Life beside itself : imagining care in the Canadian Arctic

267 Pages·2014·2.45 MB·English

by  Stevenson

Life Beside Itself
Imagining Care in the Canadian Arctic
Lisa Stevenson
university of california press
Life Beside Itself

Life Beside Itself
Imagining Care in the Canadian Arctic
Lisa Stevenson
university of california press
University of California Press, one of the most
distinguished university presses in the United States,
enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship
in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its
activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and
by philanthropic contributions from individuals and
institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu.
University of California Press
Oakland, California
© 2014 by The Regents of the University of California
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stevenson, Lisa.
Life beside itself : imagining care in the Canadian
Arctic / Lisa Stevenson.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 978-0-520-28260-5 (Cloth : alk. paper) — isbn
978-0-520-28294-0 (Paper : alk. paper) — isbn
978-0-520-95855-5 (e-book)
1. Inuit—Medical care—Canada—History. 2. Tuber-
culosis—Canada—History. 3. Inuit—Health and
hygiene—Canada—History. I. Title.
rc314.s74 2014
362.19699'5008997124—dc23
2014006556
Manufactured in the United States of America
23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
In keeping with a commitment to support
environmentally responsible and sustainable printing
practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures
Natural, a fi ber that contains 30% post-consumer waste
and meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso
z39.48–1992 (r 1997) (Permanence of Paper).
Contents
Prologue: Between Two Women vii
Acknowledgments ix
Introduction 1
1. Facts and Images 21
2. Cooperating 49
3. Anonymous Care 75
4. Life-of-the-Name 103
5. Why Two Clocks? 129
6. Song 149
Epilogue: Writing on Styrofoam 171
Notes 175
References 217
List of Illustrations 243
Index 245

Prologue
Between Two Women
A voice involves the throat, saliva, infancy, the patina of
experienced life, the mind’s intentions, the pleasure of giving
a personal form to sound waves. What attracts you is the
pleasure this voice puts into existing.
Italo Calvino, A King Listens
In the midst of a Thanksgiving dinner, with people splayed out on the
fl oor—a middle-aged man with his back against the legs of a chair
recounting a road trip across the southern United States, a teenager
twisting her hair around her fi nger and gazing inertly in front of her, a
couple of kids lying on their stomachs, engrossed in their own densely
laid world of right and wrong—and everyone eating and talking and
bickering as most families, happy or sad, eat and talk and bicker, in the
midst of all that, two women face each other. The younger one is kneel-
ing on the fl oor at the feet of the old woman, a woman whose legs can
no longer support her weight, a woman who has been lifted from a car
into the house and placed on the living room couch. The two women
bring their faces close together—so close they are almost touching, their
arms resting on each other’s shoulders. They sway slightly as they begin
to kataq. The younger woman starts, and the sounds she makes come
from the back of her throat, low and thick, almost growling.
Ham ma ham ma, ham ma, ham ma—she breathes in and out in a
steady rhythm, intensely, her vocal cords bruising each other. Buzzing,
panting, the older woman’s voice comes in and moves up and down as
if plucking the lower rhythm, teasing it almost. The sounds and rhythms
pass from body to body, echoing and playing with each other, growling,
vii
viii | Prologue
buzzing, yelping. There’s something machine-like and modern about the
sounds, which are also archaic and guttural.
Ham me, ham ma, ma, ham ma, ham ma, ham ma
Ha ha ha, ha he he, ha he he, ha he he ha ha ha ha
Then the old lady breaks off and cackles loudly, hooting almost. The
younger woman laughs too and wipes away tears. People smile, clap,
and go back to what they were doing.
A few months later the old lady dies in her sleep. I am in the house
when the young woman returns, but I’ve already heard the news. I hear
her shutting the door, putting down her purse. The ordinariness of the
sounds is hard. “She’s gone,” the young woman tells me, thinking I don’t
know. “My anaana is gone.” In my memory it’s as if she is swaying, but
not rhythmically, rather as if she might fall over.