For a long time, CanLit was sold to me as the old guard - you know, Atwood, Munro, Richler, etc - and so I thought that I didn’t like nor need to be invested in it. The few Canadian authors introduced to me as “CanLit” that I did love - Ondaatje, Findlay - seemed like they must be outliers. CanLit didn’t feel like something to find a future in, even as a Canadian who aspired to write and loved nothing more than reading; it didn’t even feel like a present. It felt like a dusty, oppressive old past with nothing for me in it.
It wasn’t until I started studying CanLit, almost wholly as a fluke, in my undergrad that I started to realize that maybe this was on purpose. Maybe certain voices were rising to the top over and over again for reasons other than them being the only thing CanLit had to offer. It definitely became very clear that I had been missing a whole rich heterogeneity of brilliant writers from this weird often horrible thing we call Canada. And then, in my senior year, CanLit split wide open, and all of the rotten stuff at the core of it was suddenly visible on the surface.
It’s been a strange, hard, infuriating, and even scary couple of years to have any sort of investment in Canadian literature, especially if you are someone who tries very hard to a decent person. (I use decent here purposely, as “not a racist or a sexist or a homophobe or a rape apologist” is not... really all that much to ask, I don’t think.) Between UBC Accountable and its fallout, the myriad of issues related to indigenous voices and colonialism that crystallized around the Joseph Boyden scandal, and a whole lot of “leading lights” in Canadian literature going out of their way to reinforce old status quos, attack (primarily) young writers (often of colour) and, quite frankly, show their asses, it’s been - well, it’s been a lot.
This book was born out of what a lot of people have taken to calling, after Alicia Elliott, the “dumpster fire” of CanLit. And it embraces that imagery. The essays and poems in this collection do an excellent job of contextualizing all of what has gone down in the last couple of years, as well as the long-simmering issues that lead to these messes in the first place. It’s an angry book, as it well should be. But it’s also, incredibly, wonderfully, a very hopeful book. There are no platitudes here. No calls to fix something that wasn’t actually broken - it was doing exactly the colonial, patriarchal job it was built to do. Instead, playing on the title’s multiple meanings (deny, garbage, rebuild), there are attempts at visioning something wholly new, something built for and by the people so long excluded and hurt by the structures of CanLit.
(There are also some really great callouts of Margaret Atwood.)
On a personal note: I’d been saving this to read for a few months until I felt like I needed something that would kick me in the ass and refuel the fire in my belly. I’m so glad I read it now, in the grey turn between January and February, as I try to figure out what my next step will be, once I finish this MA in Literature.