Borders
bring to mind such physical things. They
divide land, they keep things out, and they keep things in. I never realized that we have borders that
are less tangible too. In King’s Borders, the mother draws a line between
herself and Canada and America by
declaring herself Blackfoot. Well maybe
I want to be Blackfoot, too. Sorry, can’t
do it. It’s like Lester says about the Temple in Salt
Lake City—you need a pass to get in. The only difference between the building of
the Temple and the Temple of man is that one of them is accessible;
the other is closed at birth.
Borderlands caused me to rethink Borders almost as soon as I started
reading. While Borders was all about identifying with one singular
race/people/place, Borderlands
presents the issue that people face when they do not have a singular home. What if you cannot declare yourself
Blackfoot? What if you have to choose to
be Irish because you have red hair and freckles or to be German because there’s
technically about 60% of Frankfurt in your veins?
How technical can you be about who you
are before you’ve become absurd? The
borderlands are the no-man’s-lands between and within us. Except they are not really “no” man’s lands—they
are one man’s lands (if you say it fast enough, it sounds like woman’s lands…just
saying).
I’m
starting to sense a pattern, here. In Who’s Irish?, the question of inside and
outside and sides is presented in little Sophie Shea, the Chinese-Irish nudist.
Her outside is beautiful Chinese, but
her inside is wild Irish. How do our
heritages factor into our selves? Can a
child that young already have the weight of two cultures around her shoulders? Is it possible that we can be everything and
nothing of these cultures at once?
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