NALL Working Paper #
Taking down the walls:
Communities and educational research
in Canada’s 21st Century*
The Dr. Reginald B. Moase Invitational Address
delivered to the
19th Annual Graduate Student Conference
Faculty of Education
St. Catharines, Ontario
September 23, 2000
Celia Haig-Brown, Ph.D.
Faculty of Education
* I am grateful in ways beyond words to my research partner, Kaaren
Dannenmann, who discussed many nuances of this paper with me as she reviewed it
and worked with me to reword and revise it.
Aaniin and miikwech for inviting me here to speak with you today. These
are two of the words I have learned from the Anishinaape teachers and students
with whom I have had the privilege of working during the last four years since I
have come to live in this territory. I want to begin by acknowledging that
we are meeting today on land which has been used and occupied by aboriginal
peoples since time immemorial, long before any European explorer or missionary
laid the ground work for colonization, a legacy we have inherited and a context
in which we continue to work. This is the traditional territory of the
Anishinaape, more recently joined by the Six Nations. It is a land which
was and is integral to the lives of many Aboriginal peoples in their relations
with the riches it continues to give. Although less frequently acknowledged in
this way, this same land has become integral to the lives of many
non-Aboriginal people in their relations with these riches.
I want also to acknowledge the memory of Dr. Reginald B. Moase whose life’s
work is honoured by this annual invited lecture. It is a privilege for me
to have been invited to speak to the inheritors of his community of learners and
I am very conscious of the fact that I am speaking today to students who are
beginning and continuing their graduate work and to faculty -- and some students
-- with many years of experience in community research. I will try be all
things to all of you and hope that this effort does not reduce me to saying not
much of anything at all. I want to lay out some thoughts with which I am
struggling and an opportunity for you to take them up with me here and in the
places where you will begin or continue your research. I acknowledge that
underlying all that I say is an overwhelming concern about the responsibility
that comes with the privilege we have in working within the university.
The time to think through issues and to engage in scholarly labour is something
that only a small percentage of Canadians ever experience. I want first to
tell you a story and then make problematic some notions of community and walls.
THE CONTEXT OF THE STORY1
Let me begin a challenge to the constraints of the walls of academe and
to what counts as university knowledge through reference to a story. This
is a story which I heard most recently from two of my Anishinaape teachers, Alan
Corbiere of M’chigiing (who was co-incidentally a masters student whose work I
supervised) and Kaaren Dannenmann of Namekosipiink, my research partner in a
SSHRC funded project we call A Pedagogy of the Land.2 It is a
story that in itself and its presentation here strives to take down an
epistemological wall and which originates in a place that was here long
before the material walls of this building were constructed.
I tell this story to you as a white woman who is becoming familiar with some
of the stories and traditions of the land on which and with which we live.
My intent is not to appropriate aboriginal knowledge but to share with you some
things I have learned. My telling may be dangerous and harmful if you do
not appreciate that this is an Anishinaape story which loses much in
translation. It loses the nuances that the original language brings to it as it
is moved to English and as it is presented from my limited understanding
and ability to pass it on. I tell you the story in English because it is
all I know and in this context, it is all that we have to work with. Most
important this is a story to be spoken: this is how it became real to me. In the
written version of this talk, it will appear in my text as space, as an absence,
in respect for its power and for orality.3 I refer the
reader to two textual versions written or told by elders.4 This
is a story of a time before there was land and the exhaustion of the animals who
had all been swimming for a long time. It is the story of the Turtle’s
offer, Beaver’s and Otter’s failures, and Muskrat’s life sacrifice.
Although he drowned in his efforts, in his tiny hands, Muskrat clasped the dirt
which became the land with which we live today.
This moment has the possibility to be a place where one instance of community
based research is honoured within the university. This story does not
start at the beginning because that’s not how it was told to me. In some
versions, it is a story of Turtle Island which I am sure many of you know is one
of the names given to this place where we now live. Although many from European
background have made this mistake, this story is not a children’s story.
It is a story for all of us to hear and make sense of in our own way and in our
The Story of Muskrat’s Sacrifice
Traditionally (or should I say conventionally) a story such as this one is
told so that you can take it into your own context — cultural, community or
personal — and make sense of it in ways that work for you. In the
context of this scholarly talk, I am going to explain some of why I have used it
today to exemplify my thoughts on community based research. It serves both as an
exemplar of the kinds of knowledge we rarely take seriously in academe and, in
one interpretation, as a direction to those who take community as seriously as
Muskrat did. And it asks, as we are doing in the research project Pedagogy of
the Land, how does a university make sense of that which cannot be written. In
its absence from the written text for this talk, it insists on respecting a form
of knowledge which exists outside of and exceeds writing.
TAKING DOWN THE WALLS
Why “taking down the walls” you might ask? Which walls? If we
take community seriously in our conduct of educational research, we will
consider taking down epistemological walls as well as the “real” ones which
confine the processes and products of academic labour to artificially isolated
settings. Epistemologically, the question of walls relates to the kinds of
knowledge we compete over and privilege in the university. Most often these are
the disciplinary knowledges we all take for granted and with which we, in the
relatively fledgling field of educational research, often strive to align
ourselves -- philosophy, history, physics -- the sciences generally.
Of course, what I am proposing is not a new idea: interdisciplinarity,
post-structuralism, postmodernism are all manifestations of a lack of
satisfaction with the organization of knowledge into discrete categories which
inhibit alternative ways of thinking about the world. Even the
desire to shift what counts as knowledge within these categories remains
contested territory. Witness a recent series in the Globe and Mail on The
Death of History: actually a representation of the on-going struggle between
those who see history as a single unifying story of battles and bravery and
those who strive to make sense of the stories of the crowds of other people who
make up our country. On September 21, 2000, in an article entitled “The great
war for our past”, the author bemoans the shift in high school curricula from
so-called traditional history to social history. Summarizing the
concerns of a conservative historian, a reporter writes:
Instead of learning about the soaring rhetoric, the passionate beliefs and the
daring battles fought by our ancestors, Canadian students were being subjected
to tedious sermons about parish politics, labour organizers and frustrated
women who couldn’t get into law school. (p. R1)
He goes on to say, “40% percent [of Grade 11 or 12 students studying history
in Saskatchewan] have what conservatives would call the basic shared historical
information necessary to being Canadian citizens. And the history they do
study stresses the native peoples and the immigrant groups rather than the
political and military leaders.” Never mind that Canada is made up only
of native peoples and immigrants: clearly there is a wall being violated in this
reporter’s view. The next day in an oped piece entitled “The death of
history is bunk”, Patrick Watson says delicately, “ The assumption that
naming events and memorizing dates make for good citizenship and a wise life.
Garbage!” Clearly the battle over what counts as disciplinary knowledge
continues. And the debates do not stop there: within and around
disciplinary walls are the walls of theory.
If one orientation to knowledge -- or theory -- still predominates within
academe, it is positivism. This approach is powerful and serves us well in many
forms of research. However, as with any theory which goes unquestionned too
long, it has gained an imperial presence particularly for those seeking funding
for medical and scientific research. The approach, designed to discover or
create universal laws of predictability, is loosely based in the format for high
school science experiments using what has been called “the scientific method
” which incidentally has little to do with the way that scientists actually
conduct their most creative work. It consists of making a hypothesis, gathering
the materials and equipment to be used, performing some action with those
materials and equipment, making observations about what happens and then drawing
conclusions about whether the hypothesis is true or false. In the
method’s most simple form, unrelated activity, no matter how exciting,
is to be ignored. Such distractions from the predetermined agenda of
the research are relegated to being sources of error. One of the main purposes
of such work is to isolate the question from its context and focus on the
specific aspect of the subject being investigated.
In recent curriculum developments in education, the focus on performance
indicators and predictable learning outcomes exemplifies this approach to
decontextualizing knowledge. Socio-historical context and children’s
life experiences are most often seen to be irrelevant to the question asked.
Consider the standardised tests now being administered to children and soon
perhaps to teachers. If a teacher applies a particular action using the
curriculum equipment supplied, the results can be weighed and measured in the
form of numbers of correct responses, and we can know if the desired learning
has taken place. As a corollary we can decide if the teacher is doing her
job properly. If students are not attaining high scores, we can conclude
that the teacher is not working appropriately with the “equipment” supplied.
We are not to be distracted by superfluous contextual details such as hunger,
poverty, or family disruption or by unpredictable outcomes: these are irrelevant
to our work.
Within universities, we create other knowledge walls in our pursuit of
educational research: some of us work in anti-racist education or curriculum or
leadership or adult education. We create literatures and discourses which
“fit” into the rooms we make. While these walls sometimes serve important
functions in creating legitimacy for previously excluded knowledges or even
maintaining the legitimacy of more established forms, when they are
unquestioningly defended, they become dangerous to our abilities as scholars to
imagine other ways and to take seriously what this particular theory cannot say.
At times we move to an extreme of working to exclude from the discussion those
who are not in “our field”and whose work might disrupt ours. We compete with
them for research dollars and students’ souls and are reluctant to speak with
them wanting to avoid challenges to our existing commitments. It seems to me5,
like the animals in the story, within our enclosed community, we forget to
honour difference: we know who the experts are and we look to those who accept
that role: to Beaver and Otter for our direction. We rarely take the time
or are quiet enough to recognize, hear, or take seriously the voice of Muskrat.
And what is community in the context of this discussion? The word
conjures up notions of co-operation and sameness. Moving beyond definitions such
as those from the OED where community includes “common character,
quality in common; commonness, agreement, identity” and “a body of people
organized into a political, municipal or social unity, ” recent theorising
complicates the notion. Eleanor Godway and Geraldine Finn claim that
community is catechresis, calling on Gayatri Spivak’s definition whereby
“catechresis6 means that there is no literal referent for a
particular word; that its definition comes apart, as it were, as soon as we
begin to articulate it” (2). Iris Marion Young makes explicit the
oppressiveness that communities can create:
Community is an understandable dream, expressing a desire for selves that are
transparent to one another, relationships of mutual identification, social
closeness, and comfort. The dream is understandable, but politically
problematic because those that are motivated by it will tend to suppress
differences among themselves or implicitly to exclude from their political
groups, persons with whom they do not identify (1990: 300).
In looking historically at the effects of community building, Godway and Finn
question the possibility of even trying to construct such a place:
It is up to us to make community: to find it, build it, or encourage it to
grow in our fragmented world. But can we? Or should we even try, when in spite
of good intentions, the effects of community are often more divisive, more
exclusive, and more oppressive, than the absence of community it originally
intended to remedy or remove?(1994:1).
Despite such warnings or perhaps because of them, I am committed to trying.
If we keep in mind the dangers of past efforts, perhaps we can do a better
job of creating spaces which allow difference to be a constant, unpredictable
part of who we are together. Striving to work respectfully with difference
may broaden our work in ways that serve to enrich what I am coming to see as the
limitations of centralized theorizing whether it is within disciplinary walls or
university walls . Confining ourselves to particular and familiar theoretical or
material contexts leads to impoverished and/or obscure theory based too often in
work we do primarily with and for people just like us. Outside the
university, taking community seriously addresses the other kinds of walls, the
ones which we cannot wish away, the borders of our physical plant: it may
mean getting out of our offices and libraries and into the schools and into the
streets. Sometimes, it even means getting in a boat or onto a snowmobile.
Ultimately, it means learning to listen just when we thought our positions in
academe, whether as graduate students or faculty, gave us the credibility to
speak and be listened to.
It also means constantly questioning the assumptions - the theories -- on
which we are basing our work, taking seriously what Spivak calls a developed
theory of ideology. This theory of ideology allows us to keep always in
mind the limitations of the theories which guide us and the need to continuously
question their relevance as time moves and spaces shift. Spivak quoting
Marcherey writes: “...what the work cannot say is important, because there the
elaboration of the utterance is carried out, in a sort of journey to silence.”
(1988: p.286). In what ways do the theories with which we are working
blind us to knowledge and silence us in the face of the unspeakable?
Let me be clear this kind of critical approach to community work is not for
everyone. It is not for the faint-hearted. Working outside of one’s
institutional or against one’s disciplinary setting in good ways is
painstaking work which encompasses promise and unpredictable twists. Without a
sincere openness, love and respect for the knowledges and the people with whom
one is working, research outside the walls of a theory or of an ivory tower may
merely perpetuate inequity and reinforce in study participants and readers the
limited view of the academic as the lonely and out of touch expert on things
that matter to few.
WORKING TO TAKE DOWN WALLS: WHAT DOES IT REALLY LOOK LIKE?
Let me talk with you about an example of research I am currently conducting
which is an attempt to take seriously the ideas about which I have been
speaking. This is not to claim that I am succeeding in taking down walls,
but it is to show you what trying can look like. As I have mentioned I am
working with Kaaren Dannenmann, an Anishinaape trapper and teacher in a
community in Northern Ontario. Although the intial plan for a programme
for indigenous harvesters which Kaaren brought to York in the Fall of 1996,
called for the students to come to campus, we re-designed the courses so that
they were offered on the traditional land where Kaaren’s ancestors lived.
Although the land is not part of a reserve, it has been continuously occupied by
members of her mother’s family for countless generations. We have
come to call our work together A Pedagogy of the Land. This project
requires that we take seriously knowledge which cannot be written into a
restrictive curriculum document (no matter what the wishes of the College of
Teachers) and, for me as researcher, the construction of text and theory
around strategic silences and necessary absence. It also requires that we take
seriously the significance of particular land to the structuring of the
curriculum and the research related to it.
The Pedagogy of the Land is a pilot project which involves traditional
indigenous knowledge keepers who have some fluency in their language and whose
knowledge arises from traditional Anishinaape world view in a programme that
allows them to build on one another’s knowledge and to prepare to pass it on
to others who know less than they do. These other people may be
children, other aboriginal people who have less knowledge and ultimately, in a
move to building economic self-sufficiency, very carefully selected
eco-tourists. The programme takes place on an isolated island in the
middle of a large northern lake and is based in a curriculum of living
together on this land over a period of two weeks. Its intent is to provide
opportunity for the students — who are all also teachers for each other
— to interact with one another using their everyday knowledge and
to engage in a process of literally re-membering knowledges -- in the
sense of piecing them back together -- that have been part of the lives of
Anishinaape people since time began. Those designated specifically as
teachers are Kaaren as the course director and one other person who is qualified
to teach in schools in Ontario. As the teacher/student with
students/teachers (Freire, 1977: 67) work and live together, they build on one
another’s remembrances and expertise, with memory stimulating memory in
a dialectical process. The ultimate goal is not to get back to the mythical old
days but to re-create indigenous knowledge in a contemporary context.
At times during the course, the students join together in sharing circles,
what Graveline calls circle work (1998), to talk about the pedagogical
implications of what they have been doing, to plan for the next steps of the
course and to share thoughts and feelings about their work to that time.
It is important to keep in mind that, for the last two or three centuries,
the knowledge with which they are working has been systematically devalued by
Eurocentric colonisers driven by a fervent commitment either to Christianity or
to a market economy based in the industrial revolution or both. In the
most intense attacks, the knowledge has been and, in some contexts continues to
be, condemned as the devil’s work. Thinking through these negative
images -- even for those deeply committed to Anishinaape world view -- is heart
rending and difficult work. There are no non-aboriginal people present for
the courses. While I have been involved in the planning and conduct
interviews with the people who have attended the program, I am not there for the
courses themselves. In the second one offered this summer, Lori Moses who is a
member of the Lenape nation and a doctoral student in English at York attended
as a research assistant.
The program is designed so that over the period of a year, students attend
two summer courses with an intervening teaching experience during the fall,
winter and/or spring. The curriculum which must have endless flexibility
is based on what people do as they live together in a place. So much for
minute by minute lesson plans and predetermined performance indicators: one does
not set a net if the wind is blowing too hard. As participants work
through their days in traditional activities of gathering plants for
foods and medicines, fishing and hunting, and building structures such as a
sweat lodge, they incorporate sacred knowledge into their every action.
While discussion of setting a net might be recorded in the research, the
location of a medicinal plant or the conduct of a sacred ceremony is not grist
for the research mill.
What the research to this time has focused on is documenting the process of
planning and offering the courses -- with interviews forming the substance of
the work. Again these interviews are carefully conducted and their use monitored
by the research partners so that there is no danger of compromising the sacred
traditional knowledge which is not to be documented in any way as part of this
project. All research reports have been reviewed by the people involved --
in particular the partners and the teacher of the course in relation to her
involvement and her evaluation of the project to date.
In what sense does the project address walls? Most obviously, it takes the
university, in the body of a faculty member, out of the grey walls of the Keele
campus. I recall one of my first trips to the island, sitting on the back
of Kaaren’s snowmobile thinking, “Hmm, Faculty of Education, I bet you never
expected to find yourself here.” Beyond the issue of material walls, this
project begins from the premise that traditional knowledge has most often been
pushed outside the epistemological walls of academe by being given inequitable
status and prestige. This epistemic violence and consequent exclusion are real
barriers to theory-building. A theory of ideology which Spivak calls for
indicates that much current theorizing in its very foundations cannot break
silence to address indigenous knowledges respectfully and thoughtfully —
especially those which cannot be written or which suffer in translation. A
now developed historic distrust for such theorizing also keeps aboriginal
scholars very cautious in their connections with those institutions which have
caused such turmoil and have treated them with such disrespect.
Incorporating such knowledges first into certification programs and then into
school curricula is for the most part beyond the capacity of our current
scholarship especially as it translates into policy and action. Examples
of epistemological adaptation which can encompass the strength of indigenous
knowledges are few and far between and certainly beyond the reach of most
non-aboriginal scholars at this time. We have too much still to learn
beyond the walls. One of the goals of the work Kaaren and I are doing is
to use the formal institution to strategize around the re-introduction of
traditional/wholistic teaching/learning systems of the Anishinaape thus
recognizing students’ knowledge and providing needed credentials. While the
ultimate goal may be a time when the university will no longer be needed and
First Nations control will be a reality, for the time being, this institutional
support is useful. Keeping in mind that formal education in the past has
been part of the federal government’s assimilation, “civilization” and
genocide policies used against Aboriginal people, our aim is not to provide a
socialization into dominant culture. One of my goals for the program is to
redress the injustices dealt traditional knowers historically and currently in
Canadian educational institutions through some form of reconciliation and
recognisance and to re-create relationships between academics and traditional
knowledge keepers. Perhaps there will come a time when such work will also
allow some silences in current theorizing to be addressed.
ISSUES OF DISCOURSE
Ultimately our struggles have to do with world view and language.
Through careful listening, we become privy to new forms of discourse. Here, I
concur with Loomba that discourse is:
...a whole field or domain within which language is used in particular ways.
This domain is rooted... in human practices, institutions and actions (1998:
Serious discourse analysis never separates language from the context in which it
is used. What happens on the island in the north is a use of language
beyond the current understandings of most conventional theory. It is a
discourse which has been inaccessible first to the English language and
which, for the most part, suffers a lack of consideration in the
colonizing theories which guide most of our work. Aboriginal scholars both
within and outside the walls are speaking to us, non-aboriginal scholars,
in ways that can shift understandings and enrich all of our lives. What
does this look like? How can we hear it? How can we learn to speak it?
Joy Harjo and Gloria Bird write of re-inventing the enemy’s language.
Stimulated by the work of Maori scholar, Linda Tuhiwai Smith, I create courses
which attempt to address what (de)colonizing our minds and our theory might look
like. And I try to listen carefully to those voices who have not been
welcomed and watch for those theories which are still not welcoming. To
you, I suggest consideration of many forms of excluded knowledge from
communities beyond the walls. My graduate students show me the way: what
does it mean to take seriously the words of ten year old boys with learning
disabilities asks Amy Popowich; of women of Chinese ancestry negotiating a
Canadian graduate school asks Cheryle Tai; of Aboriginal children with autism
and the white professionals working with them asks Mona Jones; of Sri Lankan
graduate students in government sponsored graduate program, asks Jordan
Haberman and the list goes on. What happens to university knowledge if we
really listen and open our thoughts and our theories to the words of people not
like us— whoever we are? Language as discourse does mediate our reality.
It constructs our ways of talking about and ultimately constructing our worlds.
As David Halperin has written:
Constructions are very real. People live by them, after all — and now
increasingly, they die from them. You can’t get more real than that (1995:
The words that teach me most these days come from that island in the north:
sometimes I go there to hear them, sometimes they come to me in interviews or on
e-mail. They form part of a discourse which arises form the land and is
constructed by the people who have lived there since time immemorial. In
conjunction with current theorising on decolonization, they provoke a way of
thinking that challenges existing text and calls for me to find ways to work the
two worlds, the two discourses, into respectful relation to one another.
I want to end where we began -- complete the circle for today -- by coming
back to what Muskrat can teach us. How is that story -- that form of
discourse -- relevant to our work as community researchers? I mentioned to
you that my friend and research partner Kaaren is a trapper, didn’t I?
She tells me that when she traps Muskrat, the first thing she does, with
meticulous care, is to cut off his/her hands and place them back in the water to
show as she says, “that we remember the sacrifice and are grateful for and
respectful of that gift.” (E-mail communication, September 22, 2000). Every
part of Muskrat is used and, finally the bones are returned to the waters where
This understanding can guide us in taking down the walls and moving into
community research. Even as we researchers take from the people with whom
we do our work, we can pause long enough to remember what the people have given
us, find ways to show our gratitude and respect for what they have given us.
One of these ways is to challenge our own theories and keep our minds open to
the possibility presented by people too long outside the walls.
1. The teachings of Aboriginal peoples have been referred to as legends
or myths while the teachings of European peoples are referred to as science.
According to Kaaren, there is on-going discussion over the use of the term
“Story” in relation to Aboriginal teachings. Some prefer to use the word
“Teaching” in order to emphasize the sacredness of the interconnectedness
and interrelations of all creation. Others, wanting to reclaim the power
of the notion of story telling, see Anishinaape story as a form equivalent to
other conventions such as the writing of a scientific report.
2. This project is part of New Approaches to Lifelong Learning, a large SSHRC
network grant in adult education, headed by Dr. David Livingston of OISE/UT.
3. Writing as a “tool of forgetting”
Lori Moses, the research assistant for the Pedagogy of the Land project
described later in the paper, writes the following:
Learning by example, Kaaren Dannenmann said during the summer course, is an
important aspect of traditional knowledge. She cited Daniel Quinn’s
discussion in My Ishmael of writing as a tool of forgetting. I myself
experienced the perils of writing in a context of practical learning. To
give one example: on the day we collected plant specimens by canoe, I wrote
the names as we gathered them one by one. But the more I recorded the
less attention I could pay to actual identification of the plants in their own
habitat. Learning was constantly “postponed” to a time and place
separate from the context.
4. In Basil Johnston’s book Ojibway Heritage (1976:14), you can read one
version of the story written from the perspective of an Anishinaape elder.
Chief Thomas Fiddler, another elder, from Big Sandy Lake has a version of the
story captured (and I use the word deliberately) in a collection called Legends
from the Forest (Stevens 1985: 22).
5. Arlen Dumas (Cree) gave a talk entitled “‘It seems to me’: respect
between Aboriginal People and the rest of Canada” at the recent Aboriginal
Studies 2000 Symposium held at Queen’s University. Kaaren pointed out
that this qualifier was important to my claim.
6. Kaaren and I discussed the use of the word catechresis and in explaining
to her why I like the word, I realised that it is its refusal of “thingness”
or reification of that which is in motion that appeals to me. Catechresis,
even as it is a noun, works to address the transience of notions such as
community. As soon as we name it and define it -- or even try to do so --
it becomes somerthing else.
Conlogue, Ray. 2000.
The great war for our past. Globe and Mail. September 21,
2000. P. R1/R7
Dumas, Arlen. 2000. “It seems to
me”: respect between Aboriginal People and the rest of Canada. Paper presented
to Aboriginal Studies 2000 Symposium, Queen’s University. November 3&4,
Fiddler, Chief Thomas. 1985. Legends
from the Forest. Edited by James Stevens. Thunder Bay(?): Penumbra Press.
Freire, Paulo. 1970. Pedagogy
of the Oppressed. New York: Continuum.
Godway, Eleanor and Geraldine Finn.
1994. Community: Catechresis: Community. Introduction to Who is This ‘We’?
Absence of Community. Montreal: Black Rose Books. pps. 1-9.
Halperin, David. 1995. Saint=Foucault:
Towards a Gay Hagiography. New York: Oxford University Press.
Harjo, Joy and Gloria Bird, eds.
1997. Reinventing the Enemy’s Language: Contemporary Native Women’s
Writings of North America. New York: W.W. Norton and Company.
Johnston, Basil. 1976. Ojibway
Heritage. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart.
Loomba, Ania. 1998. Colonialism/Postcolonialism.
Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. 1999. Decolonizing
Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. London: Zed Books.
Spivak, Gayatri. 1988. Can the
Subaltern Speak? In Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg, eds. Marxism and the
Interpretation of Culture. Chicago: University of Illinois Press. pps.
Watson, Patrick . 2000. The death
of history is bunk. Globe & Mail. September 22, 2000. P. A17.
Young, Iris Marion. 1990. The Ideal
of Community and the Politics of Difference. In Linda Nicholson, ed. Feminism/Postmodernism.
New York: Routledge. pps.300-323.