalist enterprise, explicitly aligning both of these discourses with privilege, commodification, consumption, and economic power. Despite their opposition to imperialism, Taylor‘s characters outrun more than they resist empire: they conclude that the public is so economically corrupted that they must find freedom in counterpublic subaltern economies. These subaltern economies do not seem to challenge or change the dominant paradigm; they remain subaltern and vulnerable to the oppressive surveillance oppression of capitalism and racism. Through their non-interference, by living on the run, they allow hegemonic discourses to continue to structure and dominate public space uncontested. Taylor‘s characters embrace affinities, but their flight from the public eschews coalitional resistance. The novel follows the rise and fall of chef Jeremy Papier as he strives to create an authentic way of being in the world through cooking grounded in tradition and tied to the local while his father, Professor Papier, immerses himself in the world of Vancouver‘s homeless, taking up residence in Stanley Park and teaching his son about connections to place. Professor Papier, an anthropologist, seeks to understand the unsolved 1947 murders of two children whose bodies were found in Stanley Park in 1953, known as the ―Babes in the Woods‖, as an origin myth for the city, casting Stanley Park itself as a fallen Eden which offers a contingent and illegal refuge from the disciplinary forces of the city. Those who seek shelter in the park from political repression, mental institutions, or colonization forge connections to the land that contrast dramatically with the alienated mobile elite, products of migration and globalization. Within the economic stratification of global capitalism, the privileged can ignore borders and 75  engage in multinational business, while the economically and politically oppressed suffer forced migration or forced immobility. Jeremy loses his restaurant to his financier, corporate mogul Dante Beale, who creates an entirely new restaurant on the same site that easily appropriates and commercializes hybridity to abolish time and space barriers to consumer goods for the privileged. On the restaurant‘s opening night, Jeremy surreptitiously feeds the guests meat and greens harvested illegally from Stanley Park, calling this meal ―a performance about memory‖ and using this platform as one final chance to remind people of ―the soil under [their] feet‖ masked by the pretence of Dante‘s commodified hybridity (Taylor 353, 51). Promptly fired, Jeremy abandons the legitimate economy altogether and establishes an underground restaurant in Chinatown. Taylor‘s protagonist, chef Jeremy Papier, establishes his anti-essentialist ideological genealogy in the face of his partially unknowable ethnic identity by allying himself with a culinary tradition that celebrates critically-chosen roots in the face of contemporary postmodern placelessness. Jeremy‘s identity, established through loosely lived loyalties to place, recalls theories of hybridity, the possibilities and limitations of which have been extensively analyzed by contemporary scholars of literature, art, and culture. In ―Cultural Identity and Diaspora‖ (1990), Stuart Hall proposes a theory of hybrid identity constituted through representation yet grounded in historical and cultural specificity (Hall 296). Similarly, Homi Bhabha similarly suggests in ―Border Lives: The Art of the Present‖ (1994) that subjectivity is formed ―‗inbetween,‘ or in excess of, the sum of the ‗parts‘ of difference,‖ negotiated in the interstices of oppressions and privileges (Bhabha 317). Furthermore, Gloria Anzaldúa explores spaces between, describing these spaces that accommodate difference and resistance as nepantla, or borderlands, in ―Chicana Artists: Exploring Nepantla, el Lugar de la Frontera‖ (1993) (Anzaldúa 311). These theorists recognize, however, that as much as hybrid identities produced  76  by border-crossings can challenge and resist hegemonic norms, the border is also a site of disorientation and dislocation, open to appropriation and misappropriation. Jeremy‘s diasporic subjectivity inspires him to create his own affinities with the land he inhabits rather than pursue an essentialized identity through a knowable history. Jeremy and his father are cut off from their own ethnic roots: Jeremy‘s grandfather moved to Canada from Poland in the 1920s, at which point he changed his surname, making Jeremy‘s ethnic heritage mysterious and unlocatable. At the time, Eastern Europeans were invited to be part of the nation-building project as rural labourers; they remained, however, on the margins of a whiteness that had yet to expand to include ethnically-marked Europeans. In his teens, their ―truncated, Anglicized Hebrew surname,‖ Papier, inspired Jeremy to explore the possibilities of their heritage, finding ―evidence of Polish families with names like Papierbuch and Papierczyk‖ and arguing with his father that they ―might be Jewish‖ (Taylor 37). Jeremy longs for ―a given history – with the set of answers and instructions that Jeremy presumed came with such a legacy,‖ but the Professor reminds him ―that [they] cannot know [their] history for certain‖ (Taylor 37). As a man with a ―permanently erased history,‖ Jeremy exemplifies the workings of diaspora and intergenerational loss; his hidden history forces him to invent his own ―answers and instructions,‖ forging his allegiances on the basis of affinity instead of essentialized notions of heritage (Taylor 37, 39). In contrast to Jeremy‘s irrecoverable paternal roots, Jeremy‘s deceased mother, Hélène, met his father in France, where the Professor was studying her Romani family, who had recently left an itinerant life. After Hélène‘s death, Jeremy‘s family stories become ―the family table of elements. The constituent pieces that had been passed down to Jeremy, that he now construed as making him who he was‖ (Taylor 148). Because Jeremy‘s ethnic heritage is partially unrecoverable and hybrid, he reconstructs his identity through the relationships he can know and the experiences he can understand, mediated through the places that make them possible. 77  During his culinary training in Dijon, Jeremy must choose between two philosophies of cooking, nicknamed ‗Blood‘ and ‗Crip‘ in reference to American gang allegiances. Jeremy rejects postmodern Crip ideology, which celebrates fused, innovative, post-national cuisine. Crip cooking mobilizes Fredric Jameson‘s concept of pastiche, in which originality and individuality are no longer achievable goals, and contemporary cultural producers speak in borrowed languages without assuming that they refer to a central, standard, universally understood language (Jameson 203). In comparison, Jeremy adopts ―nostalgic,‖ ―canonical‖ cooking, nicknamed ‗Blood‘, which is ―linked to ‗local‘ by the inheritance or adoption of a culture, linked to a particular manner and place of being‖ (Taylor 32). Within Blood ideology, authenticity is made possible through a loosely lived allegiance to a culture grounded in place, whether that culture is inherited or adopted. Jeremy‘s Blood mentor, Chef Quartey, describes a stock as ―sincère,‖ which Jeremy takes to mean ―apparently based on no false pretences,‖ implying that Crip cooking is pretentious and inauthentic, and expresses ulterior motives (Taylor 34). Crip ideology is closely aligned with the problematic excesses of postmodern theory. In ―Answering the Question: What Is Postmodernism?‖ (1984) Jean-François Lyotard famously defined postmodernism as a distrust of totalizing ‗master narratives‘ that organize thought into Truth, understanding meaning instead as constructed rather than uncovered. The resulting artistic experimentation dethrones the author‘s authority in the construction of meaning and destabilizes interpretation, highlighting the implications of the reader‘s subject position. Fredric Jameson distinguishes between postmodernism in art and postmodernity as ―a periodizing concept‖; in ―Postmodernism and Consumer Society‖ (1988), he describes this ―periodizing concept‖ as the conceptual framework for the culture produced by changes in world economic systems since the Second World War, especially the rise of neo-colonial multinational consumer capitalism facilitated by the consolidation of electronic information and communication 78  technologies into world systems (citation). Jameson argues that postmodernity is characterized by ‗schizophrenia,‘ the loss of an understandable, linear relationship with time and the past; subjects of postmodernity inhabit a series of continual presents and the ‗real‘ past ―remains forever out of reach‖ (Jameson 208). Postmodernity, according to Jameson, has led to ―the disappearance of a sense of history,‖ stranding subjects ―in a perpetual present and in a perpetual change‖ assisted by new media, which, by pushing events into the past as quickly as possible, produce ―historical amnesia‖ (Jameson 214). Insofar as our identities are grounded in and forged through relations to space, Jameson argues that we interpret ―our physical trajectories‖ through space ―as virtual narratives or stories‖ which we ―complete with our own bodies‖ (Jameson 210). Jameson argues that postmodernity disorients because we lack ―the perceptual equipment to match this new hyperspace‖ and to forge new relationship with places (Jameson 208). The Crip cuisine Jeremy rejects reflects a postmodern impulse wherein the powerful appropriate what in The Canadian Postmodern Linda Hutcheon calls the ‗ex-centric,‘ the peripheral and marginal, thus depoliticizing the margins as a ground from which to engage in revolutionary politics, even as Crip foodies praise ‗fused‘ cooking as ‗transgressive.‘ Gloria Anzaldúa observes that ―border art is becoming trendy in these neo-colonial times‖; she argues that the powerful are ―colonizing, commercializing, and consuming‖ the art of the marginal, which is ―misappropriated by pop culture‖ to entertain those who can claim the centre (Anzaldúa 312). Jameson compares postmodern cultural production to that of high modernism: whereas high modernism positioned itself as explicitly ―oppositional,‖ postmodernism commodifies the features of high modernism, emptying them of their subversive power (Jameson 214). Postmodern and experimental, Crips are ―culinarily homeless‖ and represent an amnesiac relationship with history that Jeremy fears (Taylor 136). In a dream, Jeremy tells his mentor, Chef Quartey, that he worries he will forget his teachings; the Chef replies, ―It is, I think, very North American to forget like this, no? I forget nothing‖ (Taylor 301). Jeremy declares, ―I 79  remember everything‖ and when he wakes up, he ―breathed in Vancouver,‖ stabilizing his allegiances through his connection to the place that shapes his life (Taylor 302). Jeremy creates identity, belonging and resistance through this tension between roots and drifting: the ―one thing that provides [him] with stability and roots‖ is his commitment to a specific way of being in the world (Taylor 31). Postmodern appropriation of the margins has much in common with discourses of multicultural exoticism, which construct the multicultural Other‘s cultural artefacts as commodities to be consumed by a hegemonic white audience. In Haunted Nations (2004), Gunew asserts that multiculturalism operates within ―a globalization which, to some degree, renders the nation state irrelevant as an autonomous self-legislating cultural body‖: as capital moves more and more freely across borders, the powerless find their movements constrained or forced by the demands of a ruthless global capitalist economy (Gunew 13). The 1988 Free Trade Agreement, which was meant to ease the flow of capital across the American-Canadian border, was expanded in 1993 to include Mexico as the North American Free Trade Agreement. In The Dark Side of the Nation: Essays on Multiculturalism, Nationalism, and Gender (2000), Bannerji contends that multiculturalism operates within a globalized economy that deepens Canada‘s dependence on foreign investment (Bannerji 77). In addition, in ―Sociopolitical and Cultural Developments from 1967 to Present‖ (2008), Sherrill Grace argues our uneasy cultural and economic relations with the United States stem from the fear of ‗Americanization‘ of the ―Canadian habitus‖; this apprehension increases the pressure to distinguish ourselves from our powerful neighbour (Grace 290). Multicultural policy allows Canada to construct itself as morally superior or more ‗civil‘ than the power imperial neighbours that threaten its survival in a global economy, but the Canadian state organizes labour, pressing multiculturalism into the service of creating and maintaining a racialized sub-working class: Bannerji argues that ―decisions about who should come into Canada to do what work, definitions of skill and 80  accreditation, licensing and certification, have been influenced by ‗race‘ and ‗ethnicity,‘‖ allowing the state, media, and legislators to scapegoat the ‗visible minority‘ (Bannerji 114, 115). In this way, multicultural discourses make difference visible as a product to be consumed while downplaying the ways in which these same discourses represent multicultural Canadians as ‗outside‘ national identity. The appropriation of the ‗ex-centric‘ is first represented in the novel by the ―relentlessly cool,‖ ―ravingly optimistic,‖ ―Cripper than Crip‖ cooking magazine Gud Tayste, edited by Kiwi Frederique (Taylor 63). As the chef of Dante‘s new restaurant, Gerriamo‘s, Jeremy parodies Crip appropriation of the ‗ex-centric‘ by claiming Ray Kroc, founder of McDonald‘s, and Ferdinand Point, founder of nouvelle cuisine, as his inspirations in an interview with Frederique. She assumes that his juxtaposition of Kroc and Point is ironic, as rejecting the boundaries of high and low culture is one of the key features of postmodernity (Jameson 202). Point rejected the orthodoxy of cuisine classique and Kroc ―introduced the first truly global commodity food‖ (Taylor 363). Point ―kicked free of the past and floated somewhere new without baggage‖ whereas Kroc ―broke the constraints of being wherever‖ (Taylor 363). Claiming Point‘s and Kroc‘s victories over ―the past‖ and ―locale,‖ respectively, Jeremy describes Gerriamo‘s as ―beyond international‖ or ―globalized‖; instead of being the restaurant of ―all places,‖ of ―fusion,‖ Gerriamo‘s is ―the restaurant of no place‖ which belongs ―to no soil, to no cuisine, to no people, to no culinary morality‖: it belongs, says Jeremy, ―only to those who can reach us and understand us and afford us‖ (Taylor 364). Jeremy‘s parody explicitly aligns postmodern Crip ‗transgression‘ with the privileged narratives it ostensibly disavows. During his year at the Burgundian relais, Jeremy discovers that, while they serve rich German and Swiss tourists during the week, on Sundays, the kitchen‘s day ‗off‘, they serve the local farmers, ―the people with the rubber boots,‖ ―the people from here‖ in an evening of ―utter simplicity and coherence‖ that Jeremy struggles to recreate in his own restaurant in Vancouver 81  (Taylor 40). Jeremy positions his restaurant, The Monkey‘s Paw Bistro, as an alternative and marginal public space that repudiates the values of the industry in which it participates. The neighbourhood that gives life to The Monkey‘s Paw is the antithesis of the global market: it ―offered a shifting multicultural client base that nobody could consciously target,‖ including ―film school kids,‖ ―the kind of businesses that embraced neighbourhoods in the earliest stages of gentrifications,‖ the after-work ―bike-courier scene,‖ and ―a tantalizing trickle of those foodies and reviewers adventurous enough to dine out deep on the downtown east side, pushing up against the Hasting Street heroin trade. It was a colourful, kaleidoscopic place. Very Crosstown, very X-town‖ (52-3). These different populations do not exactly constitute what Michel Foucault might call a ―crossroad for dangerous mixtures‖ (144) in that they do not interact with each other; however, their presences pose a challenge to profit-driven marketing based on homogeneous populations. The perfectly homogenized commodity is represented in the novel by Inferno International Coffee and its British CEO, Dante Beale. Through Dante‘s chain of coffee shops, ―a uniform commodity was distributed through identical shops to consumers all over North America‖ (Taylor 254). In contrast to the Monkey‘s Paw‘s specificity, which depends upon the Crosstown neighbourhood for its character and customers, ―the ubiquitous Inferno Coffee logo‖ is ―visible from virtually any point in the city where a potential consumer‖ might see it (Taylor 62). Inferno positions subjects of the city as potential consumers and organizes itself around their needs, established through meticulous market research. Early in the novel, Jeremy observes that there are no Inferno locations in Crosstown because ―Inferno didn‘t know the people in Crosstown yet; they hadn‘t been fleshed out in the catalogue of customer types to whom Dante felt confident he could sell, always sell, reliably sell every morning and lunch, to the extent that there was a business case for the investment in blond wood, canned music and barista training‖ (Taylor 63). Jeremy‘s sous chef, Jules, maintains that Inferno ―was polluting the city with 82  sameness,‖ calling the operation not a coffee chain but ―a cost model, an exercise in scale‖ (Taylor 66). In ―Placing Ekphrasis: Paintings and Place in Stanley Park‖ (2007), Travis Mason argues that ―financial success, especially as embodied by Dante, is necessarily a global endeavour in Stanley Park; the desire and ability to cross international boundaries are essential if Jeremy is to satisfy the head of Inferno International Coffee‖ (Mason 21). Jeremy articulates his opposition to globalization through the image of farmed salmon, which exist ―independent of geography, food chain, or ecosystem,‖ producing fish as a ―perfectly commodified‖ product, ―immune to the restrictions of place‖ (Taylor 171). Because ―there was no where that these fish were from,‖ Jeremy rejects them as ―culinarily homeless‖ (Taylor 171). In the novel, unimpeded global motion is both predicated upon access to power and a prerequisite for success: the inhabitants of Stanley Park must plan their movements in relation to the authorities that watch them and the movements of those whose right to the public is secured through economic advantage, whereas the powerful can choose to move or stay at will. When his own restaurant fails, Jeremy joins Dante‘s project, building an entirely new restaurant on the same site. Jeremy learns how the master of the global economy can transcend the boundaries of time and space: he connects with suppliers ―time zone by time zone, working his way westward with the sun‖ (Taylor 339). Jeremy observes that ―Dante greased customs. Dante greased everything. All avenues of international supply yawned open and Gerriamo‘s had credit‖ (Taylor 339). Backed by the capital which facilitates movement, Gerriamo‘s harvests the culinary riches of the globe without ever having to understand or confront the material and often exploitative basis on which this freedom of trade is founded. As the novel progresses, Dante establishes an Inferno location in Crosstown, displacing local businesses and illustrating the changes in the city – increasing homogenization, structuring the public as a space for individual enterprise rather than collective democratic engagement – made possible or necessary by the flow of global capital. These changes in the cityscape are also 83  represented by the new public library Jeremy visits. In the old library, ―crisp sheets of glass opened the inside to the outside,‖ allowing the passer-by to look within and expressing a transparent collective public ownership (Taylor 111). Jeremy likens the new library to ―the Roman Coliseum,‖ contrasting the democratic roots of the former shared space with the gladiatorial commercial interests expressed by the new building, especially by the retail activity which fills the atrium outside the new building (Taylor 111). Of these commercial enterprises, Jeremy expresses the most distaste for a pizzeria ―which went beyond fast and cheap and standardized, and was striving also for the exotic, the novelty niche,‖ producing ―a commodified splatter of culinary incoherence on a shingle,‖ perfect for the ruthless global economy the new library‘s Romanesque architecture suggests (Taylor 111-2). The North American Free Trade Agreement facilitates cross-border business, and therefore Hollywood companies regularly use Vancouver as a cheap shooting locale. Early in the novel, Jeremy tries to save his restaurant by courting members of the film industry. He speaks to one producer, Lucas, who claims to like Vancouver because he ―can make it look like any city on earth,‖ rejecting the specificity which is so important to Jeremy (Taylor 57). Lucas, Jeremy‘s ―target market,‖ loses Jeremy‘s respect when he fails to understand the Monkey‘s Paw‘s relationship to place (Taylor 58). Globalization, the extent to which nation-states and national interests are subordinate to those of multi- or trans-national businesses and economic and political bodies, produces societies that depend upon information flow and what in ―The Condition of Virtuality‖ (1997) N. Katherine Hayles calls ―virtuality,‖ ―the cultural perception that material objects are interpenetrated by information patterns‖ (Hayles 67). In a global economy dependent upon uniform products designed by market research, information becomes ―the site of mastery and control over the material world‖ (Hayles 68). Information technologies alter the way humans perceive the limits of their bodies and how humans move through space: ―technologies of information are forcing a reconceptualization of the city‖ (Hayles 72). When we combine ―our 84  bodily perceptions and motions with computer architectures and topologies,‖ we produce ―a changed sense of subjectivity‖ (Hayles 78). In ―A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century‖ (1991) Donna Haraway argues that these new information technologies have already made humans into ―cyborgs‖ (Haraway 676). In ―Biopolitical Production‖ (2000) Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, building upon Michel Foucault‘s concept of ‗biopower,‘ argue that these interpenetrating information technologies produce a ―society of control‖ in which ―the behaviors of social integration and exclusion proper to rule are thus increasingly interiorized within the subjects themselves‖ via ―the brains (in communication systems, information networks, etc.) and bodies (in welfare systems, monitored activities, etc.) toward a state of autonomous alienation from the sense of life‖ (Hardt and Negri 144). Within the context of the postmodern alienation and dislocation produced by globalization, Jeremy observes that ―we don‘t root any longer . . . we hover‖ (Taylor 165). While his friend Olli considers the loss of roots liberating, Jeremy chooses to put down roots, forming a relational subjectivity planted in the ground he navigates daily. Jeremy‘s best friend, software developer Olli, is hard at work on a project called ―Tree of Knowledge,‖ which he describes as ―Building Libraries of Everything‖: this project entails scaling down vast amounts of data for storage and retrieval, which can then be ―disseminated freely‖ (163-4). Olli‘s work continues the Enlightenment project of acquiring all knowledge, without which, he says, ―we‘d be sucking our thumbs in the shade of the Tree of Knowledge, blissed-out in fig leaves‖ (Taylor 164). His enthusiasm begins to break down later in the novel, when he realizes that millennial society has ―developed a fetishistic relationship with data, information‖ and his investors have ―redirected‖ his passion for disseminating information freely into ―a massive megalomaniacal archiving project with no express reason whatsoever‖ (Taylor 384-5). This redirection of Olli‘s project represents the ways in which Hayle argues that  85  contemporary society reifies information ―into a free-floating, decontextualized, quantifiable entity‖ commodified into a product for the privileged (Hayles 70). While Dante claims that there is ―no local on the Net,‖ Olli reasserts the materiality upon which information depends: ―the Net still relies on wires and fibres‖ which ―need to be strung on poles. The poles need to be stuck in the ground somewhere. Somewhere, that ground is local‖ (Taylor 269-70). Hayles similarly insists that ―the efficacy of information depends on a highly articulated material base‖ (Hayles 69). Dante decides that he is culinarily ―wireless,‖ an observation supported by his constant motion which keeps him out of Jeremy‘s reach as he communicates with him via cell phone from the plane, the airport, or the car, making him ultimately placeless as he paces the globe (Taylor 270). Trying to reach this ever-traveling Dante, Jeremy can only leave messages ―somewhere out there in phone-space‖ and observe that ―the Dantes of the world‖ ―unplugged themselves from the planet and were doing their business on a plane that hovered just above the actual surface of the earth‖ (Taylor 200). In contrast, Jeremy thinks of himself as living on the earth‘s surface where he must navigate ―the personal and social foliage‖ that constitutes relational subjectivity (Taylor 200). Generic marketability also produces the new restaurant‘s name; however, ―as a fabricated word drawn from the consumer intellect revealed through market research,‖ no one knows how to pronounce Gerriamo‘s, and there is comic inconsistency among the team, including ―Jerry-AH-mose,‖ ―SHER-ry-ah-moss,‖ and ―CHER-ry-amus,‖ which Jeremy believes sounds ―simply rude‖ (Taylor 295). This invented placelessness also appears in language: Dante‘s ultra-hip designer Albertini Banks speaks in a ―placeless accent‖ that Jeremy decides ―was the accent you inherited if you were raised speaking Esperanto,‖ an invented language that, while designed to allow people to communicate with each other on peaceful and politically neutral ground, has no history, no place, no people, and no connection to any land (Taylor 295). Dante tries to appropriate the local for himself, claiming that Inferno is local because ―we thought it up here‖; 86  by using here to refer to the Pacific Northwest in general, Dante empties the local of any specific meaning in order to use it as a marketing strategy (Taylor 269). Jeremy may be sincere in his appreciation of the local, but the narrator assumes a parodic tone when discussing ―Seasons of Local Splendour,‖ a food festival celebrating the local and organic, where ―foodie and organic farming enthusiasts . . . mill about nibbling food, sipping wine and having their various epiphanies along the lines of: ‗The food I eat comes from the soil!‘‖(Taylor 60). The tone implies that these ‗enthusiasts‘ do not promote local and organic food for political or ideological reasons but because it is ‗hip‘ and they have the economic ability to do so. Inferno, despite its status as ―a brutally efficient, market-researched repudiation of the local,‖ secures a kiosk at ―Seasons of Local Splendour‖ through bribery and the promise to use local dairy, penetrating even a foodie festival ―situated at the intersection of anti-globalization, organic, hemp and allpurpose foodie enthusiasm‖ (Taylor 255). By participating in and co-opting the narratives of a movement ostensibly designed to resist the demands of hegemonic global capitalism, Inferno illustrates the vulnerability of counterpublics to appropriation. Throughout the novel, Dante‘s promotion of placelessness is continually undercut by the actual experiences of those who find themselves unable to either root or move. Jeremy‘s mother Hélène moved across the world to ―put down roots‖ that ―did not take,‖ falling ―back into a place of no places. Unrooted but constrained, capable of celebrating neither . . . stranded‖ (Taylor 231). She maintains family ties, mailing family photographs all over the world, ―documenting settlement‖ even as she struggles to embrace it (Taylor 4). She lacks either the connection to place or the opportunity to move that would allow her to deepen her relationships with her loved ones; she becomes isolated and withdrawn. At the end of the novel, Dante himself, who inhabits via plane the space above the earth, outside of the webs of connection that anchored those who walk on it, finds himself turned upside down. Returning from an out-of-character vacation, Dante is unable to sleep on the plane: ―the land below streamed through his mind. Some strange 87  visual fixation he could not expunge. It was like a fever dream. Hedgerows and ditches and roads and little houses flying past inside his eyelids. He was being tortured, strapped to the bottom of a crop duster‖ (Taylor 409). Dante‘s ‗fever dream‘ reminds him both of the ground beneath him and his sickening distance from it. An inhabitant of Stanley Park, Siwash, understands the problems of placelessness as the outcome of people‘s inability to locate themselves within the worlds they navigate: what Jameson calls ―postmodern hyperspace‖ overwhelms ―the capacities of the individual human body to locate itself . . . and cognitively to map its position in a mappable external world,‖ reflecting our inability ―to map the great global multinational and decentred communicational network in which we find ourselves caught‖ (Jameson 211). Siwash mysteriously counts the passers-by and collects maps of various projections, claiming that ―not unlike personal perspectives . . . we rarely understand map projections that are not our own‖ (Taylor 332). Siwash‘s assertion that ―maps of the entire earth were the most distorted‖ reflects the distorting power of global homogenization, which prevents the readers of those maps from understanding ―how anything was connected‖ (Taylor 333). Siwash concludes ―that too much map is problematic‖; his solution is to limit what one tries to represent or control: while it may be impossible to accurately locate oneself in a map of the world, he argues that ―with a map of just one square foot of this room, you‘d really know where you were‖ (Taylor 333). Siwash acknowledges that people use more than one square foot of space, particularly ―city people,‖ who use ―tens of thousands, squander them. Chew them up, spit them out‖ (Taylor 333). Siwash locates himself in relation to the rest of the world by repeating the GPS coordinates of the spot on which he stands, a number that serves as a ―reminder that [he is] not in motion‖ (Taylor 335). Siwash‘s coordinates reflect Jeremy‘s philosophy of cooking, in that both allow subjects to locate themselves in the echo-chamber of postmodern hyperspace where essentialist roots are unlocatable or constricting. Mason argues that Taylor‘s representations of the homeless challenge assumptions about homelessness: the 88  inhabitants of Stanley Park have as much if not more ―agency‖ and ―culturally sanctioned relation to place‖ than the alienated, fragmented, superficially hybridized and trendy, postmodern, global elite (Mason 21). In Vancouver, Jeremy notes the ―traveller kids sleeping in Victory Square park‖ where the cenotaph‘s inscription – ―Is it anything to you/ All ye that pass by?‖ – seems to address the passer-by complicit in the criminalization of poverty in a global economic system (Taylor 64). This contrast between powerful yet destructive placelessness and a potentially transformative homelessness that maintains connections with place and others informs the representation of both Stanley Park as a counterpublic and the subjects who inhabit it. Jeremy‘s father, the Professor, is introduced as a prophetic ―voice crying in the wilderness‖ proclaiming the importance of our relation to the places we inhabit and traverse (Taylor 31). An anthropologist cut off from his own ancestry, the Professor began his career by studying recently settled, formerly nomadic Romani in France, among whom he met his wife, Hélène; he uses this tension between settlement and migration to launch his research on ―squatters,‖ ―stowaways,‖ and ―panhandlers‖ (Taylor 11). His love for Hélène grounds and gives birth to his fascination with the relationships people forge through land, especially ―how these connections are forged and broken. And how, for some, the connection refuses to break‖ (Taylor 117). The Professor describes Jeremy‘s own ideology to him, insisting that ―it‘s about roots and place. It‘s about how people relate to the land on which they stand. In our rootless day and age, our time of strange cultural homelessness—and worse, our societal amnesia about what used to constitute both the rewards and limitations of those roots—I wonder if we might look to these homeless . . . to find an emblem of the deepest roots of all‖ (Taylor 136). The Professor explains that people display ―an innate polarity, a tendency to either root or move‖ as well as ―evidence of the alternative that has been foregone‖ (Taylor 230). He ‗maps‘ these attributes because ―home, culture, language‖ arise ―from this relationship people strike with their physical 89  earth‖ (Taylor 230). While he asserts that ―in the West we are uprooting ourselves‖ through ―information flow‖ and ―economic globalization,‖ the Professor is less concerned with global patterns than with ―the individual, the calculated or imposed decision, the personal evidence of allegiance to, or repudiation of, the soil‖ (Taylor 230). The Professor argues that he and his son ―share this passion‖ for ―‗local bounty‘‖ and ―parallel projects,‖ a connection Jeremy refuses but comes to terms with and embraces later in the novel (Taylor 14). Despite his initial scepticism, Jeremy begins to spend more and more time with his father, eventually returning to his original vision. He connects himself to Vancouver by cooking for the homeless in Stanley Park, creating meals out of illegally hunted and gathered meat and vegetables, as well as ingredients rescued from dumpsters, and embracing the illegality of this work and its connection to the land that his philosophy advocates. Taylor describes Stanley Park as a liminal space both central to Vancouver‘s story of itself and the site of all that it disavows: the homeless, the criminal, the insane and the subversive. The novel opens ―at Lost Lagoon,‖ a meeting point chosen because of its status as ―an in-between place‖ mediating between ―the city on one side‖ and ―Stanley Park on the other‖ (Taylor 3). Lost Lagoon, connecting the Park and the City, illustrates the Park‘s function as a liminal or threshold space between the metropolitan city and the barely domesticated wilderness, as the constitutive outside which contains and expresses the ‗excess‘ of the City, the Other against which the City defines itself. Stanley Park is shared by all classes, the elite and middle class as well as the destitute. At dusk, ―seawall walkers and hotdog eaters, birdwatchers, rollerbladers, [and] chess players‖ change places with ―the delusional, the alcoholic, the paranoid, [and] the bipolar‖; as ―lagoon traffic changed direction like a freak tide,‖ the privileged leave the Park for their homes while the subaltern claim or create ‗home‘ within the counterpublic space of Stanley Park (Taylor 4). The Professor reads the Park‘s history as the story of escape from colonization, industrialization, and the globalized economy: ―there had 90  always been people here . . . there had been a First Nation, of course. Squatters later. Men who lived in trees. But his generation was the homeless, the new Stanley Park people‖ (Taylor 14). Stanley Park, as a defining centre of the city, is also a place from which the Professor can observe the forces that move through and shape the city (Taylor 15). The Park both attracts ‗undesirable‘ subaltern communities and removes them from the gaze of the City proper; even though living in the park is illegal, the Professor argues that Stanley Park draws people because ―the land itself cannot be taken‖ (Taylor 135). As a ―locus of civic pride,‖ the park cannot be ―expropriated, built up, paved over‖ and therefore it is a ―sanctuary‖ in which each ―will forge their own connection to this sanctified soil‖ (Taylor 135). In contrast to the globe and ‗nature‘ which have been commodified by multinational capitalist interests, Stanley Park is a ground which can be neither owned nor sold (Mason 13). The Professor sees a ―lesson about all places‖ ‗buried‘ in Stanley Park (Taylor 222). This ‗lesson‘ about place is not all: also metaphorically ‗buried‘ in the Park is the story of two murdered children whose deaths become a myth which represents the city‘s corruption, degradation, and fall from grace. In The Canadian Postmodern (1988), Linda Hutcheon argues that postmodern novels adopt marginal or ―ex-centric‖ positions from which they challenge ‗master narratives‘ with irony, parody and narrative experimentation, particularly in a genre she terms ―historiographic metafiction,‖ historical fiction that unsettles the authority of history over fiction as communicating the ‗truth‘ of the past (Hutcheon 3, 13). The Babes in the Wood constitute an intertextual historiographic metafiction, a self-reflexive narrative that explains Vancouver to itself. The official story, which Jeremy recovers from the city library, is framed through newspaper accounts of the murders and their aftermath. In 1953 a city worker uncovered ―two little skeletons buried in the leaves‖ (Taylor 112), and, near them, ―a single adult shoe‖ and a fur coat (Taylor 113). Investigation discovered that the children had been murdered in Stanley Park 91  in 1947, six years prior to their discovery. An urban legend grew up around them, particularly among bohemians and ‗hippies,‘ who valorized ―the image of the little kids in the forest. Forever free‖ (Taylor 112). Newspaper articles position the crime as an originary trauma which propels Vancouver into urban modernity, ―as an at-once tragic and inaugural event in the city‘s history‖ which ―ushered this unsettling aspect of modernity onto the stage of Canada‘s third city‖ (Taylor 115). Every October, newspapers ―would disinter the tale,‖ producing ―a calendar of civic passage, guilt and confusion, tracing itself through the decades‖ (Taylor 115). The Professor interprets this process of continuing memorialization as the process through which journalists, as the voice of the public, mark the Babes in the Woods murders as the moment when Vancouver lost its collective ‗innocence‘; by describing the Vancouver that existed prior to these murders as ―quiet at that time in its West Coast rain forest‖ and ―gently dozing in the mists that rolled in off the as-yet toxin-free and salmon-filled ocean,‖ these narratives construct pre1947 Vancouver as innocent and Edenic (Taylor 115-6). The Professor explains that he is not interested in ‗solving‘ the case: he maintains that ―this story is not a murder mystery‖; rather, he examines ―the myths surrounding their death, about their bodies still being buried here in the park‖ (Taylor 26) because he feels that the inhabitants of Stanley Park are ―individual stories written in code,‖ beneath which lie ―threads that weave together into a single chord. A single story lives at the centre of it all, and by this story the others might be interpreted‖ (Taylor 26-7). The Professor hopes to use one myth to translate the others. While living in Stanley Park, the Professor forges his strongest relationship with Caruzo, a man with schizophrenia who has lived in the park for at least fifty years and whose individual contribution to the Babes in the Wood myth provides the Professor with his elusive Rosetta stone. Caruzo is a messenger, prophet, and guardian, communicating and preserving the memory of the two murdered children. Tied to the Park by his memory of them, he navigates 92  ―back alleys‖ and ―forest paths‖ to move through the Park and city (Taylor 9). He tells the Professor that ―their death pulled‖ him to the Park, transforming him ―from a leaf,‖ mobile, drifting and rootless, ―to a lifer,‖ committed and communal (Taylor 10). Caruzo is repeatedly described in terms of the landscape, as if he has in some way become one with the land that anchors him: his exposed face has ―darkened, blackened as a chameleon might against the same forest backdrop,‖ his nose is ―like a sap extrusion on a cedar trunk,‖ and ―his eyes were a faraway storm colour‖ (Taylor 6, 74). The Professor notes that Caruzo carries no ―totem‖ or talisman, and that he speaks in ―riddles,‖ ―incantations,‖ and ―mad, angelic ramblings‖ ―of our estrangement: from the earth, from ‘the garden’‖ (Taylor 219-20). When Jeremy asks Caruzo, ―What‘s the beginning of it all?‖ Caruzo responds, ―Eden . . . A departure. A return‖ (Taylor 286). Caruzo‘s reply implies that he sees Stanley Park as an Eden to which it is possible to return, that the Park contains something original that has been lost but can be recovered. Caruzo prophecies that ―the two are meant to be together. Just as the two were drawn from the same soil, so too must the same soil hold them, and through it must they be reconciled‖ (Taylor 220). His words imply the power of the ‗soil‘ to bring individuals together into a collective; through the ground upon which they stand, subjects can transcend postmodern, late capitalist alienation and produce a coherent, organic social group. Caruzo escaped from a psychiatric institution during a fire and found that, in Stanley Park, he was free of the voices that disturbed him; here, there were ―no voices . . . Just trees‖ (Taylor 288). When he met the children who would become the Babes in the Wood, there grew between the three of them ―a sudden, unplanned recognition of common interests. A hard and fervid alliance‖ (Taylor 289). Finding their bodies constitutes Caruzo‘s ―beginning‖; he claims to be waiting for ―[s]ignals to return. Signs to show the way back‖ (Taylor 291). Caruzo guards the children‘s memory and the site of their death, which the Professor believes ―might be made holy through his steadfast watching‖ (Taylor 222). The Professor (and through him, Jeremy) discovers a ―living theatre of rootedness, born in 93  tragedy and thriving in the person of Caruzo‖ (Taylor 223). Dying, Caruzo returns to ―the sacred ground‖ where he found the bodies (Taylor 315). He notes that ―a person might slide among these grains. Become a part of the composite. Slide into the leaf, the twig, the earth. Be made one at last‖ (317). Caruzo was ―the guardian‖ with a ―sense of obligation buried in this place‖ whose ―quest for redemption and reunion‖ is ―finally complete‖ in death (Taylor 335). In death, Caruzo finds the return to Eden he longed for as he is buried in the soil that will reconcile him to his murdered friends. Stanley Park offers a disillusioned and bankrupt Jeremy an opportunity to return to his original mission; he wants ―to secure the spirit‖ of the Burgundian relais ―within the clay vessel‖ of his Crosstown restaurant, but he attracts economically privileged ―foodies and Brollywood types,‖ never the rubber-boot people he wanted to serve (Taylor 215). He wonders, given his inability to recreate the relais‘ ―quality of spirit‖ in Vancouver, whether he should ―merely capture the physical beauty of the relais. To take the clay vessel from somewhere else, as it were, and bring it on over to Crosstown to fill with whatever spirit lived here‖ (Taylor 215). Unbeknownst to Dante or the rest of the Gerriamo‘s team, Jeremy finds a way to serve Vancouver‘s own rubber-boot people, the homeless of Stanley Park, by cooking with salvaged and foraged ingredients and tools deep in the woods, forging a connection to the land through food it provides and reinforcing the Professor‘s observation that ―the bounty of the park, given up to those who care to know it, binds us to it‖ (Taylor 221). Jeremy‘s meals become communal events wherein those who partake contribute food, utensils, or entertainment, despite the universal acknowledgement that their activities are illegal (Taylor 21). These meals, and the rubber-boot people who eat them, remind him of the simplicity and coherence he originally set out to capture: ―As they ate, Jeremy found the looks on their faces like a startling memory,‖ and Caruzo ―said simply, ‗I feel good, Jay. You know, feels good‖ (Taylor 249). The Park  94  triangulates the Professor, his son, and the people of the Park, becoming the ground through which they can create connections to each other. Stanley Park, Caruzo‘s grave and the Babes in the Woods become part of Jeremy‘s identity: their presence ―[root] him,‖ and return him to the city ―strengthened and pure‖ (Taylor 339). After weeks of cooking for the homeless, Jeremy finds that walking in Stanley Park becomes ―like coming home‖; he knows ―exactly where he [is] relative to his destination,‖ whereas, in his early wanderings, he ―struggled to understand the topography of the whole,‖ a quest he had to abandon—or acknowledge the limitations of—in order to complete, reflecting de Certeau‘s assertion that to see the city ‗as a whole‘ is to disavow one‘s implication in it. Jeremy learns how he is implicated in the Park and how the Park is implicated in his narrative of selfdiscovery. During the day, Jeremy is caught up in the creation of Dante‘s new, Crip restaurant, which deals in the global, postmodern, placeless, exoticized and appropriated. Jeremy stages a public performance of resistance on the opening night of Gerriamo‘s, surreptitiously feeding Gerriamo‘s guests game and greens harvested illegally from Stanley Park. Jeremy calls his opening night sleight of hand ―a Blood overture to Dante‘s Crip opera‖ and manages to slyly incorporate actual blood (Taylor 347). By collaborating with Dante, Jeremy engages in one of the struggles of Anzaldúa‘s ‗borderlands‘, in that he must ―resist corporate culture while asking for and securing its patronage,‖ avoiding ―a self-imposed imperialism‖ and complicity (Anzaldúa 313). Jeremy plans to include black pudding in the menu, arguing that pig‘s bloodbased versions of black pudding are found all over the world, even though ―pork blood was as close to the pan-cultural forbidden food as you could get short of cannibalism‖ (Taylor 309). Claiming that ―blood is perfect for us,‖ he convinces a sceptical Phillip Riker, Dante‘s right-hand man, that their black pudding, ―named and seasoned for North Africa, garnished for France,‖ and ―presented for Spain,‖ is his ―tribute to the polyglot, post-national, transgressive dish,‖ a dish 95  made possible only by divorcing the ingredients and methods from their respective histories and material conditions (Taylor 309). Riker, who only wants to know if black pudding is ―hip,‖ calls the idea ―provocative,‖ without specifying what the dish ‗provokes‘ (Taylor 308-9). The truly transgressive moment comes when Jeremy, cooking the blood pudding, accidentally cuts himself; while he fears his own blood might have ended up in the pig‘s blood, tainting the dish that constitutes ―the thematic core of the whole menu,‖ a way to insert his Blood ideology—and, eventually, his own blood—into a dish supposedly chosen for its Crip credentials, he decides not to throw it out but rather to serve it as planned (Taylor 351). Jeremy enlists the help of Fabrek, whose own restaurant was displaced by Dante‘s new Inferno Hastings; his new project is called the Guerrilla Grill, an on-call, mobile restaurant that allows the customer to ―name a spot, any spot,‖ where Fabrek‘s team will arrive and ―do the rest,‖ a company which Jeremy observes is a ―totally illegal‖ (Taylor 318). By inviting him into this counterpublic ―underground economy‖ (Taylor 323) cut off from the globalized, imperial, legitimate economy, Fabrek introduces Jeremy to what he calls ―alt.repreneurship‖ or ―the punk economy,‖ a landscape of restaurants and postmodern speakeasies with ―no business or liquor licences, no insurance, no regulation, no inspection‖ (Taylor 421). These obviously illegal enterprises are ―risky but occasionally very good, mostly a lot of fun‖; they do not, however, seem to constitute or encourage resistance to the global economy (Taylor 421). Through Fabrek, Jeremy hires six cooking school students who, as part of the Guerrilla Grill, share an opposition to the legitimate economy; their criminal activity is a ―delicious‖ secret that draws them together with ―sly smiles and sideways glances‖ (Taylor 323). They become Gerriamo‘s kitchen crew and Jeremy‘s accomplices. While the Guerrilla Grill seems similar to Jeremy‘s experiences cooking in Stanley Park, the Grill participates in a criminal economy made possible, in part, by economic privilege: the business of the underground economy is generated by those with the privilege to pay for such enterprise. 96  If people are going to eat ―unconsciously,‖ Jeremy decides to make them ―eat and be unconsciously connected to this place‖ by serving them meat and greens harvested illegally from Stanley Park (Taylor 365). Taylor highlights this ‗unconsciousness‘ when Dante, praising the food, asks ―What was that sauce? Don‘t tell me. I don‘t need to know‖ (Taylor 346). Taylor foreshadows the panic of unconscious overconsumption when Olli‘s son, Trout, asks his father, ―What was in that soup?‖ to which Olli replies, ―I don‘t know what was in it. I only know it was green and it tasted good‖ (Taylor 382). Trout tells his father: ―You really should know‖ (Taylor 382). Kiwi‘s concern that these are rather small portions for ―beef tenderloin‖ evokes the first bit of worry over what they may have eaten (Taylor 383). A waiter reassures her that the beef is from a special, miniature, Argentinian cow, though the reader knows it‘s really raccoon. When Kiwi sneaks into the kitchen with her suspicions, Jeremy tells her that his ―cooking is always part performance‖ (Taylor 389). He tells Kiwi that ―embedded‖ in his cooking are ―messages about knowing the earth‘s bounty and your connection to it. Understanding where one stood, understanding loyalty and the sanctity of certain soil‖ (Taylor 389). Kiwi decides that ―Jeremy had fed them a range of things, a range of delicious, forbidden things. The chef was challenging the grid. Taste-jacking . . . meta-hacking‖ (Taylor 391). Kiwi‘s excitement over Jeremy‘s ‗performance,‘ which leaves the guests ―to discover the unexpected, strange connections‖ just for the sake of the new and unusual, represents the jaded and debauched pleasure taken by those who can use their privilege to claim and consume the cultural production of the subaltern, of postmodern appropriation of the margin or ‗ex-centric‘ (Taylor 391). After his successful subversion, Jeremy feels ―briefly messianic‖ until storm clouds appear: three representatives of city authority inspect his kitchen and purchasing records, finding everything suspiciously in order; later, City Engineering takes his dumpster away for Refuse Analysis. Jeremy‘s ‗food hacking‘ has political consequences for Dante, who fires him as the tide of public opinion turns against Inferno. After official investigations by the Health 97  Department and public response from the SPCA and animal rights activists, rumours explode into ―picketers, law suits, graffiti, injunctions, public statements, stories in the local press, accusations, retractions, rephrased accusations, denials. ‗Inferno Victimized by Urban Myth?‘— the question mark in this headline the subject of a heated debate between The Province editorial staff and Inferno‘s lawyers. A debate that Inferno lost‖ (Taylor 416). In the midst of everything is a ―crazed British journalist running around telling everybody it was performance art‖ even though, Dante maintains, ―most people assumed that if it was performance art, something disgusting must have happened‖ (Taylor 416). Despite public outcry, Gerriamo‘s recovers because of its ―tremendous crossover appeal‖ among ―foodie-scenesters,‖ ―the monied, urban, young,‖ and ―the hip of every stripe‖; Jeremy‘s resistance doesn‘t stop Gerriamo‘s from becoming successful (Taylor 417). Taylor highlights the temporary nature of Jeremy‘s provocative performance by linking it an act of vandalism: Dante finds that ―some cretinous vandal squeegee kid,‖ in an act of what the police call ―yuppie monkey wrenching,‖ has wrecked his Jaguar‘s fuel injectors with Nutella (Taylor 410). While this may anger and temporarily inconvenience Dante, he has another car waiting; acts of resistance like Jeremy‘s performance and the squeegee kid‘s vandalism may be moderately successful, but they are costly, and even these successful acts of resistance only manage to stop the engines of capitalism for a moment. After Dante dismisses him from Gerriamo‘s, Jeremy turns a ramshackle house into an ―underground‖ restaurant he calls the Food Caboose (Taylor 419-20). Jeremy lives on the second floor, allowing his work to interpenetrate his life. In contrast to Gerriamo‘s über-hip sophistication, the Food Caboose is ―a pleasantly dark and comfortable place,‖ located in an area of desolate yet ―vainly hopeful streets‖ in a borderland, ―a place stranded between other places‖ which has ―stopped being part of any neighbourhood at all‖ (Taylor 419-20). Anzaldúa might argue that, by permanently installing himself in the borderland, Jeremy condemns himself to political and artistic stagnation; the border, in order to be subversive or creative, must be 98  engaged with while in motion (Anzaldúa 314). The Caboose‘s illegality necessitates secrecy and exclusivity: Olli is attracted to this sense of belonging but Jeremy does not seem to realize that, by carefully selecting the guests who will ―spawn all the ones that followed,‖ he is recreating the elitist, anti-populist experience of the Monkey‘s Paw and Gerriamo‘s, serving those who can secure and afford a reservation at an illegal, twenty-four seat restaurant instead of the urban version of rural folk he longs to reach (Taylor 421). Through the novel, Jeremy and the Professor travel in opposite directions along the same trajectory, enabled by privilege: the Professor begins in Stanley Park and returns to his suburban home, his manuscript accepted by a publisher; Jeremy begins in the Monkey‘s Paw, an alternative space on the edge of the public, and veers into the hyperbolic commodity-space, Gerriamo‘s, before ultimately fleeing to the punk economy in an illegal restaurant. Jeremy aligns himself with the marginalized by abandoning the public and legitimate economy, but this movement is apolitical as it does nothing to change the status or material conditions of the people he aligns himself with. The Monkey‘s Paw itself is something of a contradiction: sitting in a diner, emblem of working-class cuisine, Jeremy declares his desire to create ―the simplest, most direct and local cooking possible,‖ what he calls ―high-end urban rubber-boot food‖ (Taylor 48). Like Stanley Park, the neighbourhood that surrounds Jeremy‘s restaurant, ―the downtown east side makes some people uncomfortable,‖ as it both contains and expresses the city‘s excess and excluded (Taylor 28). This juxtaposition situates The Monkey‘s Paw on the margins of power and privilege in a way that allows Jeremy to brand his restaurant as ‗edgy‘. Although Jeremy seems to build the kind of life he wants to live by secreting himself away in the Food Caboose, I must trouble the implications of deserting public space rather than reclaiming and recreating it. Jeremy‘s ‗Blood‘ ideology, combined with the Professor‘s immersive anthropological practices, begin to describe a way of being that rejects essentialist notions of identity and instead celebrates critically-chosen affinities and allegiances. The novel 99  fails to move from affinity to coalition; Jeremy flees the public, but fails to question his own privilege, which enables him to inhabit the borderland the Food Caboose represents. The Professor‘s return to his own home, where he compiles his research into a manuscript for publication, seems to suggest that the affinity he has found between his own searching for home and the roving of Vancouver‘s homeless remains apolitical; there is no implication at the end of the novel that Jeremy and his father will challenge, in any substantial way, the industries and ideologies that enable the movements of some and force or constrain the movements of marginalized others. Jeremy flees the public, preferring to live on the margins that hold the centre in place rather than displace either centre or margin. Yet, in his rejection of discourses which appropriate the international and exotic, Jeremy appropriates another set of margins: he fails to realize that his ability to choose the underground economy is predicated upon his status as economically privileged. The Professor‘s lengthy stay in Stanley Park, moreover, changes neither the subaltern status of those he studies nor his own privileged status: the homeless will continue to live in the Park long after the Professor has returned to his suburban home to finish his book. While Jeremy‘s critical and conscious identity formation offers a unique and productive model for thinking about relational, coalitional politics based on post-essentialist subjectivities, he fails to put his ideology into practice, dooming the counterpublics he seeks refuge in to eventual destruction and condemning himself to constantly creating himself ‗on the run‘ from power.  100  Chapter Four: Interrogating the City and Intervening in Multicultural Discourse In these novels, subjects of difference reclaim the political potential of hybrid identity, crossing and contesting borders in order to expose the ways in which hegemonic discourses structure public space to protect the interests of the privileged and confine the marginalized. As I established in Chapter One, multicultural discourse constructs the Canada as a ‗white‘ space, where hegemonic norms and privilege dictate and define the terms on which subjects engage with the public. In the face of this oppression, marginalized subjects create ‗counterpublics,‘ exclusive spaces for and by members of a marginalized group; these spaces are as defined by essentialist notions of identity and belonging as the public to which they present themselves as an alternative. In addition, these spaces are vulnerable to surveillance, exploitation, appropriation and oppression, doing little to change or challenge the discourses that continue to construct the public as white. In Stanley Park, Taylor‘s protagonist abandons a public predicated upon access to economic power and seeks refuge in a counterpublic without acknowledging the ways in which he imports his own privilege into this marginal space. In What We All Long For, Brand‘s protagonists, on the other hand, seek only temporary respite in counterpublics, returning to the public in order to continually interrogate the discourses that construct them as Other, remaking the city in their own image by their repeated and critically informed movement through it. Characters in both novels challenge oppressive discourses in order to conceptualize a new citizenship that can transcend both the normalized whiteness and class privilege of the public, and the essentialized and marginalized status of counterpublics. Critically-chosen citizenship based on affinity rather than exclusion must follow the pattern of Brand‘s characters more closely than that of Taylor‘s; change must be forged by engaging creatively with and actively reshaping the public, rather than, as Taylor‘s characters do, abandoning the public and importing unexamined privileges into subaltern counterpublics. 101  Characters in both novels confront the city as subjects of difference: Brand‘s four young Torontonians engage with the city as racialized subjects, whereas Taylor‘s novel, primarily concerned with economic exploitation, examines the workings of ethnicity as a commodity or a marker of privilege. Characters in these novels not only cross or contest borders, they reclaim the hybridity that had been depoliticized into ‗fusion‘ via discourses of multiculturalism, globalization, and postmodern appropriation of the ‗ex-centric‘. In addition to race, ethnicity and class, both novels examine the ways in which privileges and oppressions are negotiated along intersecting lines of gender, sexuality, (dis)ability, and indigeneity, revealing the borders they cross as arbitrarily imposed and open to critique as well as heavily supervised. Brand‘s focus on racialized surveillance and Taylor‘s on commodified ethnicity illustrate the moving focus of the state‘s othering gaze from the ‗ethnic‘ to the ‗raced‘ subject under multiculturalism. The double-bind of both hegemonic and subaltern gender and sexual roles traps the women in Stanley Park, who must work within the discourses that construct them as subordinate in order to succeed under a neo-colonial global economy; in What We All Long For, Carla, Angie and Tuyen are caught between the demands made on them as women by the dominant culture, which longs to exoticize them, and the subaltern culture, which demands they shore up limited male power by performing subordinate heterosexual femininity. Both Brand and Taylor explore legal and criminal economies in their novels: Brand‘s characters work within the legal economy to change it, identifying criminal activity as dangerous and soul-destroying; in Taylor‘s work, the legal economy, represented by Dante Beale, is too powerful to be changed, and Jeremy must seek refuge in the ‗punk economy‘ outside the law. Finally, both authors present scenes of ‗fused‘ food that reclaim the hybrid identities appropriated by global and multicultural discourse by ‗infusing‘ the act of cooking and sharing food with political possibility within relationships. In What We All Long For, Brand makes the city‘s raced borders explicit. Her four protagonists realize that they are not ―the required race‖ to claim inclusion in the Canadian 102  public (Brand 47). As a Black man, Oku violates these borders by moving through the city at night; his occupation of the white public positions him as criminal and subject to the city‘s disciplinary and reterritorializing forces. Race is conspicuous by its absence in Stanley Park; the central characters are white. However, ethnicity plays a central role in the novel. Jeremy‘s irrecoverable Polish ancestry and itinerant Romani heritage underline the sincerity with which he adopts Vancouver as his home and with which he contests the marketing of ethnicity as commodity in the superficial ‗Crip‘ discourse of the postmodern, globalized economy. While What We All Long For refers more explicitly to the debates and conflicts in which multiculturalism was designed to intervene, Stanley Park alludes to one of the critiques of multiculturalism, namely that it trivializes the artefacts of ‗ethnic‘ cultures into products to be consumed by white Canadians. The novels‘ varying emphases – from ethnicity to race – recall the process by which previously marginalized Continental Europeans, including Italians, Greeks and Ukrainians, ‗became white‘, by which I mean that their access to hegemonic whiteness and ability to stand in as uncontested, ‗ordinary‘ or ethnically unmarked Canadians increased as Canada‘s Othering gaze deflected from the ‗ethnic‘ to the ‗raced‘ subject. This expansion of whiteness both conferred privilege on previously marginalized subjects while erasing histories of oppression and intergenerational loss caused by European diasporas. Stanley Park and What We All Long For position raced and ethnic subjects as agents who oppose their marginalization by a public produced by and for hegemonic whiteness. These novels acknowledge that the distinctions between ‗legitimate‘ or legal economies (‗the economy‘) and criminal economies become blurred as people move between them; however, the novels diverge wildly in their treatment of criminal economies. In What We All Long For, characters make it possible to negotiate with the hegemonic economy without being co-opted by it, because the criminal economy offers no long-term solutions to oppression. In Stanley Park, Jeremy concludes that because hegemonic global capitalism is beyond repair and 103  abandons the public economy altogether; the novel does not, however, address the problematic nature of this abandonment, its dependence on Jeremy economic privilege, or the ways in which this new subaltern counterpublic, based in secrecy and exclusion, recreates the privileged appropriation of marginality that characterizes Dante‘s restaurant, Gerriamo‘s: Jeremy claims that Gerriamo‘s belongs ―only to those who can reach us and understand us and afford us,‖ but fails to see how this claim is equally true of his ‗underground‘ restaurant, the Food Caboose (Taylor 364). In What We All Long For, ‗legitimate‘ capitalism occupies several levels or layers of the economy, from Jackie‘s mother‘s job sorting coloured combs for minimum wage to Jackie‘s second-hand clothing shop, Ab und Zu. In Stanley Park, Dante‘s brutal, predatory capitalism is immune to political action and invariably swallows up idealism: even Seasons of Local Splendour, Vancouver‘s festival celebrating all things local and organic, bows to Inferno‘s massive economic power, allowing the company a booth at the festival. Dante‘s restaurant Gerriamo‘s is so luxurious that, seeing it for the first time, Jeremy understands ―what wealth would have felt like in the nineteenth century . . . Wealth that liberated you from all human constraints but the final one, and possibly even that if you made the right deal‖ (Taylor 310). Dante‘s wealth separates the hegemonic from the marginal, allowing those with power to dehumanize the marginalized in the process. In What We All Long For, the criminal economy dehumanizes just as effectively everyone involved, from the women Binh‘s associates prostitutes in ‗spas‘ to men like Carla‘s brother Jamal or Oku‘s friend Kwesi, whose criminal activities offer them an illusory freedom, spoiled by their constant efforts to evade police. In contrast, the criminal economy as presented in Stanley Park seems harmless and fun: while Taylor briefly gestures to ―the Hastings Street heroin trade‖ and prostitutes ―floating at the mouths of alleys,‖ criminality poses little danger for Jeremy or his friends (Taylor 53, 104). The underground economy is best represented by Iranian Fabrek, who runs a ‗Guerilla Grill,‘ without licenses or 104  laws and seemingly without consequences. Tuyen‘s brother Binh embodies the crossover between legitimate and criminal economies: his Koreatown shop is both a legitimate business venture and a front for his illegal activities. Characters‘ passage between criminal and legitimate economies highlights the arbitrary nature of their boundaries: Brand‘s characters remake the public, legal economy for their own purposes, whereas Taylor‘s Jeremy uses his privilege to appropriate the illegal economy without consequence. Himani Bannerji argues in The Dark Side of the Nation: Essays on Multiculturalism, Nationalism, and Gender (2000) that assuming and demanding the ossified ‗traditional‘ nature of Othered communities benefits the conservative elements of those communities and forces ‗ethnic‘ and ‗raced‘ subjects, especially women, to bear the burden of ‗tradition‘ (Bannerji 3). In What We All Long For, Angie and Carla Chiarelli resist the appropriation of their sexuality demanded by their communities, rejecting heteronormativity and martyred motherhood. Angie‘s affair with Derek, a black man, crosses the border of not only proper Italian behaviour but proper female behaviour; her Italian-Canadian community casts her out. Remembering her mother, Carla imagines that Angie feared the patriarchal family arrangements of Little Italy, the gendered and unequal division of labour, and the ―inane talk‖ of domesticity, avoiding this fate by taking ―one flight into the most forbidden place on her family‘s earth,‖ beginning an affair with a black man, Carla‘s father (Brand 314). Reading her mother‘s affair as a subversive and liberating rejection of patriarchal femininity, Carla lays aside her protective attempts to control her brother. Although her mother handed her her infant brother, asking her to hold him just before she killed herself, Carla decides that ―she couldn‘t hold the baby anymore,‖ couldn‘t continue to mother her brother at the expense of nurturing herself (Brand 315). After making this realization and demanding that her father take responsibility for Jamal by posting his bail, Carla plans a whole new life for herself, one filled with beauty and music, undertaken in concert with her friends: ―she‘ll have parties with Tuyen, she‘ll go to the Roxy Blu, she‘ll go to jazz concerts, she‘ll wait 105  in line to hear U2, she‘ll go with Tuyen to Pope Joan, to Afrodeasia. They‘ll dance together. She‘ll check out the open-mike spoken word at Caliban with Oku. She‘ll cut her hair, she‘ll go to Jackie‘s Ab und Zu and get a new wardrobe. She‘ll be seduced by someone‖ (Brand 315). In the last lines of the novel, Carla names her own longing ―to hear Tuyen chipping and chiselling away next door,‖ intimating the possibility that she may begin to feel desire and even return Tuyen‘s affection for her (Brand 318). Despite the pressure of racism and patriarchy, Brand evokes here the hope that Carla and her friends can build a life, through affinity, that challenge these discourses. The economic and racial oppression of marginalized men has dire consequences for the women in their communities: in What We All Long For, as Jackie‘s father feels more and more emasculated, even feeling that his penis was ―growing deader year after year,‖ ―Jackie‘s mother began to get terrible bruises on her face and arms, raccoon eyes, and just a low-down feeling in her gut the whole time‖ (Brand 263). Oku does not only confront the racism of a white society but also feels pressure to conform to toxic masculinities formed in opposition to white emasculation of black men; he escapes the seemingly inevitable headlock of criminality or bitterness by using his love for Jackie to propel him forward along the path to his dreams. While this presentation of heterosexual desire as a solution to corrosive masculinities could be problematic, Brand makes it clear that it is his critically chosen and earnest alliance with Jackie, not necessarily the heterosexual nature of his desire, which frees Oku. In Stanley Park, women who attempt to break into a masculinized economy are thrown back by misogyny, embodied in the novel by Dante Beale. Taylor establishes Dante‘s misogyny and homophobia in throwaway remarks: he expresses his distaste for Jules Capelli, a woman who defies him, by asking Jeremy if she is a ―dyke,‖ claiming that ―dykes are difficult. It‘s always politics with dykes‖ (Taylor 66). His attitude towards women is more clearly spelled out  106  in his dealings with Jeremy‘s sometime lover, Benny, and her failed attempts to break into his world. Benny, a design student, begins her climb and eventual fall by taking a position at one of Dante‘s Inferno coffee shops before landing a job assisting Albertini Banks, the designer responsible for Dante‘s new restaurant, Gerriamo‘s. Dante‘s inability to take her seriously emerges from her the diminutive nickname he gives her, ―Benster‖ (Taylor 255). Jeremy, who worries that Benny has only been hired to keep him in line, realizes that ―Benny had something to fear‖ from Dante, that she ―would be made to pay‖ (Taylor 261). Dante establishes his power over Jeremy by humiliating Benny: he speaks to her ―without looking at her‖ and expects her to dispose of his garbage in an ―unspoken command‖ (Taylor 313). He commands Benny to undress, exposing the ―standard-issue underwear‖ that reads ―Gerriamo‘s—Welcome to the Inferno‖ a stamp of ownership and an ―exercise in humiliation and authority‖ (Taylor 314). Dante makes it clear to Jeremy that the price of Gerriamo‘s opulence is not only his own oppression but his complicity in the oppression of others. Benny is not merely the innocent victim of Dante‘s predatory capitalism: from her point of view, she is climbing the corporate ladder and taking advantage of a golden opportunity. As Gerriamo‘s opens, her relationship with Jeremy over, Dante suggests that Benny return to ―the retail side,‖ an economic dead-end; he has no more use for her (Taylor 371). High on Ecstasy and drunk on martinis, Benny declares that she doesn‘t ―know anything anymore‖; she cries: ―I knew I was getting used, but I didn‘t know I was getting thrown out afterwards‖ (Taylor 371). Jules Capelli is barred from Dante‘s world for being oppositional, that is, unfeminine; Benny‘s attempts to appropriate Dante‘s consumerism backfire and consume her instead. Dante‘s predatory capitalism further dehumanizes those with the least economic power: he shows Jeremy the new Gerriamo‘s wait staff uniforms, conceived as a method of ―aesthetic team-building‖ designed to produce ―perfect clones‖ who ―dress identically,‖ ―richly,‖ in ―an 107  almost eerie combination of sex and money‖ (Taylor 313). Dante imagines his wait staff as ―sexy robotic specimens‖ and ―perfect meat puppets‖; in contrast, Jeremy‘s relationships with fellow chef Jules and wait staff Zeena and Dominic had been celebratory, exuberant, and familial (Taylor 314). After the first meal, the kitchen staff parodies this catwalk-like homogenous sexuality by ―[parading] in, vamping like runway models, making a point of it‖ (Taylor 351). Despite the subversive power of parody, the kitchen and wait staff at Gerriamo‘s have little power to resist the commodification of their sexuality. While many inhabitants of Stanley Park are thrust into the counterpublic by mental illness, in What We All Long For, insanity itself can constitute a counterpublic lived within the public. Oku befriends two such individuals, ―the old Rasta and the musician,‖ whom he considers ―as parts of the same person or the same state‖; both are mentally ill to some degree and live outside the legitimate economy (Brand 168). The Rasta panhandles and gambles; he has ―rejected something, some way of living, some propriety, and with all his derelictness, Oku envied him‖ (Brand 170). The Rasta has rejected the bourgeois ‗propriety‘ that dictates living without work is a shameful state; without this propriety, he can live without shame, and Oku, who is often ashamed of his inability to move forward, direct his life, or win Jackie, sees the attraction of this freedom. Oku learns the musician‘s story from the Rasta, who says that ―all the sanity he ever had, had been poured into a symphony‖ which was rejected by the Toronto Symphony because its composer was black (Brand 171). Oku compares these men to his own uncertain future and to the potential future he sees embodied in his bitter, beaten-down father, observing that these two men ―had gone mad, the worst kind of giving into the system that could be imagined among black people in the city. Violence could be understood, but not madness. Violence at least had a traceable etymology—it protected your life, your remaining will, and all your sense of beauty. But madness, madness was weak‖ (Brand 174). The subaltern counterpublic of ‗madness‘ may release the Rasta and the musician from the demands of 108  bourgeois propriety and black masculinity, but Oku does not consider detachment from reality a legitimate alternative: it does not solve even one of his problems. Taylor paints a rosier picture of mental illness in Stanley Park: Caruzo and Siwash appear to be connected to the divine through their respective illnesses; in Caruzo‘s case, this connection reinforces his role as ‗messenger‘ (Taylor 25). The Professor tells Jeremy that he can ―say mental illness, say what you like,‖ but he interprets Siwash‘s and Caruzo‘s behaviours and utterances as ―individual stories written in code‖ that can be decoded by uncovering the ‗meaning‘ of the Babes in the Woods (Taylor 27). Taylor uses mentally ill characters as props for the projects of the able characters, Jeremy and the Professor without addressing the consequences of detaching for reality, as Brand‘s novel does. Multiculturalism complicates relations between indigenous peoples and hegemonic culture as well as Canada‘s ‗other others‘ – diasporic, raced and ‗ethnic‘ immigrants and their descendants. In Haunted Nations: The Colonial Dimensions of Multiculturalisms (2004), Sneja Gunew argues that First Nations peoples ―are occasionally included in multicultural discourses and practices and are also consistently trapped between the French-English divide,‖ an ‗inclusion‘ that refuses to acknowledge specific histories and demands (Gunew 16). Stanley Park and What We All Long For only briefly address indigeneity, suggesting different relationships between racialized and indigenous Canadians. Taylor‘s novel expresses problematically apolitical primitivist romanticism, similar to the apolitical commodification of ethnicity his protagonists reject. Brand‘s narrator admits that the inhabitants of Toronto must wilfully forget to remember the Ojibway presence indicated in the city‘s name, asking the reader‘s compassion for this failing while maintaining that it is a political failing. Brand‘s narrator lists the various ‗ethnic‘ neighbourhoods of Toronto, mentioning in an aside that ―all of them sit on Ojibway land, but hardly any of them know it or care because that genealogy is wilfully untraceable except in the name of the city itself‖ (Brand 4). Brand‘s 109  narrator does not ask who has made indigenous presence ―untraceable,‖ but the narrator continues, acknowledging that Canada‘s First Nations and racialized others could have a different, more engaged relationship (Brand 4). Of the inhabitants of these ‗ethnic‘ neighbourhoods, the narrator says that, ―they‘d only have to look‖ to locate indigenous peoples in the city, ―but it could be that what they know hurts them already, and what if they found out something even more damaging?‖ (Brand 4). The narrator defends the inability of groups of marginalized peoples to investigate or acknowledge the relation of their city to indigenous peoples, while nevertheless making clear to the reader that these peoples‘ failure to realize that they are implicated in the oppression of indigenous peoples is a political failure. Finally, the narrator asserts the agency of the people she represents: ―these are people who are used to the earth beneath them shifting, and they all want it to stop – and if that means they must pretend to know nothing, well, that‘s the sacrifice they make‖ (Brand 4). Brand‘s narrator tells a story of forgetting that recalls nationalist narratives: in Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (1991), Benedict Anderson argues that the nation requires that its citizens must have always already forgotten the traumas that created or sustained the nation, in order to be ‗reminded‘ (Anderson 201). This ―characteristic amnesia‖ fosters narratives that fill in the blanks effaced by the suppression of trauma, revising history to legitimate hegemonic narratives (Anderson 204). Brand‘s narrator, however, acknowledges that the marginalized inhabitants of Toronto ‗forget‘ in order to make their own lives bearable, to legitimize their own precarious position in the city at the expense of joining forces with indigenous Torontonians. In contrast, Stanley Park mobilizes the language of romanticism, primitivism, and the exoticism that the novel refuses to apply to ‗multicultural‘ food to turn indigenous peoples into what Roy Miki calls in Broken Entires (1998) ―racialized objects of white discourse,‖ symbols for the Professor‘s and Jeremy‘s struggles (Miki 103). Alone in the Park at night, Jeremy sees two men, a woman, and a baby who speak ―an ancient-sounding tongue that mirrored the sound 110  of cedar branches hitting one another in the wind overhead, or the sound of wave slaps on algaeed stone, the sound of sappy softwood popping in a dying fire‖ (Taylor 106-7). Jeremy watches, ―eavesdropping, peeping like a Tom, hovering like a ghost, or a god, or a conqueror in ambush‖ (Taylor 106). The phrase ―conqueror in ambush‖ recalls the colonization that privileges Jeremy over First Nations citizens of Vancouver, even though Jeremy‘s ancestors were not originally settler-colonizers (Taylor 106). Afraid he has been discovered, Jeremy flees; days later, he discusses this experience with the Professor, who tells him that he has ―seen and heard a great thing,‖ ―an ancient tongue. An aboriginal language, nearly extinct‖ (Taylor 134-5). He calls them ―cultural holdouts‖ staging ―a last stand‖ in ―a place that cannot be taken from them‖ (Taylor 135). While the image of First Nations people staging ‗a last stand‘ ironically reverses frontier images from colonial fantasies of the ‗Wild West‘ won by cowboys, this image reinforces another romantic fantasy: that of the ‗noble Savage‘ and ‗vanishing Indian‘. While the novel makes clear its commitment to resisting the commodification of ethnicity, Jeremy‘s observations of First Nations people reinforce destructive stereotypes that hegemonic settlercolonizer culture uses to discredit and dispossess indigenous peoples. The discourse of the ‗vanishing Indian‘ asserts that First Nations civilization is ‗dying‘ and giving way to white culture; within the terms of this discourse, resisting colonization is futile and the cultural ‗last stand‘ Jeremy witnesses will ultimately fail. While Brand‘s novel acknowledges the unfinished business of colonization and gestures toward a painful yet possible collaboration between indigenous peoples and racialized others, Taylor‘s presents an image of indigenous people within the terms of Eurocentric discourse as a symbol for white struggles without considering the political implications of this image. Both Brand‘s and Taylor‘s characters reclaim and politicize the hybridities that have been co-opted by globalization and multiculturalism. Postmodernism ‗celebrates‘ an ironically adopted ‗ex-centricity‘ which, when wielded from the centre, can be politically problematic. In 111  Scandalous Bodies (2009), Kamboureli argues that postmodernism‘s valuing of the ‗ethnic‘ as the ‗ex-centric‘ ―makes ethnicity a sign of cultural excess‖ which relies on and maintains a ‗centre‘ and its distance from it; instead of displacing the centre, the postmodernism which appropriates the ‗ethnic ex-centric‘ ―functions as a master narrative, one in close alliance with the master narratives it purportedly sets out to dismantle‖ (Kamboureli 167, 168) in which those who can claim the centre appropriate and exoticize the margins while emptying out the political and historical materiality of marginality. In the introduction to Other Solitudes (1990), Hutcheon identifies the surge of interest in ‗other‘ Canadian narratives as a product of postmodern privileging of the margins over the centre (Hutcheon 10). In the context of globalized economies, Kamboureli argues in Scandalous Bodies (2009) that ―ethnic differences are appropriated in order to enhance to dominant society‘s cultural capital‖ (Kamboureli 170). Both novels heavily critique the discourse of commodified difference expressed through food. In What We All Long For, the Vus‘ restaurant caters to the ―eager Anglos reader to taste the fare of their multicultural city‖ (Brand 67). The production of this food to the demands of a white public calls its authenticity into question: the food at the Saigon Pearl is not necessarily ‗Vietnamese‘ but only ―what was called Vietnamese food‖ (Brand 128). Brand points out the normalization of whiteness implied in the exotic appropriation of otherness: a young Tuyen wants to eat ―like normal people,‖ normal meaning white; her father, instead of insisting that Vietnamese is ‗normal‘, tells her that ―normal people . . . like our food‖ (Brand 129). As an adult, Tuyen buys only the ‗normal‘ food, like milk and potatoes, which she considers ―perfect, neutral, [and] glamorous‖ (Brand 130). Tuyen and Carla in particular grew up ―navigating different and sometimes opposed worlds‖ where ―food was the dead giveaway‖ (Brand 130). Neither of them learned to cook, and are overjoyed when Oku cooks for them, using skills and traditions he learned from his own mother and from his friends‘ mothers. Oku uses ―cosmopolitan‖ cooking to bring people together, to bargain and share, and learn from others; as 112  a result, Carla, Tuyen and their friends find that ―the same foods they were averse to in their childhoods they now revered in Oku‘s hands‖ (Brand 132-3). Not authenticity but the intent of sharing and bringing people together makes Oku‘s cooking an act of political commitment rather than appropriation or commodification. Stanley Park critiques the rootless appropriation of exoticized foods, even while characters use food to connect. Jeremy meets and forges an affinity with Jules in a public market, where they recognize each other as members of the same ‗tribe‘ – chefs – through their interactions with vegetables. Early in the novel, Jeremy cooks a ―family meal‖ of Italian frittata and Spanish wine for the Monkey‘s Paw staff as they clear tables after midnight (Taylor 103). He toasts them – Jules, Zeena, and Dominic – telling them, ―I love you all,‖ before musing to himself that ―he loved this time, when they ate what he fed them, as much as any other time he could imagine‖ (Taylor 103). Jeremy uses food not only to connect with his friends, but to cement his relationship with place: he describes his restaurant as ―local but not dogmatic;‖ instead of expressing opposition ―to imported ingredients,‖ his philosophy is one ―of preference, of allegiance, of knowing what goodness came from the earth around you, from the soil under your feet‖ (Taylor 51). Food itself is not necessarily superficial or trivial; it can be consumed critically and relationally. Liberal multicultural discourse reifies public and private binaries, attributing ‗individual‘ rights to the public and relegating ‗group‘ rights to the private, masking the way multicultural policy shapes the public as a white space. Both novels suggest that movement through public space is predicated on power, that power relations direct but do not necessarily determine the flow of movement through the city, and that power can be challenged or disrupted by critically chosen movement. In addition, the boundaries between publics and counterpublics are unstable; messengers move between them and counterpublics cut across and erupt into the public, sometimes with violent and sometimes with liberatory potential. 113  Taylor‘s and Brand‘s characters move through their respective cities, crossing borders, testing the limits of boundaries, and exposing, in some cases, those boundaries as arbitrary or imaginary. In these texts, movement is predicated upon power which can be resisted; however, while Brand‘s protagonists remake the public with their movement through it, Taylor‘s protagonist seeks escape in the counterpublic, abandoning the public to the economic exploitation that has corrupted it beyond repair. Messengers between public and counterpublics and moments where counterpublics erupt into the public delineate these boundaries as much as they demonstrate their permeability. These novels cross and contest borders in order to reclaim the political potential of hybridity that has been co-opted by multicultural discourse and commodified by globalization. In Stanley Park, The Professor explains his research and fascination with people‘s connections to place, arguing that while a farmer can own his land or a city-dweller claim streets and parks, ―Others are homeless, unrooted by choice or force . . . I know a man without a home who lives in a place where other people park their cars. He knows his city like no other person, from the inside out and at all hours. But he cannot let himself attach to any one square foot of it more than any other. He cannot afford it‖ (Taylor 117). This financial metaphor illustrates the power imbalances that determine individual and collective relationships to place: the homeless man cannot ‗afford,‘ cannot metaphorically ‗pay for‘ or ‗purchase‘ a connection to land, because he literally cannot ‗afford‘ to own or rent shelter. In the opening pages of the novel, Taylor juxtaposes the homeward flow of middle-class park visitors with the ―erratic stream of homeless people making their way into the forest for the night‖ (Taylor 4). Access to an income that can provide shelter, as well as the opportunity for leisure, directs the flow of park traffic. In What We All Long For, the middle-class capitalist work-week sets the tone of the city: on Monday, ―no one wanted to be where they were which made them all rude and unhappy‖ as well as prone to mistakes; ―by Tuesday the city had calmed down in acceptance of the fact that it had to work, 114  that it had no choice‖ (Brand 41). Carla decides not to go to work, because ―it was Monday, and she wanted to walk against the current of the city‖ (Brand 42). Carla‘s decision to call in, and thereby defy economic power and authority, is only made possible by the relative financial security created by her daily submission to that same power. Jamal‘s ride through the city at the close of What We All Long For shows the reader Toronto from a predatory, devouring point of view, in which a criminal counterpublic violently penetrates an odd public/private place: a car sitting in a suburban driveway. Jamal drives through ―the main drag,‖ passing ―used-car dealerships, cheap, ugly furniture stores, food stores, banks, and panicky ‗stop and cash‘ booths,‖ the economic infrastructure that grows up around depressed communities (Brand 315-6). While Jamal makes this journey, Carla is rethinking her own, metaphorical course of movement, choosing ―the new course of her life‖ (Brand 316). To Carla, the city ―is a set of obstacles to be crossed and circled, avoided and let pass;‖ for Jamal, who values immediate physical experience, the city is ―something to get tangled in‖ (Brand 32). At the end of the book, Carla rides through the city once more, this time ―feeling free,‖ although she knows she is not ‗free‘ of her brother and does not want to be – only of his pain and her protectiveness (Brand 313). Both novels feature an archetypal ‗messenger‘: in What We All Long For, Carla‘s job as a bicycle courier allows her to remain on the periphery of Toronto‘s political and economic power structures; Brand links her light skin and seeming ‗whiteness‘ to her enhanced mobility as she flies through the city on her bike. In Stanley Park, schizophrenic Caruzo carries messages between Jeremy and the Professor, as well as ‗carrying‘ the story of the Babes in the Woods from the past into the present. His knowledge of the city allows him to avoid its reterritorializing forces (Taylor 8-9). In addition, Stanley Park features ‗guides‘ who offer Jeremy their own paths into the forest. An inhabitant of the park, Chladek guides Jeremy through the park, reorienting his perspective. As they walk, the homeless Polish journalist recounts the story of 115  how he came to be in Stanley Park; Taylor contrasts their journey through the park with Chladek‘s wanderings through the world. His story of violent resistance in communist Czechoslovakia begins in a beloved park at the centre of Prague called Stromovka, or ―place of trees‖ (Taylor 233). The particular demonstration that Chladek remembers – Students‘ Day, 1989 – becomes dangerous when the protestors move through the city: the demonstration ―became mobile,‖ and the demonstrators moved their protest to the forbidden Wencelas Square, only to be brutally removed and reterritorialized by the police (Taylor 235). Jeremy and Chladek continue to walk through the park as Chladek explains how, after being beaten by police at the demonstration, he suddenly ―understood all that had happened in Czechoslovakia in the past two days, all that had ever happened in Czech history, all that had ever happened, period‖ (Taylor 237). In the story, ―the city, the country, stood still‖ as, in Vancouver, Jeremy and Chladek reach ―the apex‖ of the Lions Gate Bridge where ―a steel maintenance ladder‖ leads to a ―catwalk hanging beneath the bridge‖ (Taylor 237). The prohibited catwalk is protected by a grating which Chaldek unlocks with a screwdriver before disappearing ―over the railing into the howling blackness‖ (Taylor 237). Jeremy follows him, drawn by the promise of seeing ―the park . . . as [he] will never see it‖ (Taylor 238). The act of climbing down to the forbidden, buried point reorients Jeremy‘s perspective: now beneath the Lions Gate Bridge, Jeremy realizes that ―he had always thought the park turned away from the city. Presented the tumult of downtown with a turned shoulder‖ (Taylor 238). From his new position, ―displaced entirely from any roadway or city vantage point,‖ which he must break the law to attain, ―the park faced‖ Jeremy, with an ―expression‖ of ―knowing and familiarity‖ (Taylor 238). Chladek tells Jeremy that he left Czechoslovakia because the country ―was already changing, already forgetting‖ (Taylor 240). He wanders over the world, ―swept up in the winds of history. Chased by the Devil from Stromovka and across the face of the world‖ (240). When Chladek finds himself in Vancouver after two years of travel, he stumbles upon Stanley Park, calling it ―Stromovka‖ and declaring, ―I 116  have returned to the place of trees‖ (Taylor 241). He adds, ―what begins in the place of trees, now ends in the place of trees‖ (Taylor 241). Chladek constructs his life in Stanley Park as a return to a place half the world away; he allows Jeremy to reconsider the relationship between the city and the park by using critically chosen, subversive movement to alter his perspective. In What We All Long For, The World Cup celebrations take over public space, and the attendant breakdown of order and authority seems hopeful but carnivalesque: no mob can create lasting change. As soccer fans take to the streets, the divisions between ethnically and racially marked communities are both reinforced by the waving of flags and singing of anthems as well as flouted when inhabitants of one neighbourhood enter another, when fans change identifications and loyalties at will as teams lose and leave the competition. The chaos that ensues suggests ―a means for imagining identifications and loyalties that cross over ethnic or national borders‖ (Smyth 281). ―Korean flags flying intercut occasionally with Brazilian and Japanese ones‖ and Carla, Oku, and Tuyen bear witness to both ―reclamations of the city‘s space … and demonstrations of longing and dissent,‖ singing, ―Oh, Pil-seung Korea!‖ (Smyth 282, Brand 214). The World Cup shows that counterpublic spaces are volatile and contingent: borders are drawn and redrawn at will by ―resurgent identities,‖ and these counterpublics can, under enough pressure, spill over into the public (Brand 203). Moments of rupture or eruption reveal these boundaries as ideologically imposed, arbitrary, and open to investigation. Both novels present images of ‗innocence,‘ prompting an analysis of how characters in the novels assume agency when they are called into being or ‗hailed‘ as abject and alienated. The repudiation of the discourse of innocence presents a key to a new concept of citizenship that refuses to base itself in exclusion or preserve a core of hegemonic whiteness. In What We All Long For, innocence implies a dangerous lack of control. Carla expresses frustration over her brother‘s insistence on his own innocence, and his assertion that criminal activities ―just happened to him . . . he was, unlike [Carla], open to things happening to him,‖ by which Carla 117  means, ―he was an innocent‖ (Brand 34, 36). Jackie, whose face shows ―no innocence whatever,‖ rejects the whole notion of innocence, interpreting innocence as powerlessness, as subjectivity without agency (Brand 72). Jackie defines agency as taking control, ―knowing what‘s going to happen to [you],‖ and being ―aware‖ (Brand 73). Jackie appropriates consumer culture, using television‘s heteroglossia to create her personality and to keep her second-hand clothing store in business. Her sales pitch recalls the rhetoric of fusion that Dante or Kiwi Frederique appropriate in Stanley Park to sell their own products. Jackie enthuses to a customer, describing an article of clothing: ―Missoni, Lorraine, big print, lots of colour, chunky new look, combination bohemian chique—opulent glamour, very northern Italy . . . very sixties . . . very south Austria . . . warm, bold, you, honey‖ (Brand 101). Jackie rejects the abject discourse of innocence in favour of an agency that reclaims the rhetoric of appropriation and commodification for her own purposes. Similarly, in Stanley Park, Benny rejects the gendered innocence that others ‗read‘ into her in favour of her own economic power, although she is ultimately defeated by the system she tries to cheat. When Jeremy meets Benny, a young design student, at the Monkey‘s Paw, he notes her ―angelic face‖ and describes her look as ―faux school gear strapped tightly around a Barbie from the toy section of the 1978 Sears catalogue,‖ inscribing childishness, youth, and plastic perfection into his representation of Benny (Taylor 76). However, Benny is much more ambitious, mature, and astute than Jeremy‘s vision of her implies. She desires Jeremy because he ―had the quality of actualized self‖ that her peers lack; she ―had been supporting herself since sixteen and prided herself on only dating adults‖ (Taylor 79). Jules and Jeremy call Benny and her friends into being as ‗innocent‘ and ‗authentic;‘ however, the same people Jules calls cultural ―bellwethers‖ are the people Benny considers ―sheep.‖ (Taylor 68, 80). Jeremy and Benny are drawn together when she helps him commit fraud and loses her job at Canadian Tire. She tells him that she will help him because she knows ―what it‘s like to have ambitions. To want 118  something. To work hard for something‖ (Taylor 88). Jeremy compares her to her ―alter ego,‖ the schoolgirl who hangs out at his restaurant; Benny calls that persona ―a good investment,‖ implying that she is much more aware of the ways in which she presents herself than Jeremy (Taylor 88). As Jeremy spends more time around Benny, his vision of her alters slightly while still remaining grounded in the discourse of innocence; he calls her ―an appealing cluster of contrasts. Hip. Overtly ambitious. Deferring. Argumentative. She was a schoolgirl, sure, but she appeared to be getting on with things‖ (Taylor 80). Jeremy‘s reading of Benny as innocent and authentic is belied by her actual agency: she suggests they ―build something together,‖ but Jeremy only sees her ―girlish white underwear‖ and ―her perfect small face‖ (Taylor 252, 254). As Benny becomes more involved in Dante‘s project and closer to Dante himself, Jeremy realizes that she is ―hard and symmetrical and certain,‖ ―compact‖ and ―dangerous‖ (Taylor 142), though he continues to read her innocence into her physical presence through her ―white sports bra‖ and the colour of her skin: ―with the exception of the round, metallic, blue bauble in her belly button, she was a smooth stretch of golden pink and white‖ (Taylor 184). Even her breath seems fresh and new to Jeremy, with ―its tiny puffing heat, its very light scent, like a sweet dough‖ (Taylor 186). Jeremy inscribes youth, sweetness, freedom and innocence on Benny, who explicitly rejects this discourse, aligning herself with the voracious consumer culture that consumes her in the end. Quy also addresses the reader on the subject of innocence: he both lost his when his accidental separation from his parents stranded him in the violent and dismal no-man‘s-land of Pulau Bidong and yet kept it, as he lives forever young and innocent in his parents‘ haunted memories (Brand 124). His innocence is not only enshrined in his parents‘ memories but also maintained in his troublingly childlike face, which seems to have changed as little as the photographs on his parents‘ mantelpiece. His face, ―innocent and expectant,‖ seems somehow ―wrong,‖ and the contrast between his grown body and childish face disturbs Tuyen and Quy 119  himself (Brand 208, 284). Quy uses the discourse of innocence to destabilize his own narrative, insisting that while ―innocence is important for a hero,‖ he is neither innocent nor a hero; even though ―innocence makes a story more appealing to some,‖ he, like Jackie, considers it ―dangerous‖ (Brand 288). The gap between the ideal of innocence and the reality of implication complicates Quy‘s reunion with his family. Tuyen imagines that this could mean ―no skeletons, no ghost. The universe restored‖ for her parents, ―redeemed‖ by her brother‘s success search (Brand 303). Meeting him, however, she is shocked by his adultness, his ―contained tightness‖ and ―light presence,‖ but she asks herself, ―Why shouldn‘t he be such a man? . . . He could not live in their imagination perpetually innocent, perpetually pure. Things had happened to him. Probably bad things‖ (Brand 297). Quy is ‗innocent‘ in that he is not guilty of the act that separated him from his parents; but he is far from innocent in that, since the separation, he has exploited others to protect himself, and even moves towards a reunion with his family intending to exploit them as well. Quy as much as Jackie rejects the abject discourse of innocence. Stanley Park, in contrast, champions a discourse of innocence, using Stanley Park itself as a symbol for Eden, an opportunity for people to reconnect with their beginnings through their connection to land. The Professor observes ―People turning against the wind, returning to Eden. Those seeking reconciliation with the stable rhythms of the earth, with their own beginnings. Here, in the park, where out of desperation, for lack of options, a living theatre of rootedness had been reborn from distant tragedy. In Jeremy‘s kitchen, where a sense of lost connection played out in culinary theatrics about the return to a familiar soil‖ (Taylor 194). This return to Eden seems too simple; no amount of ‗back-to-the-land‘ rhetoric will undo colonization or globalization, especially when Jeremy‘s and the Professor‘s journeys back are made possible by economic privilege. Eden cannot take the place of political engagement. Multiculturalism is a reterritorializing project that normalizes whiteness and demands Canada‘s others conform to certain narratives: Tuyen‘s parents do not ―construct‖ their flight 120  from Vietnam to Toronto ―as resistance to communism‖ until they arrive, and they only do so because ―that is the story the authorities needed in order to fill out the appropriate forms‖ (Brand 225). Meanwhile, Tuyen‘s mother‘s photographs suggest ―a parallel story‖ or ―set of possible stories,‖ a surrealist collage set against the official and endorsed version which, much like Tuyen‘s art, offers a possible alternative that interrupts the city it expresses (Brand 225). Tuyen wonders ―why had she wanted as far back as she could remember to ‗not be them‘? Not be Vietnamese‖ why had she ―wanted to be more than them‖ (Brand 69). She begins to understand herself and her family by identifying and contesting the normalization of whiteness constantly in process in the city. Looking at the front page of the newspaper, Tuyen notices that stories of woe are offset and represented by ―a photograph of the Stanley Cup with adoring boys decked out in hockey gear‖ and wonders what longing this juxtaposition expresses: a longing for ―relief‖ whether ―from killings, from misery‖ or ―from multiplicity,‖ ―from the cumbersome, the unknown, the encroaching‖ (Brand 159). The paper imagines ―Vass, Kwan, Hyunh, Sivalingam, Shevchenko . . . encroaching on the city . . . on the pure innocent ideal, violating the heroic Stanley Cup, the cherubic faces around it, pushed to the borders tenuously‖ (Brand 159). Whiteness by itself does not promise ―safe passage‖ and the narrator recognizes that raced subjects could ―twist oneself up into the requisite shape; act the brown-noser, act the fool; go on as if you didn‘t feel or sense the rejections‖ however, the protagonists ―simply failed to see this as a possible way of being in the world‖ (Brand 47). It would certainly be apolitical and ahistorical to insist that Stanley Park‘s Chladek, as a ‗white‘ subject, is hegemonic: relations to power are continually renegotiated along multiple axes: as a migrant, displaced person/ refuge, homeless man, an English-as-a-Second-Language speaker, Chladek is marginal; as an Eastern European man, even his ‗whiteness‘ is a relatively recent acquisition, because Eastern European subjects only transformed from ‗ethnic‘ to ‗white‘ when raced subjects took the place of scapegoat. Oku maintains that ―the system only knows how to co-opt,‖ and therefore they must 121  find ways to recreate ‗the system,‘ to wrest control of public space away from the discourses that construct it as a white space (Brand 211). If, as Benedict Anderson argued in Imagined Communities (1991), the nation is an ‗imagined community‘, how can a critically chosen, affinity-based ‗we‘ reimagine this community for ourselves? Instead of aiming for a unified national identity, I propose thinking of the nation as what in The Colonization of Psychic Space: A Psychoanalytic Social Theory of Oppression (2004) Kelly Oliver calls a ―tensile structure‖ made productive by carefully chosen allegiances and affinities held in tension (Oliver xv). In the last pages, Tuyen makes peace with her brother Binh by discovering ―their commonality,‖ their shared project, in that they both must ―translate‖ the world for their parents, must ―decode the secret writing of loss and hurt‖ (Brand 307). While this ―specialness‖ has ―made her so uneasy most of her life,‖ she now feels ―comforted‖ by ―the recognitive gaze of an exception cherished through all this time,‖ musing, ―wasn‘t that what her art was all about in the end?‖ (Brand 307). Of her parents, Tuyen thinks that ―either they could not see the larger space of commonality, or it was denied them‖ (Brand 125). She and her friends, in contrast, seize this space, taking ―each other as gifts‖ (Brand 128); Johansen argues that they ―demand, through their reinvention of Toronto‘s public places, new terms for this dialogue that acknowledge their position as citizens of the city‖ (Johansen 49). Similarly, Jeremy formulates a philosophy that does not depend upon ―being opposed‖ but ―of preference, of allegiance,‖ of knowing and valuing the ground upon which one stands that can ‗imagine‘ other possible Canadas (Taylor 51). Historically, citizenship has been granted to one by excluding another and demanding that the citizen ‗forget‘ and supress intra-national differences. In ―Diasporic Citizenship: Contradiction and Possibilities for Canadian Literature‖ (2007), Lily Cho proposes a ―diasporic citizenship,‖ a citizenship which refuses the nation-state as the location of its production (Cho 101). Cho contends that ―diasporic communities are formed through the processes of memory,‖ and that ―diasporic subjectivities emerge not simply 122  from the fact of geographical displacement, but also from the ways in which forgotten or suppressed pasts continue to shape the present,‖ reminding us ―of the losses that enable citizenship‖ (Cho 106, 108). The tension between ‗diaspora‘ and ‗citizenship‘ allows us to recognize ―the contingencies surrounding our choice for citizenship,‖ and this recognition may ―enable memory to tear away at the coherence of national forgettings‖ (Cho 108, 109). Bannerji argues that ―our politics must sidestep the paradigm of ‗unity‘ based on ‗fragmentation or integration‘ and instead engage in struggles based on the genuine contradictions of our society‖ (Bannerji 120). Instead of seeing the ‗lack‘ of a single, uniform ‗counternarrative‘ of multiculturalism to pit against the master narrative of hegemonic, homogenous ‗Canadianness‘, Kamboureli writes in Scandalous Bodies (2009) that this absence of ―a cohesive new paradigm is inevitable, for comprehending and dealing with, diversity is a continuous process of mediating and negotiating contingencies‖ (Kamboureli 93). Kamboureli advocates ―a mastery of discomfort‖ ―that would involve shuttling between centre and margin while displacing both‖ and decentring multiculturalism (Kamboureli 130). Both Brand and Taylor acknowledge that movement is risk, and that the experience of movement is deeply disorienting. Quy reminds the reader that ―this is a dangerous city‖ because ―you could be anybody here;‖ ―it would be easy to disappear here‖; by imaging the peaceful Toronto neighbourhood around him as full of former war criminals and their victims, he illustrates the dark side of the liberatory potential implied by the movement between subject positions (Brand 309). Jackie compares her feelings for Oku with the experience of riding the train from Halifax to Toronto: both produce ―the same mix of desire and revulsion . . . warmth and insecurity, damage and seduction‖ (Brand 91). With her white boyfriend Reiner, ―she knew who she was, separate and apart, in command of self. With Oku, she was on that train, liquid and jittery and out of control‖ (Brand 101). Oku feels the same uncertainty and threat as he moves towards Jackie: ―he felt that tender, that undone with her, that out in space, that uncertain of boundaries, and that much in peril if she didn‘t love him back‖ 123  (Brand 184). Oku and Jackie, however, accept the risk implied by movement when they begin a relationship. In contrast, Jeremy, by refusing to continue to critically engage with an oppositional public, refuses the risk of movement. By critically examining the way multicultural discourse constructs Canada‘s racialized others as always already ‗outside‘ the (white) nation, we can move towards a critically chosen citizenship composed of multiple affinities held in productive tension by people who recognize that we are all implicated in each others‘ goals. Brand and Taylor illustrate the extent to which the ‗public‘ belongs to hegemony and excludes the marginalized; Brand‘s characters remake the public in their own image, whereas Jeremy Papier flees the public for the punk. In both novels, characters cross and contest borders to reclaim the political value of hybridities. Although Stanley Park argues that we can forge anti-essentialist allegiances to place, it obscures colonialism by presenting First Nations within Eurocentric romanticized discourse; What We All Long For acknowledges that racialized Canadians and First Nations peoples are co-implicated and can forge a coalitional resistance based on their mutual opposition to white hegemony. We must reject the discourse of innocence that abjects marginalized peoples in favour of an agency and citizenship that can contest and resist multicultural discourse.  124  Works Cited Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. 2nd ed. London and New York: Verso, 1991. Print.  Anzaldúa, Gloria. ―Chicana Artists: Exploring Nepantla, el Lugar de la Frontera.‖ NACLA Report on the Americas 27.1 (1993): 37 – 42. Rpt. in Everyday Theory: A Contemporary Reader. Ed. Becky McLaughlin and Bob Coleman. New York: Pearson Longman, 2005. 308-315. Print.  Atwood, Margaret. 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