Editor:
A memoir talks about self, but Michael Riis-Christianson鈥檚 new book I Heard the Turkki Call My Name is entirely different. Through the protagonist in these true stories of one man鈥檚 upbringing, we learn about places and times reflective of our entire culture.
In the same way that Mark Twain鈥檚 stories about Tom Sawyer drew us into the Deep South or the way a movie like Gangs of New York conjures old districts of a city no longer recognizable, we in the audience are happy to go where a good writer takes us, even if that time is one we didn鈥檛 live through, and the place is an ultra-rural farming and logging community that鈥檚 only a mysterious speck on a map to this day.
Because Riis-Christianson is a good writer, we find his world exotic and fascinating because it is so unusual. A common storytelling trope is the 鈥渇ish out of water鈥� scenario, where an abnormal character shows us our truths through wonderment and charming naivete (think Crocodile Dundee or Catcher in the Rye). Riis-Christianson does this brilliantly but in a backward fashion, where the character is a close reflection of ourselves, and the setting is odd (think Alice in Wonderland or Gulliver鈥檚 Travels).
In this case, the setting is Ootsa Lake, British Columbia - a residential rarity considered sparsely inhabited even by people living in the small villages around it. Yet, here we meet young Michael as a boy, as an adolescent, and as a young man, and through his growth in this unique place, we somehow meet ourselves along the way. We have all seen what abuse looks like, we have all experienced the fragility of family, we have all been party to schoolyard politics, we have all had our guts churn over puppy love and the betrayal of people in our lives who changed (or stayed the same) when we needed them not to.
Riis-Christianson reveals all the fire, feces, and forgery of a mischievous childhood, then carries that into the adventures, anxieties, and disconnections of anyone鈥檚 coming of age.
This memoir is dramatized but not fictionalized. There is dialogue and a story arc to each chapter, and all names have been changed to protect the integrity of today鈥檚 community as much as give clemency to the guilty, but the contents are as true as any autobiography.
The 鈥渢ruth as tale鈥� technique can鈥檛 be pulled off by most writers telling their own stories, but Riis-Christianson is a lifelong writer. He has honed his craft and achieved the greatest coup of an autobiographer: tricking the reader into forgetting these are real people who did these things. Along the way, you鈥檒l constantly catch yourself thinking, 鈥淥h, that was a great line鈥� and 鈥淲ow, nice turn of phrase.鈥�
Telling his own story in such an artful fashion also accomplishes some other high honours in this genre. He makes us fall in love with people we鈥檝e never met, pine for a place we鈥檝e probably never been, and see the themes and dramas in our lives so much brighter. He tells us, without saying anything of the sort, that we are all interesting people who have lived interesting lives. Whenever we think, 鈥淩eally? Did that happen?鈥� as we turn the pages of I Heard the Turkki Call My Name, it underscores how our stories would do the same for others if we were to tell them. Most of us don鈥檛 have the gifts of recall or storytelling that Riis-Christianson possesses, so thank the bright stars of Ootsa Lake that someone with those sharpened skills has put in the work to give us ourselves, even if we鈥檝e never been there or done that.
Frank Peebles
