theorizing bodies

I’ve written, in the past, about the importance of taste and the palate as markers not only of identity, but also as tools for politics, histories, and more. Now, in the past two weeks, I’ve read a few articles that actively examine the possibilities of other senses – sound and movement – as ways of understanding and making meaning of the past. In the first, Michael Schmidt assesses the relevance of sound and sound archives to historical research. In the second, Corinna da Fonseca-Wollheim writes about attending a baroque dance workshop.

Culinary historians taste the past, bringing to life the textures, smells and flavours of common historical meals. In so doing, they bring to the present flavours that had been lost to us. But these textures, smells and flavours are not merely curious experiments; rather, they infuse our reading of other documents, from intimate letters to royal proclamations.

Dance and fashion historians ask us to consider the ways that historical bodies moved through space: What did it mean to wear 25 pounds of clothing? How does one sit with a bustle skirt? How does one play violin with a ruffled collar? What are the physical relationships between individuals when a dress is four feet wide? How does candlelight reflect and play with intricate lace? How do bodies move through a detailed Sarabande? And how does any and all of this shape things like posture, breathing, comportment? Exploring these questions opens new windows into historical experience, identity, and subjectivity.

Specialists in musical performance practice, meanwhile, explore sound, rhythm, texture and harmony. In their hands, physical space becomes meaningful not only as a resonating chamber, but also as a space that unites performer with audience. Performance practice asks us to consider not only the performer, but also the listener, and the space between the two. Indeed, it critically interrogates the space between “text” and “act” (to follow the terminology put forward by Richard Taruskin). Historically-informed performers (HIP, ironically), seek to explore the myriad ways of bringing the textual remnants of history into a performative present. Indeed, HIP-sters are never solely concerned with notes, markings, and text. Rather, their performances emerge in spaces and with audiences: How long will a note resonate? What is the physical relationship between the performer and the audience? How does an ornament speak in different physical spaces? What role does the instrument itself play in the realization of the composer’s musical vision? What, indeed, are the relationships between the performer, the composer and the audience?

In all of these cases, interest lies not in the text, but in the embodiment of the text; that is, in bringing the text to life both through and with the body. As scholars working with embodiment have argued, embodied knowledges offer conceptually different ways of approaching research and produce very different results. But these results are just as vital as any that might emerge from more conventional conceptual lenses.

I’m headed off to the annual meeting of the Canadian Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies in October. On the agenda: minuets, musical performance and the university classroom. When was the last time you actively engaged your body – or those of your students – in the university classroom? What did your body tell you, not only about the material you were exploring, but also about embodied knowledge? What did it tell you about yourself?

Corinna da Fonnesca-Wollheim observes that:

According to Ms. Turocy, many dance manuals of the period emphasize the primary importance of the figures the dancers draw in space as they move through a work, with one dance master recommending that performers first memorize a piece by walking this blueprint and only then adding the steps, jumps and ornaments. In the dance notation of the time, these outlines have all the symmetry and grace of a manicured French garden. Perhaps in music, too, the harmonic progression holds its own geometric logic that needs to be honored before we consider the virtuosic embellishments above it?

By the end of the workshop, my feet were no closer to mastering the Sarabande than before. But my ears had learned to see Baroque music in a new way.

Come, dance with me.

Pop over to the Wonders and Marvels blog for a short introduction to the art of faking virginity in early modern Europe.

Here’s what Elizabeth Goldsmith writes:

On what basis, I thought, do we continue to assume that Marie remained a virgin until her wedding night? Was it possible that young women of her time knew how to convincingly fake it? A little more research led me to Ambroise Paré, whose 1573 treatise on “monsters and marvels” includes the description of popular techniques, known since the time of Galen, for creating false evidence of virginity by inserting a fish bladder filled with blood into the vagina , so that the sheets on the wedding bed would be stained with the necessary proof. Paré further argues that the very existence of the hymen in the female anatomy is at best questionable, and possibly simply a myth.

Seems simpler than today’s vaginal rejuvenation surgeries (which, when done in micro-form post-childbirth, were just referred to as the “husband stitch”).

Simpler still would be just doing away with the virginity crap altogether.

Who needs fish bladders or hymens, anyway?

This summer, I’ve invited my graduate students to submit blog posts to Luckily, they’ve almost all expressed an interest. They’re a highly diverse bunch and I’m really looking forward to reading and posting their thoughts.

The second of these comes from Margot Maddison-MacFadyen, a doctoral candidiate in the Interdisciplinary PhD program here at MUN. Margot, who has vicariously wandered through this blog before, is working on The History of Mary Prince, a slave narrative published in 1831. Margot is working with supervisors spread around the university: Elizabeth Yeoman (Education), Neil Kennedy (History), Rob Finley (English) and me (Gender Studies). You can find out more about Margot, her work, and her publications, here.

Like the Moon Illuminating Shadows at Night: The
Memory of Slavery in the Public Spaces of Bermuda and Prince Edward Island
by Margot Maddison-MacFadyen

At length the vendue master, who was to offer us for sale like sheep or cattle, arrived, and asked my mother which was the eldest. She said nothing, but pointed to me. He took me by the hand, and led me out to the middle of the street, and, turning me slowly round, exposed me to the view of those who attended the vendue. I was soon surrounded by strange men, who examined and handled me in the same manner that a butcher would a calf or a lamb he was about to purchase, and who talked about my shape and size in like words–as if I could no more understand their meaning than the dumb beasts. I was then put up for sale. The bidding commenced at a few pounds, and gradually rose to fifty-seven, when I was known to the highest bidder; and the people who stood by said I had fetched a great sum for so young a slave.

(Mary Prince 1831)

I’m planning a research trip to Bermuda this fall, where the memorialization of my research subject, Mary Prince, is hotly contested by the descendants of the victims of the Atlantic slave trade, the enslaved, and the descendants of the perpetrators of the trade, the slave-owners and the slave-merchants.

In short, it looks like I’m headed for a dustup.

Coming from Prince Edward Island (PEI), Canada’s tiny island province, purportedly the ‘gentle’ island where lobster suppers and Anne of Green Gables form identity, you might wonder how I’ll fare, and how I’ll enter the fray.

Prince, born in Bermuda in 1788, is the first known freed black West Indian woman to author a slave narrative. She is the storyteller of The History of Mary Prince, A West Indian Slave, Related by Herself, which was compiled and edited by an abolitionist team in 1829-30, and published in 1831.

She had five successive Bermudian slave-owners, and she lived in three West Indian colonies–Bermuda, Grand Turk Island, and Antigua–before self-emancipation in London, in 1828. She walked out of her last slave-owner’s London residence and was a free woman, at last.

I’ve already been on research trips to Grand Turk Island and Antigua where I found buildings associated with her life in those islands still standing. I also found her listed in the Slave Registers of Former British Overseas Territories for Antigua. These findings are written up in my 2012 article, “Mary Prince, Grand Turk, and Antigua,” that is published in Slavery & Abolition: A Journal of Slave and Post-Slave Studies.

In June, 2012, Bermuda’s first black local government, the Progressive Labor Party (PLP), designated Prince a Bermudian National Hero. Her new status as hero, long overdue in my mind, unleashed a wave of debate, one of many in Bermuda’s current convulsion of racially-charged political tension. This is exemplified in the following excerpt from the Bermuda Royal Gazette and the comments that follow.

The article, written by Owain Johnston-Barnes, appeared in the Gazette in the early morning of June 19, 2012. Bermudian Premier Paula Cox was quoted on her announcement of Prince’s induction as Bermudian National Hero:

“Mary Prince is the hero of her own story,” Premier Cox said. “She is a woman who stood up for principle. She is a woman who stepped outside her comfort zone, and she is a woman who felt we have to become the change that we want.”

“She did it at considerable risk, cost and peril to herself and here tonight it is certainly a privilege for us all to celebrate and acknowledge and salute the 2012 National Hero.”

Reading the official proclamation, she said: “Her words live on in the pages of her autobiography, a first hand description of slavery whose publication in the UK in 1831, while slavery was still legal in Bermuda and the Caribbean, contributed to its abolition in Bermuda and the Caribbean.”

On the heels of this Gazette story, readers took to their keyboards leaving over 40 comments and an ongoing interchange in the Gazette’s comments (weblog) section to the story. The following exchange, between two participants known only by their pseudonyms – Observer and Only in Bermuda – launched this discussion. Their comments illuminate what became a much lengthier racially-charged debate.

Observer: June 19, 2012 (9:40.)
Nominating a character from a work of fiction as a national hero is an insult to real heroes and to the intelligence of Bermudians.

May as well have nominated the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny!

Only in Bermuda: June 19, 2012 (10:06)
Observer — What work of fiction?

Observer: June 19, 2012 (10:14)
Only in Bermuda — The pamphlet written and published by members of the Anti-Slavery Society in London purporting to be about a former slave called Mary Prince is the whole basis for this ridiculous and politically motivated award.

Curiously, these comments – and others posted in response to the original story – have since been expunged from the comments section. Is this yet another rewriting of history?

Dr. Quito Swan, Associate Professor of African Diaspora History at Howard University, recently published a book chapter (2012) titled, “Smoldering Memories and Burning Questions: The Politics of Remembering Sally Bassett and Slavery in Bermuda.” Although the chapter was written prior to the public controversy surrounding the nomination of Mary Prince, it illuminates the issues underlying the debate.

Sally Bassett, an enslaved sixty-eight year old black woman, was burned at the stake in Bermuda in 1730 for allegedly poisoning the slave-owners of her granddaughter, Beck. In 2009, the PLP, the same black local government that designated Mary Prince a Bermudian National Hero, erected a ten-foot-tall sculpture of a pregnant Bassett in front of the Government’s Cabinet Office. Swan attests that this was to: “memorialize the struggle of blacks against slavery” (p. 71). As in the case of Prince’s 2012 nomination, a racially charged-public debate ensued. (For images of the statue, click here)

The process of publicly memorializing slavery is fraught with contention, particularly in such a small colonial space as is Bermuda, “a society that has historically criminalized black protest but now features a black government committed to the promotion of Bermuda’s ‘national’ heritage” (Swan p. 71). These memorializations of slavery in Bermuda are hotly contested spaces of thought and culture that are reflected in contemporary issues of power, race, racism, and colonialism.

Historically, white Bermudian pamphleteers, journalists, and historiographers promoted slavery in Bermuda as a ‘benign’ institution, insinuating that in Bermuda slavery was less horrific than in other colonies. In this discourse, colonialism is legitimated, racism is downplayed, and black protest is made invisible, insignificant, or criminal. It is this depiction of Bermuda’s past that is currently contested.

Scholars are bringing forward from memory a different past for Bermuda, one that is replete with numerous instances of slave resistance, brutality, and racial division, of which the burning of Sally Bassett and the History of Mary Prince are but two examples. Significantly, these two historical figures selected by the PLP for memorialization are evocative of women and children. A gendered account of slavery recognizes that enslaved women working as domestics and, therefore, living in close proximity to their slave-owners, were subject to torture and sexual abuse.

As a result of this revisionist work, scholars are also bringing forward from memory a different past for Europeans, Africans, and South and North Americans, ones in which racial exploitation is ferocious, terrible, an abomination. In The Smithsonian for example, Henry Wiencek’s October, 2012, article, “Master of Monticello,” paints a new portrait of Thomas Jefferson, Founder of the American Nation, which he “decided from evidence recently unearthed or long suppressed” (p. 40).

A unique finding excavated from archives is that Jefferson clearly knew he was making a 4 percent profit from the births of black enslaved children, and that he fostered this, the silent profit of enslavement. Writing to one of his plantation managers, Jefferson instructs that, “A child raised every 2. years is of more profit then the crop of the best laboring man. in this, as in all other cases, providence has made our duties and our interests coincide perfectly . . . . [With] respect therefore to our women & their children I must pray you to inculcate upon the overseers that it is not their labor, but their increase which is the first consideration” (Wiencek 96).

“In his lifetime,” Wiencek relates, “[Jefferson] had owned more than 600 slaves. At any one time about 100 slaves lived on the mountain, [Monticello]” (p. 42). They had been owned by his family for generations and were all descended from the enslaved matriarch Elizabeth ‘Betty’ Hemings.

Slaves being his largest asset, reclaimed memory shows that Jefferson, purportedly the moral leader of his era, used them as collateral for a 1796 bank loan to rebuild Monticello. Like Mary Prince, who was first on the auction block at about age twelve, Jefferson’s slaves were monetized.

What’s this got to do with Canada, the True North Strong and Free?

It turns out that PEI isn’t all about lobster suppers and that hot-tempered little red-headed orphan with pigtails running around Cavendish shores.

In August, 2012, Lawrence Hill, author of The Book of Negroes, visited PEI to not only give a public talk about his craft and published works, but to be present when the municipality of Stratford held a street-naming ceremony to honour the Shepard family. David Shepard and Kesiah Wilson were two of four slaves owned by Edmund Fanning, a former PEI lieutenant-governor who first came to PEI in 1786. Many islanders descend from this couple, and the road named after them is Shepard Drive.

Shepard Drive, Stratford, PEI. Image copyright Margot Maddison-MacFadyen, 2013.

Shepard Drive, Stratford, PEI. Image copyright Margot Maddison-MacFadyen, 2013.

Fanning left the colony for England in 1813, and it is assumed that he emancipated his slaves that same year. Although slavery was legal in British colonies until Emancipation on August 1, 1834, court cases that ensued in Great Britain in the 1770s (beginning with Lord Mansfield’s 1772 Somersett v. Stueart ruling) – thus forty years prior to Fanning’s departure – implied that slavery was illegal in England, Wales, and North Briton. There was, therefore, no reason for Fanning to take his slaves with him to England.

The first slaves had arrived in the colony in 1730, eighty-three years earlier. Are we to believe that slavery here on PEI was benign, a notion clung to by some Bermudians about their territory to this day? Slavery is never benign. Owning others and monetizing them as if they were farm animals is not. The resistance of the enslaved, whether they be personal acts of defiance or group acts of rebellion, shows that it is not. And the violence perpetrated by slave-owners and slave-merchants to control uncooperative slaves teaches us that it is not.

Sally Bassett was burned at the stake. Mary Prince reports beatings and whip lashings by four members of the five different families that owned her, one a woman. A second woman, though she did not beat Prince herself, incited her husband to do so.

In her 2006 book, The Hanging of Angélique, which is a Canadian slave narrative, Afua Cooper brings forward from memory the enslavement story of Marie-Joseph Angélique, a slave owned by Thérèse de Couagne de Franchville. Marie-Joseph Angélique was hanged in 1734 for the burning of Old Montreal.

In the book’s preface Cooper writes that “[s]lavery has disappeared from Canada’s historical chronicles, erased from its memory and banished to the dungeons of its past. This in a country where the enslavement of Black people was institutionalized and practiced for the better part of three centuries” (p. 7).

Moreover, George Elliot Clarke, in his forward to Cooper’s book, informs us that “slavery was practiced in a solid third of what is now Canada–in Upper Canada (Ontario), New France (Québec), New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, and Nova Scotia” (p. XVI). I would add Newfoundland to this list. In my 2012 article in the Newfoundland Quarterly, “Turks Islands’ Salt, Enslavement, and the Newfoundland-West Indian Trade,” I show that at the very least, Bermudians fishing the Banks in 1788 and using vacant fishing rooms south of St. John’s to land their catches, used slave labour brought with them from Bermuda.

My research in Bermuda, Grand Turk Island, and Antigua lies at the crossroads of public and private histories of enslavement. By examining the unfolding of abolition and contested freedom in these small island communities, I hope to be able to speak to current debates about the legacies of enslavement, not only in the West Indies, but here in Canada, as well.

I’ll do this as a white woman raised in the wealthy community of West Vancouver, with the privilege of an excellent education. My ancestry traces back to early colonists in North America in the 1600s, Ojibwa peltry brokers working in the fur trade, fishers in Newfoundland, and to British Empire Loyalists settling in Upper Canada. Certainly, some must have been slave-owners, if not slave-merchants.

My white ancestors are memorialized in Canada: pioneers, settlers, explorers, war heroes, and politicians. I see their statues everywhere. A 2010 addition on PEI is a statue of Sir John A. MacDonald, the first Prime Minister of Canada, reposing on a Charlottetown bench at the entrance to Victoria Row, an area highly visible to tourists flocking off cruise ships at dock in the harbour.

John A. Macdonald statue, Charlottetown, PEI. Image copyright Margot Maddison-MacFadyen, 2013.

John A. Macdonald statue, Charlottetown, PEI. Image copyright Margot Maddison-MacFadyen, 2013.

The statue is situated right next to the Anne of Green Gables Store, which sells Anne hats, Anne calendars, Anne dolls, Anne snow globes, Anne mugs and cups. Indeed, just about anything to do with the commodification of L. M. Montgomery’s fictional character Anne, can be got at this store.

John A. Macdonald seated outside of the Anne of Green Gables store at the entrance to Victoria Row, Charlottetown, PEI. Image copyright Margot Maddison MacFadyen, 2013

John A. Macdonald seated outside of the Anne of Green Gables store at the entrance to Victoria Row, Charlottetown, PEI. Image copyright Margot Maddison MacFadyen, 2013

The Anne of Green Gables Store, Charlottetown, PEI. Image copyright Margot Maddison-MacFadyen, 2013.

The Anne of Green Gables Store, Charlottetown, PEI. Image copyright Margot Maddison-MacFadyen, 2013.

I’d like to see the ancestors of others memorialized, including black men, women, and children who came to this country enslaved, those who fled here to escape enslavement, or were freed here, either by emancipation or self-manumission. It’s long past time to see this done.

Our anonymous Gazette commenter, Observer, whose words introduced this discussion, remarks that nominating Mary Prince a national hero is an insult to real heroes–that she is a fictional character.

I would say that she’s more like the moon illuminating shadows at night.

I’d like to see a ten-foot-tall statue of her when I get to Bermuda, right next to the one of Sally Bassett. I’d also like to see a ten-foot-tall statue of Kesiah Wilson, ancestral matriarch of so many Prince Edward Islanders, at Victoria Row.


Clarke, George Elliott. Forward. The Hanging of Angélique. By Cooper. Toronto: HarperCollins, 2006. xi-xviii.

Cooper, Afua. Preface.  The Hanging of Angélique. By Cooper. Toronto: HarperCollins, 2006. 1-13.

Hill, Lawrence. The Book of Negroes. Toronto: HarperCollins, 2007.

Johnston-Barnes, Owain. “Mary Prince Inducted as National Hero.” Bermuda Royal Gazette, June 19, 2012:

Maddison-MacFadyen, Margot. “Mary Prince, Grand Turk, and Antigua.” Slavery & Abolition: A Journal of Slave and Post-Slave Studies. published online 26 November2012.

Maddison-MacFadyen, Margot. “Turks Islands’ Salt, Enslavement, and the Newfoundland-West Indies Trade.” Newfoundland Quarterly  104, no. 4(Summer 2012): 40-44.

Swan, Quito. “Smoldering Memories and Burning Questions: The Politics of Remembering Sally Bassett and Slavery in Bermuda.” in Politics of Memory: Making Slavery Visible in the Public Sphere. Ed. Ana Lucia Araujo. New York: Routledge, 2012. 71-91.

Wiencek, Henry. “Master of Monticello.” Smithsonian 43, no. 6 (Oct. 2012): 40-49 & 92-97.

text and images copyright Margot Maddison-MacFadyen, 2013.

I spent a lovely weekend relaxing – well, somewhat – after completing another chapter draft early on Saturday morning. The book is taking shape as I write, and I’m excited to see it slowly coming together.

On today’s agenda: reviewing all my notes for another chapter, (re)thinking structure and organization, identifying relevant examples, ordering books from other library collections…. Today, in short, will be a day of sorting.

But, before that, some literary yumminess….

I’ve been reading Thrity Umrigar’s The Space Between Us, the story of two women in India – an educated, upper middle class woman – Sera – and her servant, Bhima. The space between them is huge, yawning through all of their encounters. Bhima sits on the floor. Sera sits on a chair. Bhima lives in the slums, squatting on the ground of a communal toilet, rising early to fetch a day’s water. Sera lives in a comfortable home. But the space between them is also a shared space: the shared experiences of working together in Sera’s home for over two decades, the shared sorrows of unhappy – and for Sera, violent – marriages, the shared experiences of shattered dreams, of stories that might have been differently told…if only.

In the first half of the books (that’s as far as I’ve read, to this point), Bhima reflects on her only granddaughter Maya’s pregnancy and planned abortion. Maya is a college student in her late teens. She is not married and through her pregnancy, she has not only brought shame on her family, but she has dashed all of Bhima’s hopes and dreams. Every time Bhima looks at Maya, she is overcome by a complex range of emotions: rage, sorrow, love, desperation, resentment, affection… all of these tumble through her and she can hardly contain herself.

Sera knows all of this. Like Bhima, she has watched Maya grow, develop, mature. She has taken a close interest in the child. She has even supported Maya’s education so that Maya would not live the impoverished shanty life that Bhima is living. In this sense, Sera acts as a second grandmother, a fairy grandmother who grants the wish of education.

And it is Sera, too, who is called upon to find a good doctor willing to perform an abortion, Sera who has been asked to take Maya to her appointment. A fairy grandmother who, as a result of her social status, can guarantee Maya’s medical care and attention in a way that her own grandmother’s presence cannot. The space between them looms large.

In a beautiful passage, Sera reflects on the body, its memories and its knowledges. It’s worth sharing in full.

But you’re not doing this for Maya, she reminds herself. You’re doing this for old Bhima. The thought is immediately accompanied by a dull ache below her shoulder. It is a phantom pain, she knows, a psychosomatic ache, but still she feels the hurt. After all, it has been many years since the blow that made her arm swell and ache for days. On the other hand, who knows? Perhaps the body has its own memory system, like the invisible meridian lines those Chinese acupuncturists always talk about. Perhaps the body is unforgiving, perhaps every cell, every muscle and fragment of bone remembers each and every assault and attack. Maybe the pain of memory is encoded into our bone marrow and each remembered grievance swims in our bloodstream like a hard, black pebble. After all, the body, like God, moves in mysterious ways.

From the time she was in her teens, Sera has been fascinated by this paradox – how a body that we occupy, that we have worn like a coat from the moment of our birth – from before birth, even – is still a stranger to us. After all, almost everything we do in our lives is for the well-being of the body: we bathe daily, polish our teeth, groom our hair and fingernails; we work miserable jobs in order to feed and clothe it; we go to great lengths to protect it from pain and violence and harm. And yet the body remains a mystery, a book that we have never read. Sera plays with this irony, toys with it as if it were a puzzle: How, despite our lifelong preoccupation with our bodies, we have never met face-to-face with our kidneys, how we wouldn’t recognize our own liver in a row of livers, how we have never seen our own heart or brain. We know more about the depths of the ocean, are more acquainted with the far corners of outer space than with our own organs and muscles and bones. So perhaps there are no phantom pains after all; perhaps all pain is real; perhaps each long-ago blow lives on into eternity in some different permutation and shape; perhaps the body is this hypersensitive, revengeful entity, a ledger book, a warehouse of remembered slights and cruelties. (103-4)


Umrigar, Thrity, The Space Between Us (New York: Harper Perennial, 2007)

Re-reading articles and books about methods and methodologies this week. I just came across this, written by the Swiss medical historian, Micheline Louis-Courvoisier:

Par son existence même, [la consultation épistolaire] fait surgir les paradoxes liés à la question corporelle : comment soigner un malade par lettre, alors que son corps n’est pas concrètement accessible au médecin ? Comment interpréter les foisonnement parfois submergeant parfois laconique, souvent imagé, des symptômes décrits par le patient ? Un malade est-il vraiment réel pour le soignant, même en l’absence de son corps ? Finalement, qu’est-ce qu’un malade sans son corps?[1]

I am uncomfortably reminded that, like the doctors to whom such letters were addressed, I, too, encounter a disembodied correspondent whose stories exist only in language.

What, indeed, is a patient without his or her body?

Good question.

[1] Micheline Louis-Courvoisier, “Qu’est-ce qu’un malade sans son corps?:  L’objectivation du corps vue à travers les lettres de consultations adressées au Dr. Tissot (1728-1797),” in Franziska Frei Gerlach et al., eds. Körperkonzepte=Concepts du corps (Munich : Waxmann, 2003), 299-310, 302.

Thomas Smith, "Change Islands Tickle," 1828. Image courtesy of Memorial University of Newfoundland, Centre for Newfoundland Studies

Thomas Smith, “Change Islands Tickle,” 1828. Image courtesy of Memorial University of Newfoundland, Centre for Newfoundland Studies

Thinking hard about sexual initiation today, and in particular, thinking through the idea of tickling. I know,  on the surface, it doesn’t sound like it links up, but those of you who have followed my random musings for a while might recall this post about a young man who experienced a “chatouillement voluptueux” after practicing onanism for a while.

The English word tickle, as it’s used in conversations among children – that is, as something you do to terrorize a friend or younger sibling (in the sense of “Watch out, here comes the tickle monster!” or “if you don’t stop, I’ll tickle you”) –  doesn’t do much justice to the experience described in the letter, so I went off to the Oxford English Dictionary Online to look for more historical understandings.

The first definition (caution: link will only work if you have a subscription to OED Online) took me by complete surprise. It shouldn’t have, but it did:

“A name given on the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador to a narrow difficult strait or passage.”

Given my current home, this should not at all have surprised me. After all, I’ve seen it often and looked it up before. But buried as I am in eighteenth-century letters, I wasn’t really thinking of geography. I’ll amend that. I wasn’t thinking of geography in the sense of bodies of land. But I suppose I was thinking of bodily geographies of a very different sort….

To be affected or excited by a pleasantly tingling or thrilling sensation; to be stirred or moved with a thrill of pleasure: said of the heart, lungs, blood, ‘spirits’, etc., also of the person.

and in earlier usage:

To tingle; to itch; also fig. to have an uneasy or impatient desire (usually to do something); to be eager.

And there it is. Pleasure. Sensuality. Body. Desire. Eagerness. Tingling.

It’s all there.

And in the examples provided, clear reference to tickling as an intimate experience and as something reflexive; that is, a body that tickles itself, a body that can pleasure itself.

Off to see what the French understood…

Eighteenth-century French definitions associate the idea of tickling with flattery. Tickling can be the bodily sensation that one experiences upon being flattered; it can also be the flattery itself. Thus, one can be tickled when one hears positive comments about one’s children. But, significantly, one’s body is also tickled when it is flattered. Consider the examples offered in both the 1762 and 1798 dictionaries produced by the Académie française (again, I suspect the link will only work if you have a subscription to the Dictionnaires d’autrefois project):

On dit, que Le vin chatouille le palais, le gosier; que La musique, l’harmonie chatouille l’oreille, les oreilles, pour dire, que Le vin, que La musique flattent agréablement les sens.

Tickling as pleasure emanates not only from physical touch, but also from what might be understood as “tickled senses.” Touch, taste, hearing – all of these can provoke pleasure.

Back to the Oxford English Dictionary:

1589   ‘Pasquill of England’ Returne Pasquill 16,   I needed no Minstrill to make me merrie, my hart tickled of it selfe.

Like the English dictionary entries, the French focus on tickling as an experience of bodily pleasure.

Considerably different, however, is the French focus on tickling as an act of flattery; in this evocation, tickling emerges out of a social encounter (and it hearkens back, interestingly, to histories of comportment in the form of honnêteté and bienséance….), even as it is experienced within the body.

I’ll have to play – tickle myself? – with this element a bit more…


“tickle, n.1″. OED Online. March 2013. Oxford University Press. 2 May 2013 <;.

“tickle, v.1″. OED Online. March 2013. Oxford University Press. 2 May 2013 <;.

“chatouiller”. Dictionnaire de l’Académie française. 1762; 1798. Dictionnaires d’autrefois. 2 May 2013. <;.

“Change Islands Tickle.” Digital Archives Initiative. Centre for Newfoundland Studies. Memorial University of Newfoundland. 2 May 2013. ,;.

I spent a glorious morning on Wednesday reading the dictionary. Actually, I read several dictionaries. And an encyclopedia. To be completely honest, I didn’t read the whole dictionary or encyclopedia; I read selected entries in each one.

My terrain? The dictionaries included in the ARTFL project’s  Dictionnaires d’autrefois database. It’s a great collection that spans almost three full centuries of thought.

Given my work in eighteenth-century studies, I generally focus on the dictionaries published between 1694 and 1798:

  • Dictionnaire de l’Académie française, 1st edition (1694)
  • Dictionnaire de l’Académie française, 4th edition (1762)
  • Jean-François Féraud, Dictionnaire critique de la langue française (1787-1788)
  • Dictionnaire de l’Académie française, 5th edition (1798)

Within these, I am most interested in the fourth and fifth editions of the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française, as they neatly bookend my current research project: the French version of Tissot’s treatise on onanism appeared in 1760 and it was closely followed by what would soon come to be seen as his magnum opus, the Avis au peuple sur sa santé, which appeared just a year later. The letters to Tissot start streaming in immediately after this. The letters end in 1797, the year of Tissot’s death.

These two editions also bookend a particular interesting period in European political and intellectual thought: the French Revolution at the end of the century is perhaps the most obvious marker, but we can’t forget the publication of such key works as Rousseau’s Emile (1762), Julie (1761), Du Contrat Social (1762) (is my Rousseau bias showing yet?).

Dictionaries and encyclopedias provide fascinating insights into how a community thinks (or thought). A survey of several dictionaries, published across a span of several decades, can be particularly intriguing because it allows you to trace the trajectory of meaning (this is also why I enjoy perusing the Oxford English Dictionary Online Meanings can change subtly, even in a space of 30 years, and those subtleties can be deeply revealing.

Among other things, yesterday’s forays took me to such concepts as “peuple” and “patrie.” On the surface, those terms would appear to be self-evident, and, indeed, there are only minor changes in their definition between 1694 and 1798. But these changes are, to me, highly significant.

So let’s take a closer look.

In 1762, the Dictionnaire de l’Académie française offered the following under the first heading for “peuple.”

PEUPLE. s.m. Terme collectif. Multitude d’hommes d’un même pays, qui vivent sous les mêmes lois. Le peuple Hébreu. Le peuple Juif. Le peuple d’Israël. Le peuple Hébreu a été appelé le peuple de Dieu. Le peuple Romain. Les peuples Septentrionaux. Les peuples d’Orient. Les peuples Asiatiques. Les peuples du Nord. Les peuples de Provence, de Dauphiné, &c. Tous les peuples de la terre.

Looking more closely at the entry under the second heading offers further insight:

PEUPLE se prend quelquefois pour Une multitude d’hommes qui sont d’une même religion, soit qu’ils soient du même pays ou non. Ainsi en parlant des Juifs, on dit, que Le peuple Juif est dispersé par toute la terre.

En parlant à un Prince de ses Sujets, on lui dit, Vos peuples, votre peuple.

Il se dit aussi d’Une multitude d’habitans qui vivent ou dans une même ville, ou dans un même bourg ou village. Il y a beaucoup de peuple dans Paris. Tout le peuple du bourg, du village accourut.

Il se prend aussi quelquefois pour La partie la moins considérable d’entre les habitans d’une même ville, d’un même pays. Il y eut quelque émotion parmi le peuple. La plupart du temps, le peuple ne sait ce qu’il veut. Il n’y avoit que du peuple à la promenade. ….

Interesting here is the way that this concept integrates questions of socio-economic class with broader concepts of social location, education, religious belief, and geography.

The 1798 definition is very similar: there is still a Jewish people, spread across the earth; there is still a grouping of residents living in the same region, there is still a prince and he still has his people.

But the new definition elaborates on the idea of the prince and his “peuple”:

En parlant à un Prince de ses Sujets, on lui dit, Vos peuples, votre peuple, non pour exprimer que le peuple est sa propriété, mais qu’il est l’objet de ses soins.

In this new iteration, the Prince’s subjects are not his possessions to do with as he pleases; rather, they are possessions for he must take responsibility: the people are the object of his care and concern. This is a substantive change, one that acknowledges and reflects the political and ideological transformations wrought by the French Revolution (it is entirely possible that this meaning was already implied in previous editions; however, it is clear that the editors of the dictionary felt it was important to articulate this point directly and overtly in this edition).

When we look at the word “patrie,” we see similar operations at play. Let’s start with the Encyclopédie entry (also available through ARTFL; English translations of some articles are available through the Encyclopedia of Diderot and d’Alembert Collaborative Translation Project , for which I have also contributed five translations).

Interestingly, Jaucourt, author of the Encyclopédie definition of “patrie” links the concept to the idea of the family: “patrie,” of course, comes from the Latin root pater, or father. But he also actively gestures towards a maternal imaginary, waxing poetic on the idea of patrie as nurse and mother:

C’est une nourrice qui donne son lait avec autant de plaisir qu’on le reçoit. C’est une mère qui chérit tous ses enfans, qui ne les distingue qu’autant qu’ils se distinguent eux – mêmes; qui veut bien qu’il y ait de l’opulence & de la médiocrité, mais point de pauvres; des grands & des petits, mais personne d’opprimé; qui même dans ce partage inégal, conserve une sorte d’égalité, en ouvrant à tous le chemin des premières places; qui ne souffre aucun mal dans sa famille, que ceux qu’elle ne peut empêcher, la maladie & la mort; qui croiroit n’avoir rien fait en donnant l’être à ses enfans, si elle n’y ajoutoit le bien – être….

What is clear, in any case, is that “patrie” is linked to a notion of family, of belonging, of membership. The “patrie” is a family cocooned in generosity, benevolence, care and grace, an entity that wishes good for all who belong to it.

So what does this mean for the dictionary entries? The 1762 entry offers the following:

PATRIE. s.f. Le pays, l’État où l’on est né.

The definition here brings forward questions of belonging by virtue of birth (which, once again, links to the idea of the family and the nursing mother), but what is more interesting are the examples offered:

La France est notre patrie. L’amour de la patrie. Pour le bien de sa patrie. Pour le service de sa patrie. Servir sa patrie. Défendre sa patrie. Mourir pour sa patrie. Le devoir envers la patrie est un des premiers devoirs. Cicéron est le premier des Romains qui ait été appelé le père de la patrie. On étend quelquefois ce mot à des Provinces, à des Villes. Paris est sa patrie.

Patrie inspires deep commitment and responsibility; the responsibility to protect, to serve, to defend … to die for the homeland. Belonging carries with it immense responsibilities.

These elements are also present in the 1798 version, but with one key difference. By 1798 it is no longer enough to die for the homeland. This conceptualization has been expanded:

Il est doux de mourir pour la patrie.

Death is no longer just a responsibility; it is sweet, good and right, a balm undertaken for the good of the whole.

After this spate of hiring is finished, I’ll get to frolic more frequently with dictionary entries. I can’t wait.

I’ve been reading Annie K. Smart’s Citoyennes: Women and the Ideal of Citizenship in Eighteenth-Century France over the past few days, and as I read, I’m finding myself nodding along.  Moving away from – but still indebted to – scholars like Joan B. Landes, Carole Pateman and others who argued that women were actively excluded from political citizenship in the eighteenth century, Smart instead argues for a different vision of citizenship. Drawing on the insights of Uma Narayan, she asserts that citizenship is not just about public rights such as the right to vote or hold office, but it is about active engagement with and for the good of one’s society. As Smart writes:

A feminist vision of citizenship would embrace all members of a nation who actively participate in civic and political life….According to Narayan, citizenship is about belonging: ‘Citizenship has always been about membership, participation and belonging as well as about respect, dignity, status-equality, and a variety of rights.’ Citizenship is thus an active quality that demands participation in matters relating to the public good. (7)

I find this vision of citizenship immensely appealing. It responds to concerns I had when I first encountered the work of Landes, Pateman and others, and it also responds to my personal fascination with Rousseau. Now, Rousseau’s been a thorn in feminism’s side for a good while. Some feminist thinkers hate him. Some love him. Others find his work contradictory, ambiguous. Almost nobody is ambivalent. What is clear is that there is no single ‘feminist’ response to Rousseau. Nope, we’re all over the place on what Rousseau is saying and what his visions have to offer (or not). While I personally find Rousseau’s work problematic on some levels, I am also very much drawn into other aspects of his political vision and I’m really not ready to toss him overboard.

But back to Annie Smart. Smart’s argument is that the home was the key incubator of citizenship; it is in the home – and through the actions of nurturing mothers (mothers who nursed not only with their milk, but also with their care – that individuals developed their understandings of citizenship. In this conceptualization, the home is not a private, domestic space divorced from the political sphere; rather, it is integral to the political. It is the very birthplace of the citizen.

That people identified the home as a site of civic virtue is evident in the letters addressed to Tissot as well. While the performance of maternal virtue – the nursing mother, the doting mother, the mother who puts her health on the line for the sake of her child(ren) – is an obvious starting point, it’s also been very intriguing to read about virtuous fathers. Such fathers foreground their parental responsibilities, articulating a vision of citizenship premised not only on their own social positions as workers, but also on their roles and responsibilities as parents and further, on the health of their children (and how this health might affect their ability to contribute to the public good). Fatherhood and family are integral to their presentation of self. Equally interesting are the letters from individuals who experienced bodily distress as a result of family conflict. In these instances, bodies manifested emotional distress; in numerous cases, Tissot indicated that bodily disorder was the result of “chagrin” – grief as a result of discord and struggle.

If one thing is clear from reading these letters, it is that the family and the domestic were not imagined as passive or neutral spaces; rather, they were deeply implicated in questions of moral and civic virtue.

A friend of mine died last Sunday. I’ve been processing this loss all week. Disbelief and horror have given way to resignation, reflection. Tears threaten, sometimes. And at other times, I find myself smiling. Memories murmur around me, sliding into focus and then out of focus. And each day, something new emerges.

I met Kate in 2008, within a few months of my arrival in Newfoundland. I don’t remember exactly how we met, but I can guarantee that she had Newman, her Newfoundland dog, with her. Newman was her sidekick. Her best bud. Her guardian. Newman went everywhere with her. Newman also resigned himself to silly photos: Newman with a Santa outfit. Newman with Anne pigtails. Newman the brave, the gentle, the big hearted, the trusting, the generous. Newman, the dog who embodies, in canine form, everything that I love about Kate.

Kate and I worked, conceptually at least, in similar research areas: both of us fascinated by life stories, by the paths available for the articulation of the self, and by the meanings that emerge in the process of such ruminations. We were both interested in memory and how memory shapes identity. We have talked about bodies, and bodily memories, and politics.

I have learned much from Kate.

We have spent many hours talking about teaching, about learning, about pedagogy, about reaching first year students. She was absolutely passionate about teaching. And in my conversations with some of her students over this past week, I have come to learn just how very passionate they were about her. She has, literally, transformed their lives.

But our conversations have not only been about teaching. We have talked, too, about women’s studies and about feminisms. About disciplines. About belongings. About exclusions. Serious, thoughtful, sometimes frustrating conversations. Conversations that have no end, really, but that still need to happen. That still need to be shared.

We have also shared social lives. We have laughed at baby showers, parties and playgrounds. We communed over dinners and brunches. She shared Newman’s clownfish stuffy with my son, and later, in another visit, he taught her how to play chess. Kate even spent time teaching me how to drive (and for her patience in that endeavour, I am mightily grateful).

And now, as I say goodbye, it is Kate, too, who will teach me about loss: “Remembrance always has a pedagogical element,” she wrote in a 2010 book chapter  (239).

She expands on this idea in her thesis, where she writes:

The work of the teacher, then, is to grapple with our attachments, and in so doing, this mode of attentiveness can be offered back to our students. Because, as Judith Butler so eloquently states, in grief, “Let’s face it. We’re undone by each other. And if we’re not, we’re missing something …. One does not always stay intact. It may be that one wants to, or does, but it may also be that despite one’s best efforts, one is undone, in the face of the other” (Precarious Life” 19) …. while the experience of loss is painful and difficult – in fact, it can be excruciating – it is also productive because it can disrupt, unsettle and be the catalyst for new knowledges about the self and others. (171-172)


Kate was a beautiful woman. Honest, forthright, sensitive, generous, thoughtful. She wore her heart on her sleeve. She lived her life with truth and integrity. She laughed easily.

In the shuffling of office space that accompanied my arrival at Memorial University, her office became mine. I spent the first week trying to figure the voice mail system. After numerous attempts, I managed to change the outgoing message. I never did work out how to change the access code. Nor was I able to change the internal voice message.

But my technical incompetence has had some unforeseen benefits. When I pick up my messages, it is Kate’s code that I type in, and it is Kate’s voice that welcomes me to my voice mailbox. She’s still here. Her spirit will not soon leave this place.

I miss you, Kate.

Kate Bride 21.05.1968 ~ 07.04.2013



Bride, Kate. “‘Learning to Love Again’: Loss, Self-Study, Pedagogy and Women’s Studies,” PhD Thesis, Memorial University, 2009.

Bride, Kate. “Death on the Ice: Representation, Politics, Remembrance,” in Despite this Loss: Essays on Culture, Memory and Identity in Newfoundland and Labrador, eds. Elizabeth Yeoman and Ursula Kelly (St. John’s: ISER, 2010), 226-245.


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