Practicing for My Defence

The Devil’s Advocate, dressed

as the mailman,

lives in my building, holds

open the door for me

while I check my mail,

asks me about my thesis.

I tell him I’m “doing”

my master’s in English, knowing

he won’t quite get it

if I tell him too much.

“Well, what’s it about?”

“I’m writing prose and poetry

in Cree and English.”

“Well, what’s it about?” he persists.

“I’m writing about linguistic

diversity and why that’s

important and the shame and

tragedy that so few care and

the wisdom we stand to lose

if we let it get down to one

colonial language like English.”

“Well, that sounds pretty subjective,”

he says, assessing my argument.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” I concede,

readying myself for the defence.

“Well, if it’s so subjective

how can you support it?”

“Have you ever taken a

graduate course?” I ask,

feeling the need to take

a cheap shot. I’m on a roll now.

“You betcha, I’ve got lots of support.

Just because something’s subjective

doesn’t make it any less valuable

than something that’s objective.

Just because something’s got a pile

of numbers and graphs and statistics

behind it doesn’t make it more

valid. That’s quantitative

research. Something that’s subjective

is qualitative; sure it’s subjective

but it’s artistic, more expressive.”

I follow him up

the stairs because he’s in 303

and I’m in 305. I manage

to distract him, ask him about

the weather and whether

or not he’s ever wiped out

on the blasted ice

when he delivers the mail.