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OICINGS
L i t er a ry M a g a z i n e
Spring 2014
Š VOICINGS Literary Magazine 2014
Editor: Natasha Smith Submissions may be sent to: submissions@voicings.ca Website: www.voicings.ca Facebook: www.facebook.com/VoicingsLiteraryMagazine
Voicings Literary Magazine is not for profit and always pays its contributors. For details on how to support us by purchasing a copy of our magazine or by donating, please visit our website. For more information, or if you are interested in advertising, please email us at: info@voicings.ca.
Cover art by Jackie Traverse: "My granny told us if we left dirty dishes in the sink the devil would come in at night and lick them clean." For more from Traverse's Childhood Memories Series see page 9.
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OICINGS
Literary Magazine
The magazine for aboriginal writing and art in Canada Issue 2 Spring 2014
Editor's Note I am so pleased to introduce the second issue of Voicings Magazine. I invite you to enjoy the thought-provoking, insightful and beautiful art and literature in this issue, portraying the points of view of animals, children, the silenced finding an outlet, and the outspoken calling for action. Thank you to everyone for continuing to make it possible to publish works that should be read and seen across Canada and the world. Natasha Smith
Contents
Fiction
Mink Witnesses the Creation of Stanley Park - Lee Maracle Here We Are - Charlene Seward The Conference - Cami Gauthier CREATIVE NON-Fiction Colonial Curriculum - Kristen McArthur Poetry Justice is an Ember - Lee Maracle The Dorsal Fin of Elegant Killer Whales - Lee Maracle Chant of Love - Mary Barnes Makwa the Bear - Mary Barnes Tongues - Mary Barnes Wanting to be Loved - Spencer Rice To Future Ancestors - Spencer Rice
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Art
Childhood Memories Series - Jackie Traverse
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LEE MARACLE
Mink Witnesses the Creation of Stanley Park I run through Chinatown, past the sign saying: No dogs, Indians or Chinamen allowed. I got to get to Chaythoos before sunset. The waves lick at the shores. At Xway’xway I hear shouting and hollering, mostly sparrow talkers. It’s what I call white guys. They are right above me. I skip up the hill. What a sight—longhouse planks and shingles splayed out haphazardly over the hill above the shell midden. Horses with carts line up, dozens of men shovel shells into wheelbarrows. Others wheel the barrows to the carts and others load the carts. Horse shit is everywhere. The stench offends my mink sensibility. “Line that cart up, Charlie,” the foreman shouts. “What the x%Q# do you think I’ doing!” Tad over the top, Charlie. He pulls his horse’s ear, the other horse kicks up his front legs, which gets the other horses prancing back and forth. The line of horses threatens to get out of control. “Gawd damnit Charlie…” He doesn’t finish that sentence. The men below are hollering. Charlie wrestles the horses alone. Which to watch: the skittish horses on the hill or the dust-up below. Charlie’s whispers calm the horses; the decision is made for me. “What the hell is going on?” No one answers the foreman. Even I can see it’s a fight. A Tsimpsian is clocking a sparrow talker. The other sparrow talkers move to help. The Squamish men stop them. Everyone is yelling. “Wagon burner, savage, asshole…” They don’t like each other much. Makes me wonder about the sparrow talkers—why come half way around the earth to live someplace if you don’t like the people? I’m just saying. The foreman sends the Tsimpsian and the Squamish guys to the other side of the midden. Not sure that’s gonna work, neither of them speak much sparrow and they don’t speak each other’s language either. Fun’s over, so I scurry across the shells. Behind me the crunch, click, click, crunch of digging and rattling shells falling into wheelbarrows reminds
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me of the longhouse before the government stopped the singing and dancing. The sound soothes. The land sounds lonesome without it. Don’t go there. “Take her away,” the foreman shouts. “Hey-ya,” Charlie hollers. I like this part. They all hey-ya and snap the hips of their horses with their riding crops in unison. I scamper onto the pile of shells in Charlie’s cart. The shells jiggle out a soft click, click, click. The horses’ hooves clop, clop as the carts roll forward. Sweet. On the way I hear the whir of a Swede saw. Men are felling the last of the giant cedars. Everything has changed. Village after village disappeared and sparrow dwellings and roads replaced them. The people never saw it coming. "We was inside this house when the surveyors come along and they chop the corner of our house when we was eating inside," Khahtsahlano said. Giant cedars and longhouses disappeared. The sun spikes the trail with light, reminds me of Raven, shining the light on this place and creating shadow land. Charlie’s shoulders slump. I want to tell him it will be okay; even when someone hurts you, learn something. Don’t worry Charlie, it’s just a new story. Just then a horse breaks onto a field of grass with a white shell trail cutting through the meadow. Beyond the meadow fish boats, herring punts, Suquamish ferries loading people up to take them to Seattle, and sail boats bob in the water. The skipper has his passengers laughing before they get a chance to realize this ferry is heading into one deep sound, past some big-ass whales, some of them killers, and at the bottom some very large octopuses. Nice. Two men are nailing up a sign. I look at it: Stanley Park, named after John Stanley. All races are welcome in this park. All races welcome, humph, good idea.
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LEE MARACLE
Justice is an Ember Justice is an ember, Burning slow and easy A fire, filled with hope Hope for our humanity We stand in the centre Of a sphere, earth beneath Sky world above Humans all around us Our fire seeks relations With all beings Justice calls us to burn Brightly together Justice is a song Sounding our voice For humanity For life, for love Let our songs ring out Let our fire burn Let our humanity ring Our prayers of hope I cradle this ember Call you to receive it Hold it up toward the heavens Bind myself to all
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The Dorsal Fin of Elegant Killer Whales The dorsal fin of elegant killer whales imprisoned in water reserves atrophy while smoke stacks punch holes in earth’s breath space
small children gasp for air in geometrically increasing numbers as you sit in your board room chairs manipulating numbers as though children were finite
Lee Maracle is the author of a number of critically acclaimed literary works, and is widely published in anthologies and scholarly journals worldwide. She is an award-winning author, an award-winning instructor, and a gifted orator. She was born in North Vancouver and is a member of the Sto: Loh nation. The mother of four and grandmother of four, Maracle is currently the Distinguished Visiting Professor of Canadian Culture at Western Washington University. She has also spent much of her time doing healing and cultural reclamation work in Aboriginal communities in Canada. Maracle is currently an instructor in the Aboriginal Studies Program teaching the Oral Tradition of Ojibway, Salish and Longhouse people. She is also the Traditional Teacher for First Nation’s House and instructor with the Centre for Indigenous Theatre and the S.A.G.E. [Support for Aboriginal Graduate Education]. As a consultant, Maracle periodically does Trainer of Trainers workshops for Chiefs and Councils in Ontario and British Columbia, Native Child and Family Services [Toronto] and University Aboriginal Studies programs in Ontario. In 2009, Maracle received an Honorary Doctor of Letters for the healing work she has done over the past 40 years, and continues to do. Maracle volunteers with ANDPVA in the position of President of the Board of Directors. She recently received the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee Medal for her work promoting writing among Aboriginal Youth. Maracle has served as Distinguished Visiting Scholar at the University of Toronto, University of Waterloo, and the University of Western Washington.
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CHARLENE SEWARD
Here We Are It's typical, and I know it. I grew up in a broken home. My father was a drunk and my mother was emotionally absent. They blamed residential schools, as if that made the damage to me and my sisters less, somehow. As if the silence in place of love hadn't strangled us, removed from us any hope of redemption or love. I won't get into the details. He hit her, he left her, she left us...it's typical, I guess. It's the same old story. Residential schools broke them, and in turn they broke us. They left us to raise ourselves. I promised myself I would never drink. When I was ten years old I saw him drunkenly hit my mom, hard. She fell back into the corner of the coffee table. As she lay on the ground for what seemed like hours I died on the inside. I had four sisters to care for. I left them, the way she had left us, the same way he had left us. Silently. In the middle of the night I got up and silently grabbed my suitcase from the closet and walked out of the front door. I left on the early ferry. I walked alone before the sun rose. On the dark gravel road my suitcase dragged behind me. The tiny wheels caught on every stone, holding me back, trying to ensure I couldn't escape. The ferry was empty. I sat on my seat, drinking black coffee, hoping no one would notice me, as if I were a fugitive on the run. No one knew that I had left, or that I had promised myself I wouldn't go back. I was alone, for the first time in my life. Alone. I arrived in Vancouver two days later. The waves lapped the beach and the seagulls circled as the tourists ate their fish and chips and took pictures in front of the coast. I caught a bus downtown; it was packed. I don't know what I expected when I got there. But it was more than this. People strode by, and I was surrounded by giant glass buildings. It was as exhilarating as I had imagined it would be, stepping into civilization for the first time.
I had nowhere to go, and no one to go with. I was lost. I was alone in a city of strangers. I hadn't thought to make plans or ideas beyond arriving. I wanted to escape, and I had. I rented a room at a cheap hotel downtown. The room was small and dimly lit. The old Canadian flag that acted as the window curtain was tattered and stained a deep brown. The carpet was worn and faded and scorched black in spots from cigarette butts. The floral wallpaper had faded and peeled at the corners and at the spots where there had been contact. The flowers had dulled, and the beige background had browned. This room was my everything. It happened before I could blink. I fell hard. Before I knew it I was on the streets, more often than not. I was alone. The streets were empty and my keeper was fast asleep. I ended up in a detox centre. The location was a secret. It was a Vancouver Special, with typical social workers...telling me I had the potential to change. They told me I was more than what I had amounted to, that I could be more, eventually help others. And it was empty. I assumed that it would fix everything, as if the broken pieces would fall together like the stairways of the Labryinth. I assumed it would all dissolve into a suburban bliss, the kind I had dreamed of since I was little. I dreamed that life outside of this bubble would provide ample opportunities. I was wrong. When I was transferred from the detox to a government-funded treatment centre I realized how empty I was. I was just another junkie on the streets. The next hit, the high that I lived for, was all that mattered. At four in the morning the streets are more alive and more beautiful than at any other moment. Crowds of people move through the street, selling, buying, using, trading. It is in this decrepit,
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forgotten part of town that we belong. A place to call our own. The city around us sleeps, but we are here. The broken, the decaying, the empty. When I went missing no one looked for me. Not for weeks. In this area people go missing all the time. They disappear. In the same way that a magician creates a magic trick we go away, and people care for a minute. We live in the news. For a minute. I'm not sure where I went. Away. I found a John, and he ended all of the pain and the sorrow of tomorrow. I am just a memory. I am just another story, another Native woman gone missing from the streets.
Charlene Seward was born and raised in Vancouver, BC. She studied English and Geography at Langara College, and Geography at SFU. She has previously been published in Knack Magazine.
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MARY BARNES
Chant of Love Her blue-veined hands stretch the cloth. Matching end to end she breathes a chant: Heh! heh! heh! Stretching for memories she bends back time to the days she pulled sheets, towels and diapers from the line snapping laundry into neat folds hem to hem, when she folded her lover’s shirt arm to arm, cuff to cuff, gently tucking them into the basket. Heh! heh! heh! She stops and surveys the stack she has made her chant affirming each layer of life: the birth of love, of a child, joinings and partings, there in the folds. Heh! heh! heh!
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Makwa the Bear I prowl dark woods claw up rock country roam meadows on padded feet. I am Makwa protector and healer of my People. I think of days and years of faces altered by pain and why: land wrenched from caring hands, stings of whips and tongues on the young the voice of Mother Earth smothered by deafening factories by thumping machines. I think of the day when the fire in this bear will become heat and lift my People up.
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Tongues In the old days we spoke the tongues of our people and made the language laugh. Now the words slide away like meedjiwin to eat, like cut vegetables lost to water boiling into something homogenous as pablum. How to speak my people’s tongue? How to make music with the words again? Then I hear a voice in the trees, verbs rattling branches, nouns shaking roots. Muzzu-kummik-Quae, Mother Earth speaks and I remember paubewaewin, to season.
A resident of Wasaga Beach, Mary received her BA in English Literature from the University of Waterloo, where she also won the Tom York Memorial Short Story Writing Award. Her poetry has been published at Prairie Journal Trust, Canadian Writer’s Journal, Tower Poetry Society, and The Northern Cardinal Review. She has written book reviews for The Antigonish Review and Prairiefire. At present she has a novel under evaluation.
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This is how I imagined a bat carrying me away. My mom told me if I didn't wear my hat the bats would grab me by my hair and carry me away to go live with them.
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When I was a little girl I saw my uncle Dave pull red snakes out his nose. I never liked him after that.
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My mom gave me and my sister afro perms. I took one look in the mirror and began to cry. Pammy liked hers.
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My mom told me if I didnt bathe and wash my hair I would get worms in my hair like my aunty Shirley.
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One day after school I ran home to see my kittens. They were gone. My aunty said Children's Aid took them away and put them in a foster home.
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When I was little they called me Munjeeshtegon. I thought it was my Indian name. Turns out it means "big head."
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Grade four Halloween party at Girl Guides. I was a neechie with a job.
Paintings are from Jackie Traverse's Childhood Memories Series. Traverse is an Anishinabe from Lake St. Martin First Nation, and graduated from the Fine Arts program at the University of Manitoba.
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CAMI GAUTHIER
The Conference I wake up and look out the window and watch the sun's rays creeping up on the horizon. That orange-whitish glow that comes in streaks and reaches out, letting the people see one of the rare beauties of life, if you wake up early enough to see it, that is. I should feel happy and instead I feel a sense of dread looming, like a monster under the bed, coming to get me when the lights are turned out, even though I know there are no monsters, but that feeling that maybe, just maybe. I sigh, then look back out the window and watch as the orange changes to a bright yellow ball, streaming light to start the day and so should I. I am going to an all-Native healing conference to help put the past behind and I am unsure if I even want to go. I know I need something—I am stuck in a rut and I can’t get out. No matter how much I tell myself things are going to change, they never seem to and I keep going in the same cycle of a dismal way of life and I have so much talent that is lying in waste and I am getting sick of me wasting it. I have a son now, and he is going to want someone to look up to and how can he when I can't even look at myself in the mirror? I can barely look at the natural beauty that gives simple pleasure to humans. I am not even sure when it came about but I know where it will lead me. There is a freedom that I have been lacking since I was a child, a freedom from the pain that I feel now, that seems to grow every passing year and has made me long for stillness in my mind. I get up then and take a shower and get dressed and go out the door with a coffee in my hand. This is what I need, I keep telling myself. This is what I have to do for the good of everyone around me, my little circle, and especially for me. I walk to the huge conference centre that usually holds concerts and private parties and today is holding a conference filled with Aboriginals of all kinds from all over Canada, coming to this place to find answers and to live life in some sort of durable suffering that humans endure, without the extreme ups and downs that
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I seem to feel. To be free from the gilded cage of despair that we seem to keep with us and never seem to let go. There has to be a way and I know that maybe somewhere some think tank figured it out and there is actually healing for natives. That we aren't alone in the universe of human greed and we want and desire the same things all humans want and I am going to find that, hopefully at this conference. I come to the silver door that opens to the conference centre and when I open it, I have to squint and wait as my eyes that are used to the bright daylight focus on the darker conference room. Shapes of people milling around in groups talking and there is a low drone of voices everywhere. As I come in they turn to look at me and the voices stop for a doomed moment and I give a half-attempt at a smile that tells them nothing is wrong, yet my heart is hammering in my chest telling me otherwise. The voices resume as I walk through the groups of people and I start to feel light-headed and immediately look for the snack bar and almost trip coming up to it to get some water for my now dry throat that is starting to constrict. I can feel pressure on my chest and my breathing becomes more restricted and I start to panic. I breath slowly then and deliberately as I know that if I don't, it will be a quick trip to the hospital and there goes my only chance at something to change me, and it wasn't white, telling me that everything is alright, when we all know that it really isn't. I grab a jug and try not to spill too much of it on the table with my now shaking hand and I drink some water and look around, trying to act normal, when I know I am far from it. A girl is looking at me concerned and I smile weakly and she nods to me and quickly turns around, her back to me, much to my relief, pretending to ignore me, but she turns around occasionally and sees that I am starting to come around, and then walks away, probably never to be seen again. The tightening in my throat lessens
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and my heart goes back to normal and I stand there looking at all these people, whom I have never met, here for the same reason, and I find myself wanting to run. I mean, could all these people be here for the same reason? We all need healing and insights to govern our upside down world? To heal from a destructive life that we have been given? I sigh then and walk into a room and look at my card and it tells me to go to room 2001 and my name will be on a chair. I walk into a room and see my name in bright red and go and sit down and see that the girl that had watched me have a panic attack is there and her seat is beside mine. She smiles, I try to smile as well and I am sure it looks more like a painful grimace and she can see that as I sit beside her. Up close she is better looking than she was far away and I have to hide my desire to look at her and I do by pretending to read the pamphlet that was given to me. I think about my Native counselor who works at this shelter I go to some times that told me about this meeting. “Steve, I have something for you,” Gerald said to me one day as I walked into his office. I didn't even get a chance to sit down and he looked really excited. I took the pamphlet and sat down and read it. “Native healing sessions for aboriginal youth to 39 years of age,” it reads. I looked up at him and said, “Why did you give this to me?” He shrugged and told me, “We all need healing, brother. For the first time, the Native chiefs decide to have healing conventions for us instead of just stealing the money and pocketing it like white politicians, or maybe this is a new way to hide more.” He stopped and then shook his head and shrugged again in a non-committal way. “Besides, I signed you up. You have a lot of talent that is going to waste and if you don't start dealing with your ghosts.” “Kinda cool, eh? First time at this conference?” A voice says to me, bringing me back to reality. I turn and look into those eyes and it is her. The girl that had watched me have a panic attack. Her eyes are hazel, and features just right. What can I say? I was raised white. I was taught to look at the outside and what is in the pocket book of lies and deceit
that follows. Good looking, check! Money, Check! Intelligence, Check, check! Material possessions, Check, check, check!! I just nod dumbly and she adds, “I am from the east, I am Ojibwe.” I nod, and realizing that she is waiting for a response, I say,” I am Dene and I don't really know where I am from.” She laughs and then says, “You were raised white.” I nod again and she puts her hand on my wrist and says, “I will forgive you for that.” Now, in a white world if one were to say that, the person would most likely be very angry, but in a native world it is a light jab not meant to cause any harm. Just laugh, I tell myself. After all, I am Native on the outside. Instead, I don't say anything and she ignores it and continues, “My name is Vanna. You?” “Steve.” Vanna responds with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Steve.” Her voice trails off and she watches the crowd start to amble in. I am glad that the conversation is over. It is hard to tell other Natives that I was taken from my home and raised as a white person. I don't have their ways about me as they do—the accent, the actions. I don't laugh easily and don't joke around. I am just me, or what I was taught to be. Rigid, judgmental of my surroundings and careful of what I say as it could be used against me. Very white. I shake my head in disappointment—very bad, can't even laugh at a joke. I look around and see Natives coming in and sitting down. Some are dressed in western garb, others like rappers, some in buck skin, and there is me, straight-laced dressed in pants that fit just right, shirt not tight and creased and a good body as I go to the gym, tinted hair and a rigid stance when I sit. Very white, I think to myself and wait for someone to come in and talk to us. A lady walks in and the room goes quiet and she starts to talk. “I am elder Sarah Runningbear and I am one of the people that helped to organize this healing conference.” The room claps and then she talks about the seven treaties and the promises made by the chiefs that were never upheld and now for the first time they recognize the desire to heal and the National Healing Conference was born.
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I find myself dozing as she talks about the different chiefs and people that were involved and then she stops and I am fully alert and look at her looking at me. She seems annoyed and I feel extremely embarrassed and look down. She then tells us that she is going to break us into four people per group and in the next three days, we are all going to be friends and we will be together for the remainder of the conference and that bonding with others is a healing technique that tells us that everything will be OK, and that these are our friends for the conference and when things get hard, we are to fall to them, not run from the conference. The whole room groans and this makes everyone start to laugh. Very Native. When the room quiets down, Sarah tells us that we will be with those that are beside us so to stay in that spot. Vanna is in my group and there is another girl and a guy, Candice Wolfleg and Daryll Mathews. We are told to get together and form a little circle, and we are passed paper and pens and we have to learn about each other and write it down on paper and at the end of the conference we will talk for one minute about these people and what these people did for our well-being and overall healing. The afternoon goes by and we talk small talk: who we are, what we do for a living, what we expect for ourselves and what we want for the future. It turns out that all of them except me are from reserves or grew up on them and they all have kids and they want to make sure that their kids are going to get a good education and have jobs. They all moved to urban centres from the reserves, as the exodus was just starting and will never stop until we are all urbanized. Some of them give examples of living on the reserve: severe sexual abuse, physical abuse, severe alcohol abuse, poor living conditions, lack of education, and they all want the abuses to stop. I am in shock to tell the truth, but I don't show it. What the hell do I say? I mean, their cases are sad, much worse than mine and I am crying and pissing for the harbour and I feel in pain and these people have it really bad. When it comes to my turn, I don't know how to
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start. “Uh…” is all I say for a minute and we can hear people around us talking. “My dad was never around…” from a girl in a group next to us. “Alcohol was drunk everyday and we had to eat this porridge that was on the stove cold and hard and nasty and they were always drunk…” from a voice in another group I don't have it that bad and then again I was treated like shit. I swallow and then start again. Might as well tell the truth. Here goes. “I, um, was raised white.” There I said it. I continue, “I was taken from my family on the reserve and taken to an all-white family. It was called the Sixties Scoop and ended in the 80s.” The rest flows through me. I tell them about being brought to ten different foster homes and being beaten and acts of sexual sadism acted on me by my foster mothers and siblings that were older than me. I tell them about ending up with one foster family and having to work my ass off on the farm for free and how I went to an all-white school and how I graduated and then went to university and then my foster parents who had adopted me stole my rights away and would never help me and then my fall from grace by having to sell drugs and finally being caught. It felt like a trick that they had to make sure I would never succeed, thus sealing my fate and they would get some sort of credit for it, as the British were famous for this type of plot, to destroy future leaders, making it difficult to ever fight back. “I hated being Native. Everywhere I went, people would make fun of me, because our race is the last to evolve to this shitty world of money and having to be a slave to a capitalist world all based on status that comes from money, instead of being a good person, and living in harmony with the world, not destroying it like cancer does to a human. “The thing is, I am Native and I can't change that and no matter how educated I become, I will always be Native and that is seen as a terrible thing in the white world to tell the truth, for a race of humans that would prefer to eat everything up with no thought of tomorrow, for comfort and
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pleasures that mean nothing in the end. “That is one of my problems to tell the truth and I am sorry to all of you because I judged you all growing up and I was ignorant about being Native. I have never been to a pow-wow, a healing circle, round-dance, nothing, but I am Native and I am like you all. I have a great desire to have great change and I know that it is going to start from here.” I stop and I look at the ground, embarrassed. They are really going to hate me now. My face is flushed and I am trying to tell my legs to get the hell out of there. I can't, though. I am glued to the chair and soon I feel a pair of hands on my shoulder and I look up and they are all up and they have their hands on me and are saying, “Welcome back brother,” one by one. Tears come to my eyes. It is a start to forgiveness and I feel welcomed, all at the same time. I smile, now. Maybe I will be alright.
My name is Cami Gauthier and I am an adopted Native man from the reserve of Kehiwin in Bonniville, Alberta. My father is Dene and my mother was Cree. I started writing at 20 and was published when I was 27 with a story called David's World in the Canadian Aboriginal Writing Challenge. I want to be able to tell the truth about what it means to be native living in this world that was not meant for us, as we lived with the earth, not extracted without thought of the natural habitat. That is why I chose to live as simply as possible. I play the flute and piano and love to keep in shape. I have one boy whom I love and a sister whom I hope has a great life even though we are pushed back all the time. Writing gives me solace and I get lost in the characters and the ideas. I will continue to write until I publish a book and I will make it powerful, I hope.
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KRISTEN MCARTHUR
Colonial Curriculum Here I am, thirty minutes into my History of Psychology class, bored, tired, and contemplating yet again why I didn’t pursue an English major when my instructor opens up a class forum on “Why might it be that Europeans new to North America could apply Darwin's ‘survival of the fittest’ theory as justification for mistreatment of Native Americans?” I know I heard it, yet I can’t help but think to myself, did he really just say that? Yeah…he said it. Unbelievable, and of course I am the only visible “Indian” in the class, just as I am in every other class, with the exception of introductory Cree…go figure. As I sit there, I feel the lump in my throat grow, hoping no one will have an answer while I try to summon a rebuff, but nothing comes to me, all I feel is fuming emotion. Then, a hand goes up. Aah yes, it’s that twenty-something, most likely Irish-Catholic, what’s her face. I don’t even know her, but it is doubtful I will agree with what she has to say. “Could it be maybe because the Europeans perceived the Natives to be more primitive, as they were more technologically advanced and deemed themselves more ‘fit’ for survival?” I know, I know, as the only aboriginal in the room I am obligated to speak out in opposition, but at this point I am so livid, all I can think is, are you kidding me? How ignorant, how arrogant, how…ethnocentric! It takes me all of ten minutes after class is dismissed and my emotional reaction has subsided for me to consider what I should have said. Sitting here now is utter torment knowing I cannot go back to articulate a rebuttal that is based on fact, not ignorance. I should have said: excuse me, but what exactly makes Native people "primitive?" You’re telling me that carving stone into a spearhead for hunting isn’t "technologically advanced?" I suppose you also believe, as many others do, that Europeans came over to this land and instantly thrived. I hate to burst your bubble but that is not the case. Thousands of Europeans died from diseases they brought over from Europe. Not to mention their inability to adapt to the climate and
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locate food sources. Without the knowledge and assistance from Native peoples, that you so arrogantly refer to as primitiveness, Europeans would not have had been granted the privilege of prospering on this land. It was the Native people who taught Europeans how to hunt, fish, gather, survive the harsh winters, and treat their ailments with traditional medicines. So, you tell me who was more technologically advanced. Furthermore, how is there any justification for the "mistreatment" (which is an extremely understated term to use when pertaining to cultural genocide), of Native Americans? There isn’t, and to suggest otherwise is pure arrogance. I mean, my interpretation of the History of North America is how it really happened, which is the truth and the story that is rarely heard. I hate being the Native in the classroom. Non-Aboriginals couldn’t possibly understand the feeling. How could they? They know so little about our trials and tribulations. I feel as though we as citizens have been conditioned by the education system to believe that Aboriginal people were "civilized" by Europeans because that is how the history is presented to us— half-truths and everything else gets swept under the rug. Yet, nobody cares. We can talk about what happened to the Jewish people under the reign of Hitler, about Americans and slavery, but to learn about the astonishingly cruel history of Canada and its indigenous people is completely taboo. When people talk about concentration camps and the beating of Rodney King they feel compassion and disgust. When Native people speak out about their experiences and injustices, non-Aboriginals turn the other way. Our historical and fundamental attachment to the land is what makes it so difficult to accept legislation that undermines the importance of environmental consciousness, but in the eyes of government and non-Aboriginals, it is all about money. In this society, to be Aboriginal and opinionated, is to be under the microscope of heavy scrutiny. I hate being the Native in the classroom.
Voicings Magazine ISSUE 2
Anytime the word "Aboriginal" is presented in a slide-show, textbook, or discussion, it is followed by “overrepresentation” in the child welfare system and prisons, or “low percentiles” in the areas of education, optimal health, and high income. I hate being the Native in the classroom. Presenting statistical data without contextualizing it only perpetuates the idea of Aboriginal people being "disadvantaged" or "disenfranchised." Wow, is that what we have become, subjected to statistics? I suppose that since "according to some studies" because my kohkom and môsom were alcoholics and my father is an addict, I should be one too, suggesting that alcoholism among Aboriginals is hereditary. The truth is that we, as indigenous people of this land, simply do not tolerate alcohol at the same rate as Europeans because their ancestors have been drinking it for centuries. But we don’t talk about that. Nor do we talk about why recidivism rates are so high amongst Aboriginal people, particularly our Aboriginal youth. All we say is “Aboriginal peoples are overrepresented in the Canadian Judicial System.” As Aboriginal people, we make up only about 4.3% of the Canadian population, yet somehow account for over 20% of the prison population. People see these statistics without context and instantaneously believe that Aboriginal people are not only a threat to society, but a drain on Canada’s resources. While many like to place the blame on the family unit, the truth is that the Canadian Judicial System is flawed in its entirety, especially in the area of offender conditions. When you give an Aboriginal person, especially an Aboriginal youth, conditions like "no drugs and alcohol" or "no contact," you are setting them up to fail, particularly if they live in a rural or remote area. If you reside in a community with a population of less than 2,000 people, how can you be expected not to hang around with the people
you have known all your life? Furthermore, if you do not have access to resources of recreation and productive activities, what more is there to do but drink and do drugs? But we don’t talk about that. In university, we talk about the implications and consequences, not the history and causes. I hate being the Native in the classroom. High school is no different, if not worse. In university I read literature like “In Search of April Raintree,” “One Native Life,” and “Pretty Like a White Boy.” To me, these works were a history lesson; to everyone else they were an assignment. In high school we read literature like “The Giver,” “The Outsiders,” and “Lord of the Flies.” I learned very little of the true history of my people and of Canada in high school and I honestly thought that Europeans “civilized” the Natives. I didn't learn the reality of colonialism and residential schools. I feel so cheated. Canadians, who believe being a citizen of European ancestry is what makes you truly Canadian, couldn’t understand. So, why is it that we as Aboriginals, whose ancestors were here first, are made to feel like the "other" in Canadian society? It is because we as Canadians know too little of our history. The education system has little regard for educating our generations—both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal—effectively. We know too little about the effects of residential schools, desolate isolation, unrelenting racism and exclusion. I do not despair in the fact that I am Aboriginal; I am a proud First Nations woman. But, as an Aboriginal woman I have greater propensities to be subjected to racism, sexism, exploitation, ignorance, and blatant disregard for who I am as a human being. I do not hate being a Native individual…and that is what I should have said, I should have said the truth.
Kristen McArthur is a student at the University of Alberta. She is a passionate advocate for Aboriginal youth, women, children, and men, and an even more passionate writer about the very real issues her people face every day. She was the 2011 recipient of the annual Spirit Seekers Youth Conference Role Model Award for Arts, Music, and Creativity, as well as the recipient of the 2013 Young Woman of Vision Esquao Award. She proudly hails from the Bigstone Cree Nation.
Voicings Magazine SPRING 2014
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SPENCER RICE
Wanting to be Loved In the pain that befalls us Outside of our suffering I can see that all is but a line A line born from a dot A line that stretches time With a force that spreads space Its past lies in mystery Its present is never the same Its future is unpredictable Who are we to blame? I do not blame you But do you blame me? I too am that line and as are you We are not up, down, left, or right We are on a line, together forever Our lives lay on this line Humanity, my kin, I wish us to see That once again, I am you as you are me as we are us, meant to be Moments are not Matter Time is free but not are we Enlightenment from Sentience Our consciousness’s need I beg for Love I beg for Light I need to know your Love and Light I need to know I have my sight I need to know I have my heart I want to see us leave the dark Our mind's ego clouding who we are
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Let go of your ego it covers the stars Let go of your ego it leaves us scared Love, Peace, and Harmony are what they'll get from me What will they get from you? Not your spirit too! Find your dot, know your line, steady your force to balance time Accept space Accept time Accept space But never your rules of body Accept its pain But never your suffering of spirit Accept its love But never your attachment of heart Accept its light But never your illusions of mind Melt into your soul Let me melt into my soul
Voicings Magazine ISSUE 2
To Future Ancestors This world there is hope, This world there is pain, In it people suffer, With no one there to blame. The hurters are in towers, High up in the sky, The hurters are our leaders, Everyone asks why. Leaders of the board room, And of the GDP, Loveless leaders, Hopeless schemers, The people here are weary, The people here aren’t weak, Their strength holds the world, Yet we’re stuck kissing feet. We want a revolution, We want it all to change, No more holding money, Higher than belief, No more crossing others, For a paycheque every week. Our power is still hidden, It lays beneath a sheet, But we will soon uncover, What it is we keep. We are Gods, We are not sheep. Let no shepherd, Herd to slaughter, For we are Gods, We are not sheep.
I am Spencer Rice, with Mohawk blood running from Kahnawake. I am proud of my heritage and wish to learn more about the teachings and traditions of my ancestors. I spent a good part of my adolescent years facilitating conferences pertaining to youth issues of substance use and abuse. Personal development is an integral part of my life as I've learned that we are born with all we'll ever need and the greatest way to honour the Creator is to honour ourselves. My poetry has always been a release and a form of capturing concepts that escape my everyday speech. My writing represents the foundational blocks that I may not regularly discuss. I hope you find the meaning in them that I have come to find.
Voicings Magazine SPRING 2014
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OICINGS
Literary Magazine
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Issue 1, Fall 2013