This summer, Husband and took a jaunty road trip over to Vancouver Island and reveled in the warm vibe of hippies with rose-coloured colonial glasses. Victoria, especially, with its parliament buildings, horse-drawn carriages, and organic foods evokes a weird blend of the sunny side of several bygone eras.
Twice a graduate of UVIC, to Husband, a trip to Victoria always feels like coming home. Even though I’ve only ever visited there myself, I can’t deny it feels the same for me. I think I just identify deeply with that uncomfortable colonial British legacy jarring against a counter-culture optimism. There’s a layer of me painted all over that city.
The last time we were in Victoria was shortly after our wedding for Husband’s thirtieth birthday. Like that visit, this time we went back to UVIC, for Husband to retread the old stomping grounds. What is it with feeling the need to go back to places where we spent such crucial parts of our lives? If they’ve changed, we feel somehow betrayed; but if they’re exactly the same, we’re starkly reminded of how much we’ve changed.
But we went regardless and it was fine. We learned there’s perhaps nothing so steadfast as university campus culture. It’s locked forever in a perpetual 1993.
As a nice contrast to the easy-going university sprawl, we also went to the Royal BC Museum. Now, both of us are definitely museum people… and both of us have been here before. Many times. But it’s been long enough that everything is cast in a slightly different hue. That colonial legacy is less quaint and a bit more… what’s the word…? Enraging.
Husband pointed out that several of the plaques explaining an artifact were prefaced with some sort of phrase that amounts to “We have no idea what this is but…” and then a second phrase that sounds like it was completed by a first-year anthropology student’s Mad Lib. “… it was probably used for some sort of ritual,” is the most common.
For the rest of the trip, I started turning this over in my head. It felt like there was something there… something I could do to make fun of that fact without being disrespectful to the people whose culture these assumptions were made about.
So, like any someone badly in need of an outlet who is inherently dissatisfied with Twitter, I decided to make a zine. I reached out to my cousin, Amy Rajala, who is a pretty talented photographer (with a new roll of black and white film to burn). She photographed some pretty amazing objects around her house and I’m putting text to them.
I’m excited to see where this goes!