Latest news with #2024GovernorGeneral'sLiteraryAwards
CBC
24-02-2025
- Entertainment
- CBC
Caleigh Crow reflects on a town where the sun is a 20-foot-tall mirror
Old Little Sister is an original short story by Caleigh Crow. It is part of Mirrors, a special series of new, original writing featuring work by the English-language winners of the 2024 Governor General's Literary Awards, presented in partnership with the Canada Council for the Arts. Caleigh told CBC Books she was captivated by a small town in the Italian Alps, where a giant mirror on the mountainside reflects sunlight into the town square. For 83 days each winter, the town is shrouded in darkness. Inspired by their journey from shadow to light, Caleigh created her original work of evocative prose. When the mirror was unveiled, she imagined the townsfolk's reactions. CBC's Radio One will host an episode featuring participants from this original series. Crow won the 2024 Governor General's Literary Award for drama for the play There Is Violence and There Is Righteous Violence and There Is Death, or the Born- Again Crow. . Old Little Sister When the day finally came to unveil the mirror, Gene was a nervous wreck, his stomach clenched, trying to hold in all the doubt he felt but could not let on. He felt like a fraud. He worried that the Creator was looking askance at him. Who was Gene to impose his will on the land? The whole town gathered in the paved central square, all 172 of them. Gene was reminded how few families remained. Mostly young people left in search of — what else — work and society and never returned except to visit and share their worldly wisdom with the townies who remained. Like his sister Junie. "This is wrong," she said. "You haven't even been here," he spat. "You don't remember what it's like." It was true that Junie didn't remember what it was like to spend 83 days without any direct sunlight. The solution the town came up with was to build a twenty-foot-tall mirror on the mountainside. "There's some stuff you just have to learn to live with," she lit a cigarette. "Actually, maybe it's the gift of living here." Gene: "The gift? Junie, come on." Junie: "It'll be fake sunlight." Junie was always an advocate for the natural, for the authentic, the real. But there was a sharpness to the way she said fake that hadn't been there before. It had been a hard year for her: a fire destroyed her house, and then her husband destroyed their marriage. Gene observed a thin stripe of greying hair on the right side of her part and the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth that had deepened even in the five years since they last were together, in person, here in their hometown. Five years? It had been a hard year for her: a fire destroyed her house, and then her husband destroyed their marriage. He looked at her again, more zoomed out. She really looked older. She was more stooped, more round, less elastic. Christ, I probably look the same, he thought. All grey and wrinkled. Probably even more aged since Gene is 9 years older than Junie. Gene: "You just think people have to earn everything." Junie: "We do." Gene: "It will help people cope." Junie shrugged. "It will be fake coping." "It's real sunlight," Rachel Ramsay, head engineer of the project and another non-local, interjected. Junie: "You can't read in a mirror." Rachel: "What's reflected in a mirror is a matter of your own perspective. You don't need a mirror to make writing backwards, all you need to do is shine a light behind the paper and read it from the other side. It's two-dimensional." "But it doesn't show things properly in three dimensions either, does it," Junie pushed, "when I raise my left hand in a mirror —" "It appears as though your right hand is raised," Rachel interrupted. "Yes, yes, but that is an illusion. That person doesn't exist. There is, of course, only one of you, with your left hand raised." "But how?" Gene asked. "Illusions can be very powerful. Your brain is easily tricked," Rachel replied. "Exactly," Junie said, sulking, "We're saying the same thing." Gene stepped onto a makeshift pallet platform with a megaphone and instructed everyone to look at their feet, not the mirror. When everyone complied, he radioed to the engineers at the mountainside site and gave the signal. In an instant, the square was illuminated. The light was pale, crooked and had vestigial colours at the edges. Gene looked down at the townsfolk who had worked hard to get this mirror because they missed the sun. Someone was crying. It was Mrs. Daniels, whose son took his own life on the Winter solstice just last month. Inside, she was thinking — It seems like we can change everything in the world except the fact that my son is never coming back. In an instant, the square was illuminated. The light was pale, crooked and had vestigial colours at the edges. Mr. Daniels put his arm around his wife. Inside, he was thinking — Maybe this will give us something warm to think about. Gene said: "Hope this helps." Junie rolled her eyes and stubbed out her cigarette. And the snow started to melt. About Caleigh Crow Caleigh Crow is a queer Métis theatre artist from northeast Calgary. She is the co-founder and artistic lead of Thumbs Up Good Work Theatre. The English-language books that won the 2024 Governor General's Literary Awards demonstrate how stories help us reflect on our lives, understand ourselves more deeply and see the world in new ways. CBC Books asked the winners to further explore the power of reflection in original works. The special series, themed around the theme of mirrors, challenges how we see ourselves and our society — unearthing hidden truths, exploring alternative identities and blurring the lines between reality and fantasy.
CBC
24-02-2025
- General
- CBC
Niigaanwewidam Sinclair sheds light on what school didn't teach him, and how it altered his worldview
Turtle Island is original short story by Niigaanwewidam (Niigaan) Sinclair. It is part of Mirrors, a special series of new, original writing featuring work by the English-language winners of the 2024 Governor General's Literary Awards, presented in partnership with the Canada Council for the Arts. "[It's] how Canadians have been conditioned (in education, etc) to "see" (or, rather, not see) one another — which creates a self-fulfilling and very self-centred prophecy," Sinclair told CBC Books. CBC's Radio One will host an episode featuring participants from this original series. Sinclair won the 2024 Governor General's Literary Award for nonfiction for Wînipêk: Visions of Canada from an Indigenous Centre. Turtle Island It's grade six. Your teacher walks in, hurriedly, with a pile of papers. "Pull out your pencil crayons," she says. "Today, we are going to learn about Canada." You open your brand new package of sharpened pencil crayons, purchased for you by your parents last summer. There are twenty-four colours. Your teacher hands out the still-warm, newly photocopied papers. "The first assignment is to colour all of Canada," she announces. "Fill it all in. Make sure not to go outside the lines." You begin, performing long strokes of green across the map. "Wait," she says, "don't colour over the water. Mark the rivers and lakes with blue." You quickly and carefully create Canada. That wasn't hard. "Good," your teacher remarks. "Now, we will do it again." The teacher hands out another set of the same maps. "Take out thirteen more colours now," she instructs. "Ten provinces. Three territories. Colour those and do not, I repeat, do not, go outside their boundaries and lines." You begin. This one will be much harder. "On yeah, and don't forget blue for the water." Colour those and do not, I repeat, do not, go outside their boundaries and lines. You recall your dad telling you that they only used twelve colours when they were your age — and your grandpa only had to use eleven. What an easier time they must have had. With long-practiced skill and precision, you carve out the land, rivers, and lakes. You are very thankful for the rectangles that make up the Prairies. You smile at how little time it takes to do the Maritimes. What takes the longest are all of those tiny little northern islands. You finish and hand in your two maps, scrawling your name across the top of both. "Excellent," your teacher says, "as usual." You walk out of the classroom and into the hallway. You notice the pretty posters and signs adorned with words and numbers you've been taught since you first entered this place. You greet teachers, who basically all look the same. You pass by the office, adorned with a large photo of a king. You walk out the front door, where a flag hangs prominently. You walk down streets named after explorers and pioneers. You arrive at your beautiful home, built in the form of a barn and complete with a fence surrounding it. You unlock the front door, step inside and immediately feel the warmth of your home, complete with memories, stories and life. You sit down on your couch and turn on your phone, staring at the small screen. After skipping the advertisements (for cars and alcohol, by the way), you notice something scroll past your eye. It's a post re-posted by your cousin of armed police officers wrestling with young people. The police officers are armed with guns, helmets and shields. The young people wear masks, camouflage and carry flags you don't recognize. One carries a sign you can barely make out: "Turtle Island," it says. Your cousin has added their own editorial: "Thank god. I don't know why these people have to protest and complain all the time." You are curious. You open up a browser. Quickly, you type in: "Turtle Island." A map pops up with detailed, intricate and complicated patterns. You read new names of places you thought you knew in letters and languages you don't. It is then you realize these are nations, communities and families. You notice large swaths of territories overlap. How can there be some lines that matter and some that don't, you ask yourself. You see hundreds of nations you never knew existed. Thousands of cultures. Millions of years. Looking up, the world around looks different. Not the simple place you thought it was. Now you see it. About Niigaanwewidam Sinclair Niigaanwewidam Sinclair is an Anishinaabe (St. Peter's/Little Peguis) thinker and assistant professor of Native Studies at the University of Manitoba. He has written for The Exile Edition of Native Canadian Fiction and Drama, The Guardian and CBC Books and is a regular contributor on APTN, CTV and CBC News. Sinclair is also the editor of The Debwe Series and the author and co-editor of award-winning Manitowapow and Centering Anishinaabeg Studies. The English-language books that won the 2024 Governor General's Literary Awards demonstrate how stories help us reflect on our lives, understand ourselves more deeply and see the world in new ways. CBC Books asked the winners to further explore the power of reflection in original works. The special series, themed around the theme of mirrors, challenges how we see ourselves and our society — unearthing hidden truths, exploring alternative identities and blurring the lines between reality and fantasy.
CBC
24-02-2025
- Entertainment
- CBC
Li Charmaine Anne considers how our hobbies shape identity in new short story
Rock Star Dreaming and Comfortable Shoes is an original short story by Li Charmaine Anne. It is part of Mirrors, a special series of new, original writing featuring work by the English-language winners of the 2024 Governor General's Literary Awards, presented in partnership with the Canada Council for the Arts. "[It's] a personal essay about the urge to define yourself through hobbies. We often associate certain hobbies with certain personalities, and young people like trying different hobbies to 'try on' different identities. "Hobbies can be seen as 'mirrors' we use to assess who we are (or at least who we want to appear as). I also loosely explore this theme in my book's Author's Note section, so I think it ties in nicely,'" Li Charmaine Anne told CBC Books. CBC's Radio One will host an episode featuring participants from this original series. Li Charmaine Anne's YA novel Crash Landing won the 2024 Governor General's Literary Award for young people's literature — text. . Rock Star Dreaming and Comfortable Shoes When you're an only child, hobbies become your sibling playmate and I had many such siblings. In the beginning, there was drawing, reading and modelling clay. Then there was guitar, martial arts, skateboarding and snowboarding. I spent my teen years tabbing my favourite guitar solos by ear so I could become the next Guitar Cover Sensation. Or practicing (and failing) longboard tricks because I wanted to film and edit the Ultimate Longboard Cinematic Experience. (Yes, YouTube was a big influence on my Millennial upbringing.) I never progressed to more than a beginner in these pursuits, but I'd stare out the car window with music videos running through my head. Those videos painted a far-off future in which I was a rock star playing lead guitar in some groundbreaking feminist outfit. But in reality, I pursued my teenage hobbies just enough to wear skinny jeans, skate shoes and Obscure Band T-shirts in good conscience. Because to be fake is to commit a cardinal sin in school hallway politics. Dress as a skater without skating and you are a Poser. Our preoccupation with these rules at that age is intriguing. I was often pursued by the anxiety that my hobbies were "inauthentic" expressions of identity. Looking back, I wonder what exactly I was aspiring to. I assume it was a better, "cooler," more punk-rock version of who I felt obligated to be: the A-getting, piano-practicing, Good Daughter of immigrant parents. In contrast, punk rock board sports people take risks, swear and go on the adventures I read about in the books I adored as a kid. So I adopted their uniform, their mannerisms, their "that's gnarly, bro!" Then, over time, skinny jeans got loose. Skate shoes hurt to walk in. I went to university and became the archetypal hipster typing on a MacBook in an overpriced café. My organic identity — more independent of what my parents and peers influenced — gradually emerged: not as a van-camping, singer-songwriter, ski hill rat, but as a practical 9-to-5'er whose main concerns were the price of tofu and what podcast makes good house-cleaning music. Looking back, I wonder what exactly I was aspiring to. I assume it was a better, "cooler," more punk-rock version of who I felt obligated to be: the A-getting, piano-practicing, Good Daughter of immigrant parents. I think a big fear people in creative fields face is that of not being interesting. And so authors like me adopt personas like the characters we write about in our fiction. We yearn to be as brave and unconventional as the protagonists in our story arcs. I sometimes wonder if the real reason we write is to live vicariously through our characters … because we are afraid of living that way ourselves. I type this essay in a café wearing comfortable hiking boots whose waterproofness makes them practical perfection on a wet Vancouver day. I imagine my fifteen-year-old self walking through the doors, feet proudly plugged into her rain-soaked, special-edition Chucks. She walks up to me with her nose upturned and asks me to describe myself as if I'm the protagonist of a book. I say, "I don't feel like much of a protagonist today, but try again tomorrow." She scowls. "I still skate, though," I say, smiling. "Started again recently. That's cool, isn't it?" She crosses her arms. "Can you kickflip?" "Not yet." She looks bored, but I can tell she's a little jealous of my banana bread. One aspect of being a writer is the ability to imagine yourself in different lives. Maybe there's a universe where I'm an up-and-coming indie artist. But in this universe, I only hope to pursue my hobbies for as long as I'm able. One aspect of being a writer is the ability to imagine yourself in different lives. Maybe there's a universe where I'm an up-and-coming indie artist. But in this universe, I only hope to pursue my hobbies for as long as I'm able. Not to fulfil some character ideal but because playing songs around a campfire with your friends satisfies a primal yearning I can't articulate in words. Someday, I'll become my teenage hero. Not because I'm Good At Stuff but because I figured out a way to enjoy my hobbies despite capitalist structures, social media algorithms and the price of tofu. And to be honest, I think that's pretty gnarly. About Li Charmaine Anne Li Charmaine Anne is a writer with a BFA from the University of British Columbia in creative writing and English literature. Crash Landing is their debut novel. The English-language books that won the 2024 Governor General's Literary Awards demonstrate how stories help us reflect on our lives, understand ourselves more deeply and see the world in new ways. CBC Books asked the winners to further explore the power of reflection in original works. The special series, themed around the theme of mirrors, challenges how we see ourselves and our society — unearthing hidden truths, exploring alternative identities and blurring the lines between reality and fantasy.
CBC
24-02-2025
- Entertainment
- CBC
Katia Grubisic explores the harrowing journey of a woman seeking liberation from herself and others
Volja and the Mountain is an original short story by Katia Grubisic. It is part of Mirrors, a special series of new, original writing featuring work by the English-language winners of the 2024 Governor General's Literary Awards, presented in partnership with the Canada Council for the Arts. " Volja and the Mountain is about a traveller escaping over a mountain. As she climbs, she sheds words and objects until she reaches a cabin where she might be able to reinvent herself. The piece explores themes of exile, departure and identity, and the aesthetic is a kind of brutalist magic realism," Grubisic told CBC Books. CBC's Radio One will host an episode featuring participants from this original series. Grubisic won the 2024 Governor General's Literary Award for French-to-English translation for Nights Too Short to Dance, a novel written by Marie-Claire Blais and translated by Grubisic. . Volja and the Mountain Imagine leaving. Imagine the scree grappling down, sharp, sharp, from the darkness of the looming woods. Imagine weaving back and forth, avoiding the road, rushing up to the treeline, lashed at last by the long boughs of dogwood. Volja leaned hard against the scaly bark of a pine. Her legs were shaking. If she sat down now she might never get up. Her own mother didn't know where she was or if she was alive at all; her father. Maybe they would find out, months later, from a travelling cleric or from a coded message in another language on a postcard of an ancient square in another country, with pigeons platooning over cobbles. Imagine that was all they had, and maybe a photograph, the faded sepia of her national document. The picture was already a few years old; her hair was longer now, and her jaw leaner. The eyes still bright and black. Rummaging through the pockets of the thin nylon jacket her cellmate had given her, a men's garment three times too big, she found chalky chocolate, a penknife and a pack of cigarettes, crushed but still smokeable. She coughed and spat out on the ground a word hard and round as a pit: voda. She was thirsty. More importantly, water would lead her. Volja scanned the hill for the olive catkins of a willow. The knowledge burst like a bubble, releasing the word, vrba. The forest was all shadows, the trees keeping their counsel. She edged out into the open … There, to the west, through the trunks: the tentative fingers of ferns. Even low in the Alps, the climb was steep and Volja struggled to find her footing. She hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the night before. Her chest felt tight. Her mouth was clay. Sure enough, tracing the lush foliage up a couple hundred metres, she found the stream. Imagine the miracle of water in its absence. The brook ran clean, making its own secret way down the mountain, singing its freedom easily. One of their punishments in the prison had been to fetch water: they had to make their precarious way to the craggy shore, fill heavy rusted buckets and lug them back up to fill leaky barrels. It wasn't as bad as for the men, though: her brother, Volja knew, was made to smash rocks — for nothing, just for the smashing. The uselessness was almost worse than the labour itself. They were like animals tied to a wheel, flogged to go nowhere, round and round in the implacable wind. Imagine the miracle of water in its absence. The brook ran clean, making its own secret way down the mountain, singing its freedom easily. Their father had been a mason. Her brother should have come of age working by his side, but he had neither the inclination nor the instinct for stone, so he was sent to school. He learned to read and write — so many words — and met others like him, like them. He learned that some words brought trouble. Volja stopped to drink. The water was cold and clear but fast, and although she squinted into the flickering surface, she couldn't make out her reflection. She cupped her hands to splash water over her face and throat, and through her fingers, words ran out: vrat, vrata, vatra, vratiti, settling into eddies in the shallow pool before blazing down the mountain, going back to where she never could. The forest echoed with the unmistakable crack of a footstep. Volja froze. There was a throaty grunt, and from the apse of conifers, a round hulk of brown emerged, a wet snout, the soft tufted ears. Volja dropped another word, vepar, thick with lost magic. The boar stood on the other side of the stream, staring back at her. In the black moons of the gilt's eyes, Volja glimpsed her own, and the scythe of her nose, her mouth. Reflexively, she brought her hands to her face. The animal snuffled and turned to meander back between the trees. It started to rain. Night fell, and Volja laid some words at the foot of a tree: večer, venuti. She followed the narrow track of trodden soil up and up, slowed to a scuffle, willing herself forward until the next day dawned, damp and grey. She ate the chocolate. Hours passed, another day and night. This was where other people were from, names written in the dust on the side of the road from nowhere to nowhere. The ground under her feet suddenly shifted from the dense certainty of the forest trail to the frittering of gravel, jolting her to herself. The scrubby weeds gave way to a road, overgrown but definitely there. She had stumbled onto a switchback — the border couldn't be far, and asylum, and sleep. A raw wind swept out over the steep hollow of the ravine. Volja shivered. There would be patrols, dogs. She darted back to her trees. The trail widened, and she tripped, scattering words. Softly, they fell from her — voditi, voliti. Harder ones too, vojska, vjera. She climbed to the crest of the hill, past the sign, five hundred metres, two hundred, Achtung, running, running. Not once did she look back. In the valley, she came to a cabin. Knifed the lock. It was empty and smelled good. It smelled like words she didn't remember. In the valley, she came to a cabin. Knifed the lock. It was empty and smelled good. It smelled like words she didn't remember. There was a cot, a basin and a mottled mirror above on the wall. She couldn't find matches. The bed had been made up neatly, with a wool blanket that was threadbare but cornered and tucked with care. It seemed destined for someone else's rest, not hers, Volja thought, and if she laid down now, she might never get up. When she glanced in the mirror there was nothing. In the end, the cigarettes she left behind. About Katia Grubisic Katia Grubisic is a writer, editor and translator. She has been a finalist for the Governor General's Literary Award for translation and the A.M. Klein Prize for Poetry. Her collection of poems What if red ran out won the Gerald Lampert Award for best first book. The English-language books that won the 2024 Governor General's Literary Awards demonstrate how stories help us reflect on our lives, understand ourselves more deeply and see the world in new ways. CBC Books asked the winners to further explore the power of reflection in original works. The special series, themed around the theme of mirrors, challenges how we see ourselves and our society — unearthing hidden truths, exploring alternative identities and blurring the lines between reality and fantasy.
