~ - - - - - - - - - - - ~ - - - -~------- ----

----~-----------,"-;()OMl

-

EN'OWKIN INTERNATIONAL
SCHOOL OF WRITING
The En'owkin International School of Writing assists First
Nations students to find their voices as writers. Through
this process, we promote understanding of the complexity
of First Nations peoples.
Students work directly with a team of renowned First
Nation writers. The program explores the unique cultural
environment of First Nations peoples as reflected in their
literature. The courses develop skills in the use of metaphor
such as the coyote, the horse and the owl. Student writers
develop their skills in a stimulating atmosphere of encouragement and discovery.
Admissions Criteria:
North American First Nations Ancestry.
Eligible for university entrance, or have
completed one or more years of an undergraduate program.
A submission of 10 - 15 pages of original
written work at the time of application.
Tuition: Tuition is $ 2,000.00 each year.
Books and supplies are estimated at $400.00.
Oasses begin the first week of September.

GATHERINGS
The En'owkin Journal of
First North American Peoples
VOLUME II

TWO FACES:

UNMASKING
THE FACES
OFOUR
DIVIDED
NATIONS

I

,______

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For full calendar and registration information contact:
Admissions,
En'owkin Centre, 257 Brunswick Street
Penticton, B.C. V2A 5P9 Canada
Telephone: (604) 493 - 7181
Fax: (604) 493 - 5302

Theytus Books, Penticton, British Columbia

GATHERINGS:
The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples
Volume II -1991

Table of Contents
Editorial - Greg Young-Ing .................................................................................................. 7
Guest Editorial - Joy Kogowa ................................................................. - - - · · ..··.... 9

Published annually by Theytus Books Ltd. for the En'owkin Centre
International School of Writing
Managing Editor:

Greg Young-Ing

Associate Editors:

David Gregoire, Jeannette Armstrong, Lee
Maracle, Geraldine Manossa, Connie Fife
Mary Lou Cecile DeBassige

Section A: MASKS
How the West Was Lost: An Artist's Perspective Gerald McMaster ................................................................................ Essay ..................... 13
Masks of Oka - Martin Dunn ............................................................. Article .................... 23
My Red Face Hurts - Duncan Mercredi ............................................ Poem ..................... 27
I Lose Track of the Land - Kater! Damm .......................................... Poem ..................... 29
My Secret Tongue and Ears - Kater! Damm ..................................... Poem ..................... 30
Stray Bullets - Kater! Damm .............................................................. Poem ..................... 32

Guest Editorial:

JoyKogawa

Page Composition:

Leona Lysons, En'owkin Centre
Jeff Smith

Proofreading:

Alice Rix, Lil Sheps

Cover Design:

Greg Young-Ing, Jeff Smith

Journal - Joshua Mskeeyosh .............................................................. Story ...................... 33
Put On My Mask For A Change Marie Aimharte Baker ...................................................................... Poem ..................... 39
Storm Dancer-Wayne Keon .............................................................. Poem ..................... 40
House of Panthers - Joy Harjo ........................................................... Prose ...................... 41
My Name is Lucy - Tracey Bonneau ................................................. Poem ..................... 42
Death Mummer - Jeannette C. Armstrong ........................................ Poem ..................... 43

Cover Art:

Rose Spahan (Original painting entitled "May
The Real Indian Please Stand Up")

The Native Experience - Columpa Bobb .......................................... Prose ...................... 45
Scream the Ages of Pain Away-Columpa Bobb ............................. Prose ...................... 46
The Hungry Moon - Bruce Chester .................................................. Poem ..................... 47

A price list will be mailed upon request.
Please inquire about our advertising rates and contributors' guidelines.
Please send submissions and letters to 'Gatherings', c/o En'owkin Centre, 257
Brunswick Street, Penticton, B.C. V2A 5P9 Canada. All submissions must be
accompanied by self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE). Manuscripts without
SASEs may not be returned. We will not consider previously published manuscripts or visual art.
Copyright remains with the artist and/ or author. No portion of this journal may be
reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author
and/ or artist.
Typeset by Theytus Books Ltd. Printed and bound in Canada
Copyright © 1991 for the authors

Toll Free Number - Allen Delete ....................................................... Poem ..................... 48
Pock Marked People - Barb Fraser .................................................... Poem ..................... 49
1)1idfthi~o~~~!fe:f~~lborth ....................................................... Poem ..................... 50
Beyond Death - Ray Williams ............................................................ Poem ..................... 51
Desert Island - Geraldine Manossa ................................................... Poem ..................... 52
I Know Who Charlie Is - Geraldine Manossa ................................... Poem ..................... 53
Reservation Blues - Curtis "Shingoose" Johnie ................................ Song ....................... 55
Self-Government: A Parody- Norman LaRue ............... _ _ _ Story ...................... 56
Strawberries - Drew Taylor ................................................................ Story ...................... 59
Let's Get Ready - Forrest A. Funmaker ............................................. Poem ..................... 64
On The Line - Armand Gamet Ruffo ................................................ Poem ..................... 65

ISSN 1180-0666
ISBN 0-919441-38-6

8 o'clock Monday Morning - Armand Gamet Ruffo ....................... Poem ..................... 66

Walking Both Sides of an Invisible Border Alootook Ipellie ................................................................................ Poem ..................... 67
Metis Woman - Colleen Fielder ......................................................... Poem ..................... 69
The Anglais, They Say - Beth Cuthand ............................................ Poem ..................... 70
Testimonial - Mary Lou Cecile DeBassige ...........- - -............. Poem..................... 71
Where Is Your Pride Red Man - Duane Marchand ......................... Prose..................... 73
Gladys Johnson (1930-1976) - Joyce B. Joe ....................................... Poem..................... 75
Poem of Twenty-nine Lines - Joyce B. Joe ........................................ Poem..................... 76
Expression - Greg Young-Ing ............................................................ Poem ..................... 77

Akak Timisowa - Floyd Favel ...................................................- - Prose ...................... 139
Healer - Amie Louie ........................................................................... Poem ...................... 141
I Dreamed - Wenda Clearsky ............................................................. Poem ...................... 143
Journey of a Native Child - Wenda Clearsky ................................... Poem ...................... 145
Untitled - Leona Lysons ...................................................................... Poem ...................... 149
Casually Speaking - Allen Delete ...................................................... Poem----150
Mountains I Remember - Colleen Fielder ......................................... Poem ...................... 151

Section C: CONFRONTATION

This is Our Split - Ron Welburn ........................................................ Poem..................... 78
Masks/Ron Welburn .......................................................................... Poem ..................... 80

Indigenous Reality in the 21st Century - Martin Dunn ................... Article .................... 155
Inter-cultural Education - Candice Daychief ....................---Essay ...................-157

Section B: DISCOVERY

What Old Man Magpie Said To Old Lady Crow .
Garry Gottfriedson ............................................................................ Article ... - - - 1 6 0

S!<)rros Bruce: First Voice of Contemporary Native PoetryLee Maracle ........................................................................................ Essay ..................... 85

Suicide Kiss -Garry Gottfriedson ..................................................... Poem ...................... 162

Lee Maracle: Setting Truth Ablaze -

Professional Indian -Garry Gottfriedson ......................................... Poem ...................... 163

Kerrie Chamley ................................................................................. Book Review ........ 92

An Account of Tourist Terrorism - Marie Annharte Baker ............ Poem ...................... 165

Untitled - Sue Deranger ...................................................................... Poem ..................... 95

High-Tech Teepee Trauma Mama - Rebecca Belmore .................... Song ...........--166

In The Sky- Al Hunter ........................................................................ Poem ..................... 96

Journey Toward Possibilities -Alootook Ipellie .............................. Poem ...................... 168

Indian History Through Indian Eyes - John Mohawk ..................... Oratory .................. 100

Letter Home - Charlotte DeClue ........................................................ Prose ..... - - - 1 7 1

Stolen Past (The Stolen Graves of the Mayans) Mitchell Kakegamick ....................................................................... Poem ..................... 116

Poem For Duncan Scott - Armand Gamet Ruffo ............................. Poem ...................... 173

Turtle- Medicine Told Me - Judith Mountain-Leaf Volborth .......... Poem ..................... 117
Indian Research on the Snaeporue - Maxine Rose Baptiste ............ Essay ..................... 118
Unbonded Warrant - Joseph A. Dandurand .................................... Poem ..................... 120

Maka Nagi (The Earth Spirit) - Joseph Dandurand ...................... Poem ..................... 121
The Earth, A Woman And Her Baby - Tania Carter ....................... Poem ..................... 122
Sister You Are Mixed Like Me - Sarah Lyons .................................. Poem ..................... 123

City- Ray Williams ..........................................................................- Poem ...................... 174
Aboriginal Original - Gunargie O'Sullivan ..................................... Song ....................... 176
Put It On - Barb Fraser ........................................................................ Poem ...................... 177
For Ola - Tracey Bonneau ................................................................... Poem .................-178
Time - Sheila Sanderson ..................................................................... Poem ...................... 179
Faces - Dennis Marade ....................................................................... Poem ...................... 180
Eagle -Colleen Fielder ........................................................................ Poem ...................... 181

Daddy I Wish - David Gregoire ......................................................... Poem ..................... 125
Walk On - Sarah Lyons ....................................................................... Poem ...................... 182
Nightmare Trails - Shirley Eagle Tail Feathers ................................ Poem ..................... 128
Where Are You Going - Bill Cohen ................................................... Poem ..................... 131

Section D : UNMASKING

More Questions Still (for Mishom) - Greg Young-Ing ..................... Poem ..................... 132

Aboriginal Youth: Warriors in The Present DayJeannette C. Armstrong .................................................................... Oratory ..........-.187

Too Red to Be White - Shirley Flying Hawk d'Maine ..................... Song ....................... 135
Walking Two Roads - Patricia Bennett ............................................. Story ...................... 137

We Will Not Forget- Eutonnah Olsen - Dunn ................................. Prose ..................... 193
Wolf Warrior - Joy Harjo .................................................................... Prose ...................... 195

Joy Harjo: Native Woman Voice of the 90's - Connie Fife ............ Essay ..................... 197
The Medicine Stone- Judith Mountain LeafVolborth .................... Poem ..................... 201

~~r::,~~~ ~~~~.:

..........................

Poem ..................... 202

Discovering Our Journey Home - Kowainco Shackelly ................. Poem ..................... 203
Indian Trails - Samuel Kewaquado .................................................. Story ...................... 204
Voioes - Wayne Keon ......................................................................... Poem ..................... 206
Who Am I? - Cheryl Blood ................................................................. Poem ..................... 207
I Will Go and Pray - Mitchell Kakegamick ...................................... Poem ..................... 208

Section E: KIDS
The Desert - Brenden Jay Blood-Rides-at-the-Door ........................ Story ...................... 213
Fox and Coyote - Val Mathews ......................................................... Legend .................. 214
Shuswap Swimming Legend - Val Mattews·······---···........ Legend .................. 215
The Eagles Fly- Maria Bell ................................................................ Poem ..................... 216
Falcon - Nelson Phillip ....................................................................... Poem ..................... 217

If We Were - Darrell, Billy and Jimmy .............................................. Poem ..................... 218

Section F: GUESTS
A Friendly Question To Native People
of the American Continent - Denms Brutus ................................... Poem ..................... 223
Aboriginal Hitch Hike Rap - Patrick Andrade ............................... Rap ........................ 225
Circle of Tira Hou Marae - Houe Ngata .......................................... Poem ..................... 228

Section G: ELDERS
Elders Message - Johnny Eyakfwo .................................................... Oratory ................. 233
Author Biographies ............................................................................................................. 235

I

EDITORIAL

t is with great pride and excitement that Theytus Books Ltd., the
En'owkin Centre's publishing house, presents the second issue
of "Gatherings: The En' owkin Journal of North American First Peoples".
"Gatherings" is an annual journal compiled, produced and published
entirely by Indigenous people at the En'owkin Centre in Penticton, British
Columbia, and featuring the work oflndigenous writers from across Turtle
Island. Writers are invited each year to submit works centered around a
particular theme. The theme that was selected for this issue is "Two Faces:
Unmasking the Faces of Our Divided Nations".
In choosing the "Two Faces" theme, we were looking for writing
dealing with the alienation, the stress, the strength and the amazing
tenacity (among other things), that Indigenous people have felt and
displayed while having to live with "two separate worlds": one "world"
which was created, carefully developed and nurtured by our ancestors
throughout the generations and carried into this time; and, one "world"
which has imposed itself on this continent and in the process attempted to
over-ride, undermine, dominate and obliterate OUR WORLD.
Some of the works featured in the following pages show that the
people of the First Nations have worn the "mask" of one world while
walking through the other (and vice-versa); wondered which "mask" is
more comfortable, and where and when; and worn a "mask" to hide the
fear and despair created by the dilemma, even from one another. Other
works speak of coming to terms with the two realities, the process of selfdiscovery and the joyous celebration of empowerment. To be sure, the
reader is given deep, enlightening, and sometimes frightening, insights
into the incredible range of emotions and reactions that arise out of
weaving through two worlds.
The perspectives presented herein could ONLY be held and
conveyed by Indigenous people themselves and reflect an undeniable
aspect of our present condition as we move together - sometimes slowly,
but certainly surely-- to tear off the false faces and put OUR WORLD back
in its rightful place.
In the Spirit
of uncovering
ancient truths
through discovery
confrontation
and healing.
Greg Young-Ing,
Editor
7

GUEST EDITORIAL
People are mirrors. We see our many faces in one another.
Some mirrors reflect hope, courage, strength; others reflect despair.
Ever since the time Elijah Harper held the eagle feather in
his hand and quietly stood there in Winnipeg, ever since the Native
people in the long line came forward to greet him - the wise older
women, their faces full of thanks - ever since those heady days, I
have felt the hope of a wonderful mirror being created among us. A
face that Canadians everywhere recognize is now in our minds and
hearts. We can feel the power of justice in that face.
We can be on the side of justice, or against her. We can
begin, as Elijah Harper did, by saying ''No." No, we will not be
subject to other people's definitions of us. No, we will not be
marginalized. No, we will not be humiliated and made to feel
inadequate. We can look at him and see ourselves reflected there, in
his calm strength and his steadfast spirit. We can see that same spirit
in the evolving work at the En'owkin Centre and be glad because
something wise and old and important is being birthed again in the
world - a new day of power for Native people.
I feel privileged to be allowed to share in the vision. I look
in the mirror of your faces and am made stronger by it.
JoyKogawa

9

MASKS

Photograph of "From A Washko (Fat-Eaters) Country Garden"
by Simon Paul-Dene

Gerald McMaster
How The West Was Lost: An Artist's Perspective
"There is no attempt at resolution; instead it attaches support to contemporary Native perspectives on the humorous and
malignant inconsistencies of this stereotypic equation. The works
were completed during the summer of 1990 and exhibited at the
McMichael Canadian Gallery, Kleinburg, Ontario, in February 1991."
Some time after the opening of my exhibition, "How The
West Was Lost", I paid another visit back to the gallery hoping to see
the paintings once again, because I'd not seen them together after
they left my studio. As I entered the gallery, I noted the occasional
chuckle coming from a visitor as he or she understood the work's
text. At one point some viewers glanced at me, then gave a doubletake making me self-conscious. I was happy to be rescued by one of
the gallery educators.
We began to talk about how she presented the show. What
were the reactions of the viewers - children and adults? Her
response was, "there is quite a range. The children see the works as
messy, and could not understand why you wrote on the paintings.
A visiting corporate dignitary expressed his revolt and said it was
disgusting!" An art critic referring to the work's ''literary efforts
were devoid of that self-conscious flatness that marks much artists'
writing." My mother, more spontaneously asserted, "That Trick or
Treaty painting you did, I just love how you said it!" A Cree elder
who performed the traditional ceremony at the vemissage said he
appreciated its "spirited" approach.
I became deeply preoccupied with the comments and the
additional questions and responses that they roused within me. I
was prompted to write this essay to address a number of issues that
extend beyond the overt scope and intent of the exhibition itself.

"All interesting reactions," I thought, "but, do they mean anything?"
INDIGENOUS ARTIST
Responding to these reactions it should first be pointed out
my position on being an Indigenous artist today. That I can assume
a dual role as an Indigenous and a contemporary artist, makes it
possible for others to realize that to accept only one role weakens
one's conviction and resolve. Therefore, before discussing these
dissimilar reactions, it is necessary for me to state briefly the
predicament of being both an Indigenous Canadian artist and a
contemporary artist at the same time.
13

Gerald McMaster

Gerald McMaster

What is a contemporary artist in the Western sense of the
word? The continuous bombardment of images, ideas and issues,
encourage the artist to provoke critical responses. In doing so,
several questions come to mind: How do I translate these images,
ideas and issues into something for public consumption? Will they
see work in disbelief? Will they make the effort to probe beyond the
picture's surface? Will they see what I see? Might they even agree?
And, will they return a second, or a third time? To be a contemporary artist offers unparalleled opportunities for critical reflection
and absorbtion, endless possibilities for the artist to win every
viewer to his way of seeing or thinking.

duality allowed the artist a sense of transcendency. The two sides
could coexist and even allow other meanings in their art. Furthermore, they knew the choice one made would always be respected in
the Native community, as long as they respected the culture. This
disparity is what made the contemporary Indigenous artist at once
misread and misdirected. An understanding of this new faculty
should encourage many more Indigenous artists to resolve potential dilemmas.
The contemporary Indigenous artist views history with a
split vision of sadness and anger, yet with great humility. I see how
irrevocably altered Indigenous nations have become under repeated government legislations. I see how foreign Western laws
forbade my people to practice their religion, sing the songs, dance
the dances, or speak in their own most beautiful aboriginal tongue.
I, as a contemporary Indigenous artist, see how white man's time
has distanced me from my ancestors. The contemporary Indigenous
artist sees himself as someone with very little left, but ironically he
sees an unlimited potential for articulation of the modem experience. He sees that time, understanding and respect will liberate
possibilities, which before were thought to have completely vanished.
For example, Robert Houle (Saltleaux), is one artist who
believes Indigenous people and artists are, "coming full
circle ... [through the] reexamin[ation of] what happened in the
Renaissance, and see[ing] for ourselves." He also says,

What, then, is an Indigenous artist?
As a contemporary artist in the Plains Cree tradition, the
notions may appear to be similar, but its differences are more
critical. I may be a spokesperson with a discreet yet high respect for
my cultural heritage. As this artist-spokesperson, my status can be
both cultural and political. Culturally, through the illumination of
Plains Cree culture, whether internal or external; politically, on the
other hand, it may take form through determined action. The final
choice is always personalized.
Furthermore, the culture must be safeguarded to ensure it
will not be subverted by insiders or outsiders, that it will give back
to Cree culture the relevance that might otherwise have been
unsalvagable in a modern, post-industrial world.
At one time, to be a contemporary Indigenous artist was to
be at a crossroad, choosing between one's culture and the Western
European world. If you wanted to be a contemporary artist you
chose the West-European tradition --bringing new meaning to the
phrase, "go West young man," i.e., acculturation and assimilation.
Many Indigenous artists were ambivalent in their reaction to this
cultural predicament somehow life in the fast-lane, catering to the
art market seemed more appealing.
During the recession of the early 1980s, many that didn't
survive as artists turned to other preoccupations. However, those
who did prevail, eventually realized they didn't have to choose
between their culture and the art-market after all -- being both
Indigenous and contemporary was possible. This newly recognized
14

We've been herefor40,0000 years or more ... now we are
going through a rebirth, everything is thawing out, and
this is being spearheaded by the [Indigenous] artist. We
don't need a prescription from anyone but ourselves.1
His coming full circle typifies the honour, respect and
humility aboriginal people have for the past, while knowing the
importance of the present. The importance is also in knowing the
power of the spirit. Indigenous artists are establishing this by reinvesting that spirit in their cultures with identity, place and magic.
It is for some of these reasons I chose to show my work at
McMichael. I did not expect so much reaction! I've mentioned the
comments briefly already. Here are my further musings which they
stimulated.
15

Gerald McMaster

Gerald McMaster
THE CHILDREN

The gallery educator said the children thought my works
were "messy" because I didn't stay within the lines and that I
dripped paint allover. Theyalsocouldnotunderstand why I wrote
on the paintings. Also, she said they did struggle, beyond that, to
address the issue of stereotyping.
The children may have been unimpressed, still I believe that
this and ensuing generations will be in a better position to act on the
issues they discussed in the gallery. My optimism sees them better
educated to see the mistakes past generations made, and angry
enough to criticize. I remember that after finishing high school I was
irritated by the lack of Native content in the school's curriculum,
and I wanted to do something about it.
I continue to wonder about our children, Native and nonnative, what are they being instructed? What is it they are learning
in schools? From the media? Can attending like exhibitions provide
new perspectives they could not otherwise get in their curriculum?
When I'm old, will silly Hollywood War-hoops be heard in
school yards? Will everyone still want to cheer for the cowboys?
Can the 'official' history books take a longer, harder and perhaps
even extensive look at other histories, by including Indigenous
history? Certainly Indigenous children are asking for this, but what
about others? Will the west be the place for gloriously setting suns,
or will the children of tomorrow still face the same hegemonic
nightmare I did? Will history be corrected for them?
The success of Dances With Wolves.2 despite some of its
flaws, has helped reshape North American (maybe European as
well) views of Indigenous people. One elderly Lakota (Sioux)
gentleman is quoted as saying, "Finally we have won a victory over
Hollywood." I encourage children (and adults) to see this movie, for
the same reasons I as a child went to see numerous westerns: to
cheer for the good guys, of course! But why are the good-guys in
Dances. Sioux, not Crees? As one Native American reviewer put it,
"now the only good Indian is a Sioux Indian." But, what the heck,
bathe in its romance. It's worth the price of admission.

Our children have new privileges (or do they?).

16

,

McMichael' s gallery educators challenged the children not only on
the meaning of stereotypes, but notions of the significant?ther, the
Indian Act, and the Oka crisis of last summer. They des~nbed to me
how the children were completely exhausted following the gallery's programming - much the same feeling we get_ following
theatrical play. These children were encouraged to think. That's
what these works were inspired to evoke. Maybe these educators
should have tried this dialogical exercise on adults. For instance ...
THE CORPORATE EXECUTIVE

Remember the corporate executive's remarks? "Disgusting," he said. What were his insecurities? What was at stake that he
reacted so disapprovingly? Had Indigenous truths never been so
direct? In his mind, did McMichael sell out? Did he feel that
Indigenous artists were not supposed to be vocali_sing_these ideas?
I hate to bite any hand that feeds me, but in this case, what
about my principles, my feelings, my pains and scars? Is this no_t a
territory of expression for a~tists like _me? ~ould you rather I paint
landscapes like a good artist? And 1f I painted landscapes, what
would they say to me? The landscapes are lovely yes, but they're
slowly disappearing under the hei~htened programmes of defore:
tation acid rain nuclear waste spills, and urban sprawl. I couldn t
paint fuem beca~se my message would subve~ his reality, and we'd
be back at the beginning. I hope in the end this does not affect the
galleries funding!
THE ART CRITIC

What has not been said about them that I can add?
The cowboy /Indian show is my first show in the 'big time'.
I have sensed the 'big pond'. The pond created by the West. How am
I to float? Coming from a region with very little water, my competence must be doubly good. So, what kind of strokes am I to use? To
this, the answer would likely be, "in this game, boy, you stroke any
way you know how!" Nobody informed on how cold the water
would be, nor how deep. I'd also heard stories about the ~~d's
numerous frogs. Croooak! Ribbet! Snarl! Who are these amph1b10us
wonders? I soon found out they weren't prosaic frogs, rather they
were very exclusive. They safeguard the pond's boundaries from
17

Gerald McMaster

Gerald McMaster

various intruders, including Indigenous artists. Lucy R. Lippard
writes in Mixed Blessings about such a pond:

citizens I am now mentioned in the same breath as Allan Sapp (my
cousin twice removed).4 No more self conscious flatness! A local
newspaper even interviewed her about my reported accomplishments.
I don't think my agent has anything to worry about. It might seem
like simple excitement and pride in a son doing well, but mother's
reaction to Trick or Treaty has another source as well.
She grew up on the Red Pheasant Reserve and attended the
local Indian Day School, which I also attended. Her mother (my
grandmother) was among the first generation of children taken
from their homes and forced to attend the Battleford Industrial
School.5 After quitting school prematurely, my mother left for
Alberta during WW II in search of work. She married a Blackfoot
man and gave birth to my elder brother. After the death of her
husband she returned to the reserve.
I was taken care of by my grandmother, because my mother
was working in Battleford. My two brothers and I eventually
moved into town in 1962 to be closer to her. She worked approximately 25 years in a hospital as a member of its cleaning staff. I often
heard her work stories, which were rarely happy. They were filled
with incidence of racial intolerance, bigotry and debasement. As
young as I was these stories were most difficult to hear and accept.
I felt her pain.
In retrospect, I believe her generation bore the brunt of
many racial indignities. Her mother's generation was able to return
to the safety of the reserve and pick up their language and much of
the traditional customs. Her own generation, on the other hand,
was pressured to leave the reserve in search of work, even though
the Indian Act still withheld many liberties enjoyed by non-indigenous people. After having worked off the reserve she had little to
return to; she managed to keep her language and customs still less
than the previous generation.
My generation was totally absorbed by the dominant society. We were lucky to learn ourlanguage at all. I heard Cree spoken
only at home. My interests were only in keeping pace with nonnatives. I felt the pains of indignity, but I doubt it was the same as
hers.
.
World War II did change the social fabric of this country. Indigenous people began organizing political organizations, with
many sympathetic non-natives helping to lobby for revisions to the
loathsome Indian Act. A year prior to my birth in 1952, Indigenous

[Its] boundaries being tested today by dialogue are not
just "racial" and national. They are also those of
gender and class, ofvalue and better systems, ofreligion
and incoherent territory, virtual mine.fields ofunknowns
for both practitioners and theoreticians. Cross-cultural,
cross-class, cross-gender relations are strained, to say
the least, in a country that sometimes acknowledges its
overt racism and sexism, but cannot confront the underlying
xenophobia -- fear of the other -- that causes them.
Participation in the cross-cultural process, from all
sides, can be painful and exhilarating. I get impatient. A
friend says: remember, change is a process, not an
event.3
The old frogs retreat.
The critic from the Toronto Star elaborates on, but disguises
some of the pond's rules, by ending his review of The cowboy/
Indian show: "gone are those hoary romantic notions about Indian
art as a spiritual quest, a legend-based evocation of ancient ways of
life ... McMaster draws from mass media sources with which we're
all endlessly familiar. But he filters them through his own sensibilities. Like many people who find themselves strangers in their own
home, he wants to change the world." I do like that last part. It does
seem, however, to oppose the "self-conscious flatness'' he addressed earlier. Perhaps my concerns could be described instead as
a· self-conscious ardour.' This should make the old farty frogs take
notice!
MYMOTHER
Like other artists' mothers, mine was rather aloof from my
interests in art-making. To her it was too dissimilar from entertainment like sports, concerts or television. All mothers, however, want
to be proud of their sons because it reflects on them.
After The Cowboy/Indian Show, and it's wide coverage,
she was barraged with telephone calls. Sure enough, this immediately
stimulated her interest. For my mother and the local Battleford

18

19

Gerald McMaster

Gerald McMaster
Canadians were finally allowed religious and cultural freedom, but
seventy odd years and many generations had drastically altered
Indigenous life.
Thus, I understood what she meant by her all too brief
enthusiastic response to Trick or Treaty. Perhaps she saw someone
finally able to stand up and say something she'd only dreamed of,
hoping that it would eradicate some rotting feeling that only her
generation had experienced. In her, the West was lost. For me and
other contemporary Indigenous artists, she now silently cheers.
THE ELDER

Mr .Vern Harper is a contemporary of my mother's, having
lived through the terrible realities of racial intolerance, the crushing
blows of the Indian Act, and the demands the dominant society lays
upon all Indigenous people. He, in turn, demands from everyone a
respect for Aboriginal culture, whether through his private ceremonial
presentations or his public lectures. Satisfied, he can now pray in his
own traditional way without fear. He was proud to have been asked
to perform the traditional ceremony before a distinguished and
mostly non-native audience at the opening of The Cowboy /Indian
Show. I got to know him to be a very warm man, very similar to our
elders back home.
From him my works evoked a response similar to my
mother's reaction. The difference was that he saw the spirit - the
ardour if you will - the propelling imperative for contemporary Indigenous artists to express themselves.
For many years, Mr. Harper operated a Survival School in
Toronto, teaching Native traditions to urban children. Thus, he
brings with him a pedagogical perspective, but he is as willing a
student as he is a teacher! He believes we can still learn much about
our traditional ways without fear. Through him, and others like
him, my generation strengthens its ties with the past. He gives us
leadership and strength of purpose.
By our elders the notion of the West is obliterated.

CONCLUSION

A simultaneous invention and loss of the West happened in 1492.
It makes little sense for Indigenous people to respond to the
outrageous historical fictions of the West. On the contrary, we m~st
focus on our own perspectives. For this re~son ~e Co~boy /Indian
Show and other shows will happen; as disgusting as it may be for
many art patrons, it is all inevitable.
Indigenous people, have no fear of going West. The West is
disintegrating. A number of contemporary critics be~ieve t~~ to b~
symptomatic of the establishment's worst fear, for it too is inevitable.
No indigenous person should ever want to be accused of
being an apple - red on the outside, white on the inside. You must
understand this; we temporarily lost consciousness when we started
cheering for cowboys. Indeed, many of us become cowboys. Its
facade is so intoxicating. However, we ask that you look beyond _the
surface -- beneath all the turquoise, beads, feathers and buc~kms.
We've recovered from that terrible hang-over, and now we wish to
facilitate in cleaning up the mess.
.
.
.
This antithesis of the West comes at JUSt the nght time: on
the eve of the quincentenary celebrations for a man who travelled
west and "discovered" America and Indians. Christopher Columbus is lucky not to have run into the Lakota chief Red Cloud, who,
in 1865, directed this piercing attack at United States Col. Henry B.
Carrington. He said,

You are the White Eagle who came to steal the road! The
Great Father sends us presents and wants us to sell him
the road, but the White Chief comes with soldiers to
steal it before the Indian says yes or no! I will talk with
you no more! /will go, now,andlwillfightyou! As long
as I live, I will fight you for the last hunting grounds of
my people/6

Instead they teach us that all directions converge in us
individually as the sacred centre, allowing us to know our direction
along the sacred path.
20

21

Gerald McMaster
Red Cloud, Poundmaker, Riel, our parents, and others like
them are who we look back on. They were the warriors who stood
up against the massive onslaught of western civilization. Their
legacies live on in all of us who are armed with only our fierce pride.
All contemporary Indigenous artists will now feel the power and
know the meaning of their death chants.
ENDNOTES
1. Conversations with Robert in February 1990. See also, Gerald
McMaster, "The Persistence of Land Claims," Robert Houle: Indians From A to Z, Winnipeg: Winnipeg Art Gallery, 1990. pp.32-44

2. At the beginning of the Awards I noticed as the stars were
arriving in their limos, a good looking Indian (Rodney Grant) also
arriving in his limo. He was wrongly announced as Graham Greene
(''Ki~king Bird"). Yes, we all look alike in Hollywood's eyes. My
confidence that Hollywood had somehow changed their views of
aboriginal Americans had almost been persuaded, but that faux pas
told me otherwise.
3. Lucy R. Lippard, Mixed Blessings: New Art in Multicultural
America. New York: Pantheon Books, 1990. p. 6.
4. There is now an Allan Sapp Museum in the city of North
Battleford, where I attended school. Quite an accomplishment for a
man.who sold his work in the streets of that city in the early sixties
for literally a few dollars. Equally amazing is that its the only
~useum named after an aboriginal artist, living or dead. Oh, how
times have changed.
5. My g~andmo~er gained family notoriety for having shaken
hands with and given flowers to Prime Minister Wilfred Laurier at
the boarding school.

6. Brown, Dee and Marting F. Schmitt, Fighting Indians of the West.
New York: Ballintine Books, 1974. p.9.

22

Martin Dunn
Masks of Oka
Of all the images that flooded the press and TV screens
during the Oka resistance of 1990, those that had the greatest impact
- both positive and negative-were the images of masked warriors
behind the barricades. The very fact that the warriors were masked
at all seemed to strike a deep-seated chord in reporters, commentators,
and politicians who were reacting on air to the events of Oka.
Many, like the Minister of Justice, reacted specifically to the
masks as proof that the defenders of Oka had something to hide and
were criminals of some description. Others, like myself, saw the
masks as a kind of theatrical device designed to heighten the media
impact of the warriors. After all, anyone who really wanted to know
could find out the name of the warriors in a matter of hours. But it
was the children who truly grasped the significance of the masks of
Oka. They put on masks too.
Like thousands of other Aboriginal observers, and hundreds
of thousands of other Canadians, I was glued to a TV screen during
most of the Oka resistance. At one point, towards the end of the
second weekend after the Canadian army moved in, I heard my
five-year old son, Wanekia, coming down the stairs to the living
room. I turned toward him and got quite a jolt.
"That's it," he said to his mother as he came into the room.
"If I hear that they have hurt my people or are going to take us off
our land, I'm going to fight them and put them in jail."
He had pulled a red ski mask over his head and planted a
single feather on one side of it. He was wearing a set of football
shoulder pads, a belt stuffed with toy ninja weapons, and a pair of
boots, and was carrying a toy machine gun. To be perfectly honest
I was delighted with his reaction. I wasn't aware he was paying that
much attention to what was going on, but I was glad to see he had
picked up the basic message -- his people were fighting back.
Over the next several weeks the press featured pictures of
masked Indian childrenatOka doing similar kinds of things. I heard
a lot of reaction to those pictures and, from non-native people, most
of it was negative. The warriors were a "bad example" they said,
and the kids were getting the "wrong idea." This reaction often
included specific reference to the fact that the warriors and the
children, were masked. I found myself defending the masks by
saying my son now had a better image of his people to grow up on
than the image of Indians as stone age stumblebums that I grew up
on.
23

Martin Dunn

Martin Dunn
I thought it strange that these same people readily accepted
the image of Zorro, or the Lone Ranger, or even Ninja Turtles, as
masked heros, but when it was the Indian that put on the mask,
''Tonto" suddenly became a criminal. I don't recall a single instance
of a news commentator or columnist pointing out that some of the
Canadian soldiers had "masked" their faces with camouflage paint.
The more I thought about how people reacted to those
masks, the more significant the whole idea of "mask" became. Do
we use masks to hide ourselves from others, or do we use them so
people will have no doubt who we are? In a bank full of customers,
how can you tell the bank robbers from the customers? It's easy. The
bad guys are wearing masks. Butwhatif the bank, and its customers,
are part of a dictatorial regime of drug dealers that are using the
money to oppress and enslave the people, and the bank robbers are
freedom fighters who want to end that regime. Suddenly the guys
with the masks are the good guys.
Obviously, the idea of "mask" is not as simple as it first
appears, even though the impact of "mask" in a given situation is
usually quite direct and unmistakable. Most cultures, and most
certainly Aboriginal cultures in North America, use masks in ritual
or ceremonial contexts. Those masked enable everyday individuals
(familiar to others in the group) to become fantastic and powerful
spiritual beings in the context of the traditions of any particular
ceremony. Are these people "hiding" behind the masks? Or are they
using the mask to reveal or embody a traditional or spiritual power
or teaching?
In Euro-Canadian culture the overt use of masks is confined
to theatre, to Halloween or costume parties, or to criminal behaviour,
and most often has the idea of "disguise" or hiding. At a psychological
level Euro-Canadians, particularly men, are taught to "hide" their
true feelings behind a mask of indifference or objectivity. This
internalization of the mask then becomes a technique by which we
communicate who we are, or at least, who we want others to think
we are. These others, in turn, learn to expect to see certain kinds of
masks on certain individuals in certain situations. In effect then our
very personalities can be described as a kind of mask we present to
the world.

24

In a functional sense, the "mask" becomes the image of
whatever role we happen to be taking or "playing" at any given time
in our lives. The roles of father, mother, lover, boss, employee,
teacher, athlete, etc. each have a kind of "mask" associated with
them that others learn to recognize and reactto in predictable ways.
By th~ same token, we, and others, can react very negatively-even
violently- when somebody unexpectedly changes their "mask" or
refuses to presentthe mask we expect them to wear. In this situation
a particular mask can become, on the one hand a stereotype~ or a
kind of psychological prison, and on the other hand, a techmc for
announcing to others that we have changed our role.
The masks of Oka were just such an announcement. In a
single stark image, the masked warriors of Oka changed the way
most Canadians think about Aboriginal peoples, and the way many
Aboriginal people think about themselves. That doesn't mean, of
course, that all the changes were the same, or that all th~ c~anges
were either positive or negative. But it does mean that thinking by
and about Aboriginal peoples in Canada is forever changed.
Until very recently, the "mask" that most non-Aboriginal
Canadians would expect an Indian to wear would involve elements
like "drunk", "lazy," "stupid," or "primitive." If an Indian person
was not one or more of those things, many Canadians would
assumethatperson was not an Indian. In fact, withinlivingme~~ry,
if an Indian achieved a university degree or became a rehgmus
minister or priest, he or she was stripped of their Indian status
under the Indian Act. That same Act once defined "person" as
"other than an Indian." In an Angus Reid poll taken just before the
army withdrawal from Oka, a very different "mask" for Aboriginal
people was described by Canadians. Themaj?ri~ (?!, of ~~spo~dents
to the poll saw Indians as "hard-working, . ~pmtual and
"environmentally wise." It would seem that Abong1nal people are
successfully changing the "mask" that other Canadians expect
them to wear.
In 1983 I experienced an incident in an Indian craft store
that capsulized the situation of Aboriginal peoples in Canada. I
picked up a craft from the Six Nations (Brantfo;,d) area_ and ope~ed
the little tag that was attached to it. It had Made m Occupied
Canada" printed under the name of the craftsman. I felt a cold,

25

·I

Duncan Mercredi

Martin Dunn
my red face hurts
shuddering chill as I realized that it was not a joke. I have told this
story in dozens of university classrooms and conferences over the
last seven or eight years as an example of the difference of
perception between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in Canada.
Before Oka, the first knee-jerk reaction of most groups to
the story was to laugh. Since Oka, the laughing has stopped. If there
was ever any doubt about how true the statement on that tag is, the
masks of Oka have unmasked the Canadian establishment and
eliminated that doubt forever.

my red face hurts
and i walk with my head down
to hide the tears
my red face hurts
as i watch my brother die before me
white bullets riddle my body
and i hide my face to cry
my red face hurts
as i watch my father stagger out of neon lit bars
and crumple on piss-stained sidewalks
as hate filled eyes step over him
i hide my shame behind shadows
my red face hurts
as i watch a white man hiding his white sheet
beneath his suit and tie
condemn me because of one man's greed
sentencing me to an early death
my red face hurts as he smiles
my red face hurts
as i see my sister stand on darkened streets
selling her gift to strangers
that use her till she has nothing left to give
and i cry as i pull the needles from her arms
my red face hurts
when i hear the hate on the radio
directed at my hopes and dreams
and another party is born
on the wings of a white horse
and i scream in anger as i watch the door close on me

"Life on the 18th Hole"
by David Neel
26

27

KateriDamm

Duncan Mercredi
i lose track of the land
my red face hurts
as i see the stirrings of a white nation
follow blindly the words of a salesman
with visions of a wall between us
and i cry for my unborn brothers and sisters
for they will feel the sting of this party's hate
my red face hurts
but the feel of the gun
comforts me

i look to the sky for sweet light
of stars
but night is never dark here
i long to join the dance of the earth
- i knew the movements once

The title of this poem was inspired by a painting done by Charles Favell of
Winnipeg, Manitoba. He is a student of Argyle High School, an inner city
school in Winnipeg.

-

at night there are no voices
singing me gently to sleep
though i know they whisper
outside these strange walls

.

u-

MOHAWK NATION

i dream of the wind
the damp smell of the earth
and the footsteps of animals dancing
by moonlight
my body is tired and aching
blood rushes to my feet
drains into the pavement
is pulled through my scalp
i lose track of the land

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Specializing in Native Literature
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Telephone: (504) 638 - 4016
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28

29

Katerl Damm

KaterlDamm

My Secret Tongue and Ears

as dusk falls from this autumn day
( like a blood red leaf )
the darkness whirls madly to the earth
carried by windfury
still
i sit alone
against the lamp's dim light
staring at the hieroglyphics in my skin
thinking
if i could simply read these symbols
tell my own story to myself
and know i had spoken a truth
but these lines mean nothing to me
except a number of years gone by and
a certain lack of understanding
so
sadly as the day flies
the truth remains
a secret i keep from myself

in this easy chair
the stars shining above
( like asterisks to some important note )
tempting us to close our eyes and forget the rhetoric of hate
that was spoken
moments before
in the space
between us
iv
but
i cannot close my eyes to myself
and let sleep steal away
my secret tongue and ears
in the darkness
of my house
i seek
perfect vision clarity
within my own deaf silence
i strain to hear
syllables unspoken

ii

V

in a second of silence
raindrops pellet
the roof and walls
echoing off
the tin and glass and brick
like a verbal assault
that i cannot say i understand
though i would cross a sterile desert
or stand naked in a December snow
to gain that wisdom

and still
i don't understand
the intricate design
of raindrops rolling down my face at dawn
or the map of my vision against my skull
still
i have not learned the language of my quest

iii

so another day passes unceremoniously
while i sit like a fool
30

even as sunrays sneak past shadows
and i wake in a shower of falling stars and your
light caress
still
i have no words to say

31

Kateri Damm
Stray Bullets

Joshua Mskeeyosh
Journal
First Contact

my touch is a history book
full of lies and half-forgotten truths
written by others
who hold pens and power
my heart is a stray bullet
ricocheting in an empty room
my head was sold
for the first shiny trinket
offered
my beliefs were bought cheap
like magic potions at a travelling road show
with promises
everyone wants to believe
but only a fool invests in
my name was stolen
by bandits in black robes
my world was taken for a parking lot

Today we met with the white men in the blackrobes. They
showed us an object which we knew only as the four winds. When
we asked why the man was holding the four winds, they did not
answer. When we removed the man so the winds could blow free,
they became angry. The Chief blackrobe struck me for having
removed the man. This made my brothers angry and they struck
the blackrobe. The other blackrobes fled down the river with the
help of the strange speaking men.
We are sorry the Chief blackrobe was injured. We only
wanted to know ... why the man was on the cross?

Return of the Blackrobes
Late last evening the blackrobes came back. They have been
gone for two seasons. They return this early planting time with a
special gift for all of my people. The women are busy preparinghunters went out early and returned with much game. Tonight we
feast and dance. The blackrobes say they will give the gifts at that
time.
It is now after the feast and we are very sad and angry. The
blackrobes lied. Our women worked hard to prepare a feast. The
women put on their best dresses and the men their ceremonial best.
The blackrobes came and ate our food. Then they took our
drums, our rattles, our staffs. From each home they took the
medicines, the sacred items, our pipes - these they put into the fire.
They gave each of us a Black Book. This they said is all we need to
survive. Thisbookissmallandcold. Wecannoteatit,norwillitheat
the lodge.
How is this all we need?

The Book
Today the blackrobes gathered all the people they wanted
to talk of the book. The people are all sad, the old ones wish to die,
they do not want to be without their ways. The blackrobes say all
that is needed is in this book. They read about men of strange names
doing something we do not know. We ask what the men are doing
and are not told. We do not know how to beget.
32

33

Joshua Mskeeyosh

Joshua Mskeeyosh
All through this day they talk to us of the book. All the time .
others search our village for any sacred items they missed last night.
Mywomanisgood.Shetookmanyofmythingsawaylatelastnight.
She has put my things in a safe place. The Grandfathers have looked
with favour on me for she returned safe.
We listen but we are empty.

They say if a woman gives only female children we should l~ave her.
They say that we should not waste time teaching our female
children for they are not important.
We do not understand why we are not to teach our teachers.
We do not know why we are to strike our women, the Creators upon
our Mother the Earth. How can only one woman care for a lodge of
much work. Why are our female children less than our male
children?

Language Lessons
They are all gifts of the Creator.
The blackrobes have been here for a moon. Everyday they
gather us at their camp and tell us we must learn to speak as they
do. Our old ones do not like this. The old ones say they will speak
no more if the blackrobes insist they learn the other tongue. The
blackrobes punish our children if they speak in our tongue. The
children do not laugh as they did before the blackrobes' visit.
It is now close to time for harvest of the wild rice. The
blackrobes have made the people seem old. Some of the people have
learned the blackrobes' tongue. My woman has learned much but
only lets the blackrobes know a little. She has done this so she can
listen when they speak of plans for the children. She told me a boat
is coming to take the children to a school. It is to be good for the
children. They will be fed and warm through the cold months. This
school thing will help the children learn the blackrobes' tongue. The
children will return to us at planting time.

Shame of the Woman

The old ones are fearful, but the children will be warm and safe.

Today I write as a sad human being. My woman has come
to me with much pain. Over the warm season the blackrobes have
gathered the women many times. During these gatherings the
blackrobes have told our women how they should act toward their
men. They have told the women that only one woman can stay in a
lodge. They said each man must pick one wife and marry her with
the help of the blackrobe. They told the women that all of their
children have been born evil because their parents are not married
in the Creator's eyes. This makes the women sad. The blackrobes tell
the women they are dirty during their moon time, but they are not
to stop their work as they do now. The women are sad. They do not
understand how their gifts from the Creator are Evil and Dirty.
They do not want to stop living with their sisters. The women paint
their faces and hide.

Confession of the Men

Our strength is in hiding. What will happen to our people now?

We men have had many meetings with the blackrobes and the other
strange speaking boatmen. They tell us we should not let our
women push us around as we do. We should not allow our women
to speak in the open to us. Our women are not important; they are
our slaves.
We do not understand how the gentle creature that gave us
life is not important. We do not know why our respect for our
women is wrong. We do not know what is a slave.
They say we should beat our women if they do not work
hard. They say that we should have only one woman in our lodge.

Our old ones say if our women are shamed and broken so shall our
nations be.

Today the boat came. There were blackrobe women who
spoke with our women. They told our women that they would care
for our children at the school. These blackrobe women hid all of
their body with cloth. They seemed to have no hair and only skin on
their face and hands. These women were soft spoken and kind. Our

34

35

They Took Our Children

Joshua Mskeeyosh

Joshua Mskeeyosh

women agreed to let the children go for the cold months. Tomorrow
the children will leave, those from the age of the first hunt to our
young warriors.
.
Much sorrow is in our village today. The children all
dressed in their best boarded the boat with the blackrobes. There
was much crying from our women and the old ones. We men will
sweat tonight so we too can let the water flow. The village will !east
for a safe journey for our little ones. Soon the cold months will be
here, we will face it in our lodges, our children in a warm school. We
must look to the coming of the grasses; then too will our children
return.

lodge apart. We were told no more sweat lodges, no more dancing,
no more ceremonies or feasts. Our ways are evil. Only the way of the
book can happen. We must decide on one wife and only one. The
other women are to move out of our lodge. There is to be a book
marriage ceremony tomorrow. That day they call Sunday. From
tomorrow on every Sunday we are to gather for a book ceremony,
this Sunday is seven day breaks.
I know of our seven Grandfathers but I do not know which
one of them would be Sunday. They say each day break has a name.
and that Sunday is the most important. How can one Grandfather
be more important than the other? Each sent a life gift; which gift is
most important? I do not know.

Our old ones fear they will never see their Grandchildren again.
The blackrobe men will return with news at the next moon.

The blackrobes say they will tell us.

Winter

A New Moon
The blackrobes returned as our Grandmother turned her back for
her time. The women rushed for news of the children. They were
told the children are fine. The children cried during the trip but once
safe on land they calmed down. They told of the large wooden
building with beds and stoves where the children are living. They
said the children are happy. This news made our women smile. The
women prepare a feast for the blackrobes to show their joy.
The old ones are happy to hear the news but do not believe it. They
say men of good do not arrive when our Grandmother has her back
turned. They say men whoarriveatthistimemustbewatched. They
can slip in things our Grandmother moon would not like.
We listen to our old ones.

Ceremonies
Our old ones were right; all is not as the blackrobes have said.
Today we men were preparing a sweat. The blackrobes
questioned what it was for. We told them it was to be shared with
them for the news they brought. They became angry and tore the
36

This winter seems colder without the children. The blackrobes have been here very long and still they talk of the book. That
book just sits where once my pipe lay. My lodge is full but empty of
children. I have chosen one wife, but the others still live here as my
sisters. Many of our old ones have gone on, their hearts broken. We
could not put them to rest our way, but had to do as the book
instructed. We still speak our tongue when the blackrobes do not
hear. Most of the people have learned enough of the other tongue to
speak to the blackrobes. They still gather us on Sunday and talk
about the book. We still do not know which Grandfather is which.
They speak of a Christ and a Christ-child. They say we must
celebrate the Christ child's birthday with much joy. How can we
prepare a feast during this winter? We cannot waste so much on
only one meal. Our supplies are low, because we did not have the
young ones to help at harvest time. They say we can dance, sing and
celebrate this Christ child, but only with their songs and their board
with strings, which they stick under chin and rub on. It screams like
a scared owl. The old ones do not like this board.
They say we are to dance, but our feet are heavy. They say
we are to sing, but our voices do not come. They say we are to
celebrate but we cannot hear our mother, the earth's heartbeat.
Who is this Christ child?
37

Marie Annharte Baker

Joshua Mskeeyosh

Old Ones Speak
The old ones have been very quiet through this winter.
They grow weak without their medicines. They have listened to the
blackrobes' talk of the book. They still do not understand. The
medicine man and his woman do not visit others as they use to. Nor
do many visit them. The blackrobes do not like the medicine man
and his woman because they still speak our tongue and sing our
songs.
The old ones have called a meeting at my lodge. It is to be
only our people. The blackrobes are not to know.
The old ones spoke tonight of the many things they have
heard. They told again our story of creation, they told of the
women's moon and the sweatlodge. They spoke so we would not
forget. They again warned us of the firewater and what it will do to
our people. They spoke of their dislike of the day, Sunday, where
they must take the firewater. They gave warnings to our people of
dangers to come. They spoke of the strangers who will visit, that we
know well.

Put On My Mask For A Change
See the stripe that divides my face in two.
A vermilion dot marks the tip of my nose.
Take this ancient advice and face up to me.
This is not some recent ritual I picked up.
My beloved cave sister let us dab mud together.
Let us meet at the creek to apply the clay.
Make our healing salves original cosmetics.
Anoint bites, scratches, bumps and lumps.
We then wouldn't mistake each other for ugly.
Let us take back ceremonies to paint our skins.
You be my Zingu mother designing my face.
I the Zingu daughter lift my face from the water.
Then you, then me, take turns smiling Jaguar.
The comers above your lips curl in laughter.
Under healing masques we are twinning spirits.
We are masks within each other holding out.
Whatever we must face is in the winking eye.

They cried, the old men cried.

38

39

_

.......

Joy Harjo

Wayne Keon
House Of Panthers

Storm Dancer
untilyou
become the dancer
again
storm dancer
climbing
around in the
lightening
and thunder
drum pounding
everywhere

sun
falls
down
in front
ofyou
and cloud
gathers up
darkness
beneath your hand

until
there's no
difference
anymore

reaches
out to where
you now stand

you can't
tell anymore
difference
between the black
storm dancer
and raven

and thunder
crackles up from
the horizon
starts to run
and dances
dances
a wild jig
bobbin around
with a crazy
wind it's
partner
howling
and dipping

flyin
and flyin
and crashin
and flyin
in the wind
and rain

black hair
flying
everywhere

40

This morning the panther of heavens peers over the edge of
the world at the perfect end. She sees the stars blessing the sun and
moon, and my love washing the lean darkness with the water
electrified by these prayers.
All over the world someone is waking, someone is sleeping.
My granddaughter sleeps on the breast of her mother with milk on
her mouth. A fly contemplates the sweetness of lactose. Her father
approaches the red hills of hozhoni and they recognize him and
sing for him. Her mother has business in the house of chaos where
prophets sleep. They walk and talk of war in the valley of Arabic
sandstorms. Some are lifted to the heavens by rainclouds to partake
of a memory of wings and beautiful thunder. Others are led by deer
and antelope of mist in the wistful hours to the villages of their
ancestors. There they eat cornmeal cooked with berries that stain
their lips with purple while the tree oflife flickers in the sun, the sun
who knows the true history of earth, beloved earth.
It's October when the world tilts toward the northern star
and all things northern. On the street lit by false yellow are travellers
searching for home. Some have been drinking and intimate with
strangers in their sweaty masks. Others, escapees from the night
shift, sip the last bit of lukewarm coffee, shift gears to the other side
of darkness. Oh baby, what would I do without you. A woman
stopped at the light, turns over a worn tape to the last chorus of a
whispering blues. She has decided to live. The stars clap, as do the
half-asleep flowers, prickly pear and Chinaberry tree who drink
exhaust into their roots, into the earth. She guns the light to home
where her children are asleep and may never know she ever left.
That their fate took a tum in the land of nightmares towards the sun
may be untouchable knowledge. It is a sweet sound.
The panther who thinks she dreamed me puts my head
between her paws and dreams of a house of panthers and the seven
steps to heaven.

41

Tracey Bonneau
Death Mummer

My Name Is Lucy
It's welfare day
but I gotta find Lucy
maybe she's down
East Hastings
so I truck down
cracked streets
marked by stinking
sidewalks
covered in vomit
smelling like piss
lots of indians
everywhere
eyes like dads
looking for
a vodka sandwich
the kids never
ate yet
make them a
roach submarine
or how about
a beer soup
lots of indians here
gotta find Lucy

Jeannette Armstrong

his smile
is venomous
his teeth sparkled
like crystals
of cocaine
blinking towards
Okalla prison
stick around honey
my bottles want
to break you
my needles want
to suck you
my violence wants
to kill you
I trucked on
further
knowing that
there are lots
of Lucys
down here
the trouble is
she probably
can't even
find herself.

42

Yesterday I walked
by Thunderbird Park.
Tonight
With blood stained fingers,
I remove my mask,
I think
walk
past garish totem-painted store fronts,
down avenues that echo.
There are no Indians here.
None
even in the million dollar museum
that so carefully preserves
their clothing, their cooking utensils
their food;
for taxpayers
from all over
to rush their children by.
There are some good Indians
hanging around Kings hotel
and they are dead,
preserved in alcohol.
It would be neater though
to kill us all at once.
Whole clans and tribes
could be dressed and stuffed.
Add a fifth floor to the museum
to accommodate us.
Better yet
pile us up like cordwood
in those longhouses
we would be home at last
and it would be good value.

43

Columpa Bobb

Jeannette Armstrong

The Native Experience
I walk slowly and think back.
I stagger under
the raw
hide pack
that I carry,
and the clever mask that I have fashioned
for myself,
from the bones and skin
of my dead tribe
and dipped in the fresh blood
of my brothers and sisters
scooped from old battle streets
near hotels.

BREATH TRACKS
by
JEANNETTE ARMSTRONG
"Speaking to newcomers in their language is dangerous
for when I speak
history is a dreamer
empowering thought
from which I awaken the imaginings of the past
bringing the sweep and surge of meaning
coming from a place
rooted in the memory loss....."
THREADS OF MEMORY
The writings of Jeannette Armstrong who is an Okanagan Indian is eloquent,
forceful and innovative. Her tone is clear, her stance honest, her words
shimmer in beauty.
This book of poems tracks with words the lives, pain and resilience of Native
peoples and their long memoried past.
Jeannette Armstrong, novelist, poet, children's story writer, and educator lives
in Penticton, B.C.

What is the Native experience?
One might say that itis to be a person who at birth is given the power
of tolerance, generosity and the knack for being naive with a pure
and innocent forgiving heart. To have instilled in one by one's gods
a cosmically spiritual and natural bond with this Earth we so
harmoniously walk upon.
Another might say that it is the unspeakable horror of watching
beaten and silenced parents pickle themselves in alcohol and send
their children out every last Wednesday of the month to walk
barefoot downtown through broken glass, bird-shit and perverts to
a welfare office clerk who will, wearing a pearly white smile, grant
a government approved piece of paper that would unconditionally
guarantee their parents another forty litres of immature vinegar.
What is the Native experience?
One might say that it is to have the "lnjun-uity" that the Natives
have had since the early days of this proud country, enabling them
to sustain themselves with their simple, but thrifty usage of such
nifty trinkets as bows and arrows, woven baskets, and soft furry
blankets. Or that it is myths and fairy tales that have kept a people
carefree and happy even to this day.
Another might say that it is to sleep, eat, and breathe the undying
death that has crippled the right to life. Or that it is to descend and
disintegrate into the bottomless pit of the seemingly everlasting
cycle of imperialistic and racial domination; to be gawked at but
never seen, and heard but never listened to.

(Written at age 14)

TOORDER:

TITLE:
AUTHOR:

ISBN:

Breath Tracks
Jeannette Armstrong
0-88795-096-5

44

45

Bruce Chester

Columpa Bobb
Scream The Ages Of Pain Away

The Hungry Moon

Wicked laughter lashes out
It holds me tight
like a vice
squeezing, crushing, choking, killing

Itis winter
the snows fly
in the wake of
passing cars
as I learn what
it is like
to be hungry
to be alone
in the vast emptiness
that stretch out
into unimaginable
distances from
both sides
of a Prairie road
taking its emptiness
into my soul
into my bones
wrapped in a red
blanket I dream
of fat sizzling on
my fingertips
on my tongue
and I am hesitant
to awaken
from the dream
I have so carefully
woven to protect
myself from
the too real nightmare
that I walk through
with open eyes.

I can't breathe
I mask my face to hide the pain
This laughter, so haughty and cruel
rips through me
Virgin winds
can not know the pleasure
of seeing my dignity
defaced
I scream
I scream
loud and long in raging agony
at nothing
Iron grips crush the life in my heart
smothering screams alive inside
Let me scream atop mountains
and below on ocean floors
Let me scream
Let me hold the world in my crying hands
envelope her in my pain
With the world I shall scream
the ages of pain away
ripping the wicked laughter of silence
from sacred life denied
I shall scream buried shame away
The fantasy of passing
through a peace-filled dream turned reality
leaves concrete scars of suicide
haunting like a fireside tale

46

47

Allen Delete

Barb Frazer

Toll Free Number

Pock Marked People

Can you believe the rage,
....... stretched to the limits of sanity,
pulsing madly like the river,
..... neverending.

It's not
just bows
and arrows
tommyhawks
and feathered
lances
or war cries
that pierce
the heart

Times are tough for people without
.... direction.
Insurrection is on the move,
like a speeding bullet piercing
.... the heart.
Each day passes, confused generations,
... spawned on the seeds of greed.
My heart soars, tantamount,
choreographed violence striking the soul
.....of the downpressor.
Roots movement coursing blood,
pockets of cultural entities realizing earth's answer, ..... righteous
and true.
Patterns of discontent begin to form
.... like wind strafed sands.
Insurgency, counter-insurgency,
....oceans of tidal waves wrought by centuries
of genocidal god fearing inundation
....Be saved
Call our toll free number

I
feel
the shame
but what
did Ido
more of me
stands behind
that
primitive
regalia
lam reduced
below
society's
value
my skin colour
will soil
the business
lam of
more use
in the
back
though in front
I am only there
to show
fair play

48

no braids
adorn
my breasts
a good Indian
is pressed
and clean
they have
tried
to save my
heathen soul

it is the
age of
awareness
yet again
closer to
the earth
second time generation

Indian print
is the
in thing
you can find me
· I have rolls
in line
of it
at the food bank
hidden under
with my hand held my spring
out
bed
in return
down on your knees lam
prayers
a road blocker
for nothing
lam
is free
the tax payer's problem
lam
you can
society's
tell when
noisemaker
you're on Indian
land
the ruts are
skin deep
we area
pockmarked
people

49

Ray Williams

Judith Mountain-Leaf Volborth
Alongside The Highway

Beyond Death

Alongside the highway
lying in a snowdrift
empty wine bottles,
glass shards,
beer cans and
a gaunt, blue nosed Coyote
pondering
what death might teach him.

i was there but was soon returned
i saw life spawned in ponds
visualizing endless drones of tones
and with me were droves of ghosts
wailing hymns by the creek
near the mountains
by the skyline it serves loyally
fields of waist high grass
gave my soul the new feeling to wonder
gave me the creed to concede
gave me my birth in death
gave me the power to pursue
gave me the strength through and through
i was there and saw great kingdoms
reveal screaming eternity
i saw molecules in beautified rainstorms
i saw its thriving evolution
i saw possibilities in all forms
i saw a morning arrive with no warning
i saw the creation of midnight
with its colours all golden blue
i was finally infinite i could search
to find what could have been mine
i was in death within its cradled soul
ready to unwind and unfold
i was there and it wasn't a dream
i was there knowing where i've been
but now i'm returned to the world of material things
and i long to return back to death
and all the fulfilment it did bring.

50

51

Geraldine M. Manossa

Geraldine M. Manossa

I Know Who Charlie Is
(after reading Chrystos': "I Was Over on the Res")

Desert Island
lonely landscape wet by rain
storm laments mountain heart
anxiety pulsated by hail storm
inner being tom apart
thrown against awaiting cliff
inside
past sheltered through reflection
echoed outward
worn by external wind
i too am fragile

i have seen him

he sits and sleeps on benches in front of confectionaries
surrounded by walls crumbled with graffiti with no hope of
restoration a period in the past that fills pages with
colour so pleasing that rich people can make themselves feel
useful and buy collect art

internal hell fire
exhausted from flesh burnt to bone
fire in throat scorched by salt
valley of water becomes ocean
ash in hand
coals simmer
rage through piercing eyes
bucket lowered into well
scraped along stone's darkness
i drink water from clouds
numb my thirst from hovering heat
stranded my feet walk on warm sand
grains sink with each step i take forward

in a glance our eyes draw toward one another
years of pain pour and we do not have to act proud
nothing to prove no white people in sight
Charlie squints though no sun shines
Charlie points out his garden
it is a highway
white lines pave over his power to satisfy his hunger for
miles and miles over hills, mountains and along prairies
he is Charlie
hi Charlie
he could have been warrior in another time
he waits his tum at a soup kitchen in silence
he eats though he is not hungry
it is not his choice
times of nourishment are set accordingly
form a single line Charlie
Charlie remembers hunting
he remembers snow up to his waist
winter mornings with his uncle and father
he smiles and
unfolds prairie chicken tail fans
until it flies back to memory
he wore mukluks to balance his feet on earth
a surface between him and mother
he remembers the women who embraced him
until he could walk alone
and who supported him while he explored
beyond the limits of the reserve to city bars

tears escape my eyes
into sea
travelling
quickly against the wind
i remain in the sun
surrounded by water
ready to intersperse
with other islands

52

53

Curtis "Shingoose" Johnie

Geraldine M. Manossa

Reservation Blues - A Song
corning home drunk
they still loved him
they still accepted him
he remembers these same beautiful heart women
skinning moose and slowly cooking meat
smoke burning eyes
laughter from teasing
children playing excited
and the treat of moose meat and lard
where are the women
where are his uncles
where are his brothers
where are the moose
his mukluks are buried somewhere in lost gardens
dotted lines confuse him and me
six feet deep is not far enough
i have seen him
Charlie

Left all my family back on the Rez
Been gone so long I don't know
who I is
How did I get myself into such a
mess?
Life in the city, caught in the race
I'd give it all up for a slower pace
But when I get blue it's all I can
do
Those Reservation Blues

Chorus:
I got those Reservation Blues
Traded my moccasins for those
whiteman shoes
I got both feet in two canoes
I've got the Reservation Blues
Assimilation is all I hear
This life I'm living ain't nowhere
near
The one my grandfathers
Lived for a thousand years
Life in a conflict, caught in a
swirl
Trying to live the best of both
worlds
But when I get blue it's all I can
do
Those Reservation Blues
I got those Reservation Blues
Traded my moccasins for those
whiteman shoes
I got both feet in two canoes
I've got the Reservation Blues.
(repeat refrain)

54

55

Norman LaRue

Norman LaRue

A long time ago, according to legend, an eagle got bored
with living in isolation, so he said to his eagless, "This is a damned
dull life - I'm tired of this togetherness, just the two of us always
together."
So he began to think. He would assemble and organize all
the winged creatures and live like a king.
He decided to call his bright idea 'Bird Self-Government.'
What a clever idea! His grandiose scheme would give him recognition
all over the animal.world.
He made up an agenda for a Bird Summit. He would have
a referendum, and reach a consensus, no less.
What a melee this conference created. What confusion!
Never had eagle seen anything like it. Birds-of-all-feathers converged
f~om every direction. Birds kept talking louder and louder. Big
birds were screeching their opinions. Little birds screamed their
counter- opinions. Ancient birds muttered to Big-Bird-In-The-Sky.
And young birds kept strutting and preening and making eyes at all
the g~-looking chicks. Throughout this, Grouse, a traditionalist,
kept trying to exhibit his culture by doing a rendition of Crow Hop.
Passions were flaring. Birds were hyperventilating. And no
Sergeant-At-Arms was there to bring order to this chaos. But the
eagle was impressed, nonetheless, with the one positive note: no
birds broke the law ... probably because there were no laws!
Presently the racket died down. Birds-of-a-feather-flockedtogether in think tanks to discuss the price they would pay for their
Bird Self-Government Rights and Freedoms.
Next, eagle formed a skeleton Shadow Cabinet in his mind.
He summoned the hawks and owls and said to them. "Get all the
winged creatures together again, I want to talk to them some more."
He wanted to reach an Accord and introduce legislation about
"existing Bird rights" and its "notwithstanding" clause.
The hawks and owls flew off in different directions. First,
they rounded up a bunch of Crows, herded them in and registered
them. The loons organized into a brass marching band; and the
Raven, not because he was a thief, was given the only other key besides the one eagle had - to the treasury. In the end, the eagle had
set up an infrastructure that he was truly proud of.

But scarcely had these Self-Government Birds put their bylaws into effect when they realized that something important was
missing. For a long time, they puzzled their Bird-brains over what
it was. Finally, it stared them right in their Bird-faces! In every
creature's establishment, the Arts and Sciences are always represented;
the eagle's had neither.
To make a long story short, the Birds started pestering and
pleading their cause to the eagle. He listened intently to the report
on the necessity of introducing itto the debates. But he just couldn't
understand it at all. So he sat there clacking and looking down his
beak at the others. Humph!
After mulling this over, owl was called in for a second
opinion. He affirmed that the Arts and Sciences should be introduced
into the infrastructure. Life would then be made interesting for the
eagles.
No sooner said then done. The next day, a renaissance
started in the establishment.
And thus, a limited form of Bird Self-Government was a
fait accompli. It was entrenched.
But there was an over-riding feeling from the first day that
all this commotion about Rights and Culture would come to a
speedy and ungracious end; apparently these premonitions were
well founded. The real problems began when eagle stipulated that
he would listen to all the Chicken Littles who were chattering "the
sky is falling, the sky is falling".
Itwas plain to everybody that the renaissance was drawing
~o a close.Up ahead they could see the darkness of ignorance, with
its attendant companions, social and economic problems of all
kinds.
In a month's time, not a single trace of the renaissance
remained. And, so, in order to clear themselves of any responsibility,
the eagles expediently put all the blame on Enlightenment. SelfGovernment, they said, is no doubt useful, but our grandfathers got
along without it, so can we.
Self-Government had run its course.
The infrastructure dwindled. There remained only the
eagle and eagless, while in the distance was a horde of Crows who
kept on multiplying shamelessly.

56

57

Self-Government: A Parody

Norman LaRue
The eagle was at a loss for what to do.
At that moment, history itself stepped up its flow in order
toputan end to all this turmoil. Something extraordinary happened.
The Crows, noticing that they had been left untended, suddenly
wondered: "Let's see. What did the Elders say on the subject?" But
before they could rightly remember, the whole horde instinctively
took off and flew away. The eagle tried to pursue them, but it was
nogo.
He turned to his wife and said, "Let this be a lesson to all
eagles!"
But just what he meant by the word 1esson', in this case whether Self-Government was bad for eagles, or eagles were bad
for the other, or both at once - wasn't clear.

58

Drew Taylor
Strawberries
"What will be next?"
We'd been asking each other that question for the last two
hours and it still brought deep thought and even deeper study of the
drink menu. As was our yearly ritual, me and Joby Snowball were
blowing our first paycheck of the season on absolutely nothing
worthwhile. It was a time honoured tradition we loyally kept. I had
started a new job for the summer at the Band Office, Day Camp and
Regatta coordinator for all the little ankle biters of the village. It was
work on the Reserve, therefore no income tax, and close to home so
I could save more money for the next year of college.
Joby's paycheck was different than mine. We had grown up
together, played together, chased girls together, and even caught a
few together, but in many ways we had drifted apart. I did the
collegiate thing while he remained on the Reserve and did odd jobs,
mostly seasonal things. During the winter he'd plow and sand the
roads, put up storm windows, things like that, while I was off in the
city eating Italian food that he'd never heard of. But every summer
I'd come home, he'd still be there, and we'd try to pick up where we
left off.
This summer Joby was groundkeeping for the baseball
diamond and the cemetery, life and death, cheering and quiet,
action and peace. In many ways, the contradictions in his job sort of
reflected our relationship.
That is how we found ourselves sitting at Charley's, an
upscale bar in downtown Peterborough. I had gotten my first
paycheck that day, not nearly enough money for looking after two
dozen little Indians that evidently believed in human sacrifice.
Meanwhile Joby had received his from the day before and despite
tremendous temptation, it was still firmly lodged in his back pocket.
Until today, that is.
When we were younger, we'd spend our first check on
movies, comics, toys, food and various other things of no great or
lasting importance. And like clockwork, our mothers would chew
us out, like it would have some sort of effect or something, for
wasting our money.

59

Drew Taylor

Drew Taylor

And gradually as we got older, our tastes changed. The
comic books gradually changed into other magazines of questionable quality. And if our mothers ever found out about some of the
magazines we spent good money on, we would've received more
than a lecture.
"Well, what do you think?", Joby asked again.
I couldn't decide. We were having a drinking contest. I was
showing off, ordering all sorts of interesting yet bizarre drinks I had
learned aboutduringmy brief excursion into the equally interesting
and bizarre Caucasian world. Joby on the other hand was matching
me exotic drink for exotic drink, having watched many a soap opera
movie. We had just finished a Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred. I
believe Joby had picked that up in a movie or something.
We had been there two hours but we were by no means
drunk by any measure. Joby was a beer person, and I still had an
affinity for Rye, the liquor I was weaned on. So with all these new
liquors, we were taking it slow and carefully, as all scientists do
with their experiments. So far we had tried White Russians, Black
Russians, Brandy Alexanders, Sea Breezes, Singapore Slings (We
thought how international we were being).
Now the ball was in my court. "How about a Strawberry
Daiquiri? I hear they're pretty good."
"The hell they are. My strawberry days are over, pick another one."
"What do you got against strawberry daiquiris?"
He looked at me for a moment. I could tell he was remembering. Not the kind of memory that follows a story line or pattern,
the sort you see in the movies, but the kind that brings back a
random series of emotions, and experiences. Sort of like having a
pail of water suddenly dumped on you. Judging by the look on
Joby's face, the water was cold.
"You were lucky," he said, "all through high school you got
to work at the band office. Ten minutes walk from home, air
conditioning, and a chair. You forget whatl did all those summers."
Then I remembered. The fields.
"For Three goddamned years I picked strawberries. I'd
come home with my hands stained blood red, my back ready to
break. A sixteen year old shouldn't have back problems, it ain't
right. When I turned seventeen, I swore I'd never pick another
strawberry in my life, or eat one, or look at one, or think of one."

That's the way it used to be when we were young. Local
farmers would send in these huge flat bed trucks to our Reserve to
pick up local Indian kids to pick strawberries, we used to be like
those migrant workers except we weren't migrant. The rookies
would gorge themselves on the berries for aboutthe first three days,
but then the novelty would soon wear off. Picking strawberries was
on the low end of the totem pole when it came to jobs. Most of my
uncles and aunts at one time or another picked strawberries, they
referred to it as "paying dues". But by the time our generation
arrived, Pick Your Own Strawberries were coming into vogue for
~uppies, all that health and get back to nature stuff white people
hke, so Joby was one of the last group of kids to be hired in our area.
"One time, my sister had her room wall papered with that
cartoon character, I think her name was Strawberry Shortcake. I
coulda killed her. There were strawberries all over her room," he
was getting excited, all over. "I think that was her way of making
sure I never went into her room. I had nightmares for a week.
Andrew, to this day I've never eaten a strawberry or even touched
one. To me they're the devil's own food. Now for God's sake, pick
another drink."
!
Nodding my head sympathetically (it's easy to be sympathetic in a bar), I ordered grasshopper. We were quiet for the next
little while, the spirit of our outing having been spoiled by the berry
from Hell.
We tried to recapture the spirit of our outing but the
moment had been lost. We had a few more drinks then went on our
separate ways. As he walked away, I realized how much I missed
the closeness we had shared as kids. No amount of this new age
"male bonding" can ever come close to two fourteen year olds
trying to convince our female Day Camp counsellors to go skinny
dipping with us. And I couldn't even swim.
It was two days later that I heard the news. There would be
no more drinking contests, no more summer reunions, no more
berry horror stories. Joby was dead. He'd been hit by a produce
truck at the Farmers' market in town. His mother, Winnie, always
used to send him in to do some early shopping.
The village went into shock. I went into shock. He had been
my best friend, nothing could take that away from us. Life would go
on for me but not for Joby.

60

a

61

Drew Taylor

Drew Taylor

The wake was held two days later. I went to see Joby, lying
there so peacefully, wearing the scarlet coloured tie he always
hated. His head was framed in red satin. He looked healthier and
wealthier dead then he ever did alive.
Afterwards we all went to his mother's place. Everybody
was meeting there and bringing food, something I could never
understand since nobody ever felt like eating. All I could find to
bring was a bucket of chicken from you-know-where. Poor Winnie,
she never slowed down for a minute. Playing the perfect hostess,
she refused to let anybody help her as she put out dishes, set out the
food, even wash the odd set of dishes. My aunt said it was her way
of dealing with the grief.
I looked across the table laden with food. There were about
thirty people in the house, and everybody had brought something
so the table was sagging under the weight. Everywhere there was
food of every description, casseroles, salads, chicken, apple, pumpkin, and strawberry pies.
I sometimes wonder about the irony of the universe, but as
my Grandmother would say, "who am I to decide what is ironic,
that's for God and English teachers to decide".
That night I ate my fill, somewhat guiltily enjoying the
strawberry pie but my perpetually dieting sister reassured me that
food and guilt always go together. Pretty soon I left for home, I had
to get up early the next morning to fulfil an obligation and do my
last favour for Joby.
Since Joby had looked after the cemetery, and then died, it
left an interesting vacuum. But in my community it was considered
an honour, albeit sad honour, to be asked to dig a grave for a
particular family. So oddly enough Joby had never dug an actual
grave, something he was very grateful for. So I found myself at the
gravesite, shovel in hand, and a lead weight in my heart.
It took me a moment to psyche myself up, this is not a thing
one normally learns about in school. I'd dug many holes in my life
but none eight feet by four feet. But digging that hole made me think
about Joby, all the paychecks we had planned on cashing in the
future, and all the fancy drinks there were left to discover. Something again made me think about the food last night, and Joby's
consuming hatred of strawberries. I thought of my Grandmother
too and wondered if God had a sense of humour.

A little over an hour and a half passed before I finished.
Digging a grave in a ground moraine is a real pain, every six or
seven inches there was a rock, sometimes a huge mother of a rock,
sometimes a whole bunch of rocks. But I managed to pull it off,
limiting me to only three pulled muscles. It barely gave me enough
time to get home for a shower and a change of clothes before the
funeral. Joby always hated suits and he was being buried in the only
one he had ever owned, the one his mother had bought him for high
school graduation eight years before.
The funeral went well, as well as funerals can go. It was a
good turnout; his mother appreciated all the extra mourners. The
minister said some nice words about a boy that never went to
Church, as Joby lay quietly in the coffin, reminding me he was
slightly claustrophobic too.
It took me less than a third of the time to fill in the grave. The
only company I had was the lonely sound of rocks and dirt hitting
the casket, and that gradually disappeared. Before long I was padding the dirt down solidly but gently. I stood there for a moment,
looking at the gravesite, saying a quiet goodbye to my friend, and
coming to a conclusion. By then I had decided that God did indeed
have a sense of humour. As I turned to leave, I was careful not to
step on some tiny white flowers no bigger than a dime that littered
the area around the grave.
They reminded me wild strawberry season was just around
the corner.

62

63

Armand Gamet Ruffo

Forrest A. Funmaker
Let's Get Ready

On The Line

"Good evening Ladiees and Gentlemen
Let's get ready tooo RUM-M-M-M-BLE!
Among the brothers we say, "This is Heaven"
And stagger away,·
A fist held high,
Carrying a football shaped wine jug
Thru all the bar rooms and bingos
A sigh goes thru the crowd
God makes the final call, "Let's drink em' up"
Back in the alley,
Among the broken glass and rubbers
A touchdown is scored
And we collapse in unknown fields
Our faces gutted
Urine dripping off our cut lips
A busted cheek and SA black shoes
Our white sox are exposed
But for how long?
Our saliva droools
past the grains of sand
Past drought strickkken
deserts of time
And bake into a glazzzed
surface of vomit
So round, the upside down
Pyramid lake spins
Fishes float underneath,
Underneath our breath
Waving so long and goood luck

Sign sign on the dotted line
and you will be mine forever
and ever,
like the mountains
and the lakes, the sky
the soil
and everything I take.

Some sober sister slaps us
''Wake up you silly fool." Hell has got to stop
The bed creaks - our backs crack
The buckles on our belts never buckle
Instead we wear suspenders and walk Scarecrow style
Along moving concrete escalators
Into one highrise welfare office to another
Shifted,sifted, and stiffed by a number
We stand as two-by-four's would
And have our detox pictures taken for the yearbook
64

-

I will supply you with all
of your needs: a school,
a bible,
a blanket,
rations and beads.
If you can't understand me
don't worry
or whine
just heed what I say:
What is yours is mine.
So sign on the line, what more
can be said, my word
is law, you have nothing
to dread.

You can't resist so don't
even try, I have cannons
and armies
and cities and spies.
Oh, yes, I do have a home
it is far far away
but I like what I see
and I've decided
to stay.

65

Alootook lpellie

Armand Gamet Ruffo
8 o'clock Monday Morning

Walking Both Sides of an Invisible Border
It is never easy

Cracked sunlight leaks
through a pane of glass
filling the measured hour.
I slip a red necktie
overmyhead
and pull it tight
(as if this
must be done).
The silky noose
extends from me
like an extra tongue

Walking with an invisible border
Separating my left and right foot
I feel like an illegitimate child
Forsaken by my parents
At least I can claim innocence
Since I did not ask to come
Into this world
Walking on both sides of this
Invisible Border
Each and every day
And for the rest of my life
Is like having been
Sentenced to a torture chamber
Without having committed a crime
Understanding the history of humanity
I am not the least surprised
This is happening to me
A non-entity
During this population explosion
In a miniscule world
I did not ask to be born an Inuk
Nor did I ask to be forced
To learn an alien culture
With an alien language
But I lucked out on fate
Which I am unable to undo

"Shadow Dance #2"
Silvergelatin Print
by Glenda}. Guilmet

66

I have resorted to fancy dancing
In order to survive each day
No wonder I have earned
The dubious reputation of being
The world's premiere choreographer
Of distinctive dance steps
That allow me to avoid
Potential personal paranoia
On both sides of this invisible border
67

Alootook Ipellie
Sometimes this border becomes so wide
That I am unable to take another step
My feet being too far apart
When my crotch begins to tear apart
I am forced to invent
A brand new dance step
The premiere choreographer
Saving the day once more
Destiny acted itself out
Deciding for me where I would come from
And what I would become
So I am left to fend for myself
Walking in two different worlds
Trying my best to make sense
Of two opposing cultures
Which are unable to integrate
Lest they swallow one another whole
Each and every day
Is a fighting day
A war of raw nerves
And to show for my efforts
I have a fair share of wins and losses
When will all this end
This senseless battle
Between my left and right foot

Colleen Fielder
MetisWoman
Metiswoman
alone and angry
still
Your genes seed no contentment
in the child yet unborn
Your taut nerves waiting
the fill of an empty cup
Priestess of the wild
challenging anywhere
the homeless ones
the curious
the men
of all kinds
Seekers who leave
their mark on you
Better to run than face them
or stay becoming weaker
Restless journeys take you
many places
escaping a lot of ways
here and there
Metis woman alone
midst all the faces
No Indian nor other forbear
could understand your fear
or pride or pain
The way you drifted
waiting for the rain

When will the invisible border
Cease to be

68

69

Mary Lou Cecile DeBassige

Beth Cuthand
The Anglais, They Say

Testimonial

In the voice of Louis Riel

She looked White
whitewash
neatly picket fence
enclosure
She could easily
pass for White woman
She could even pass
for cover girl
playboy magazine
someone's material
world

The anglais they say
I am crazy
The francophone

and

the Metis.

But you
old man
Why do you smile?
Because you are gifted Louis
with second sight
Butyou
They
you
You
who drifts

like me

are not a man.
do not perceive
as such.
are a savage
over crosses

and churches
and votive candles.
Louis. learn to use this gift.
Smoke your pipe and wear your sash.
If I am gifted
as you say
Why?
do you
allow me
to suffer?
Why?
do you turn
into silent
wings
that disappear
in the night?

Even her facial features
delicately fine
In spite of it all
She kept a low profile
The finest hairdo
she arranged her tassels
Piled high in neat buns
braids inside hair nets
Her bluest eyes would make
sure she appeared just right
to meet every white social
function in her best
Expensive dresses of latest
fashion filled
wardrobe
of finest taste
Into stylish hats of sturdy
felt and straw
All fit neatly on her crown

This maiden who had so much
She had it all to give
One day she was called home
leave she did her
high fashioned world
Back to the reservation home
To help look after younger
brothers and sisters
do farm chores task
One day while fetching cows
these cows who decided to
roam a swampy area
She got raped by negative forces
disguised as Native men
"They attacked me
hurt me real bad
they ganged up on me"
She had to answer
when she was questioned
by her only illegitimate child
Years later when curiosity
took its toll
It's no wonder for now
this grown girl child
was so often beaten
up by her own mother
The many questions why
of her childhood
without a father
growing up in wonder
remembers that once
her mother looked
so beautiful in photographs

Only a very pretty picture
could expression fulfil
70

71

Duane E. Marchand

Mary Lou Cecile DeBassige
Where is Your Pride Redman?

She did not look
at all like her mother
Today this woman child
could never hate the white race
Today this woman child
could never hate the red race

Where is your pride red man?
I ask this question because I am Red and I feel little pride.
There can be no pride in corning from a family with a beaten mother
and emotionally battered children. There is a fear that this behaviour is instilled in me, like, that's how life is. There is fear that the
children will discover that stash of 'feel good medicine" of yours
and drink until they become violently ill or dead. Family members,
uncles, cousins, nephews, you know, have gone down in defeat,
gone down in convulsions of poisoned spirits. But, their spirit was
dead before they were physically dead, I know. Their eyes told the
story. The windows to their souls were clouded over, murky,
shallow, repulsive. The family pride extinguished. Their burnt out
bodies, pickled brains, aged beyond their years.
Theirs is not pride in the longevity of our family; longer life
would only mean the extended agony of shame. For them there is no
pride.
The old pictures, Morn'saunt and uncle, Johhny Long Pants
and his wife, show a hard life but that's how it was in the old dayshard. But they had pride and a desire to live. And Sternteerna, God
damn it you were old. I thought you would never die. I was proud
of you, the oldest person I had ever known, I thought you would
never die. I was proud because there was only one old lady who
knew who you were, knew who our family was. Our family showed
little respect to your words, unfortunately, because the ugliness
continued.
Maybe they thought you were just a run down old girl with
no wind left in her sails. I don't know their reason but they should
still have listened to you, Stemteerna.
We, the children, should have stayed out of that "feel good
medicine" cause it's bad but we still drank it, ritually. Collecting
that DIA or welfare cheque was a ritual, too, but that money never
went into positive use. The only ritual I can remember was the
"ritual process of charcoal treated and distilled to perfection," thing
I read on the bottle. Do the producers and distillers of this fine
beverage have the right to cause perfect rage and hatred in my
family? I don't think so. This shit has been going on since I was a
baby. I'm almost thirty and the cycle, the pattern continues. The

Yet honestly she
silently hurts at times
especially when she's alone

72

73

Duane E. Marchand
booze, the fights, the cheques, the booze, the fights, the ch~ues.
One person dies in this scheme of things and another is born
into it. This process makes no sense at all. Why give birth to a child
who may never have a chance to live, to be proud of who he or s~e
is and who their family is? When this child feels threatened his
instinct is to lash out in violence, beat another child. And later on in
life when the going gets tough, they don't get going, they go
drinking, doping or whoring, just because they can.
.
The images of slovenly dressed, ill-kempt, vomit scented
Native men and women strewn on the grass of Oppenheimer Park
or yelling obscenities to each other in the Kai, National or Coldstream makes my heart pump acid and not my proud r:d blood.
But, that's only part of it. I look at these people and see me JUSt a few
short years from now, and it's disturb_i~g, revolting. !he whole
pathetic process, the degradation, the smcide rate, the pnson population, the process of elimination only solidifies and deepens my
shame.
This is a very sophisticated method of destroying the spirit.
By using alcohol, drugs and racism,_ society's wis? to divide us. By
controlling the economy, the momes and fundmg governments
wish to debilitate us.
And by assimilation, sheer numbers and military power
their wish is to destroy our spirit.
They've tried, perhaps too hard, to w~pe us out ~s a race, but
they can't; Native people have never and will never di~. We h~ve
caught on to their way of thinking and now it's worki~g agamst
them. We still grow in the face of a culture that wants to wipe us out.
I look back at my short life and I see the decay, the chaos, I see that
the foundations of the family structure, the family tree, has been
levelled or by todays terms "clearcut'' and it hurts my feelings, but
I know that they can bum the family branches until they are
unrecognizable but deep, deep down the family roots hold firm.

74

J.B. Joe
Gladys Johnson (1930-1976)
I
sidestepping miles of broken glass
streams wind endlessly to my feet
batbones spread fragment wings around empty eyes
empty save for silent scream
of ravens
Gladys Johnson shivers on the hot pavement
avoiding the sound reliving the parting shots
of slavedriving paperpushman
into the glass menagerie crawls a name
mine
I soundlessly scream with empty eyes
drown
in the endless stream
II

Arabesque figures placed in forgotten corners
of a courtroom cell
listening gods
paperpushman letting my name crawl across a page
legal document
Gladys goes to the front of the line
Ward of the Court left to avoid the parting shots
III

Nestled in a cool, mudpacked midden
are the remaining fragment bones
screaming from empty eyes
in an endless stream.

75

J.B.Joe

Greg Young-Ing

Poem of Twenty-Nine Lines

Expression

from the middle of the belly
of the snake
she mourns
lately it seems crucial
to avoid those screams
always rising rising

I long out of loving,
and love out of longing;
that one day we might be free.
Free:
first from self-imposed bondage;

xylophonic burps bumping catcalls
GET OUTTA HERE GET THE NEXT ONE ON
TAKE IT OFF JUMP

last that imposed by the

she dances to a slower rhythm
avoiding the shots
riding the tide
riding it out

last that imposed by the

presents
of others,
presence
profits
of others.
prophets

each afternoon at precisely two
she knocks at the door
splits herself down the middle
exposes ...
drops her shit on the midden
for some far-off scientist digger
Burps bumping KEEP ON TRUCKING
a car rumbles by her window
loaded down with shells
filled with clammeat
poached
WELL DONE
jesus swings from the rearview mirror
a fine, slow mist carries her gently
across miles of leering faces
to a cool sanctuary

76

77

Ron Welburn

Ron Welburn
This Is Our Split
Dubois studied Color in Philadelphia,
and Chester county is not nor in the city could they be lumped as one.
Go southwest and the land rises.
Turtles once thronged there.
The people did not create the 500s,
the Jack & Jills. They visited Quogue
and Montauk, not Sag.
But yes, there is a twoness here.
The census people came and scanned us.
Shaking their heads they scribbled
illiterately on their lists and moved on;
to be followed by land thieves and
bounty hunters seeking money for new slaves.
We have strong roots, though mingled.
A longtime ancestry gives us our faces.
We came here from nowhere in particular, but
we are Lenapes left over, Nanticokes,
stray Piscataway families, stealthy Minquas
the Paxton Boys thought they'd wipe out;
we are shirt-wearing Tuscaroras
hiding in the Blue Mountains hearing
about the Minisink;
we are asteroid Cherokees drifting around
the Susquehanna valley and the Schuylkill.
Our names like Swannock became Swan.
Our names are Cook and Grover and Pierce.
Our names are West and Greenhill and Gray.
Our names are Mason, Bowers, Proctor and Draper.
Our names are Welburn and Tyre, Shippens and Burton.
Listless in this survival
we belong to nations we do not remember
and to people who have forgotten us.
We are the lost ones and the outcasts.
Our children never seem to know the trees,

78

nor have moments with the blades of grass;
the nuthatch's scolding means nothing.
Our children must be reminded
that crow is the first bird one hears
in the morning.
Thus our twoness answers DuBois.
This is our story;
this is our split.

"Sisintl/Full Moon"
Painting by David Neel

79

Ron Welburn

Masks
And we too
wear a mask
stoical, frowning
an open-faced look
that is no look
if not unforgettable,
a look that can look through you.
under this mask
we smile and laugh and
twist our faces
like corn husks and
the grains of trees.
we know, listen to
a whole lot of coyote jokes,
with and without coyote,
whole nests of them.
we can trick you off your trails.

CD

THE CANADIAN NATIVE
ARTS FOUNDATION
LA FONDATION CANADIENNE
DES ARTS AUTOCHTONES

is accepting grant and scholarship applications
from aboriginal individuals for artistic training.

If you are embarking on a course of study
or have a professional development project in any
artistic discipline, including performing, visual,
communication or the literary arts and are seeking
funding, please fax or telephone the Canadian
Native Arts Foundation for an application.
CANADIAN NATIVE ARTS FOUNDATION
Suite 315
99 Atlantic Avenue
Toronto, Ontario M6K 3J8
(416) 588-3328 (tel.)
(416) 588-9198 (fax)
Application deadline: October 15, 1991.

80

DISCOVERY

f- ... ' "' .....

"Half-Assed Indian"
Painting by Rose Spahan

Lee Maracle
Skyros Bruce: First Voice of
Contemporary Native Poetry
The Native community suffered from a long period of
cultural arrest from 1900 to 1960 in Canada, during which time the
residential school system and cultural prohibition laws artificially
created cultural stagnation. 1 However, prior to the 20th century
indigenous culture influenced the development of North American
literature much beyond their numbers.2 Colonial domination created
a dichotomy between both the citizens of the colonizer Nation and
the citizens of the colonized Nations. One set of laws and standards
were established for the colonized and a separate set of laws for the
citizens of the mother country. The changing legal framework of
these laws altered the influence of First Nations people on literary
development. Periods of liberalism gave rise to the publication of
oratory in translation and idealistic lamentations about the "vanishing
race," while periods of conservatism produced stories of ignoble
savages.3 Throughout the historic development of "modern American
literature" Natives remained either ignoble or noble savages
nonetheless. The periodic publication of oratory did influence the
more radical writers of the 19th and 20th centuries among them R.
W. Emerson who in turn influenced hosts of antecedents. Indigenous
thought continues to influence Turtle Island literature. However
much of this influence is adulterated by the outright appropriation
of stories by white writers who claim to be writing as Native
People.4
This phenomenon is a direct by-product of the colonial
system which segregated post-colonial Native students into industrial
or agrarian residential schools, forbade them to speak their own
language and impeded their mastery of English, creating an entire
population, with a few exceptions, who were unfamiliar with
language in general. Liberal literati responded by taping Native
stories in semi-literate English and 'working them up' into literary
novels, short stories etc. Aside from the outright theft of stories
themselves this has created a new dilemma for modern First Nations
writers: authenticity of Aboriginal perspective.
Invariably European cultural norms invade the story and
obscure the original meaning. Secondly, racially discriminatory
attitudes impose an element of racism distorting the story. Last the
function of the story as part of a relevant system of governance is
85

Lee Maracle

Lee Maracle
lost. This is of critical significance to the development of a body of
modern First Nations literature by First Nations writers themselves.
The simplistic re-telling of old stories, intermingled and
distorted by European cultural values, makes it next to impossible
for First Nations writers tostudyoldstories,deciphertheirmeaning
and use the principals and laws of governance inherent in them to
re-create new stories as part of an historic continuum.
The burgeoning literature of the sixties which was a product
of First Nations people finally accessing the English language
reflects this dilemma. Much of the poetry was externally influenced
or "lost" .5 "Lost" literature is the body ofrhetoric outlining what we
think Native traditions are, absent of any internal understanding of
the meaning inherent in the metaphors presented. A host of rhythmic
poems about eagles or feathers, etc. without any indication what
eagles or feathers, represent was the result. The result was the
development of simplistic statements of faith arranged in poetic
style absent of genuine poetic meaning. "Life is a Circle" by John
Keeshig is a prime example.
The externally influenced poetry led to the development of
a body of literature in which the voice, rhythm and style had no
roots in First Nations cultures. "Loneliness" by Wah-zin-ak is
typical of this body of work. 6
There were a few poets who wrote poetry in traditional
style, but the poems themselves tended to be beautiful re-telling of
old stories, particularly creation stories, that spoke of the past
without carrying the past into the future. Blue Cloud's "Turtle"
sounds like a beautiful rendition of an old story. 6 The "modem
voice" of First Nations writers was seriously crippled until recently
by systemic colonization and the absence of a forum to discuss
traditional oratory, the intrinsic meaning of our own metaphor and
the function of oratory.
A few exceptions paved the way for the development of a
truly modem literature that was rooted in the past but spoke to the
future. Skyros Bruce, or Mary Bruce of the Squamish in North
Vancouver, published a small book of poems in 1973 in which
modem concerns were penned in the voice of her people.7

86

once i dropped 500 micrograms
and you know where i sat?
I sat on our sister's grave
wishing it was her
sittin' on me ...
The above desire is rooted in an old story of the twins - the
Lions - who show up again in the poem as the mountains of Skyros'
ancestors. The story of the twins is told because it directs children
to the sacrifice of one of the sisters life in the interest of the whole
people. It is double pain for Skyros who cannot sacrifice her micrograms
of whatever substance she was abusing in the manner that her
ancestral sisters had done. She is living dead, while her sister is
actually dead. This condition dogs our present and Skyros reaches
into her past to try and sort it out.
Rooted in her own ability to give up her micrograms is the
loss of heart of her brother. " ...you watched while i cried .. .like
someone watching the rain". It is a clear recognition of the impact of
the colonial process on Native lives. More than loss of land, even
loss of life of the sister, is the loss of love we feel for one another. We
are unable to live as our ancestors did because we are unable to love
each other in the same self-sacrificing way.
"the mountains are real .. .i slept beside these mountains"
speaks to the mountains as home, as place in the First Nations sense
of the word. Mountains are alive, they represent our lives, our
struggle for aliveness, for heart , to love and cherish life. "i slept
beside these mountains near this water long before i was born"
speaks to the lineage memory of Skyros, herself a historical continuum
of a "long line of chiefs". In her memory she sees the face of white
people when they first came in the context of her present.
This blending of times defines the lack of space between
lineage memory and present thought. The structuring of past and
present together as a single unit of time elucidates memory as
present and diminishes the distance between past and present. This
mixing of time in non-chronological order is contrary to the structure
of orthodox English. Few stories in translation reflect this nonchronological, lineage structuring of time. Thus the capacity of
modern writers to use this structure to move from pre-contact
understanding to modern understanding in lineage structured time
is limited. Not only is the "art'' of this perception lost, but the use of
87

Lee Maracle

Lee Maracle

use of lineage memoried time structure is all but prohibited by
publishers and their editors.
The chronicling of time, the ordering of it in accordance
with what happened first, is culturally foreign to west coast First
Nations, The re-constructing of time into European chronicling
alters significantly both the author and the work. The philosophical
'raison d'etre' for mixing past and present establishes the speaker as
both ancient, present and future without distinction of importance
placed on the present. To distinguish the present as primary by
chronicling time is to exacerbate the past.
The ordering of time is both cultural and philosophical.
The structure of time ofFirstNations cultures is the least understood
of our philosophical precepts. To claim lineage memory and juxtapose
it with current memory is to articulate the most sacred of one's
entire thought from the beginning to the present and is intended as
future memory. Our origins are as thought. 8 Thought, sacred being
of heart, mind and spirit, in lineage articulation is the subject and
result of ceremony and sacred being.
The "bearded head ...half filling the inlet'' speaks of prophecy
from the past into the future and acknowledges the capacity of the
self to see into the future. She sees the impending coming of the
white man, his overrunning of the inlet and his dredging of it and
actually filling it up, both before it happens and as it happens. She
sees it from the bridge and from the "cocoon of her mother's
womb."
That she sees both far into the future and far into her past at
the same time agrees with who she is: Wolf clan. Wolf is the seer of
past, present and future on the west coast (Dan George). Skyros is
from the wolf clan of the Squamish people. She sees from the arc of
the bridge and from the lions at the same time. To posit the same
vision from two opposite angles is to see both what is in front of you
and what is behind you at the same time. The imagined vision from
behind is as real and the same as the actual vision. The positing of
such vision is considered impossible by European logic and so not
understood, except through the concepts intrinsic to understanding
wolf story from an internal perspective.
"They (mountains) are known to me; they house the same
memories, the same long distance vision and the same spirit." The
identification with the self as mountain and the mountain as self
articulates the concept of earth mother in pure poetic imagery free

of exposition, prose and rhetoric. "They are me" articulates the
essential point of view of First Nations people that "the land and the
people are one". 9 The mountains shape her thinking, her memory,
her sense of place and her understanding of self.
Skyros then takes a rest to reconsider all that she has seen
and said. She looks again at the mountains, the sun, the water, the
land, sky, and enjoys. The vastness of her world, its beauty and the
peace the natural world brings her; the joy of her aliveness and
oneness with the world are imaged during this rest. This technique
of reflection to enjoy is part of the traditional oratorical style of the
Squamish people.
It is the voice of the speaker intervening in the story. This
rest or intervention allows the listener/ reader time to contemplate
the meaning of the poem, to seek its depth and identify personal
significance of the words to the listener/reader. The speaker has
altered the pace of the story and at the same time broadened its
significance through allowing the listener/ reader time to reflect.
"The earth is soft and curved under my/ your body and I remember
what he said...the mountains, the oceans and yourself' The significance
of the poem is articulated by a third party. Permanence and continuity
ring in the words. "when all your friends are gone" the earth is
permanent and in the end you can rely on yourself and your
relationship to the earth and the oceans. 10
Wolf is independent and self-reliant yet capable of great cooperation.11 Skyros calls for this sense of independence and cooperation by delineating self-reliance in conjunction with earth/
ocean bonds. "to stand for long spaces of time" is to think, to
recreate one's relationship to earth and water, sky and mountains,
to re-think oneself. Cooperation is rooted in bonding with earth, sky
and water and joy arises of the re-consideration of the self in that
relationship. There is no other joy worthy of consideration except to
experience this same joy with another human being.

88

89

someday soon before you leave
we will go far away to a cabin
in the trees
and enjoy
silence ...

Lee Maracle

Lee Maracle

The bonding of thought leads to bonding with earth and
reconciling one's entire lineage, including future, with all creation.
The micrograms of substance brought Skyros no joy but rather to a
point of death in wish form. Substance abuse finds her on top of her
sister's grave. Itis irreverent and disrespectful and can only lead to
death-wish self-destruction.
To be disconnected from earth is to be alienated from one
another. To be oblivious to earth is to be self-destructive. To indulge
in substance abuse is to be unable to think clearly, to see things in
lineage structured time and to be blind to memory. Heartlessness
and alienation are by-products of alienation from the earth and
births the need for substance abuse.
In "A Letter from my Brother from Atantis" articulates the
social debilitation process of First Nations peoples as a function of
the colonial process. From the present she retreats to the past.
Skyros articulates the journey of colonialism, self-abuse, and in
lineage memory expresses the need for solidarity and the inevitability
of it between whites and Natives.
She articulates this process from the position of the daughter
of wolf - the visionary, the lineage seer, independent, self-reliant
and co-operative. This is not her reality; this is her memory. Her
reality is the opposite. She is dependent. Dependent upon drugs
and dependent upon her own need for the apathy of her 'brother' to
become caring. Because white folks are more than capable of
watching us die, she despairs, becomes despondent, seeks artificial
uplift through substance abuse. She becomes dependent.
The path out is both painfully simple and next to impossible
without an absolute faith in the possibility of unity between herself
and apathetic white folks. This too is connected to a belief by the
Squamish as articulated by Dan George's vision:

The contribution Skyros makes to the development of First
Nations culture is immeasurable. Positioned in the pres~nt, she
pulls herself from her death wish into the future where _a different
story colours the world. She relies wholly on herself, her hneage, her
indigenous sense of the world to extricate First Nation's reople
from a state of chemical dependence and unloved despair to _a
prophetic vision of the future upheld by her ancestors. She does this
at the same time that she takes old metaphors into the modem
world. Culture, ancient and present, comes alive, becomes a breathing
living being with future significance. She pioneers t?e end ~~ the
stultification and stagnation of what is perceived as Native traditional
oratory.
.
She moves our sense of poetry of the past beyond the ln:ies
separating modem from ancient and spearheads a cultural revolution
that has both feet in the past and points to the future.
ENDNOTES
1. Native Literature in Canada Canadian writing essay:
2. R.W. Emerson American Scholar
3. Native Literature In Canada
4. Daughters of Copperwoman, Anne Cameron
5 AwkwesasneNotes
6. Black Panther Party - Newspaper
7. ManyVoices
8. Trivia
9. U.B.C.I.C. newspaper - slogan
10. My Heart Soars Dan George
11. Ron Hamilton Story of Wolf

I see the faces of my people
your son's sons,
your daughter's daughters,
laughter fills the air
that is no longer yellow and heavy
the machines have died,
quietness and beauty
have returned to the land.
This will happen!
90

91

Kerrie Charnley

Kerrie Charnley
Book Review
Setting the Truth Ablaze
Sojourner's Truth by Lee Maracle
Press Gang, 1990
With Sojourner's Truth, Lee Maracle has done it again: she
has written a book that speaks directly into the heart. In the early
70's she wrote Bobbi Lee: Indian Rebel, an account of her journey in
life and the political struggles of the American Indian Movement
and Marxism. Bobbi Lee was re-issued by the Women's Press
(Toronto) in 1990 and continues to serve as an extremely valuable
history about growing up in Vancouver.
.
Bobbi Lee was like an oxygen mask for me at a time when I
suddenly awoke to the horror of the polluti~n of oppression td
been breathing as a person on the fringe - rmxed blood, urbarute,
poor and raised by single, hard working, gen rationally stressed7
out mother. Reading Bobbi Lee changed my hfe, encouraged me.
Maracle's words convinced me that I didn't have to rise into the
elite echelons to be counted a human being-that where I came from
was just as valuable and important to the creating of this world.
Over time, I have moved beyond the euphoria of political
validation that Bobbi Lee provided. Now, I am more acutely aware
of how critical the understanding of one's emotions is to selfidentity, community growth and unity- even global health. In ~is
new place in my life, I procrastinated for weeks before read1~g
Maracle' s latest book, Sojourner's Truth. Rather than the usual sooal
and political issues, I now want to know only what someone
struggling to be a truthseeker feels and does to be true to themselves.
It seems to me that far too many people live hypocritical lives and
hide behind banners of politics, careers and even art. I am looking
for hope and, right now, the only hope I trust is the bare bone
expression of feelings; on the ways to be courageous, on how ~o deal
with the day-to-day hypocrisies, rationalizations and plam old
abuse people hurl at each other to hide their pain - rather than
express it - and thus to be free to fearlessly and unwaveringly love
and nurture each other.
When I finally picked up Sojourner's Truth it was with the
idea that "oh well, I'll just read a paragraph and get this procrastination
anxiety off my back ". What a gleeful jolt it was to have the
important thoughts I had been struggling with come rippling out

a

92

of the pages of the book. Sojourner's Truth has the power of Bobbi Lee
all over again, but this time with the issues and approaches of the
90s.
Maracle has written an emotional, philosophical book about
her thoughts, experiences and struggles beyond the glorified religion of politics and the" boys club" of swaggering rules. Her voice
is moving and beautiful to encounter; the heart and truth of her
language is almost brutal because such qualities are rarely awakened in the defensive positions we make in order to continue our
political struggles.
In many of Sojourner' sTruth' s stories, Maracle looks at morality
and values, the quest for the procession of one's own mind and the power
of memory. In " Too Much to Explain, " she writes:

"The little girl, traumatized by the scene, had jumped
inside the same trap, running a marathon ofimprisoning
relationships because she had not wanted to remember.
Now the trap sunk...//he accepted her insanity he would
have to declare insane his own maddened binges of the
past.. .' You don't have a monopoly on craziness,' he said
dully. She laughed at his flat sense of self, at the
hopelessly two-dimensional perception that he clung to,
and she wondered if the man who defined neurosis
wasn't a little like her lover. She left him there in a
tangle ofconfused babbling ...and drove out ofhis life. 'I
don' tfeel desperate anymore,' was all she had come up
with. As the cab sped away she could hear him holler in
self-defense, 'You really are crazy."
The title story expresses the haunting wisdom of a protagonist
who speaks from inside his coffin: "Hell just might be seeing all the
ugly shit people put each other through from the clean and honest
perspective of the spirit that no longer knows how to lie and twist
the truth."
Unlike the autobiographical Bobbi Lee much of Sojourner's
Truth is fictional. Maracle has moved her imagination over the
stories she has heard and the experiences she has felt to give us an
original, meaningful work. Her stories are descriptive, opinionated
and intimate, much like a diary entry or kitchen table conversation.

93

Kerrie Charnley
Sometimes the result is piercingly strong. At other times I felt there
were too many words and descriptions, and I wish Maracle had
indulged herself in poetry and let the full meaning of each word be
taken into account and, like in poetry, had let the spaces between
words have meaning as well. Sojourner's Truth does contain many
beautiful, poetic lines, like in "Who's Political Here."
"Rolling, changing emotions float around inside me as
I lie looking at the old hand-besmudged wall and wonder
what is happening to me ... Somehow what I am feeling
seems more ·important to me than Tom's incarceration,
and/ think they should see it that way too ... The changing
emotions roar around inside, taking up speed and intensity
until fear starts to ride over it all like the surf in a stormy
sea."

The transition from oration to literature is not simple. In her
preface to Sojourner's Truth, Maracle comments on the differences
between the two modes of telling, as well as between Native and
European storytelling: "The difference is that the reader is as much
a part of the story as the teller (in Native Traditions). Most of our
stories don't have orthodox 'conclusions,' that is leftto the listeners,
who we trust will draw useful lessons from the story- not necessarily the lessons we wish them to draw, but all conclusions are
considered valid. The listeners are drawn into the dilemma and
expected at some pointin their lives to actively work themselves out
of it."
Lee Maracle has been called a gifted orator but, to me,
immense courage is her greatest and rarest gift. Her ability to shoot
from the hip and set truth ablaze continues to be an eye-opener for
all.

94

Sue Deranger

Untitled
lama woman
I am the backbone of the Nations
I am the caretaker of the future generations
and
Sacred Turtle Island
I have many gifts
and
burdens to carry
lama woman
who needs to heal
myself
my family
and
my community
I am a woman
who needs support
to carry my burdens
who needs strength
to break cycles and centuries of abuse
I ama woman

95

Al Hunter
In The Sky
He looked down
As though looking down from the very clouds themselves
The down below
where he first walked
Toward the edge of the wood, fog rolled and lifted
Dew glistened in the meadow
The sun was rising
onto the shoulders of the eastern sky
He peered down from the clouds
saw many women dancing
They offered him food
He honoured them with feathers of eagle
He honoured them with songs
They danced the dance of women
circular, with a side step
toward the rising sun
In a vision of old and new
they celebrated
There in the meadow, at the edge
of a green and beautiful wood
A staff of many coloured ribbons
she offered; red, green, yellow, and blue
The ribbons were wrapped around the wooden stem
a small hoop at one end
long leather fringes hanging from the other
a staff of many coloured ribbons she offered
He took what she offered
The wise woman with long grey braids smiled gently
then left
The coloured ribbons danced
and he lived
He heard the drum songs in his dreams
sacred voices sounding
He was afraid
He sat at old man's drum
in the light of early evening, singing
96

Al Hunter
He stretched the hide of the deer over a new drum
with a younger brother
stretched the hide of wet skin over the sacred hoop
and celebrated
In a circle they sat, singing
Each pole, each leg, supporting the drum
represented with four colours
feathers of eagle staff
drum pulsing to earth
gift from a distant star
Rising to the cacophony of the brotherhood of crows
he hears that a brother has fallen
from the branches of earth
Crow laughter spreads
through the arthritic fingers of bone bare trees
His story is one that spreads
from the roots of trees
that tells of earth
that spreads up into the heart of layered truths
that spreads out onto the branches
that spreads out onto the arthritic fingers of bone-bare trees
cacophonic laughter rising
He listens until he is hungry
He rises
A lone deer in the meadow, at dawn, moves slowly
muzzling green shoots of grass
She is hungry too
He does not know if his dreams are ghost
of prophecy
He does not ask
Fallen brother
The one who threw caution to horses
The needle in his arm
leaving bloody track of equine poison
He was no equestrian
He was dirt under the hooves

97

Al Hunter
His only bloodline
from the needle in his arm
He was not proud of his bloodline
This was not part of his Horse Nation
That which was his real legacy
The horse ran south
He saw a young man last night
with a gaping hungry mouth
A mouth that could only mouth the words
to sacred sounds
with no sound to emit from his inside
He studied the hunger in his face
in his eyes, the rough face
that peered over the singers
the drum, the women, and wondered
He studied the young man
tough leather jacket
street black boots
touched him
reached to him
with his mind
The young sister at the circle
Telling of her abuse at the hands of the older men
He saw her sigh
letting out huge breaths of air
What was she saying?
He did not know. He did not ask
With watchful grace
she peered from safe vantage point
He once saw a wolf do the same thing
He recognized that look
her pure coat ruffling
silently in the wind
elusive from pursuers and companions alike
she is detached from the pack
moving silently
leaving the surge of her energy
briefly with tall standing birch
98

Al Hunter
No scrolls would tell of her passing
The birch would yield no clues
Her footprints disappearing in time
becoming one with tracks of snowshoe hare, squirrel, and fox
Would she ever know the healing
energy of tall standing birch
peering with watchful grace?
He did not know. He did not ask
Sometimes the search was desperate
Other times, he couldn't give a damn
Sometimes, the blues were as deep as the darkest blue could be
Other times, they were indigo
or the colour of the sky
Still, other times, they were a fierce swirl of all hues
All hues of the colour blue
Sometimes, lonely felt like a bone scraped clean
chewed, and spit out like powder
This reminds him of a story about an Aborigine in Australia
who filled his mouth
with powder that came from the earth
and made colours; white, and red
After filling his mouth
placing his hands on the rocks
or the hidden walls of caves
spits the colours all over his hands
leaving an outline on the rocks
or on the hidden walls inside caves, forever
If he could do it
he would fill his mouth with the powdered bone
and spit the outline of his soul
Someone would come along
see a splash of blue alongside white and red
they would wonder who left
imprints of powerful hands and blue soul
A blue whirlwind soul
spit from the mouth of hollowed bone
The mouth
a sacred tool of earth paint
blue bone mixed with spit and sky
99

John Mohawk

John Mohawk

You know, we, all of us, belong to something I would like
to call "imagined communities". Imagined communities in the
sense that we imagine ourselves to have some thing to connect with
really_ broad numbers of people. I think of that in terms of myself
once ~n the streets of Paris, going along where no one else was
speaking any language I spoke and I bumped into a fellow there
who was from rural Georgia. Now I am a Seneca fellow. I was born
and raised on t?e Cattaraugus Indian Reservation, a very rural area
and I grew up ma house that was built in the 1780's. It was an old
house; it didn't have any running water, it had electricity. We had
~ardens and that kind of business and heated with wood. I grew up
ma Longhouse community, a very traditional community and the
people all around me were of that persuasion. And that was sort of
my background.
, Soihad_bu~pedintothisfellowinParisandhesays:"Well,
you re an American and on some level there is some truth to that.
He says: well, h~ was from Georgia. He started telling what he was
about and all this stuff. We were walking down the streets of Paris
and here we were "fellows" somehow, you know. I have thought
about t~at experien~e a lot because the guy from Georgia, he was a
bro_ther m ~he John Birch Society. You know, I am sure he had strong
social. feehngs for the Klu Klux Klan which were positive. In
America the guy probably would not talk to me, but in France all of
a s~dde~ we were "fellows"; we were Americans. We shared a kind
of imagined community. It takes a lot of imagination for a Seneca
fellow and a Georgia cracker to be together. I can tell you that it is
not easy to do this. It is an imagined thing.
Go back some hundreds of years and I think a good place to
start to tell the story of the Americas is to go all the way back to the
eleventh century in Europe and begin to get an angle on who the
peoples are. Because my talk today is about who we are. It is about
who are the Indians and also who are the non-Indians. I want to
locate that in the peoples' minds.

In the eleventh century, the Pope -- his name was Gregory
the Seventh- announced to the Emperors, Kings and what ever nobility of Europe that the vicar of Christ on Earth actually should
have more recognized power than the Emperors and he began to
claim the right to ex-communicate, to throw people out of the
Church. And that is what was called the Papal Revolution; it was
about 1057 this happened. This revolution started a big stir and
people were called upon to have opinions about this idea; the
community of Europe was actually formed around this idea. Europe didn't have an identity until this time. The people of Europe
were called upon to see themselves as the Christian world. Christ
was believed to be coming back; they thought there would be a
second appearance of Christ. So the mandate of the Christian world,
as it was proposed at that time, was that upon Christ's "re-arrival",
he was to find his Kingdom in good order. But the Pope was
pointing out that the Kingdom was not in good order and that, in
fact, the homeland where Christ was born was in the hands of nonbelievers.
So the pope started at that time to organize a series of
foreign wars, in which the nobility of Europe was called upon to
provide the military service to this effort. To go across the Mediterranean to seize the lands of peoples there in the name of a sort of
now pan-European nationalism. It was kind of an imagined community for them at the time. I mean, Polish Princes were called upon
to unite with Italian city states in a way that they had never done
before. These people had all been at war, or at least had some
mutual hostility, and they all spoke different languages and had
different histories. At any rate, they were called upon to unite
themselves and they did do this.
Imagined communities are extremely powerful. They caused
people who lived in western Europe to gather themselves together
to march to lands they knew nothing about, to find ways to cross the
Mediterranean and to engage in wars with people they knew little
about. This went on for generations, and you have to understand
the crusades went on and on. Children went on crusades; warriors
went on crusades; people went on crusades. It was a powerful
movement of ideology of people being imposed upon to think of
themselves as having obligations to do things which I think clear
reflection would have denied. But it was a powerful movement that

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101

Oratory
'Indian History Through Indian Eyes'
Excerpts From Keynote Address
National Aboriginal Youth Conference
February 11, 1989
Ottawa

John Mohawk

John Mohawk

went on at that time. I always found it to be a most extraordinary
movement because of the way it would later affect my own peoples.
European peoples had come to an adoption of spiritual
ancestors who were not their own ancestors. In the Christian
experience, western European peoples, Germans, Czechoslovakians, Scandinavians, who had absolutely no lineage whatsoever,
connected with the Middle East; were called upon to recognize as
their spiritual ancestors' nomadic tribesmen who were a specific
nationality of ancient Israelites. Their ancestors became Adam and
Eve; became Abraham; became David. The western Europeans,
who have absolutely no ancestors with any of this relation adopted
them as their ancestors. As this nationalism would spread we find
that this community, which is expanding, which has attacked the
Middle East, is now an imperialist power that intends to extend
over the world and over the minds and identities of the peoples of
the world.
In the mid 14th century, Portuguese sailors discovered
islands in the Atlantic. The first one that was discovered was
Lanzarote Island in the Canaries and then shortly after that, Madeira Islands in the Atlantic, which were actually part of the same
group of islands. The Canary Islands was the first instance of the
invasion of European expansion, the European invasion of the rest
of the peoples of the world. The Canary Islands were inhabited by
a race of people called the Gounches, who were said to be a brownbronze skinned people. The Spanish basically launched a war
against them that went from 1404 to 1496, a war of conquest. The
purpose of the war was to basically take over the Islands. Now,
during this period of time one island was unoccupied, and that was
Madeira Island. No people had ever lived there, and the Spanish
tried to occupy that place.
By the 1450's, Madeira was the most successful colony in
the world. It had become the world's largest exporter of sugar and
sugar cane products. At any rate, the Gounches were finally overcome in 1496. If you will notice, this is four years after Christopher
Columbus sailed to the Americas. Today there are no Gounches;
they are completely exterminated; they are wiped off the face of the
earth as peoples. We know very little about their languages. There
is a little bit left of their patterns of their clothing and stuff, but
basically, fundamentally, they don't exist anymore.

Christopher Columbus went to the Canary Islands and he
prayed to his God when he was getting ready for this trip to the
Americas. And he had a pretty good plan. He was planning to sail
west across the Atlantic. His purpose for sailing west actually is in
his log in which he states that the reason for his trip was to find gold.
The purpose for finding gold was so that the Crowns of Castille and
Saville would be able to raise more armies to continue the crusades
in the Middle East. So the crusades were still alive in Christopher
Columbus' mind when he came. People who get a chance should
read about this moment in history because it is a very telling
moment. He tells that, on October 12th, 1492, they had seen land the
night before. On that morning the first thing he says is not that he
sighted land. He says the first thing that they saw were naked
people.
Christopher Columbus was the first one to begin the invasion and the so-called development of the modern world, the invasions of Europeans around the world. He is the initial viewer, from
the deck of the ship of the Pinta and the Santa Maria.
You know, these two worlds existed apart. They did not
know of each other's existence. There was the western hemisphere
- and in some ways you have to include Australia, New Zealand
and those other places where Indigenous people live - and then
there was Europe. Europe, with its own form of history, its ideologies, and just an incredible imagination in Europe. And here they
arrived in the Americas and they saw what they described as naked
peoples. And what they really came into was paradise. Listen to
Christopher Columbus' description of the peoples he finds. When
they arrive at Hispanola, the Spanish say there are probably eight
million people living on Hispanola. They described this incredible
rainforest and mangrove forest area covered with peoples and
gardens, and fruit trees, peoples who paddle outin their canoes and
bring fish. They talked about peoples who were dancing, happy and
friendly.
The first Indians invite the Spanish ashore and the Spanish
are experiencing a moment like no other in history: friendliness,
happiness, and everybody is getting along fine. There are large
populations of well fed people and there is nothing here except
what we would have described as paradise. The temperature
varied from 68 degrees to 79 degrees. There was always food, there
was always whatever people needed. You would want to read these

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103

John Mohawk

John Mohawk

accounts that Christopher Columbus has of his moments of entering this place, his description of the trees, of the birds, of the people.
It is an incredible world and one of the greatest adventures. In fact,
no one will ever have an adventure like it again. And then you
would want to read the other part in the book called, "The History
of the Caribbean" in which it describes that between 1492 and 1496
two-thirds to three quarters of the population of Hispanola disappears. Two-thirds to three quarters of the population! Four to five
million people disappeared in four years! How could that have
happened? Well, it happened!
And Columbus' arrival is a story that is celebrated in the
West. The West celebrates this as a powerful achievement, as a
positive thing. But, within four years of the Spanish seeking for gold
... we saw the enslavement of the Indians, the incredible cruelty
visited up on the Indians by the Conquistadors, the diseases, the
warfare -the population of Hispanola was diminished by five
million. Cruelty did that. Cruelty that was built around this ideology which the, Spanish brought with them. You will remember the
Spanish were looking for Asia. They were thinking that they were
going to find India. And so they looked atthe first peoples who they
saw on the shores and said, these must be Indians.
There were hundreds of different kinds of Indians just on
the east coast of the Americas, from South America along the
Mesoamerican shore, all the way around the Gulf and into Florida
and up the coast. Hundreds of different types of Indians, speaking
different languages, with different personalities, with different
cultures. And all of these Indians standing on the shore were
lumped into one group. They were described by the Europeans as
"the Indians". And the reason for that was because the Europeans
did not know who the Indians were. They had only just invented the
idea of Europeans a couple of. hundred years before. But at that
moment in time the Indians were understood by the Spanish to be
"the others". They were the people who were not Europeans. The
Europeans did not know who the Indians were; they knew who they
were not. And from that time to this the Indians are still a mystery
to the Europeans. The Europeans and their descendants in the
Americas still don't know who the Indians are. But they know who
they are not. They are not Europeans.

Europeans, when they described the Indians as "the others,"
really interpreted "the others" to be some others less than human,
less than they were. So the designation of the Indians, I want to say,
has two connotations. The firstis a connotation of what it is not, and
it is not Christian and, therefore,, not human, not equal. And the
other connotation is that it is used as a designation to disarm people
about what they really are. It is phony designation. We are not
Indians. Come on, give me a break. I am not an Indian. I am a Seneca.
I have a very specific identity, a language, a land base, a right in my
land base. But the term Indian recognizes no rights in the land, and
it recognizes no rights in self-determination. It recognizes only a
difference and the difference is, when you're an Indian you're "an
other''.
The Spanish conquest was the greatest crime in human
history. It made the holocaust that the Germans did on the Jews in
the forties seem "Mickey Mouse" compared to the holocaust that
visited the Americas between the years 1492 and 1989. Consider this
for a moment: when the Spanish arrived in Mexico, in 1520, the estimated population was about 25 million. One generation later the
estimated population of Mexico was one million. Twenty-four
twenty-fifth's of the population of Mexico was destroyed in the
space of a generation. There has never been anything like it, except
that it did not stop in Mexico. It went down into what is now
Guatemala, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Yucatan. It went to Bolivia. It
went to Peru. It went to Columbia. It went to Brazil. And where it
went it brought the most horrifying death and destruction ever seen
on the face of the earth: the most terrifying enslavements, the most
miserable lives, to peoples who up to that point were living really
very sustained lives.
Before we leave the Spanish, I want to paint a picture of
what life was like in the Caribbean and in Middle America. Who
were the Indians really? They are now doing excavations of the
Indian cities and civilizations of Yucatan that demonstrate that the
Indians lived in the rainforests, with populations in the millions,
where we today cannot seem to support populations in the tens of
thousands. The Indians lived there in a way which did not destroy
the rainforest. They had a system of building canals and they used
to weave mats to put on top of the canals to raise hydroponic
gardens to raise food. They raised food where we cannot raise food

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John Mohawk

John Mohawk

with the modern technologies. They had an ideology and a way of
living with the environment that regenerated it, that made it possible for peoples to live there over millennia instead of destroying
some place in two centuries.
The Indians are the peoples who worked out how to sustain
human life, tree life, bird life, plant life, and make humans prosper
in the middle of that process. They developed technologies to do it.
And now we are seeing that modem agronomists are studying
Indian agriculture. They are studying Indian ways of making an
irrigation system. Well, who was it who made the foods of the
world, the food products of the world? I would like to just point out
that we have not even scratched the surface of Indian agriculture
yet. The Inca produced more kinds of food than all the other peoples
in the world put together ever produced. They were the world's
greatest evaluators of environments. Today Indians in Bolivia are
raising foods at higher elevations than anyone else on the globe.
Indians produced enormous types of foods; from chilies, to potatoes, to peppers, to cucumbers, to tomatoes. It is just remarkable.
Whole bunches of stuff that we haven't seen yet up here: grain
products that haven't made it out of South America yet. But Indian
agriculture moves to the desert. Indian agriculture goes as far North
as agriculture can go. Indian agriculture is in the rainforest. Indians
are the saviours of the human race, if you can look at it from a point
of view of need of food products!
The process of making this diversity of food products,
while maintaining the integrity of the environment, shows the
Indian was using the land in a rational way to sustain human and
other life. There is no question that they did it better than anybody
else in the whole world did that. If you had left Indians alone there
would still be prosperity; eight million people would still be living
and eating on Hispanola and there would still be a rainforest there
on that terribly devastated and destroyed island. But the Spanish
did not know who the Indians were. The Spanish only knew that the
Indians were not Christians. And, as time goes by, the definitions of
these things will change because the Indians will be given a choice:
you will become Christian or you will become dead. And the
Indians are forced to learn how to speak Spanish, English, or what
ever is the language of the conquest.

In the beginning Indians were nationally Indian. Then,
Indians were biologically Indian. As time goes by, most of the
Indians are not quite "biologically pure" and after awhile it is hard
to tell anymore where the nationality and biology are connected.
And so we have this transformation of the identity of the Indian.
People have lost track of who the Indians are. Sometimes I think that
the ones who have lost track the most are the Indians.
In the 17th century, we saw transformations take place in
the English speaking world. The English, by the way, before they
were here, were going to colonize Ireland. They sent colonists, to
Ireland, just like they would send to North America. And the idea
was to get rid of the Indigenous Irish, and take their land, and cut
down their woods, and sell all their assets. So they did that, They
invaded Ulster in about 1565 and started a war there, which I believe
we can all agree is still probably going on. You'll notice that the Irish
are physically similar to the English. And the Irish had been Catholic in 1565 for about eight hundred years. But, when they arrived,
the English colonists decided that the Irish were not Catholic, and
that they probably were not even Christians. They even started to
think they were some kind of pagans and then they started accusing
them of being cannibals. They did all of this in order to rationalize
attacking them and stealing their land. In fact, they were going full
blast when the Spanish sent in Armadas in 1588. And, of course, the
English beat the Spanish and that meant that the Atlantic would no
longer be patrolled by Spanish boats and that English boats could
now cross it. And that is why we started having the English
colonization in the early 17th century in the Americas.
When the English arrived in the Americas, what they were
doing in Ireland is what they started to do here. They take up the
same fight. Except here, of course, the Indians were different, they
really weren't Christians. This is the main excuse that English
speaking people had about why they can take Indian lands and
abuse Indian people.
In the 17th century, about the same time, John Locke
proposes his theory of "possessive individualism", which goes
roughly like this; he says, that with the appearance of money in the
exchange system, rational human behaviour will be the organized
behaviour which will lead to humans accumulating the greatest
amount of money. And possessing-that is what the theory of

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John Mohawk

John Mohawk

"possessive individualism" is all about. And he says this rational
behaviour is going to be what will dominate and control human
activity in the world. He goes on to state, as an explanation of why
there are governments, that there is a social contract that is made.
But I think the important thing that we want to understand is that
John Locke is the founder of modem European ideas about representative government because of his ideas of "possessive individualism". This theory says that greed is the source of human government.
I was once reading a piece by Vine Deloria which says that
the purpose of a corporation is to own a planet. That's about as
succinct a description that I can get to the realities of Western legal
thinking. Western legal thinking is that rational behaviour leads to
money and, therefore, the theory becomes prevalentthroughout the
West - especially in the English speaking countries -- that the
proper use of land will be that use of land which generates the most
money. Subsequently, if a trustee believes that the proper use of
land is the use of land that generates the most money, than that
trustee will always act to see to that the people who have the most
money to put into the development of land, will get the land.
The second part of this thinking, it seems to me, is that
"rational use of land" means that there is a land use which has
priority over human beings living on the land. The enclosure system
in England was based on the idea that there are some ways to make
more money using the land than having people live on it. Now tell
me, doesn't that mean that, ultimately, the whole planet is going to
be transformed for the purpose of making money and humans will
have to live in the sea. It means that the priority use of the land is
always for money. There is no priority for use of the land for life. No
priority for the use of the land for the future. There is no future!
There is just this mad and crazed idea that money is rational
thinking -- that people who are insanely greedy are the only sane
people. That is what that means! Well, I say that the Indians do not
agree. The Indians would not agree to transform the planet into a
shopping mall!
I think one of the things that the reservation system has
done is that it has infused the Indians with the mean-hearted spirit
of the Europeans when it comes to being able to reach out to people,
to care about people. We don't have that like we had.

I am one of the writers of a book on the subject of origins of
a democratic tradition and on the influences of the Indians on the
U.S. Constitution. I said earlier that the white people have this
imagined community. The United States is an imagined community.
When the United States Constitution was written, the Americans
said something along these lines: they said, 'We are the people who
represent the principles of democracy".
When the United States wrote its constitution, it said; "All
men are created equal." But we all know that there was slavery in the
United States, and that some people were not created equal. It said
that all men are endowed with certain inalienable rights; but where
were the Indian's inalienable rights? Those rights were not real. It
went on and on. Women were not given the right to own property
or even to have the rights to enjoy the fruits of their labour; their
wages belonged to their husbands or their fathers. It was not a
country of equality and it was not a country of liberty. It was a
country of cruel slavery and of factory systems and all kinds of
horrible thoughts and horrible times that were happening - a
country of peoples in distress. But the Americans believe that they
represent democracy. They have represented democracy in upholding some of the most horrible dictatorships on earth. They have
represented democracy, and they represent it now, in countries of
the world where there is no democracy. The United States arms and
protects some of the most horrible processes in the world. If you
don't believe me, please pay attention what is going on in El
Salvador, in Guatemala, in Indonesia, in many of the nation states of
the world which are the allies of the United States. So this ideology
isn't real, is it? I mean, it's just an imaginary thing. It is imaginary
that the United States is in favour of democracy. They don't care
about democracy. But almost every American will embrace that
idea.
I mention it because I say that there are in the world such
things as imagined communities; that we are all subject to them. So
I raise to you some questions that I want people to put some
attention to. What is your imagined community? What is your
Indian Nation? What does it stand for? What is it about? What are
you about? What is real in your life? And how do you connect to
reality? You have been presented, since the time you were born,
with a whole list of things to believe that aren't real, a whole list of

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John Mohawk

John Mohawk

things to tell you who you are which are all lies. Things that are
intended to enable the Canadian Government to more easily integrate you into their process, their process of finding the way to use
the land with the highest degree of return on investment.
Who are you? What does it mean to be an Indian? What is
this imagined community that we share in the Americas, from the
Arctic to the rainforest and to the tip of Tierre Del Fuego. Who are
we? What do we stand for? What are we when we are being the best
that we can be? And, as much as anything else, what have we lost?
What has been brainwashed away from us? What has been taken
away from us that leaves us now in this condition that I would
describe as a condition of extreme distress. What are the issues that
we really need to look into? What is the identity that we need to
reconstruct for ourselves? How can we use our imaginations to
make our world a better place for us and for the future generations
of our people?
The Nazis were the culmination of a thing that I like to
describe as the Aryan model of history. There was a century in
which the Aryans, the white people, the indo-Europeans. Caucasians, whatever, imagined themselves to be the superior race of the
world. They imagined their biology to be superior to everyone
else's, their brain capacity bigger than everyone else's. They were
smarter, they were stronger, better off whateverit was needed to be,
and they called themselves the Aryans. And in their quest for
domination they rewrote history. The way they rewrote history was
that they discounted all of the contributions and all of the accomplishments of every other people on the face of the earth. They said
that the Aryan culture came from ancient Greece and Rome.
So during the time of the crusades one was imposed upon
to imagine that one's ancestors were ancient Semitics. And, in the
time of the Aryans, one was imposed upon to imagine that one's ancestors were pure blooded Aryans living in Greece who had no
interaction with anybody else. And when it got to the Americas, the
anthropology in the Americas was built around the idea of the
Aryan ascension also. Their argument was that the Indians were
one of a stage of social evolution that was going to one day evolve
into civilized human beings. Except that we would probably die off
first, so they had better study us to see what we were doing during

this stage of development. So anthropology was originally designed
to be an argument to sustain the superiority ideology of the West,
the Aryan ascension.
When they did this, they wiped out from history all of the
Indian stuff. Everything that Indians ever did was wiped out. The
Indians were whited out, and are still being whited out. Their
history has been distorted. Their philosophies have been demeaned. Their reality has been denied. We are as much the victims
of pernicious history as we are the victims of colonialism.
No wonder so many of our young people arrive at this time
thinking that to be Indian is to be nothing. Because if you read the
history books, it is to be nothing. If you read the anthropology text
books, it is to be nothing. So it is being proposed to you; you have
been given this ideology. You are to imagine that Indians just sort of
sat around here half naked and waited for the sun to go down and
woke up the next morning and walked around in the woods. They
never had a thought; they never produced a culture. There was
never anything here of any substance whatsoever. It is a piece of the
ideology, a piece of the propaganda that has been proposed to you.
You are supposed to imagine that, and way too many of us do it.
Way too many of us imagine that.
You have a right to self-government that you define, that is
not defined by the Canada Indian Act. That means you have a right
to land separate from Canada's right. Because Canada thinks the
only right that you have to land is there until somebody else comes
along with a better way to make more money off of it. Why not argue
sovereignty? The right of sovereignty means Canada has no trusteeship; you have the right. I know that it is hard when you have been
told forever and ever that Indians aren't capable of being responsible for themselves. The trustee thing says that Indians aren't responsible people; therefore, Canada has to think for them. But really
it is an insult. It is Canada saying that Indians can't think. That is
what they have been saying ever since they got here. They say
Indians cannot think because they are not Christian and they have
the wrong ancestors.
When Indians relate to Canada, they relate to Canada in one
of two ways. There are only two choices. They relate to Canada as
distinct peoples who are going to assert political rights, or they relate
to Canada as part of the Canadian general population who have only

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John Mohawk

John Mohawk

civil rights. There is no middle ground here. You have a right to a
continued existence or you are going to disappear. It is that simple.
If you have a right to a continued existence, then you must insist on
rights of sovereignty. Because the right to sovereignty is the right to
continue to exist. That's all. That is how it works in international
law.
I want people to ask themselves some hard questions,
and I want to help direct that discussion a bit. The identity
that the Americans laid out for the Indians was of the "vanishing
American". And they were not passive about them vanishing. They
took active steps to see to it: shot them, chased them away, starved
them and did everything they could to them. Finally, they tried to
put them on reservations. And the Indians, stubborn souls that they
were, refused to vanish. But they also sent them among people who
would help them vanish in their minds. Schools were brought in.
And that is what they were for, people. The schools were to provide
two things. One, was to provide you with the ability to do the work
that they wanted to hire you to do to become wage labourers. You
had to learn how to speak English. You had to learn how to file
horses hooves, and all that kind of stuff. You had to learn how to
become servants, so they put schools there.
But the other reason for having schools was to teach you
that there is an order of priorities, that there is a ranking of worth in
people. This ranking of worth was what the schools led you to
believe. To believe that some people were smarter than others and,
therefore, should have more say in things than others. And that you
elect people to speak for you and after you have elected them you
have nothing to say about it. That some countries are smarter and
better than other countries are. It takes years to teach you that. So
they keep bringing you back and they test you; time after time you
rank in these tests. Then after awhile you are a "B" student. You're
"B" student, because a"B" student means there is an "A" student
above you and it means a "B" student should be subservient to an
"A" student. It means that your rights have been diminished. This
is what the purpose of an education is in Canada. It's a socialization
process to brainwash you into their way of thinking.
I propose that we need a new imagination. You guys have
to imagine that you are going to be around for three or four generations, or fifty or sixty more generations. People have to start imag-

ining that we are going to continue to exist. Our great Grandparents
were told that Indians were going to disappear and they were
getting shot at, they were dying from small pox and all kinds of stuff
was happening to them, but they didn't believe Indians would
disappear. How come the people of this generation think they are
going to disappear? How come you guys are lying down and giving
up?
Our peoples in the past really put up a struggle. They put up
a hard tough struggle. In the United States Indians put up a military
struggle. They put up a military struggle for over a hundred years.
They fought until they fell down dead, most of them. And we lost
most of our population. Now our people have begun to come back
a little bit. But they have come back a little bit brainwashed. And I
am sympathetic aboutthat brainwashing process, because I wentto
school as long as any of you did.
I think it is time to start questioning. We need to ask
ourselves some hard questions. For me, the first hard question is;
who are your ancestors? Are your ancestors nomads in the Arabian
desert of two thousand years ago? If those people are not your
ancestors then where's your culture? Where is your belief about
who you are and what you do? And how do you put that together?
And what are our Nations? Are our Nations not real? Are they
negotiable? Do we take our Nationhood, and our peoplehood, and
our culture and all that is dear to us, and do we put that on the
auction block! How many dollars is it worth? How many program
dollars? What is it worth?
A people must have a vision of themselves. We must
develop a vision, a vision of who we are and of who we are going to
be and what we are going to like. Not something handed to us by
somebody who hates us. We must have a vision of what is positive
and powerful among us. We have to learn to start respecting that
which is real about us, in the past, in the present, and for the future.
We have to do that.
Then there is the very question that nobody wants to
answer, that has to do with our relationships with Canada and
United States. Because, ultimately, I say this: the real measure of our
relationship with Canada and the United States asks the question,
what is going on on the land? Not what is going on in Ottawa. And

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John Mohawk

what is going on on the land is not pretty, is it? How is what we are
doing creating, promoting, and helping that which is going on on
the land? And how do we devise a way to see something that we
want to see go on on the land?
In my mind, our ancestors lived a very interesting life. No
money, no computers, no television sets, none of this stuff. But our
ancestors, across the Americas, from the Arctic Circle to Tierre Del
Fuego, carried one thing that the whiteman never had; they had
communities of people who cared for one another. The whiteman
has been here to tell us that that is not important, that what is
important is rational thought and making money on land. But on
the land in North America people cared about one another. All the
ceremonies, brother making ceremonies, sister making ceremonies,
ceremonies of family, ceremonies of Clan, ceremonies of Nation. All
that stuff made people belong and they cared about each other.
They fought for each other. They made a life for each other. And we
are losing that, people. We are losing it.
When we look at what is happening, what is important is
not what is happening at the board rooms or the council meetings;
itisnotwhat's happening in Ottawa. Itis what is happening in your
homes, what happens with your families. It's what happens in your
neighbourhood. It's what happens when somebody floods land
that you grew up on and that your grandfather's bones are buried
in. It is what happens on the land. Some of our representatives are
going around representing our rights and they don't seem to notice
what is going on in the land. Too many of us have lost track of what
is going on on the land. But it is on the land that your children will
live. It is on the land that your grandchildren will live. It is on the
land that life is made.
Reality has been presented to you in all kinds of forms.
Reality has been presented to you in the form of phony ancestors; in
the form of ideologies that made no sense; in the form of biological
superiorities that have been proven to be ridiculous. All kinds of
things have been presented to you. What is your version of reality?
What is your version of what goes on on the land? What is your
version of the future? Could we be a loving, caring and sharing
peoples again? Could we continue to ask our peoples to sustain
themselves as distinct peoples? Can we transform the land into a

thing that supports human life? Can we envision what we are doing
here on this continent? Can we take some pride in what we have
done in the past?
They are not easy questions and I don't expect people to
come up with answers to them in minutes. But I think they are the
questions that we need to have. And we need to urge our leadership
in the States and Canada to show us more backbone. They are not
showing enough backbone. And they are only talking tough to us.
If you go talk to them and say: "Hey, you're goofing up," then they
will tum around and slap you. But when they are talking to
whiteman with a suit on, all of the sudden, they are on their knees
and they are just little old Indians again. So I say we need to show
more backbone. We need to give our leadership more backbone.
And we know how to do that. So anyway, those are my thoughts
that I wanted to share with you. - Thank you

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115

---,

Judith Mountain-Leaf Volborth

Mitchell Kakegamick
Stolen Past
(The Stolen Graves of the Mayans of Guatemala)
You are the kings of our past
You are our brilliance
Like the Pharoahs of Egypt
You are their equal
You lay in your cast
Knowing your advancement
Knowing your script
Someday we will know all
You have made it first not last
We will dance
And honour your crypt
You make us equal
But now I feel I have been raped
Someone stealing you
is stealing our past
Raping your tombstone

Turtle-Medicine Told Me
"Turtle-Medicine told me
that there is no end
to truth in this universe,"
said Lone-Hare.
"That's true," replied Coyote.
"But, I thought that it was lies
that were endless."
"That's true too," Coyote nodded
as he began to explain
and went on and on and on and on...

I feel I have been robbed
Someone killing you
is putting us last
by stealing our beloved ones

116

117

Maxine Rose Baptiste

Maxine Rose Baptiste
Indian Research on The Snaeporue
When the Snaeporue crune to the continent of North America
in the late 1600s, the Natives of this land found them to have
strange customs and practices.
These people seem to be a boisterous and lively people,
always talking and gesticulating in a loud and frenzied manner.
They talk incessantly, whether or not they are being spoken to,
interrupting the speaker constantly. They are so noisy one wonders
if they have success in their hunting expeditions. In reality, one can
hear them coming a long way off as they are travelling on the trails.
They build large structures of logs to live in. When these
are finished, the women work from dawn to dusk cleaning and
washing them, performing the same tasks each and every day. The
men insist on tearing up the earth to plant something called 'crops'.
The women also work a smaller portion of the earth called a
'garden'. They have also been heard to say that they now own the
land where they have planted their 'crops' and built their houses.
How can someone own what belongs to everyone?
The men have an abundance of hair on their faces and
bodies. The face hair must be scraped off daily, so it must be
offensive to some, but some leave it on to grow. They are a light
skinned people, and turn red in the sun, which may be why they
dress from head to toe in clothing. The women, especially, wear an
abundance of clothing, with long skirts to the ground. This must be
very hot in the summer and, although probably warm in the
winter, very cumbersome in the snow. They never go out without
covering their heads with round things called bonnets or hats,
which are similar to the fur caps the Natives wear. These are worn
everywhere, so they must be quite attached to them.
They have a method of hunting that causes the Natives to
be astounded at their stupidity. They hunt deer, moose, or elk, as
well as bear, mountain lion and beaver. They do not like to kill
smaller animals, but must have large ones, because they prize the
head and antlers of the deer species and the skins of the bear, lion
and beaver. Many times the Natives have come across the rotting
carcasses of the animals the Sneaporue have killed, taking the head
and antlers or skins only. These they dress and hang on the walls
of their homes or place on the floors to walk on.

118

The Sneaporue have strange customs and practises. The
Natives are concerned for the world as they know it. How long will
the land and the animal resources survive if more of these people
come and do the same things these ones are doing?

t\DCfJs

atahon,,,.,
THE BUIE SPOTS
by MONIQUE MOJICA
A compilation of two plays by dynamic
actor and playwright Monique Mojica.
" ... her purpose is to debunk white appropriation of Native history that
romanticize lndlan princesses like
Pocahontas and Ignore the horrific
truth of their lives under white
domlnatlon."-METROPOLIS

Release: Oct. '91 0-88961-165-3
$11.95 pb

,a 1 WOMEN'S PRESS

'W 517 COLLEGE STREET #233
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TORONTO, ONTARIO M6G 4A2
119

Joseph A. Dandurand
Unbounded Warrant

Joseph Dandurand
Maka N agi (The Earth Spirit)

Take
me away
from
hurt
and pain.
Let
my people
live
their
way.

Spirits
talk.
Tell the
legends.
Show
the path.
Pain is
forever.
I cry.

cut
out
welfare
dominance.
Show
pity
empathy.

The
spirit
world
is safe.
No pain,
No prison.
I take
a path,
I enter...

Imprisoned
by
our beliefs.
lam
their
voice.
I cry
with pain.
I sing
to free
them.

We see the beggar man
Our eyes closed, we try to forget
He sees our pain and forgives us
We see the drunk Native woman
Our step quickens, we know it will pass
She understands our spirit and forgives us
We see the blind man stumble
Our hearts tell us to help
He feels our excuses and forgives us
We see the starving child die
Our money buys us worthless items
The child is gone and forgives us
We see the people who are ruled
Our government tells us it's alright
The people protest and die
They forgive us
We see the land and the water
Our children know the destruction
They try to clean our mess
Again out of love they forgive us
We see the animal spirits
Some are gone, never to be seen again
The eagle cries for those who cannot
The raven laughs at us
He humbles
The salmon swim in polluted rivers
My people eat rotted fish
My people die from booze
My people try
They try to forgive

120

121

Sarah Lyons

Tania Carter
The Earth, A Woman and Her Baby

Sister You Are Mixed Like Me

Raped, plundered and torn
the Earths screams
go unheeded.
the cement provides no food.
Empty bellies echo
to each other.
A mother and her child,
helplessly ignored.
the strings they hold
cut deep into their flesh
one string is cut
the string swings
the baby cries
drops
and is dead.
the air is full now
with the putrid smell of
ageless rotting flesh
Dampness can almost be touched
It's the warmth of fresh blood
you try to relax
your face ... to breathe
-you can't
your throat, your head
pulses.
You open your eyes again.
No words can you speak
there are no words to justify
what just happened
Nothing could- ever.

Sister; you are Mixed like me
holding on to our quarters
in spite of everything
it has been a long journey

122

sister; you look white to me
but secretly we know
our ancestors features
are apparent
though others cannot find them
in our faces
or physiques
sister; you are a lot like me
but we agree
stereotypes help no one
you've changed your name
to remind yourself
of who you are
to make itso
you'll never forget
everyone asks us to forget
at least for a little while
everyone offers us denial
but we refuse
(you make people pronounce it right too
although the consonants collide)
I grow my hair long
and dig thru the shards of
an exploded family memory
piecing together
with my own sturdy one
something resembling the
absolute truth

123

~I
David C. Gregoire

Sarah Lyons

r

sister, you are a quarter like me
and its good to have you
some kind of magic that we were neighbours
during these strange times
sister, you are an eighth like me
you have retrieved that piece of your identity
set it among your other things
you lead publicly now and
this part of you trails behind wherever you go
follows you
like a flag in the wind
sister, you are a sixteenth like me
you want to know if it's ok to say
your mixed heritage
or bi-racial
it's been your secret
all along
now your silence around it grows
more complicated
and purposeful
than you would like to admit
so you're asking me
is it ok to claim it?
I'm telling you yes
and promising you that
it will never be uncomplicated
starting out
or going all the way
I'm holding your hand
I'm smiling your struggle down
you are free now to plot a course home
glad to have been here
at your new beginning
scattered thru bloodlines
we will claw our way back
delicate urgency
homebound and free
124

Daddy I Wish
Daddy I wish for the
time to tum back
To a time of togetherness
To a time of the things
we missed
Of being able to talk of
father and son things
Oh my daddy
I wish we were able to
share
Of things I yearned to know
Of things that went through
my mind
Of my questions of growing up
Of the changes I was going
through from a child to
an adult
Daddy I wish
For those days when I needed
answers
for those days when there was no
time, to make time
for those days that we could
have sat down and talked
of anything and everything
Of life of love of laughter
of pains of joys
of the sunshine of the flowers
and of the trees and the stars
To talk about the weather
the grown-up things of money
bills shortcomings and of
great things done

125

David C. Gregoire

David C. Gregoire
Daddy I wish
and long for the sit-down
talks of handshakes and of
man-to-man talk
over coffee over pop
over tea
Of anything that made you and
me happy and to share those
feelings
Those are what I
missed
Of not being able to
talk and share as I
noticed other fathers and
sons share
And a feeling of pain and
emptiness washed over me

On warm summer nights
When we'd sit on the bench
on the hillside
on a plank
on the make-shift chairs
and benches
We shared
I aided you
I talked for you and
helped you in town I
supported you and talked
to you slowly and carefully
as your eyes went and
your hearing faded
Oh my daddy though
there were no father-son
talks as such
As I helped you as you
did with your father
I will cherish
those warm and wonderful
and genuinely once-in-a-time
times with you

But daddy we shared
We shared and talked
of news of helping you
and leading you
We shared of laughter
of fights and how
you felt of your
family your children
and in-laws

So daddy we still shared
and we always will

There were things that you
told me and no one else
That you trusted me with
We shared non-important things
of cars of prices and of
who was visiting who

126

127

Shirley Eagle Tail Feathers
Nightmare Trails
My ancient land now covered with paved paths
leading nowhere
does a heart fall into dusty dream trails or
follow blindly
for real camp or just another inspirational pit stop
not really meant
just for games as the tires spin by
The hat sitting in comer
middle of nowhere but entry too
A video black filled snap shots
sorting collection digging hole too deep
far below Taber Child
fingers and bone melting
"Toss it in" she says "forget it only wants More"
of what?
pain cracking crystal
watching repeat after repeat
Old yellow diseased bone lying on top of exam sheet
"identify all traits, as many
as anything you can find" they say while
he that voice says "Unwrap Carefully"
"Just a game" they and that voice say
"Just a game to play"
The other way
somewhere
back there
Living room four times story goes
four times to solve puzzle
laughing at stupid no joke
blowing in the trees and prairie wool
Story time begins
laughs one telling, story
128

Shirley Eagle Tail Feathers
more woman sitting on accumulation pile
bundle give a way ancient custom
sold
to one for every occasion
one for pool table
bar
study sitting in middle
surrounded by every occasion
laughing at gossip
nothing better to do
crosses heart to say
"finished just a game"
black night blue moons Dreams
Same one come true
Deep eyes Searching
hungry cat
clawing at Stoic images
Shimmering in the afternoon
Bolting up screaming
Just a dream game
Same Dream Image
fading bit by bit at that Hat
sitting among old bones on a pile of bones
watching
listening to trees artificial grass
waiting to see prairie wool grow
in cement tracks
She
old woman porcupine drew circles
of one trail to the cat's heart
guiding bear disguised as a mouse
Pencil poking out old bones
does this image like games

129

Greg Young-Ing

Greg Young -Ing

More Questions Still (For Mishom)
where did you go
when we put you in your land
after singing your spirit
to flight
for two of the longest sunsets
through hovering hurricane night
(leaving me with this feeling
that I only know two things)
I know you were there
you took a picture of yourself
dancing
to your own Honour Song
across those thick air patches
(which hung so heavy)
for me
to witness your departure
but where do you sleep
after gliding weightless
through open skies
and how will your Pipe be passed
if not by your gentle hands
where is the place
that keeps your quiet power now
the power that turned our salt-laden tears
into sparkling liquid passages
running through Oear Water Lake
to cleanse our wounds
(the same power
that changed a world of hate
our vision of this new wasteland
into something of hope
right before our clouded eyes)

132

and where are your eyes now
those eyes that watched Nations
hurled through boiling oceans
and saw which bubbles to breathe
to guide us homeward
are your eyes on me
more than ever now
disappointed
(even as I write this poem)
while I am searching still
for the wisdom
you silently planted
somewhere
in dark comers
of my hard head
the other thing I know
is that your familiar laughter
is resounding
somewhere in the universe
but I want to hear it
Grandpa
I need to hear it
now
you were old and swift
pouring your spirit wide
over every remaining season
while I was young and slow
your strength blinding me
to your mortality
(dreaming
you were there
for me
forever)

133

Shirley Flying Hawk d'Maine

Greg Young-Ing
I still listen
for my name to be called out
I long
to Sun Dance in your shadow
but how do we get to South Dakota now
(and I can feel them
down there
dancing strong
this very moment
uncovering old truths
even as I write this poem)

"Too Red To Be White" - A Song
C
I'm too red to be white
G
D
And I'm too white to be red
G
C
G
A half-breed, in-breed, no breed I'm called
G

D

G

But I think they're playing a trip with my head

D

G

But I think they're playing a trip with my head
so why
do so many questions
still ring around my ears
after hearing all the answers
spoken between lines
in your clear voice
and how can I still want more
even after all you gave

G

C

I'm too good to be bad
G
D
And I'm way too bad to ever be good
G
C
G
A half-breed, in-breed, no-breed I'm called
D
G
But I think they're playing a trip with my head
D
G
But I think they're playing a trip with my head
D
A no mans land
C
A no womans land

D

C

I don't know what it's called

D

C

Am I dirt on the ground or am I trash on the streets
D
A place in between life and death we meet
(CHORUS)

134

135

Patricia Bennett

Shirley Flying Hawk d'Maine

G

Walking Two Roads

C

Well I'm too Red to be white

G

D

And I'm too white to be Red

G

C

G

A half-breed, in-breed no-breed I'm called

D

G

But I think they're playing a trip with my head

D

G

But I think they're playing a trip with my head
(MUSIC BREAK****)
D
A no mans land
C
A no womans land
D
C
I don't know what it's called
C
A no womans land

D

C

I don't know what it's called

D

C

Arn I dirt on the ground or am I trash on the streets
D
A place in between life and death we meet
(CHORUS) & THEN ENDING WITH:

G

D

D

But I think they're playing a trip, playing a trip

D

G

Playing a trip with my head

136

It was a beautiful Saturday as the bright sun beamed
through the window in Alex's bedroom. He woke up to the sound
of someone rustling paper in the next room. He pulled the striped
blanket over his head and realized he could not sleep anymore.
Taking the blanket off his head, he stared straight up at the ceiling.
He rolled over to look at the clock; it read 12:31. His head was
pounding from the party the night before. He could remember
going to Monty's Pub, a local white hangout, with his friends,
Trevor and Ron, who were also white.
He quickly got dressed, throwing on a pair of faded Levis
jeans and a T-shirt. He headed straight to the kitchen, grabbing a
large glass of orange juice. His brother Andy was sitting at the table,
reading the newspaper. Although Andy was two years younger, he
was more mature.
Andy looked up and asked, "You going to check out that
dinner tonight?"
Alex looked in the fridge, not paying attention to his
brother, ''What dinner?"
Andy said, "The one at the Friendship Centre!"
Closing the fridge, Alex replied, ''Nawh, there's only going
to be a bunch of Indians!"
Andy lowered his eyes back down to the article he was
reading, not wanting to comment.
"Did anyone phone?", Alex said as he poured himself
another glass of juice.
"Yah, your white friend, Ron!", Andy replied, not taking
his eyes off the paper.
Alex shook his head and started to mess up Andy's long
black hair which was tied back in a pony tail.
''Why don't you get a haircut?" Alex said as he laughed.
''What for? So I can be like you and all your white friends!" Andy
replied sarcastically.
''What'sthatsupposetornean!" Alexsaidashetriedtotake
a few swipes at his head.
"If you don't know, Ican'ttell you!" Andy said as he began
to stand up to defend himself.

137

Floyd Favel

Patricia Bennett
Andy's arm blocked the next hit, accidentally knocking the
juice out of his hand. Shattered glass and orange juice spread across
the linoleum floor.
When he returned to the kitchen Andy was gone, the paper still
open where he left it. The broken glass still on the floor.
Alex started to pick up the pieces, throwing them in the
garbage. He took a dry cloth and it immediately soaked up the juice.
Alex wondered why Andy was so mad. He shrugged it off and tried
not to let it bother him.
The sun was still shining as Alex walked down to the pool
hall where his friends usually hung around. Beads of sweat formed
on his face as he took a piece of kleenex and wiped it off. Ron and
Trevor came out of the building, laughing as Alex walked over to
them.
"Hey guys! Whats up? What's so funny!" Alex said as he
took off his jean jacket and ran his fingers through his short brown
hair.
"Ah, not much!" Ron said as he gave Trevor a knowing look
las if something was up, his hands placed behind his back.
'We were just joking around with your little brother."
"Yah, so, and ..." He squinted his eyes from the glare of the
sun and he knew something was wrong. His friends were al ways
picking on someone.
.
Ron brought his hands to the front and a chunk of black hair
slowly fell to the ground. Alex's eyes went big as Andy came
running from the pool hall. His long silky hair was now shorter.
Andy and Alex came face to face; their eyes met.
'Well,lhopeyou'rehappy;youwantedmetocutmyhair!"
he said as he pushed past him. Andy started to run in the direction
of their house.
He watched his brother, until he turned the comer. His
friends continued talking but he couldn't hear what they were
saying. His mind was miles away, thinking of what had happened.
He looked down as the hair slowly blew down the street. He
thought 'how could they act like nothing happened?' His friends
were still joking around, not even noticing him. He glanced in the
pool hall window but noticed his reflection instead. He ~ressed an~
looked like them but he was different. Even though he ignored his
Native heritage, he knew that his brother's hair was important to
him. He looked at his friends, then back to his reflection. He wasn't
white, he was an Indian.
138

Akak Timisowa
We are losing our identity
we adopt foreign value systems of gain and economic social power.
Maybe this is what Black Elk, a Lakota holy man,
called "walking the Black Road"
every man and woman for himself,
a time of darkness and ignorance,
of confusion and traitors.
We can see this around us
in our people squabbling over funds and positions,
selling out or cheating their brothers and sisters.
As if the threat from outside were not enough,
we destroy ourselves from inside.
It is an ocean out there
and the old style people feel like islands,
surrounded by madness and pitifulness.
There is grandmother whom I visited in the summer
telling with bitterness the drunkenness of her grandson,
who leaves on weekends to drink
and comes back sick.
He and his friends with their loud cars and laughing voices.
She found a beer bottle cap on the ground
and laughing slightly
as if the beer cap was there to agree with her,
she picked it up and tossed it into the bushes.
A time of hardship
each person making a tiny reservation
whose inmate is himself.
We forget the circle and become thousands of reservations.
As if the reservations they put us on were not enough,
there are reservations for our spirits.

139

Amie Louie

Floyd Favel
Why do I tell these things?
These stories are my burden and they are my strength.
Telling them and thinking about them,
remembering
is a way to understand myself
as part of the history of my People
I can understand,
forgive
get angry
cry.
It's important so I don't forget
and be lost
feeling no identity,
it's not a good way to be.
Also it is a freeing from the chains on my grandfathers,
and their descendants.
With the reserves is a long history of oppression
which each person carries
unknowingly or knowingly.
We have the history of the reserve
in our cultural memory,
in our flesh and blood.
Also the better times
when we were a strong and happy people.
The work of the circle is
breaking through our reserves
which are prisons.
When a person opens himself to his voices,
opens to another
accepts who they are
the Nations' hoop is being mended.

140

Healer
I walk
By virtue of
En' owkin doorway
Spiritless
Into guidance
Make the grade
Off the street
A lost soul
Asleep
Partial state of adolescence
Alive
In a man's body
Tasteless values
Entertain
A stagnant mind of institutional knowledge
The "Okanagan Stud"
I horde bread
And breathe fashion
Lifeless thoughts
Possess
Polished flesh
Sparkled
By gold jewellery
Adda tie
Enter a ''brut'' man
Adaptation
Compels
The civilized world
I sit
And wait
One last chance
To drink the remedy
Of "get me a job"
She speaks subtle
And clear
Into shallow ears
Knocking on closed doors
Words
Open windows with ease
Hesitancy
Teased by faith
141

Wenda Clearsky

Arnie Louie

I Dreamed

Tames the "wild"
Gently
It soothes
Mixed emotions
Of identity

The turtles were huge and coloured
With a greyish black hard shell
Standing in full strength
On muscular short legs
Halfway in a foot of clear water
I dreamed

Wisdom drips
To fill Half filled cups
Of polluted waters
As screams continue to echo
And slowly fade away

Nine women powerfully dressed
In deep red fancy designed coats
All standing in a row
With their black hair tucked in
A strong line of ancestry
I dreamed

Who am I?
What am I?
Help me!
Therapy cures
Warpnessawakens
The dead
Breaks the ice
Enlightens
The superficial
Okanagan voice
Teaches
Shapes and conditions
Cleanses
bath tub rings
treats
open sores
Of inflicted generation patterns
Sacred bead of light
Appears
Filtered
Enough to listen
A mentor
Cultures a protege
Slowdown
Now!
Share the message
And write
Arise and awake
And learn everything you can
But remember...
Forget politics
And come to class

The power of our women
They danced in protest
Another blockade
Along a snow tire pathway
Yet past another fresh fence
I dreamed
They sang as well
Facing towards the 10th person
The leader
Dressed in a dark navy
Fancy designed coat
I dreamed
Sitting on a large stump
A Drummer in his not-every-day buckskin
The 11th person-a Traditional Warrior
Drums in unison
To lonely cries of justice
I dreamed

"Lim' Lim't Jeannette"
142

143

Wenda Clearsky

Wenda Clearsky
While the women dance Traditional
In Kneehigh buckskin mukluks
Grandfather is being buried again
Relations wear black
Everyone has grieved
I dreamed
Since Grandfather died 3 years ago
The reeds have grown greener
Still a Native child is born
The unmarried parents
Do not want this child
I dreamed

Journey of a Native Child
A Native child growing up too fast and hard
sleeping with 3 other siblings
on a double bed with made up pillows of old coats
sometimes a single bed
or doubling on a bunk bed
waking up on a pissy bed
A Native child being a babysitter so that the parents can go on a
drunk
whether you liked it or not
a house cleaner
expect everything to be cleaned up
or suffer ridicule in front of guests and
mind your opinions or get slapped on your so-called
big mouth--learn of oppression at an early age
A Native child learns to cook quickly
"better cook those spuds before mommy and daddy get home"
is a door opener late at night
whenever they want to come home and sleep from a drunk
or you have to be their audience for them
worrying what to feed your younger siblings
when the parents are not there day to day
A Native child sees and hears
the gossip that daddy is living with another woman
it is okay for mommy to do the same-play the cheating game
alcohol makes everything fun and everyone-as if
'wife-beatings' is a part of our way of life
Husband and Wife should stay together
"because of the kids"
A Native child is taught
there is nothing wrong with more abuse
when mommy takes off
daddy waking you in the middle of the night
"where did your mother go?" repeatedly

144

145

Wenda Clearsky

Wenda Clearsky
with a rifle pointed at their little innocent heads
screaming, "I don't know" fearing their lives
A Native child gets shoved here and there
a visit to your favourite Grandma
turns out to be a permanent one
only place you can be a child
play as a child if only you knew how
you don't have to do any chores
or look after your younger siblings 24 hours a day
A Native child diseased with tuberculosis
sent off to the sanatorium at an early age of 8
coming home nothing has changed
except you find younger siblings have grown too
"no mommy, no daddy" falls on deaf ears
feeling of rejection sets in
"why didn't you come and visit?", no explanation
A Native child gets shoved into another 'visit' again
this time it's to the unfeeling grandmother's home
the Catholic priest comes once in a while
we all have to go with the aunties to church
the priest hands out cans of Klik for the hungry
I ask for one so we can eat meat instead of spuds and bannock
only to be taken away by the vultures (aunties)
A Native child still waiting for the "acting single Parents"
to come and get you at grandmother's home on long days
being treated differently
blamed for your cousins whining cries
being scolded constantly
called "a little bitch or a little bastard"
because your mother is from a different reserve

there children are suddenly on vacation
too good for the "chores" because 'brownies are here"
being blamed for crippling a baby chick
A Native child is remembered by the other siblings
who was taken away by "Children's Ward of Social Services"
because the foster parents had no use for a two year old
wondering if she was better off where she was
or what is going to become of us
better still how can they separate us
"I could have helped look after my younger sister, can't I?"
A Native child shoved from school to school
different towns, new faces each year
"are we staying long this time?'
sure learning a lot...of time wasting
ends up at Catholic boarding school
only your little brother but you can't talk or look at him
"FORBIDDEN" to speak Saulteaux or you will get slapped
A Native child is sent 'home' for Christmas from the Catholic school
only to be sent back with no explanation
we know mommy is in the hospital but why?
did daddy hurt mommy again when they were drinking?
the boarding school is closed
so we have to stay at an old couple's place
while they play cards my younger brother lies sick unnoticed
A Native child moves to the city to get away from the "reservation"
only to find out we are poorer there
accessibility to alcohol is easier for parents
have to go on a supplementary budget on welfare
because your father can't support 7 persons with his cheque
oppression is already part of us
no matter where we go

A Native child in white foster homes
thinking things may be better here-ha!
food and shelter has been paid
yet they put you to do dirty chores

146

147

Leona Lysons

Wenda Clearsky
A Native child is an adolescent
growing up in the city
trying to find comfort and love by running away from 'home'
only to find trouble in order to survive the streets
landing in juvenile courts, detention, and foster·homes
being a teen age drunk trying to forget your upbri~ging
finding out 'there is no better there than here abusively'
A Native child is a grown person not finding stability
with the relationship they establish
common-law is easier to get in and out of
can cut out of responsibilities-the Native children-anytime
alcohol has been embedded in you-only sane way to have fun
also take the beatings-it is our native way, only right
no one wants a 'good for nothing lazy alcoholic Indian anyway'
A Native child becomes an understanding adult
through education-is a way out of oppression
has a strong will power to say ''NO" to alcohol
stays away from negative ways of 'abusive upbringing'
has learned 'do unto others as you would have do unto you'
unattached from any negative verbal, mental & physical abuse
with a healthy mind to live peacefully & to teach others wisely

148

Untitled
She is fragile
if she breathes too sharply
or allows someone to touch
she knows
that she can shatter
into a million glistening
pieces
which can pierce
cause damage
to anyone
standing
near
She knows
that shadows
can never be
without light
so candles
from the present
and ones
borrowed
from hopes
to the future
blaze
in every hallway
and entrance
every nook and cranny
to exorcise
shadows
from the past

149

Allen Delete

Colleen Fielder

Casually Speaking

Mountains I Remember

Cautiously drifting in the chaos.
Dodging the cynical arrows of the new breed.
Days pass, nights wander.
With each step, the dream of the seventh generation is illuminated
by chilling, prophetic visions of leaders, past.
Walk softly, brother.
Speak lightly, sister.

I loved the Kootenays and was content there
midst the towering peaks
sculpted by erosion
knowing even they would be levelled
as all are humbled eventually

Calculatingly observant of the confused masses.
Millions of voices saying nothing, collectively.
Light fades, darkness now.
.
With each blink of the eye, mother earth screams for rebelbon,
father sky yearns to protect, for the future.
Speak lightly brother.
Walk softly, sister.
Carefully touching the attitudes so grey.
Anarchistic reflections aimlessly travelling cement path.
Days pass, nights wander.
With fingers clenched, a fist forms, bred on the heartfelt
hoping eyes of the children, righteous and true.
Walk softly, brother.
Speak softly, sister.

Through time such redundance must be spoken
and memories preserved in rocks
fade under a system of weather patterns
so unpredictable that we are amazed it works
The goats know these things
showing it in their stares
Circumspect and vigilant they cruise
over each mountain path
limber and sure as dancers
Later we missed the ocean
maybe because we'd known it longer
wishing for the place where life began
billions of years ago
Still I recall looking down
sensing order even in things
I feared the most
While under the earth's surface
constant turmoil lurkes
earthquakes and volcanoes
occur in clearly defined paths
and I understood that a matrix of patterns
exists throughout the earth
connecting all that is
Feeling a part of
not separate from
I trusted in those mountains
loving more than I could remember
and fearing less and less

150

151

ONFRONTATION

"Just Say No"
Artist: David Neel

Martin Dunn
"Indigenous Reality in the Twenty-First Century"
If we, as Indigenous people, believe what white people try
to tell us we will be extinct by the 21st Century.
We hear a lot about the past; we deal with the present every
day, and too often we are told how to prepare for the future by
outsiders who don't really know us. The history that is taught about
Indigenous Peoples to the majority of people in Canada, including
ourselves, is a white creation full of lies that reinforce white values,
white images and white interests.

BIG LIE #1: History starts in 1492 when Columbus
"discovered" America.

BIG LIE #2: Indigenous Peoples have no history before
1492 (that is, "prehistory").

BIG LIE #3: There are no ""real" Indigenous Peoples in the
present; they exist only in the past.
BIG LIE #4: Indigenous Peoples " immigrated " to North
America from Asia across the Bering Strait.
(This lie says that we are just immigrants like
anyone else; that we have not been here since
time immemorial).
BIG LIE #5: Anything good about Indigenous cultures and
traditions exists only in the past tense. (History
tells us, for example, that Indians were a noble
people, were great environmentalists, and had
a holistic world view.)
White society uses these lies to rationalize the colonization
of North America by denying that the present generations of Indigenous

Peoples are the original people of this land, and that as such we have
special rights.
We must learn to recognize these lies and counter them at a
very young age. If we want a safe and secure home for the future
generations we must dispel those lies by changing the history books,

155

Candice Daychief

Martin Dunn
Inter-Cultural Education
by making sure we know what is reality and what is a lie, and by
teaching the truth, as we see it, to our children. This is how we will
take control of our own future.
We, as Indigenous Peoples, exist in the present as distinct
peoples with distinct worldviews, distinct histories and distinct
rights. We are what we are, and we must base our future development
on that reality.

156

Inter-cultural education is a big issue in today's society. It is
an issue because more and more non-whites are beginning to think
about their futures and the goals which they would like to achieve.
Sometimes an inter-cultural education can pose problems
for the young adults who are attending white schools. This experience may be hard at times, but somehow we have to learn to cope
with it.
One of the biggest drawbacks with going to high school is
racial discrimination. When Native students first go to a school,
pressures that they've never had before are placed on them. The
feeling that they're being discriminated against is hard on them. By
staying in school, students become better known by other students,
become more comfortable in the school, and very often do better in
their school work.
The drop out rate of Native high school students is very
high. This is a major problem when talking about inter-cultural
education. If you are not there, you cannot be educated. Students
find thatproblemsathomeforce them to quit. When they fail classes,
they become frustrated and can see no alternative except quitting.
Many students, especially where I come from, have long, tiring, monotonous bus trips to make from home to school and back again and
simply cannot handle it. There is another group of students who
have developed bad attitudes about their lives. Some don't have
parents to guide them and so they adopt the values of peers. These
attitudes are responsible for people not completing school.
School life in a high school isn't all that bad. It can have its
ups and downs. One good thing that can eventually occur is that we,
the Natives, can have a great opportunity to live and learn more
about the other side. When I say "other side", I am referring to the
whiteman' sway of life; the way they dress, the way they communicate and, especially, the way they view us Natives. The more we
understand cultures other than our own, the more we are able to
control our own futures. It is very importantthat, as Native Indians,
we must learn the ways of the world around us in order to have a
better lifestyle for ourselves and families.

157

!
'I

Candice Daychief

Candice Daychief

The more we Natives begin to communicate and associate
with whitemen, the more we become self-confident and also start to
let others know more about ourselves.
By attending school, Natives can get a better idea of why
education is so important. They learn how to cope with many
different situations and how to handle life better. Inter-cultural
education is a first-class ticket to a satisfying future. By blending the
Native with non-native ways, both groups gain. As Natives, we
cannot survive in a world without knowing and using the best of
both cultures. By getting a good education we have so much more
chance of succeeding in a world where so many fail.
There are many events from the past and in the present that
show people that the future is ours. Native issues have made big
news in recent times. The most publicized event was the Oka
Standoff in Quebec last summer. Natives are also fighting for land
they know belongs to them in British Columbia. Southern Alberta
Natives refused to allow the Old Man River to be dammed in order
to save some of their land. These events really told people that
Natives care and truly want to build a future for themselves and
their families. What these Natives did is something which should
have been done a long time ago. They actively tried to change their
lives for the better and this is good. But no lasting changes will be
accomplished with the use of weapons and violence. The futures of
young Native people lie in education because we must fight for our
causes using not weapons but the knowledge acquired through
education. Many more young Native people are finishing high
school and going on to universities and other post-secondary
institutions. These people hold the future Natives in their hands.
Things will be changing quickly in the next few years because of the
dedication and hard work of Native people who are educated. By
encouraging education and supporting this new generation of
ambitious young people and by working hand -in-hand with those
of us who have traditional knowledge, we can make tremendous
changes, changes which will be positive and lasting. At this time in
our history, now, we can truly say that the future belongs to us.
But pretty soon we will have to pay for them. The only way
to survive in today's world is to get as much education as you can.
To get a decent job now-a-days a person must have a minimum of
a high school diploma, which is a lot.

I am in an inter-cultural school, where sometimes it can be
very rewarding and at other times can be very disappointing, but
I'vebeenabletocopewithitsofar.RightnowlaminGradeTenand
am pleased with the progress I have made. Sure, at times I feel like
giving up but, then look at all the unfortunates around me and say
to myself, "Do I want to fail or succeed in life?" As I say this to
myselfl think of all the people who have failed in life and ask myself,
'Will I ever become like that?" Saying that to myself, it makes me
want to try even more and makes me want to succeed even more in
life and in my future career.

158

159

"Shadow Dance #10"
Silvergelatin Print
by Glenda J. Guilmet

Garry Gottfriedson
What Old Man Magpie
Said To Old Lady Crow
Old Man Magpie boasted to Old Lady Crow of how beautiful his voice was compared to hers. He went on to brag that he
could even sing her songs better than she could. She responded by
saying, "It isn't the sounds which are important, but the meaning of
the messages which are important. "
Old Lady Crow must have had the astuteness to foresee
what was about to happen in the literary world. In the last decade
numerous writers from different ethnic origins in this country have
emerged to spread their words throughout the universe.
Two of these writers are: W.P .Kinsella, the author of many
stories including Dance Me Outside, who is Canadian white; and
Jeannette Armstrong, author of the well known novel Slash, who is
Okanagan Native born. The two writers have one thing in common
-- the beautiful sounds they express through their work. Something
significant in their works is that both writers are distinct voices in
their genre of writing. They focus their work on contemporary
Native style as is evident through the development of their characters. Though both writers focus on Native style, there is a distinct
contrast in ' voice 'between Anglophone Kinsella and Native born
Armstrong.
W.P.Kinsella's pace throughout his work is fast moving.
This genre of writing is incorporated by many Anglo writers and is
used primarily for entertainment. Action oriented novels very seldom draw the audience to clear resolution but are effective in
preventing boredom. Kinsella's focus may be Native based, but
unlike Native writers, his characters are disconnected from their
environment. He has developed a knack for mimicking (sometimes
to extremes) the tum-of-the-century broken English/Indian lingo,
which he uses throughout his novels. He achieves this through dialogue and scenes created for his characters such as Silas Erminskin
and Silas' buddy, Frank Fencepost, who are central characters
throughout Dance me Outside.
Kinsella writes, 'I am used to Papa get drunk, but I guess I
hope Wilbur was not the same. We a long way out of town when I
remember we forgot Wilbur's Hat.' (33) 'We hardly get off the bus
downtown when Frank's boots with metal heels slip on the slushy
160

Garry Gottfriedson
sidewalk. Lucky he fall backward cause he slide abut 50 feet on his
back in the wet with booby held tight to his chest. He is some mess
when he stop. A white man helps him up. "You drunk, or what? "
the guy says to him ' (52).
It is a type of tired battered Hollywood imagery, created for
entertainment, but reflects subtle white supremacy. Worse, those
mimic skills lead naive readers to believe that his work is uniquely
Indian.
On the other hand, Jeannette Armstrong, who is uniquely
Indian, posits a much more realistic view of Native voice. In Slash,
her pace is much slower. She moves through each chapter slowly to
emphasize particular points to be learned. She develops the character Slash to prove that human beings belong to someone, somewhere, and something. Armstrong creates him as an entity connected to family, friends, community and environment. She presents reservation life as it actually is.
She writes, "Mom was waiting inside. She hugged me real
hard then she said, 'Tommy, how come you're so skinny? I cooked
some deer brisket just the way you like it and some biscuits. We
were waiting all evening for you. Uncle Joe told us you were
coming. He had a dream. Eat now, Tommy. We'll catch you up on
everything'." (79) This particular scene with its dialogue depicts
Indian people as every day normal, speaking people, neither
pretentious nor superior to anyone else. Jeannette Armstrong does
not need to create elements in voice to manipulate her audience for
the purpose of entertainment. She uses the natural voice she was
born with.
W.P.Kinsella is no match for Jeannette Armstrong despite
his attempt to reflect the true Native 'voice'. Cultural uniqueness is
something people are born into. It is not something that needs to be
strived toward. The voice of Old Lady Crow clearly reveals she
knew what she was talking about in her gentle response to Old Man
Magpie.

161

Garry Gottfriedson

Garry Gottfriedson
Professional Indian

Suicide Kiss
Judas, will you ever give up
what never belonged to you?
Your twilight followers smile
at your raised hand, as you
lift the sledge hammer
ready to smash another rusty spike
into my people's rawhide layers.
I am convinced that your only salvation
occurs at the precise moment
your white hooded cross-burners
murmur at the sight of our blood;
more victims hung and nailed,
some locked behind iron bars and cement.
But in the crowd, your feeble voice
hollered "rape"
through the crackle of wood burning
on a star lit night:
it was an ordeal you took great pride in
because I heard you thank the same god
that listens to your 2 am calls...
it is the very same one
that taught you to pluck magic from your mother
and now she is dying in the dark:
THAT
is legal murder!
On the death of my Mother
I laid a live yellow rose next to the black one
you laid on her grave;
I was told, then, that
love and hate are the same thing:
and at my rawhide layers breaking point
I will return
the same love or hate
you have blessed my Mother with.

A professional Indian?
A professional Indian!
No, not the kind you want.
No, not an ancient brave
dancing war dances
yelping stone-faced
around rock-bedded fires
and smelling like poplar smoke
I am not the museum Indian
adorned in beads and leathers
freely weaves to grass dance songs
just before the forty-niners
Back at Weasel Tail,
She asked me to Owl Dance
but changed her mind
when I stood up in my three piece suit:
I was insulted!!
I wanted pay ...a horse... land.
Queenie stole my land ...
Indian men spoke kindly of her
while wrinkled Indians watched
their prophecies unfold:
1) Asian people
dig thud nail ties
2) Their words
"as kmg as the sun shines...
as long as the sun...
as long as the...
as long as .. .
as long...
ass ..."

And who will you pray for then?
162

163

Marie Annharte Baker

Garry Gottfriedson

An Account of Tourist Terrorism
"Making love between the fine print,"
my Grandma said,
"but they shoulda at least kissed us
before they screwed us."
Damn old fool!
What does she know
after twenty years of being dead ?
ask again.. .
ask again.. .
ask again.. .
Well, what kind of professional
would listen to a dream-speaking dead Indian?
Professional Indian, my ass

164

History is just used pampers on the
grave of Sitting Bull at Yankton but
because of crushed beer cans, obvious
Lakota visitors to this historic site
know what is under the earth, the lake,
the black cook who died the same day.
McLaughlin buried both in the fort
with quicklime to foul up those Mobridge
businessmen's rendezvous with the right
bones to connect to make one skeleton.
What is history and what did happen
is a deeper question than tourists
dumping dollars in an empty memorial.
The words not written on the plaque or
between the lines are ghostwritten graffiti.
Glow in the dark instructions if you dare
to landfill history, deposit postcards,
return artifacts, souvenirs and the clutter
of plastic tomahawks buried in our minds.
Indian raids are nothing in comparison.
Tourist terrorism is ceremony without fuss,
and who takes the bother stops desecration.

165

Rebecca B. Belmore

Rebecca B. Belmore

High-tech Teepee Trauma Mama - A Song
Chorus
Chorus:
I'm a high-tech teepee trauma mama
a high-tech teepee trauma mama
plastic replica of mother earth
plastic replica of mother earth

Souvenir Seeker
I know you are not a bad person
free me from this plastic.
Come on! Let's talk!

Souvenir Seeker
You may think you can buy me
Cheap!
Plastic woman
Long black hair
Silent.

Trinkets may have bought our past
but now our eyes are open.
We can see a long way
very far ahead.
Come on! Souvenir Seeker
free me from this plastic.

Chorus.

Chorus

Souvenir Seeker
Hang me from your keychain
Watch!
While I dangle in distress
Feel! Like you know our way.
Come on! Let's walk.
Chorus
lam not
I repeat
I am not
an American movie
nor am I related to Running Bear.
I come from a place.
Yeah, somewhere just north of here.
I bet you met an Indian
who came from there once.
Ami right?

166

167

Alootook Ipellie

Alootook Ipellie
Journey Toward Possibilities
Nothing should be left to an
invaded people except their eyes for weeping. 1
Like Mary
My mother and father created
An Immaculate Conception
Well almost
Who in his right mind would think
He was immaculate
There are plenty of souls out there
Who will make such a confession
Woebegone to this vulnerable world
Nothing immaculate in what I
See, hear, feel, taste, or smell
But I have always expected immaculateness
Ever since being able to comprehend
My fellow man's outpourings
But as these years pass by
My great disappointment is still endless
Man's penchant for immaculate discovery
In human beings will always fail miserably
Simply because he is doomed to a to a
Finite failure
Civilization in its very nature is violent
And we are a small portion of its victims
Although it can be said that
Because of man's violent nature
We as a distinct entity
Have survived obliteration
For now
Manipulation has played a central role
Within our side of the world
The circumpolar world
But to manipulate men,to propel them
towards goals which you - the social reformers see, but they may not, is to
deny their human essence,
168

to treat them as objects without
will of their own, and, therefore,
to degrade them. 2
Our homelands have been stamped
With these very words
For as long as dominators
Of dominant societies
Have dominated us
Unfortunately for the foreseeable future
These very words will remain
Comfortably cemented
Unless a new era dawns
In our circumpolar world
A yearning not quite like any
Other hunger is growing
Along with a desire
To break away from the grasp
Of colonialism
So we may once again squire dignity
Within our hearts 11nd minds
And replenish our souls with pride
Until we are given back our
Lost pride and dignity
We shall drape indignation
On all those who
Enjoy our friendliness
And the splendour of our homelands
Until these chains tied
Around our will are removed forever
We as a collective
Will continue to be denied
Our freedom
Allow us to imagine that
Wonderful state of mind
When ecstasy runneth over
Our goose pimples
In the final realization
Of our greatest desire

169

Charlotte DeOue

Alootook Ipellie
Letter Home
To be freed from
Our dominators' cage
The hand that may well
Secure our sacred freedom
Is contained in the
Embodiment of a new
Arctic Policy
For our circumpolar world
Our greatest hopes
Have found a perfect
Guilded foundation
On which to build a protective existence
As a distinct entity
In this global cultural mosaic
Since many of our cherished dreams
Still fade unfulfilled
We are determined as ever
To embark on a journey
Toward possibilities
For our people
And our homelands
Godspeed

Prussian chancellor, Prince Otto Von Bismarck, late nineteenth
century

1

Sir Isaiah Berlin, Fellow of all souls, Oxford University

2

170

Christmas, 1990

"I pay rent on a run down place.
There ain't no meals
But there's plenty of space
In my heart....
The heart that you own."
..... Dwight Yoakum
Dear Maybeline,
My old man is off to the day labor pool. At least it will get
him out of my hair and give me a chance to saw off the fingernail I
broke yesterday trying to get a letter off to you.
I am doing well enough, despite an attitude problem. I get
little pissed off at the half-wits at the food kitchen. Like I enjoy sittin'
next to a bunch of freaks? I've decided that a college education and
light skin do not save one's ass from a phony cast of characters.
A woman who sounds like a stand-in for Margaret Thatcher;
a make believe workaholic who burnt out on the Stock Exchange; a
former Hollywood producer; a disenchanted Matron of the Arts;
and a guy who chants matras from outer space, are but a few
Maybelline.
Leo ....that's what I call the big guy who smokes the streets
in a white van.. .is always smiling like he knows what everybody's
thinking.
''We're all here temporarily."
And there's always the "wash out'' at the end of the table, or
the bar, or hanging onto a parking meter. This one gives long, drawn
out sighs and wishes we would all drop dead and leave her alone.
I don't care if I'm here forever. I don't care about the Great
White Hunter's wife who drives the hell out of her cadillac. I don't
care who the next chair of the English Department will be. I don't
care that I didn't win the Belle Bonnet Book Award this year. I don't
care that Janet Jackson is prettier than me.
I never got mad when Charlene spent hours putting on her
face before going to the bar. Or the way she drank Kool-Aid screwdrivers. Or even the fact she had to turn tricks once in awhile. It was
the way she let her girl hang out with her when she did.
Why..... Charlene was one of my best friends.
It's just that I thought Charlene, of all people, would remember how it felt to get tossed out of bed by a drunk. And have to
listen to hours of fake moans, waiting for the last drawn out
expression of love.
"Heya.... it's Christmas! Let's pretend he's Daddy."
171

Charlotte DeOue
So what if I'm a little cynical. I hate the shit on the radio
that's called Hard Rock, where the hero saves the entire universe
and gets blamed for being a Satanist.
So I'm a little sick with it. I enjoy taking the alley to the filling
station for a pack of Generics. Gives me a chance to see what really
filthy people throw out in their trash.
So get off my back, Maybelline.
If Leo sneaks up behind you and dares you to make "just
one more god dam crack about somebody lookin' for a handout'' it's
no skin off my teeth.
What about the time you kissed some chicken shit undergraduate's ass because his uncle had money? Then sneered at the
Pell Grant recipient from Okmulgee you plagiarized? Or when you
cheated on that grant proposal saying you were an understudy for
Vine Deloria? Or secretly admired Oliver North for pulling the
whole thing off?
I think I'll try finding a "Political Philosopher'' and ask her
"if war is economically based, how come they aren't coming down
and enlisting us?"
"Because we're outside the margin, stupid. You know ....
like footnotes at the back of a book."
YEAH, MAYBELLINE WE'RE ALL UNMARKED GRAVES
AT McALESTER PRISON, LOCKS LEFT TO PICK BY SOME
WARDENS RIGHT HAND MAN. WE'RE ALL THE GREAT
FANCY DANCER IN THE SKY WAITING FOR THE MUSEUM TO OPEN.
One day we will be released Maybelline. We will walk the
shores of the Arkansas, baptized in the glory of our opinions, born
again as the biggest fools on the planet.
"If the political barometer is based on how old the sandwiches are they hand out, it looks like war for sure."
Which only means less mouths to feed.
So Maybelline, gotta sign off. Our man James Brown is
planning on entertaining the troops. Now there's a skin who don't
forget his roots.
Take care and dig deep. If your last penny is Canadian just
remember....things could be worse.
Mon-in Wa-he-he
Charlotte DeClue
The Poet
PS .....Leo wants a low-rider for Christmas.
172

Armand Gamet Ruffo
Poem for Duncan Campbell Scott
(Canadian poet who "had a long and disHnguished career in the Department
ofIndian Affairs, retiring in 1932," The Penguin Book of Canadian Verse)
Who is this black coat and tie?
Christian severity etched in the lines
he draws from his mouth. Clearly a nobleman
who believes in work and mission. See
how he rises form the red velvet chair,
rises out of the boat with the two Union Jacks
fluttering like birds of prey
and makes his way towards our tents.
This man looks as if he could walk on the water
and for our benefit probably would,
if he could.
He says he comes from Ottawa way, Odawa country,
comes to talk treaty and annuity and destiny,
to make the inevitable less painful,
bearing gifts that must be had.
Notice how he speaks aloud and forthright
(This or Nothing.
Beware! Without title to the land
under the Crown you have no legal right
to be here.)
Speaks as though what has been long decided wasn't.
As though he wasn't merely carrying out his duty
to God and King but sincerely felt.
Some whisper this man lives in a house of many rooms,
has a cook and a maid and even a gardener
to cut his grass and water his flowers.
Some don't care, they don't like the look of him.
They say he asks too many questions but
doesn't wait to listen. Asks
much about yesterday, little about today
and acts as if he knows tomorrow.
Others don't like the way he's always busy writing
stuff in the notebook he carries. Him,
he calls it poetry
and says it will make us who are doomed
live forever.
173

Ray Williams

Ray Williams
City
My head aches
from all its recorded thoughts
mindless history
scapes of rolling concrete
My memories
are of other people's memories
now in books
and of other's short spoken words
They are of tall and powerful
WARRIORS

and now 100 years later
(in the city)
slouched near voiceless
near unheard
The City
paternal government
the death of our people
''Now death to D.I.A."
Indian Agent's ghosts
are in my dreams

City
Do I look for my family
in your phone books?
Are they even here?
or are they dead?
Do I walk to my Reserve
now empty
with old totems
tall grass
and darkened nights?
Nights so silent
singing and drumming
can be heard
All sounds of the past
when we were
and thrived

"Home is where your neighbours are", He said
They're all in the City now
Breeding and dying
Laughing and crying
All of my Clan
in between the buildings and the alleys
Looking for themselves
Looking for family
Even looking for our dead
whose graves have been long gone
and robbed

174

175

Barb Frazer

Gunargie O'Sullivan
Aboriginal Original - A Song

I am a certain kind of person. An Aboriginal Original. Though some treat me like
a criminal, I have had my chance. Chances my type rarely get. Not to worry.
The way I am isn't always the way I want to be. I haven't had it easy. Don't feel so
We have all had our struggles, as others appoint their form of punishment for
those just like me.
We are never the same. My type is different, a mysterious sort. Yet we are a threat,
always have been and always will be. I'm not mistaken. Some rights for Ummm you and no rights for Umm-m me. Right? Ah ah. No Our questions are alive
and so am I. Yet you continue to evade what we have to say.
We all have a right to ask? And we all deserve an Answer.

Put It On
I am going
to put it on

with pride I stride
that dirt road

wear my old coat
this day

It may have a few
buttons missing

my sleeves
have dried

the wind might
howl through
threadbare seams

snot patches
on the side
tear stained pockets
lined with lint

AN ANSWER TO OUR PRAYERS. No matter who we pray to or not pray to.

yet it holds me together
perhaps it has
missed a few of moms wash days
But I am going to put
iton

clutters of the past
Imagine what we all would be like if we all did as we were told. Should we all be
like you? You the man who takes all he can. From Aboriginal girl to Aborigi
land. You polluted our minds with your social ways, to the point. Aboriginal
still suffers from things still being done. It's all in fun.
Now the land is suffering too. Mother earth is hard to find. She is polluted with
your kind' s progress. Your kind's progress causes mother Earth to regress. We
gave you an inch and you destroyed for miles and miles and miles.
Still you take for miles and give us nothing but an inch.
Where do we stand? Where do you stand? You're standing on aboriginal land.
Where do we stand? On the front line of the barricades?

toting shrivelled up
toilet paper
from soaking up
the memories

my lapels may be
thick and hard
from days
spent surviving
cold and sneering weather

perhaps it is
not the right
colour and will
never be

and when it has served its
purpose
I will store it

the disdain of
societty's fashions
this coat was
passed on to me

and adorn my back
with fine new
threads
till then they will
know me by the
colours of my coat

a grandmothers legacy

176

177

Tracey Bonneau

Sheila Sanderson

For Ola

Time

Spinning
silken threads
she stretches
her arachnid legs
around the
network of
lobbyists
weaving cocoons
to create eggs
for conscience minds
visualizing
the web
as struggle.
her spinning
becomes difficult
she finds them
hidden
covered with
dust

That spring:
She was Earth, he the sower.
It was their ancestors' land.
Sky, water and winds
were their guidance.
Led into peace
a strong nation
destroyed by new ways.
Now, in a crumpled world,
they can no longer plant and harvest
for seeds have turned
and land is rotting.
Turn to the elders
again
or strength and pride will never
Return.

in empty jailcells
or a bureaucrat's
filing box
she spins
interlacing
twisting
winding
a particular pattern
showing a
complex plot
that
spiderwoman
is free
from
narrow minds
she weaves
in favour of social
political
change
linking
an intricate cobweb
across
178

this nation

179

Colleen Fielder

Dennis Maracle
Faces

Eagle

Warm
Bronze
Joyous
Proud

Glowering you come
till I feel you soon
will pierce between
my eyes

Contorted
Changing
False faces

What right you eagle
to frighten and regard
with such animosity

Pale
Cold
Pained
Shamed
Silenced

I know the way
your power came
the way you suffered
and endured
They left you for dead
and laughed at your carcass
vultures circling overhead

Acquiesence
Anger
Resistance
Acquired knowledge

No one wept at your demise
You went to the land of the dead
and returned

Voices in
Proud
Joyous
Bronze
Warm
Faces

In your towering glory
and pinnacles of power
perhaps you glower
from what you know

180

181

Sarah Lyons
Walk On

A FIRST NATIONS FALL
AT FIFTH HOUSE PUBLISHERS
CONTEMPORARY CHALLENGES

Tread softly
over the brown earth
tread softly
and walk on

Conversations with Canadian Native Authors
Hartmut Lutz
Eighteen Native authors discuss their writing, backgrounds,
philosophies, and politics.

past confusion's bitter home
past whispered gossip
or insults shouted

K0HKOMINAWAK OTACIMOWINIWAWA

Our Grandmothers' Lives, As Told In Their Own Words
Freda Ahenakew and H.C. Wolfart, eds. and trans.
The stories told by seven elderly women provide insights into the lives
of several generations of Cree women.

walk on
past these
the hurts of others
they will find a balm
let it not be
your soft dreams borrowed
but walk
gently
on

THE BOOTLEGGER BLUES

Drew Hayden Taylor
A new play about love, family, and what to do with too much beer by
"one of Canada's leading Native dramatists". (Montreal Gazette)
THE TREATIES OF CANADA WITH THE INDIANS
OF MANITOBA AND THE NORTH-WEST TERRITORIES

Alexander Morris
First published in 1880 and reprinted in its original format. Any
serious discussion of treaty issues today should include a read of
Morris' text.
KEEPERS OF THE ANIMALS

Native Stories and WIidiife Activities for Children
Michael J. Caduto and Joseph Bruchac
Carefully selected Native stories along with excellent environmental
activities for children teach a wildlife conservation ethic. For ages 5-12.

WATCH FOR THESE AT YOUR FAVOURITE
BOOKSTORE THIS FALL!
Write for our free catalogue of books by Native authors.
FIFTH HOUSE PUBLISHERS
620 Duchess Street, Saskatoon, SK S7K 0R1
182

UNMASKING

"Unmasking"
Painting by Rose Spahan

Jeannette C. Armstrong

Oratory
'Aboriginal Youth: Warriors In The Present Day'
Excerpts From Keynote Address
National Aboriginal Youth Conference
February 11, 1989
Ottawa

I am very honoured and humbled to share my thoughts
with you. I offer my thinking with this in mind: I ask you to look
from your own perspective at the words that I have to offer you.
It is a really; really frightening future in front of us. I want
to tell you thatthere are some realities that have occured out of our
past and in our recent history. Realities that we need to look at and
that we don't have answers for. In order to look atthe world today
we are relying on this generation. We are looking at your responsibility and we are saying that we didn't have the answers. Maybe
if we look at some of those realities that we blinded ourselves from,
there is a chance and a hope.
Sometimes we look at ourselves and we see what our skin
colour is, and we see what our families are, and we see the
conditions in our homes and in our nations, and we can go across
this country and we can see similar kinds of conditions. We hear a
lot of different points of view about the kinds of things that we
should be considering and how we should prepare ourselves.
These are different points of view that are told to us. Understand
the whiteman's world, work itin it and excel in it and survive in it.
You need their education. Understand the traditional point of
view, be able to understand your culture, your values, go that way
- forget about the white man's world. Some people talk about
going down the middle of the road saying, understand both
worlds, understand and be able to choose your way through those
worlds. Those are the kinds of things that are being said to
the young people. By Elders, by parents, by teachers, and by
organizations thattalk to the Youth. At some point we need to look
at reality, to take reality and understand what is happening. What
is happening to our people? What is happening to our people in
relation to other peoples in the world? What is going on in our
nations right now? What are the realities? Are we doing better
than we were? Are we doing worse than we were?
When we look at the young people, at the age group that
most of you are in here, the realities are that the suicide rate is
187

Jeannette C. Armstrong

Jeannette C. Armstrong

twenty times the national average. The statistics on the kinds of violence that come out of drug and alcohol abuse, are as bad. Whatthat
tells me is that I can't fool myself. I look at the Youth and I see what
is happening. There is really a grave situation in terms of the
despair, the frustration, the bitterness, the confusion, mostly the
anger. When I look at that I think one of the things that we are not
doing, one of the things that we are not doing as educators, as
leaders, as mothers, as fathers, as parents, is that we are not looking
at the realities ourselves. We are not facing the reality of what the
situation really is.
We have been _trying to work within the structures. We
have been trying to find the best way to cope with life, and making
great compromises in our lives. Making great compromises in our
communities. Making great compromises in our Nations and we
are continuing to do that. The whole attitude goes back to what I call
a "colonized mentality". We became colonized through brutal and
coersive force, through various methods at the beginning. Indian
Nations came into contact with non-Native and were willing to
share and cooperate and to treat these people as guests. In
our area our people found those first explorers starving
and they pulled them through the winter. Not too many years later
there was confrontation and a lot of harsh things were done to our
people.
You see, when this country was being colonized, the reason
was based on selfishness, greed, power, and the need to control, the
need to use the resources off the land. That is the attitude they came
to this country with. The attitude that this is a country with vast resources, vast potential and they could control it. The thoughts were
to use the resources to better their standard of life for themselves.
They must have said, "Oh incidentally, some people live there but
they may not even be people. They may not even be human. They
may not even have souls." There were great debates in Europe at
that time about whether Indian people had souls or not.
At some point they set up treaties so that the kind of killing
that was continuously happening, the kind of open warfare would
not be harsh on their people. But if you look at the attitude, it was
one of supremacy, one of saying that we have the right to come to
this land and do whatever we choose. We have the right to subjugate these people, coerce these people, enforce our thinking on these
people.

We have that right because we are better, because we know more,
because we are more highly civilized. That is the basic attitude. That
attitude has not changed. That attitude is still the attitude that keeps
every Native person under their control and under their power.
That attitude is what the whole government system is all about, the
whole bureaucracy is about, the Department of Indian Affairs is
about, the elective Band council systems are about, those laws and
regulations are about and what those statistics are about.
We are talking now about a systematic method of genocide
that uses more subtle tools then it did two hundred years ago. And
systematic and methodical it is. Our people, every day, everywhere
are being told, "You are not good enough. You are not valuable as
a Native person. Your language, your culture, your history, your
customs, your ceremonies, none of those things are valuable, even
the way you look is wrong. Your skin colour is wrong. The way you
dress is wrong. Things you eat are wrong. And in order to be any
kind of a human being, any kind of real person, you have to dress a
certain way. You have to look a certain way. You have to pitch your
voice a certain pitch because if you sound too Indian, if you look too
Native, then there is something wrong with you. You are not going
to be able to succeed to do anything. You'll never be any good at
anything. You'reignorant. You'reasavage. You'reprimitive. You
always will be as long as you're Native.
That is the subtle message. Sometimes it is more than subtle.
It is blatant in the legislative proce:;s, bureaucratic processes, in the
instruments they use in the schools.
The more subtle ways we see it and feel it is from ordinary
people on the streets: clerks in stores, waitresses in restaurants.
You know the attitude I'm talking about. You know the look in the
eyes. Youknowthetoneof voice that tells you, "You're down there,
you'll never be equal, you'll never be the same as me". That attitude
continues to ravage our communities and ravage our people. That
attitude I see as the main tool of genocide. It is either you become
like them or you're nothing. You might as well die. You might as
well committ suicide, be a drunk, or whatever. Because if you're
anything else, then you're ignorant, you're savage, you're valueless.
The thing about thatis thatthey have every way of making sure you
understand that you know your place. That you can only succeed if
you become like them. that you can only be valuable if you become
like them. What I say to that is that it is one of the biggest lies of all
history.

188

189

Jeannette C. Armstrong

Jeannette C. Armstrong

It is one of the tools that has been used over many different
cultures to terrorize people, subjugate people, assimilate people.
That attitude is there in Canadian policy today, all levels of government today, all the legislative processes of today.
You have to look at reality. Every step made always has to
somehow work in their systems, their bureaucracy, within their
rules of the game. We bend all the time. We compromise to fit our
thinking, somehow, so that we have a little bit of freedom. The
reality of that situation is that every time we do that- every time we
give, every time we compromise -we are giving up a bit of what we
ourselves are as Native people. What we were created to be as
Native people, nothing can prove to me that one nation is better
than the other, that one nation is more supreme than the other.
Go back to their aristocratic system, look at it. Right back to
the days of pharaohs, up through the English system, the European
systems. Somebody up there had control and power and a whole lot
of people down there didn't have any control or power over their
lives. In many cases, those commoners, peasants, had absolutely no
way to feed their children, their families; they ended up having to
steal and rob. People were beheaded in that system because
somebody had said, "You don't have the right to eat. The right that
even the deer and animals have. You don't even own one inch of
land. That's the king's land. That is the government's land." That
attitude, that system, was brought over here. Our attitude, our
understanding is that every person has the same right as every
other living thing to breathe, to live, to eat, to have the gifts that the
Creator gave us, that were for free.
Nobody owns the air. We all have right to breathe the air.
The air is no different than the earth and the things that are on the
earth. When you start taking the kind of thinking that says that isn't
so, you start compromising your thinking and bending, you start
saying, "Well, these guys do have more of a right. We have to just
argue with them so we have a little bit more land, a little bit more
right." It becomes dangerous. It comes to a point that somebody in
that hierarchical system has all the rights and you have no rights as
a human being.
As the populations grow, as the population in North America and the world grows, land gets less, resources get less, jobs get
less, it becomes critical. Right now it is quite critical, but if you look
a tit fifty years down the road we are talking about straight survival.

It is about an age when land and resources are going to be in very,
very short supply. We can then see that something is really wrong
with that thinking. Something is really wrong with that process.
We are talking about the general population in North
America needing to understand what creation is all about, what
respect is all about, what cooperation is all about, what working
together is all about. Native people had ways, which provided
answers for thousands of years. We are now losing many of the answers. We are getting sucked in, getting assimilated. We are being
told our way is valueless. We cannot afford to believe that. We can't
afford to sit back and say that our people are not dying off.
We cannot afford to say that everything is all right, that
there is no abuse, there is no alcoholism, there is not bitter political
fighting, confrontation, factionalism, bitterness, and rage amongst
our people. We canot afford to sit back because that is what is
killing our people. That is the hidden enemy. That is genocide. It
is all coming from this attitude that we ourselves get sucked into.
We ourselves fall into believing this lie.
We are valuable. We are much more valuable and much
more precious today than ever before. It becomes more and more
clear to me as I look at the world. I look at the systems, I look at the
sickness, I look at the healing that needs to be done. The onus is on
each one of us. Not on someone else. We cannot say: Well, who am
I to do anything; I am just one little person; I can't change the system.
Everyone of us is responsible, whether we want to be, whether we
don't want to be. Things happen through action or non-action.
You're always a teacher no matter what you do. You either teach
good or you teach bad. People around you are affected by what you
say, by what you do, by how you are, the things you work at, the
things that you promote, things that you represent. Your friends,
your family, your associates, your co-workers, your children, your
grandchildren - all of these people are going to come into contact
with you in your lif~ and you 're going to affect them. How are you
going to affect them? What are the things that you are going to
represent?
You have a huge responsbility for what you reflect, what
you stand for. You can create change as an individual. You affect
thousands of people in your lifetime. If you are a writer or a speaker
of some kind , you affect even wider circles of people, who in tum
affect other people. Each person you affect affects the same number

190

191

Eutonnah Olsen-Dunn

Jeannette C. Armstrong
of people or more. Think about that. Think aboutthe power that you
have. You are very, very powerful people. The power that you have
as you are sitting here today. In fifty years, who are the Elders going
to be? You are going to be the Elders. It is going to be your
responsibility to pass something on to your children and your
grandchildren. Is it the shit in the world that you are going to pass
on? Are you going to pass on some healing?
I can't say what the answers are. You live in today's world.
You know more about it than me. But the realities that are really
being told to you by the attitude I spoke of, says that you are go~g
to bend and you are going to fall and many of your people are gomg
to fall underneath the weight of that message that says, "Indian, you
might as well die;you're good fornothing; get the hell out of our way
because you can't conform; you don't even look good enough, so get
out of the way". I say Indian people, Native people, indigenous
people, are beautiful in the eyes of the Creator. We have ~n
created this way. We have been made to be the most beautiful
people on this earth because we have this responsibility. I look at all
other civilizations and to me there is none that compares to the
beauty of my people. Look at what we were responsible for carrying
over these thousands of years and are able to bring it into this space
age. We are the carriers of a special knowledge and a special
attitude, a special understanding that encompasses all of those
things that are critically needed at this time. All the prophecies are
leading up to what we are going to contribute. What we as Native
people have to contribute to the rest of the world, and the reasons
that they were brought into contact with us.
I thank the Creator every day that I was born a Native
person. There can be nothing else in the world that I would rather
be, because I know the truth of what I am and whatthe Creator made
me and the responsibilities that he gave to us as Native people.
Responsibilities that we cannot afford to abdicate, we cannot ~fford
not to give to our children. I wish all young people that feeling, to
know, to understand what our gift is, to feel it, and to approach life
and your work with that.
I encourage all of you to think about that because our
communities, our nations, and our world is in a critical state of
being. We really need you as warriors out there, promoting the
thinking that needs to be learned and putting some healing bac~ into
our communities and into our lives, as individuals and as Nations.
192

We Will Not Forget
We will not forget that you are our mother.
Mother Nature, the great womb from which all life springs.
Millions upon billions of souls have laboured to enter into
your world of hopes that eyes might absorb your majestic beauty, so
that hands might touch the tender new buds of spring - soft weeping with mornings' dew. Each soul waiting for that first
precious sound which stirs the body to life.
We will not forget.
We will not forget that you are our teacher. We learn about
the great Law of life, death and rebirth from surviving our first
Autumn, resplendent with crimson - ochre leaves floating to the
earth, blanketing it from winters clinging snows. Then, ~r~cle
upon miracle, Spring - and life bursts through the last remammg
snows. Skeleton trees, death totems framed against the sky, breathe
with new life flowing through their veins and emerald buds promise a future. We understand. We are the 'tree of life' and are reborn
into your arms in the season of the soul.
The four leggeds, the two leggeds, the winged spirits and
those who swim through your birthing waters are one of the
greatest gifts you have given to the people. We have watched our
allies in wonder - and then - in understanding.
We have learned that every living being is necessary - for
each identifies an aspect of the psyche of the people. However, with
knowledge comes some sorrow for we have also learned that with
the extinction of any species so too has one aspect of our psyche
become extinct. Some potential for the human soul has become
extinct.
When we endanger the existence of any living thing so too
do we endanger the evolution of our very soul. They give their lives
that we may live; they share their spirit that we may evolve. All life
is sacred and we give thanks when one of them must fall that ~e
may live. Someday, we too will return to the earth and feed new hfe.
We have learned - this is the way of the Great Circle.
So we will remember.
The earth does not belong to the people; the people belong
to the earth. From the earth we are born-to the earth we shall return.
Your soil is consecrated ground and we will teach our children that
the dust beneath their feet is the ashes of their ancestors.
193

Eutonnah Olsen-Dunn
We will remember that the blood of our Ancestors course
through your mighty rivers. Your crystal waters quench our thirst,
carry our canoes and their rippling murmurs speak of the memories
of our people. We will teach our children that the flow of life is
sacred and to treat the waters as we would our own blood.
. . w_e ~ill remember that the air is precious and through its
spmt all life 1s supported. The winds that give us our first breath
also receives our final sigh. And, if we listen, the four winds will
speak to us of our past and our future - of what is below and what
is above. We will teach our children that the air is sacred and to
listen to the whispering among the leaves.
Above all we will remember that all life is connected. All
that lives are allies in our beingness. There are beasts and beings that
give their lives for us and those that teach us about ourselves by
showing us their ways.
We do remember - our blood remembers - for we are
Nishnawbeh, born of Turtle Island. We are the Warriors of the
Rainbow who will lead the peoples of the earth into an awareness of
the sacredness of all things and lead then into a new age.

194

Joy Harjo
Wolf Warrior
A white butterfly speckled with pollen joined me in my
prayers yesterday morning as I thought of you in Washington. I
didn't want the pain of repeated history to break your back. In my
blanket of hope I walked with you, wolf warrior and the council of
tribes, to what used to be the Department of War to discuss justice.
When a people institute a bureaucratic department to serve justice,
then be suspicious. False justice is not justified by massive structure, just as the sacred is not confineable to buildings constructed
for the purpose of worship.
I pray these words don't obstruct the meaning I am searching to give you, a gift like love, so you can approach that strange
mind without going insane. So that we can all walk with you, sober,
our children empowered with the clothes of memory in which they
are never hungry for love or justice.
An old Cherokee who prizes wisdom above the decisions
rendered by departments of justice in this tilted world told me this
story. It isn't Cherokee but a gift given to him from the people of
the North. I know I carried this story for a reason and now I
understand I am to give it to you. A young man, about your age or
mine, went camping with his dogs. It was just a few years ago, not
longaftertheeruptionofMountSt. Helens, when white ash covered
the northern cities, an event predicting a turning of the worlds. I
imagine October and bears' fat with berries of the golden harvest,
before the freezing breath of the north settles and the moon is easier
to reach by flight without planes. His journey was a journey towards
the unknowable, and that night as he built a fire out of twigs and
broken boughs he found on the ground, he remembered the thousand white butterflies climbing toward the sun when he had camped
there last summer.
Dogs were his beloved companions in the land that had
chosen him through the door of his mother. His mother continued
to teach him well and it was she who had reminded him that the
sound of pumping oil wells might kill him, turn him toward
money. So he and his dogs travelled out into the land that remembered everything, including butterflies, and the stories that were
told when light flickered from grease.
That night as he boiled water for coffee and peeled potatoes,
he saw a wolf walking toward camp on her hind legs. It had been
generations since wolves had visited his people. The dogs were
195

Connie Fife

Joy Harjo
awed to see their ancient relatives and moved over to make room
for them at the fire. The lead wolf motioned for her companions to
come with her and they approached humbly, welcomed by the
young man who had heard of such goings on but the_ people had n?t
been so blessed since the church had fought for their souls. He did
not quite know the protocol, but he knew the wolves as relatives
and offered them coffee, store meat and fried potatoes which they
relished in silence. He stoked the fire and sat quiet with them as the
moon in the form of a knife for scaling fish came up and a light wind
ruffled the flame.
The soundlessness in which they communed is what I
imagined when I prayed with the sun yesterday. It is the current in
the river of your spinal cord that carries memory from sacred
places, the sound of a thousand butterflies taking flight in
windlessness.
He knew this meeting was unusual and she concurred, then
told the story of how the world as they knew it had changed and
could no longer support the sacred purpose of life. Food was scarce;
pups were being born deformed, and their migrations which were
in essence a ceremony for renewal were restricted by fences. The
world as all life on earth knew it would end and there was still time
in the circle of hope to turn back the destruction.
That's why they had waited for him, called him here from
the town a day away over the rolling hills, from his job constructing
offices for the immigrants. They shared a smoke and he took the
story into his blood, his bones, while the stars nodded their heads,
while the dogs murmured their agreement. ''We can't stay long",
the wolf said. ''We have others with whom to speak and we haven't
much time." He packed the wolf people some food to take with
them some tobacco and they prayed for safety on this journey. As
they left the first flakes of winter began falling and covered their
tracks. It was as if they had never been there.
But the story burned in the heart of this human from the
north and he told it to everyone who would listen, including my
friend the Cherokee man who told it to me one day while he ate
biscuits and eggs in Arizona. The story now belongs to you too, and
as much as pollen on the legs of a butterfly is nourishment carried
by the butterfly from one flowering to another, this is an ongoing
prayer for strength for strength for us all.
Joy Harjo, Albuqurque 22 June 91 for Susan Williams
196

Joy Harjo: Native Woman Voice of the 90's
By the 1980's contemporary poetry had come around full
circle. No longer could the reader discern between 'traditional'
influences and contemporary situations. The 1960's saw the emergence of Native literature heavily influenced by Native philosophy
and worldview. Into the 1970's, when political voice emerged, clear
confines existed. Past, present and future had yet to find union. By
the 1980's woman voice (which emerged in the late 60's, early 70's)
was no longer restricted to male perspective. Women began to write
more often of their position within their own culture as well as
within the colonization process itself. Less and less did woman voice
concern herself with political restrictions brought on by the male
community. She did not have to "walk behind her man's pony'' in
order to contribute to the community. In her quest for internal
insight, woman voice began to make radical change from within. This
movement of self involves the critical examination of both the
internal and the external combined with the incorporation of the
findings which cross her path.
An example of the journey of woman voice and the external/
internal influences which shaped her voice is Joy Harjo. In her book
"She Had Some Horses" (Thunder Mouth Press) we can trace
lineage memory (influenced by traditional philosophy) to the road
Indigenous writers presently find themselves on (colonization). In
her poem called 'Remember', lineage memory, present thought and
vision of future are one:

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
The reader is asked to remember that under sky's face we
are equal, that the smallest piece of life is of great significance. The
stars themselves have stories to tell and despite their distance we
can hear their words if we are willing to listen. This philosophy, as
seen throughout "Remember," is rooted in Indigenous thought and
worldview. Her encounter with the moon in the bar tells us,
through metaphor, that we do indeed house the universe inside of
ourselves.
197

Connie Fife
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Dawn, new creation of thought and knowledge. Again
through metaphor, we are shown the creative process. Sleep being
the time of wandering and dreams make room for forward movement in our personal lives and in the life of community as a whole.
Dawn also marks the time of day when creativity wakes from its
rest.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mothers and hers.
Indigenous society is predicated on matri-focal foundations. With the arrival of the European and patriarchal down
pressure a shift occurred within the Indigenous community. This is
not to say that matri-lineage no longer exists. Memory is called
closer to the forefront of the individual as it is memory that ensures
a peoples survival. Being a matri-focal culture, Joy Harjo asks that
womens' lineage be remembered and honoured as women are
considered the backbone of her community and paramount to
physical and spiritual creation/ re-creation. This creation occurs
both physically and metaphysically within Indigenous culture.
Woman memory is not lost to past, but brought forward.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
It is easier for men to look outward and shift through
external forces. What the reader is being asked to do is remember
total lineage but more importantly to acknowledge that woman
thought (knowledge) is central to the external.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth,
brown earth, we are earth.

Connie Fife
is essential to the continuance of creation. All peoples have
responsibility to earth and the care of her.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who have
their tribes, their families, their histories, too.
talk to them, listen to them. They are alive poems.
According to Indigenous philosophy, all living things,
whether they be plant, animal or human, are equal. Our lives are
dependent upon each others and with this in mind they also have
thoughts which we can learn from. Great respect is to be given to
the animal and plant world, just as humans are to offer each other.
Joy Harjo reminds us that we continually jeopardize the earth and
therefore ourselves.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origins of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa
war dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central
once.
The wind herself contains memory and has borne witness
to the changes the world has gone through. "Remember her voice"
asks that we recall that the wind is older than we are, therefore has
a longer memory to draw upon. "Kiowa war dance songs" implores
the reader to seriously consider the neglect of the earth. Wind
carries the earth's frustration and anguish and we can hear it. We
must listen. The fact that she sang at the "corner of Fourth and
Central", metaphorically speaking, indicates that what the earth
feels, the inhabitants of her will feel too. Her war dance song speaks
of the urgency to listen and make change.
Remember that you are all people and that all people
are you.
Remember that you are this universe and this
universe is you.

Lineage memory sits within all cultures. It is the calling
forward in time that must be struggled for because culture without
memory becomes a dead culture. Earth is female in Indigenous
philosophy. Therefore to remember woman lineage, is to remember
that it is the earth that sustains all life. Care and nurturance of earth

Human need differs from culture to culture only in the
translation of that need. Like the earth, we are entitled to dignity,
respect and honour. In the same way, the earth is worthy of great

198

199

Connie Fife
affection, and so too are the people who live on her. The line,
"remember that you are this universe", tells us that we are not of
greater significance then the smallest of earth's inhabitants.

Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.
Her usage of the words "motion", "growing" and "language" goes far back into Native Tradition. It is only through the
gathering of new knowledge that motion is possible, that creation
occurs. When the reader places herself /himself in the position that
they are a part of the universe they become a part of uni~ersal birth.
Knowledge of self combined with understanding creation leads to
her "dance" that language is the celebration that takes place once
creation is internalized.
When Joy Harjo speaks of meeting the moon in the bar in
Iowa City we see the strong roots trailing back to Traditi_o~al Poetry.
The moon sits in the sky for everyone to see, yet Trad1ti~n t~lls us
that the moon in fact is a living being, brought forward m time to
today. This motion forward is based on a philosophy which says
that past-present-future are not separate, that 01:ie cannot e~ist
without the other. This is contrary to European philosophy which
has broken that linkage between time and moved away from
creation as a whole process which takes place throughout time.
As well, the reader finds that the rhythm of her work allows
for it to be spoken and not simply read. Her work reflects ~~r v~ew
of all life. "They are alive poems" she says and so her writing 1s a
living writing. Within this lies the ceremony involved in the
creation of her work, ceremony in relationship to internal being and
external being. Joy Harjo does not separate herself from lineage
memory but brings it forward, so her work shows that woman
voice remains as pivotal tous today asitdid five hundred years ago.

Judith Mountain Leaf Volborth
The Medicine Stone
Listen,
this woman
she burns sage and cedar,
braids bits of abalone shells
and sweetgrass into her hair
as she sings to the Moon
moss tongue soft.
Using the luminous strands
of spiders
she paints the language of clouds
onto ancient stone,
medicine for knowing spirits.
Spinning her songs softly,
visions pool at her feet,
beads of light gather on the water.
Fluids charms for her medicine bundle,
these boneseeds of imagination crystallize
Standing in Moon light
she recognizes her own solitary form,
spreads her fingers into a
four-point star
and dances the steps
of the Northern Lights.

Harjo,Joy. She had Some Horses, Thunder MouthPress,New York.
1983.

200

201

Kowainco Shackelly

Judith Mountain Leaf Volborth
Footprints Along The Milky Way (For Mary Jane)
The Owls come
they form a Hoop
around you.
Your stem-fingers,
as delicate
as the ghosts
of butterflies,
trace
petroglyphs of darkness
upon the future.
Walk in Beauty.
Two children stand the Moon
sinking in their veins.
Breath,
Life,
Creation.
"Love is the last light spoken." 1
On your long journey North
Walk in Beauty.
Dry, clocking bone-rattles
filled with stars
sprinkle out
foot-prints along the Milky Way.
Walk in Beauty.
"There is no death,
only a change of worlds," 2
Memory is forever.
Walk in Beauty.
1•
2•

Dylan Thomas
Chief Seattle, Moon of Changing Leaves

202

Discovering Our Journey Home
The drum beats songs into our hearts
reminding us of the home
beyond the stars
We are seeking
We long to touch each other's untamed spirits
like warm wind touching wild flowers
Fearing our longings
singing our song from within
dancing with each other's spirit
discovering our mysterious paths ahead
We are trying to piece the puzzles together
alone
only to discover
each other holds the missing links
We fight our love for one another
But the stars say
it is only our love
that will light up our universe
Our songs unfold
discovering lost souls on mother earth
the love of all mankind
bringing together
strength to conquer all
The drum reminds us of home
we soar beyond the stars
The songs we carry
will lead us home
journeying toward the stars.

203

Samuel Kewaquado
Indian Trails
I am jarred from a peaceful sleep by a piercing scream. I
think perhaps a loon is screaming out its existence on the lake
behind my house when suddenly I am aware of the sterile decor of
my hotel room in downtown Toronto. The screaming is made by the
metal snake that burrows beneath the city. Welcome to Toronto at
5 a.m. and the beginning of my day.
I walk down Yonge street and ask directions to the University of Toronto, where I am to attend a meeting of animal rights
activists. Answers to my question start at ''NO speek de English" to
courteous gestures of the middle finger straight up. Finally, I am
pointed in the right direction by a man in uniform; the kind I saw in
a picture once at the Mission House.
As I approach the conference hall I see some people outside
carrying signs on sticks. "Ban Leg-Hold Traps". "Animals have
rights". I move through the crowd into the building. Once inside I
look for the small room...the outhouse, which I know is usually
separate from the others.
After I finish "making thunder" I try to wash my hands. It's
difficult because you need one hand to keep the water running so
the other remains useless. I lift my leg up and use my foot to hold the
tap open.
As I look for the right room, someone calls: "Chief" I
wonder why everyone is Chief down here. I know I'm not a Chief.
As the meeting progresses I am reminded of the noise
around a bees' nest in the bush. The same exists here. I hear through
the buzzing, "Let's hear from the Chief". I wonder to which spirit I
need to answer their questions.
The first one was easy, Mr. Wind-That-Blows, do you trap
fora living?Yes,I trap for a living. Well,howdoyoufeelaboutyour
occupation, Mr. Wind? I reply, "I am honoured to be a trapper
because it has made Canada what it is today".
Now the ball is beginning to bounce. A lady (who resembles
a crane with glasses) asks me about the types of traps I use. I know
the crane is a well respected character in our legends, but I have my
doubts about this one.
I name several types of traps, the last of which is the mouse
trap, one Mrs. Crane knew and admitted using on occasion, herself.

Samuel Kewaquado
If I ever needed a Manito* to save me, I needed one now.
This one came as a bell buzzing which signalled lunch time. I was
herded off to a cafeteria which I was sure, was as big as our church
hall and school put together.
As I moved through the line I saw a sign: "HOT DOGS". I
was surprised because the last time I heard of hot dogs was in our
legends. (A tribe that lived on the islands in the big lake raised them
for spring when the ice melted and they could not leave the islands
to hunt for other kinds of meat). Here I was, reliving history.
Well, lunch time really wasn't that. It was more like a time
to ask personal questions. Ones you could ask privately and not let
anyone know how you truly felt.
I remember one very clearly. "How could you kill a deer, or
moose, but not a bear?". "Because I truly could not kill my grandfather," I replied. I said I respected the spirit of the deer and the
moose and all other animals and gave thanks to their spirits for
giving up their lives so that I could live.
Then, I asked a question. " How are cattle, hogs and other
animals killed?" All one sees in the food stores are packages of meat.
There's no further regard to how any animal may have suffered, or
had no choice or freedom to escape.
Again a buzzer sounded, this can get such an immediate
resl:'°nse. Maybe I should get one of those buzzers and put it in my
cabm.

"Summerclouds"
Samuel Kewaquado of the
Deer Clan of the Ojibwas

"Manito: Ojibway word for "God" or ''Great Spirit"

204

205

WayneKeon
Who Ami?

Voices
i
hear

turning
in the sky

voices
everywhere

world
in front

now speak
and whisper

ofme
taking me home

along
the valley floor

again
and again
and again

wolf blinks
in the night
and
stares at
me and
jet streams

talk
to the cloud
swirling
all in time
and whisper
to the great river

Cheryl Blood

to you
and hearing
the voices
iknow
i'm not losing
it but
i can hear
the
voices
speaking
and whispering
everywhere
everywhere
igonow

Moon shines bright
lemon drop
encircles
night sky
i sit
transfixed
brown eyes
search
campfire flames flicker
sputter a soliloquy
infinite
coyote
howls
sounds ancestors
past
chants and talks
to ignorant ears
warriors
whose bones and ashes
accumulate into
majestic mountains
reminders of
whoiam

drum
speaking
and pounding
in my heart
beats
like a turbine
beats
like a turbine
206

207

Mitchell Kakegamick
I Will Go And Pray

Beedaudjimowin
A Voice for First Nations

Truly, I will walk
alone into the forest
Truly, I will talk
to the winged in his nest

Su/Jscri/Je Now.I
Beedaucljimowin is a quarterly publication based in Toronto, Canada. It
has been operating under its current editorial team since May, 1990, and
under this name since December, 1990.
Beedaucljimowin is dedicated to disseminating information about the
struggles of Indigenous peoples world-wide as a means of educating both
Native and non-Native and to build solidarity.
Beedaudjimowin is dedicated to promoting the uniqueness of First
Nations people from the perspective of First Nations people - our
history, our philosophy, our culture, and our relationship to the
environment. We are committed to celebrating the achievements of Native
people in many fields including the performing and visual arts and

With the four-legged that run
I will speak to the wind
raise my head to the sun
and never look behind
I will fear, only fear
not that which I make
I will hear, only hear
true words, I want to take

literature.

Beedaudjimowin firmly believes that to be a truly independent voice for
First Nations and to maintain the integrity of that voice, it is imperative
that we become self-sufficient. We do not want to be tied to government
funding. The federal government decided just over a year ago to terminate
the funding they had provided for years to Native publications.
Consequently, several Native publications folded. Beedaudjimowin does
not want to exist at the whim of government. As a group, we feel it is
important for us to break that colonial pattern of dependency and control.

Don't miss a single edition! A year's subscription
brings 4 issues of Beedaucfiimowin to your door!
CANADA

USA

Individuals

$10

$1S

Organizations

$20

$25

Subscription Rate:

Please send cheque or money order together with full name,
address and pos1al oode to:
Beedaudjimowin, 263 Roncesvalles Avenue, Toronto, Ontario,
Canada M6R 2L9

Meegwefcl,/
208

KIDS
(Children's Writing)

"Shadow Dance #5"
Silvergelatin Print
by Glenda J. Guilmet

Brendan Jay Blood-Rides-at-the-Door
The Desert
From the hot blazing sun there was a man with no water. He
could never stand the sun again. He had to have some food and
some shade because he was sweating all over. He was in the war and
he ran away because he didn't want to get shot. He never wanted to
go back again. He was a scared man because he never got trained for
battle and he was the last guy in Saudi Arabia. Even the scorpions
were killed, because of the thousands of marching soldiers. The
soldiers never seemed to stop marching. Then the next day there
were tanks driving all over the sand.
Bomber planes followed the man because they were attacking
him. The man in the bomber plane got hot from the sun and got out
of the seat to put his head under the shady seat. The plane was close
to the ground. He crashed and exploded. The man walking on the
ground seen the crash, and this alerted another plane that picked
the Saudi Arabia man up. They got into the plane and he had lots of
water and food.

As told by Brendan Jay Blood -Rides -at -the -Door (Age 5)

213

Val Mathews

Val Mathews
Fox and Coyote

A Shuswap Swimming Legend

The coyote met the fox, who was eating some skimmings!
He asked his brother fox, ''Where did you get that?" The fox said,
"Oh you will find it over there in the well! If you peep in there you
will find some, I got it from there!"
The coyote went over to the well and peeped over. There
was the skimmings at the bottom. But it was only the reflection of
the moon that was visible. He jumped and plunged in. He thought
it was the skimmings. His brother had fooled him!!!

A boy was swimming in the river and almost drowned.
He saw a man on the bank and shouted to him for help, but the man
just began to lecture him to be more careful.
The boy said:
First get me on the shore, and then lecture me afterwards.

Translation (Secwepemc):
m - t 7eyes re xgw'leme resekleop, ec re illnes te styewllkwle.
m-tsuntmes te:uqwis: the 7en k tesk wencwes? m-t suns re xgwelemc":
u ri7 me7 penminc nulne stsiqkwes, nu7 me7 yeqelc-k, tkllu7 rilre
tskwekwnes, m-qwetsets re seklep, yegek, sten re styewllkwle te
tsedtsulecw. Kernell cum we7 ywre stsikts re megcen tkllu7. re
wiwey. m-llgwilcwes, m-yestsmokw. m-tsunses ri7 tek styewllkwle, mqwientems t e vqwis.

214

Translation (Secwepemc):
Wlec re tuwiwt ec te secwmes ne setstkwe, kekme711
esxquetsqpetkwes.
Wikts re sqelemcw ne qwemtsin mwewen ses esknucwentem,
kemell re sqelemcu tucw qwenmins eslleqmentes re tuwiwt esplecws ec
esyecwmentsutses.
Tsuntem te tuwiwt:
Tsem kukwmestsme elle me711eqmentsetsemowes.

215

Nelson Phillip

Maria Bell
The Eagles Fly

Falcon

The eagles fly

Awake
Noble falcon as the sun arises
Swoop into the air, and scan your
prizes.

strong and free,
over the mountains
Screech
and over the Skeena River.

Fierce falcon as you locate your prey
Thinking to yourself, "you won't get away''

The eagles are my
Dive
uncles.

Sleek falcon without a single sound.
With half closed wings, your victim you will
astound.

I am in the Eagle Clan.
And I grow strong

Seize
Aggressive falcon while in midflight
Fly so swiftly, soar with all your might.

and free
Devour

(Maria Bell - Tsimshian)

Hungry falcon eat right on the spot
with your hooked beak rip it, share you
will not.
Preen
Streamlined falcon for the day is almost
done
You look so beautiful in the setting sun.
Sleep
Tired falcon, for the night has just begun.
Tonight you rest quietly, until tomorrow
brings sun.

216

217

Darrell, Billy, and Jimmy

If We Were
IF WE WERE ...
LARGE AND POWERFUL AS THE BEAR
PEACEFUL AND SWIFT AS THE DEER
QUICK AND CLEVER AS THE COYOTE
A SMART HUNTER LIKE THE WOLF
SLY AND CUNNING LIKE THE FOX
HARDWORKING LIKE THE BEAVER
FREE AND GRACEFUL AS THE EAGLE

DREAM ON by Chrystos
In her second collection of poetry, this
writer and activist brings a clear-sighted
realism,outrageand wryhumortoher
work. These poems and prose pieces
meditate on eroticism, the long-term
effects of incest, and the genocide of
Native peoples. Chrystos gives us courageous, resiliant, and sometimes celebratory poetry motivated by the necessity to name, and in so doing, offers
an affirmation of life.
$10.95

WISE LIKE THE OWL
FOOD AND SPIRITS by Beth Brant

SILENT AND STRONG LIKE THE SALMON
WE WOULD BE ONE NATIVE NATION
LIVING IN HARMONY

The survival of spiritin the lives of Native
people, throughout generations, is the enduring theme of these new stories. With
meticulous observation and the compassionate skill of a great story teller, Beth
Brant's writing traces the quiet daily
triumphs in lives struggling to overcome
violence and abuse, and to reconcile grief
and loss.
$10.95

PRESS GANG PUBLISHERS 603 POWELL ST.

VANCOUVER, B.C. V6A 1H2

218

GUESTS
(Writings From People
Who Are Not From
the First Nations of
North America)

"Two Faces"
by David Neel

Dennis Brutus
A Friendly Question:
To Native People of the
American Continent
I speak to a people
I want to speak to a people
I am trying to speak to a people
To all of you wonderful people
scattered across this land
you once owned
you once roamed
now scattered on parcels of land
across the country
I want to speak to you
I want to speak to all of you
I am trying to speak to all of you
How shall I call you
What shall I call you
by what single name are you known
by what single name can you be known
by what single name shall I call you
I call on all of you
by all the wonderful names
by the names that are strange
strange and wonderful
names that are strange music
Iroquois and Onondagas
Apache, Sioux and Cherokee
Mohawk and Mohicans

223

Dennis Brutus
All of you
what shall I call you
all of you with strange wonderful names
What shall I call you
by what single name shall I call you
yes, my brothers, my sisters, my friends
yes, my fellow-oppressed
by what name shall I call you
yes, my stubborn resisters
yes, my unconquerably resilient allies
by what name shall I call you

(From Salutes and Censurers, Fourth Dimension, 1982)

Patrick Andrade
Aboriginal Hitchhike Rap
Travelling across the nation
It became clear to me
What was the source of frustration
Treaty rights abrogated
Sacred land desecrated
Traditional lands confiscated
Natural environment devastated
Legalese prevails
Constitutional talks fail
Legal protest no avail
Can't escape the racism
The Pashas
The overlooked rape of Helen Osbourne
Should force debate
Temagami Barrier Lake
Crisis situations to deflate
It's the Micmac Git' skan laws
They want to negate
Gov't says respect sovereignty
Yet invades with impunity
Violating Kahnawake security
Sitting by the railway tracks trying
To get a ride
Cop comes up
Nowhere to hide
Jumps on my back
Like an artillery attack

224

225

Patrick Andrade
Fourth World
Going by the Manual
That's what the cops say
to get their own way
FBI seeking control
Using CO-INTEL PRO
What a joke - think we don't know
People targeted, unexplained deaths
That's why we walk with extra steps
Panther assassination
Infiltration
New contours
Provocateurs

Patrick Andrade
Never reported, facts distorted
Faces contorted
In dark cells, people unwell
lying in blood and excrement
Canadian torture experiment
While we on the outside abide by
Illusionary rules that are used to confuse
Allowing power to be misused

Thinking about the Five
Made me realize

A sign of maturity is
Confronting our insecurities
No Platitudes
To substantiate
Harmful attitudes
That's what I hear
When I voice my fear

This tactic is still alive
Looked in at a roadside restaurant
Redneck atmosphere was a deterrent
Had to be on my way
In order to survive the day

When white people stare
And there's a flow of hate
That I'm forced to contemplate
White supremacists exist
We have to admit

Chip on your shoulder
Too emotional
Even if it is unrelated to what has been said
Well the truth is desecrated
Motives distorted and like acid
That guilt edged fear corrodes
Their well beings
Forever tainting all they deal in
No you can't dismiss this with a grin
Who knows as the story goes if you
Ignore urgent bulletins could cause your ruin

Even in Canada
Where the latest nonsensical stanza
From the Black Governor General
Says racism doesn't exist
Who is he trying to fool
We know injustice persists
A disconcerting fact facing
European settler descendants
Is that this concept of a nation
Was built on stolen land and deceit
Native people left with no receipt
Its more ambiguity if we complain
Check out the phrases they tend to retain
Phrases which echo their anxiety

226

227

HoueNgata
Circle of Tira Hou Marae
Yesterday, today, tomorrow
the Spiritual Circle, the indigenous circle
is complete- always
Today - the physical circle too is complete
Embrace me
my relatives from across the waters
my grandmother
my brothers
my sisters
Embrace me
Feel my heart drum its rhythm
Feel my tears wash its healing path
Feel my spirit sing its song
Embrace me
Let me feel the strength of the turtle's back
and while Tekooti and Chief Sitting Bull
share the scared pipe
and watch over us with reassuring smile
let us dance

A FIRST NATIONS FALL
AT FIFTH HOUSE PUBLISHERS
CONTEMPORARY CHALLENGES

conversations with Canadian Native Authors
Hartmut Lutz
Eighteen Native authors discuss their writing, backgrounds,
philosophies, and politics.
KCHKOMINAWAK OTACIMOWINIWAWA

Our Grandmothers' Lives, As Told In Their Own Words
Freda Ahenakew and H.C. Wolfart, eds. and trans.
The stories told by seven elderly women provide insights into the lives
of several generations of Cree women.
THE BOOTLEGGER BLUES

Drew Hayden Taylor
A new play about love, family, and what to do with too much beer by
"one of Canada's leading Native dramatists'~ (Montreal Gazette)
THE TREATIES OF CANADA WITH THE INDIANS
OF MANITOBA AND THE NORTH-WEST TERRITORIES

Alexander Morris
First published in 1880 and reprinted in its original format. Any
serious discussion of treaty issues today should include a read of
Morris' text.
KEEPERS OF THE ANIMALS

Native Stories and WIidiife Activities for Children
Michael J. Caduto and Joseph Bruchac
Carefully selected Native stories along with excellent environmental
activities for children teach a wildlife conservation ethic. For ages 5-12.

(I am Ngatiporou

Aotearoa is my land.)

WATCH FOR THESE AT YOUR FAVOURITE
BOOKSTORE THIS FALL!
Write for our free catalogue of books by Native authors.
FIFTH HOUSE PUBLISHERS
620 Duchess Street, Saskatoon, SK S7K OR 1
228

ELDERS

Drawing by Gus Baptiste

Johnny Eyakfwo
ELDER'S MESSAGE
We must try to encourage today's children. It's like they
have two separated worlds that are stretched apart. But if we all
work together maybe we could encourage them, and it could be
brought together. We are all here for a purpose. We know life is hard
for people who live in the modem world. We have to think about
that for the children.
A long time ago life was not like it is now. People didn't go
to school. They learned from parents and relatives. But now some
people didn't learn from their parents and they didn't go to school.
Those people don't know how to live off the land and they don't
know how to live the whiteman ways. Some adults are like they
have no ears now because of those things that happened in the
community.
Then there were a lot of unimportant things in the community thatthe children got into, like T .V. They watched everything on
the T.V. They get so caught up in that, they don't do what their
parents tell them. Even our children today, they waitto get payment
for things. And here they are gathering with pencil and paper. They
are all getting educated. They should appreciate being with their
people, and know that we are here for a purpose.
We should tell the young education has not always done
good for us. But it can do good in the future maybe. We could make
a big change. Especially with the Elders. We should be teaching the
young people too.
Life was hard a long time ago. But I don't know why some
say it's better now, because when the Elders and the relatives talked
people used to listen. But now we are not listened to. And the way
our people used to live and listen and learn was good. Now the
young people don't think for themselves. We should help them. As
Elders, we need to talk to young people with strong words, but not
with anger in our tone. When we talk to them maybe they will be
good people in the future.

233

II

Author
Biographies

GATHERINGS II: Author Biographies
1. Armstrong, Jeannette
A well known and gifted writer, Jeannette continues to involve herself
in writing about her traditions and culture through contemporary events.
Jeannette is author of "Slash", "Breathtracks", "Enwhisteekwa", ''Neekna and
Chemai" and "Native Creative Process".
2. Baker, Marie Annharte
Annharte is of Saulteaux and Irish heritage. Currently living in Regina,
Saskatchewan, she writes and reads throughout the Native community.
Book in print: "Being On The Moon".
3. Bell, Maria
Maria is a seven year old Tsimshian of the Eagle Clan. She enjoys dancing
and gymnastics.
4. Belmore, Rebecca
Rebecca Belmore is an Anishnawbe visual artist, performing artist and
now song-writer. Rebecca has had a number of art shows across Canada.

12. Cuthand, Beth
Beth Cuthand is a Cree Native and has taught at Saskatchewan Indian
Federated College. She has had numerous short stories and poems published,
including "Voices in the Waterfall", and is currently doing graduate work
at the University of Tuscon, Arizona.
13. Damm, Kateri
An established Ojibway writer from Cape Croker, Ontario. A former Vicepresident of the Aboriginal Youth Council of Canada, her works have been
previously published in "Seventh Generation" and "Gatherings - Volume I".
14. Dandurand, Joseph A.
From the Sto:Lo Nation in British Columbia, he is currently attending
University at Ottawa, for Theatre. He holds a General Arts degree from
Algonquin College and has worked as a professional stage hand at the
National Arts Centre and Museum of Civilization in Ottawa.
15. Daychief, Candice
Candice Daychief is a tenth grade high school student. The essay contained
in this issue of Gatherings won first prize in a local contest.

5. Bennett, Patricia
A Saulteaux from Manitoba, Particia has completed her first year at the
En'owkin International School of Writing. She plans to return for year two.
This is her first published works.

16. DeBassige, Mary Lou Cecile
Odawa Ojibwe and Scottish descent from West Bay First Nations on
Manitoulin Island, Ontario. This is her most recent published works.

6. Blood, Cheryl L.
Cheryl L Blood is of the Blood Tribe of Southern Alberta, who is currently
attending the En'owkin International School of Writing. This is her
second published works.

17. DeClue, Charlotte
An Osage Native from Oklahoma who has been writing for thirteen years.
She has been published in numerous anthologies and journals, including those
published by Pueblo University Press and Oklahoma Press.

7. Bobb, Columpa
Sto:Lo/Cree playwright and actress, who is also a new student at the
En'owkin International School of Writing.

18. Dunn, Martin
Martin Dunn Is Metts and is an independent Aboriginal consultant living in
Ottawa. He has previously published several books including "Red & White"
and "Access to Survival", as well as a series of magazines of Aboriginal themes.

8. Bonneau, Tracey
Tracey Bonneau is an Okanagan Native currently residing in Penticton and
attending the En'owkin International School of Writing. Her life's ambition
is to become a national television news reporter.
9. Chamley, Kerrie
Of Katzie, Jewish and English ancestry, Kerrie writes to heal herself and to
find redemption for past struggles her grandma and mom have experienced.

19. Duranger, Sue
A Metis Native, Sue is co-founder of the "Aboriginal Writers Group" and is a
member of the "Aboriginal Women's Council". She is currently taking her
Master of Fine Arts at the University of Regina in Saskatchewan.
20. Eagle Tail-Feathers, Shirley
Shirley Eagle Tail-Feathers is a combination of Blackfoot/Sioux/Saulteaux
currently studying Anthropology at the University of Regina, Saskatchewan.

10. Chester, Bruce
Bruce Chester is a 37 year old Metis currently in prison at Matsqui
Institution. He has written a book of poetry, "Paper Radio" and is co-writing
a play, 'ihe Mirror", with Tom Elton and Carmen Rodrigez.

21. Favel, Floyd
Floyd Favel is a Plains Cree from Saskatchewan, and is a writer/director for
theatre, presently working on a new play callled, "Lady of Silences."

11. Cohen, Bill
Bill Cohen is an Okanagan Native student, who is starting school at the
University of Regina, Saskatchewan in September, 1991.

22. Fife, Connie
Connie Fife is a writer and the author of "Beneath the Naked Sun", a
collection of poetry, short story and essay, to be released in the Fall of '91.

236

237

23. Funmaker, Forest A.
A Honchunk Native from Wisconsin, and graduate of En'owkin International
School of Writing, Forest is now attending University of Victoria, In British
Columbia.

33. Keon, Wayne
A member of the Ojibway Nation, Wayne is a well known author of Native
literature and poetry. A business administration graduate, Wayne is also
a painter and financial analyst.

24. Flying Hawk d'Maine, Shirley
A mixed Micmac and French Native from Maine, U.S.A., Shirley now lives
in San Pablo, California and is playing and singing with a band for the past
seven years, writing music, poetry and various articles.

34. Kewaquado, Samuel
Samuel Kewaquado is a traditional Ojibway from the Shawanaga First
Nation. In 1989, he published an Ojibway /English colouring book.

25. Gamet, Ruffo
An Ojibway from Northern Ontario, and graduate of Writing Program at
~e Banff Centre School of Fine Arts, he holds an Honors Degree in English
Literature from the University of Ottawa. His poetry also appeared in
"Seventh Generation".
26. Gottfriedson, Garry
Of Shuswap ancestry, this is a third publication of Garry's writings. He
attends the En'owkin International School of Writing.
27. Harjo, Joy
From the Creek Tribe in Oklahoma, she received her B.A. from the University
of New Mexico and her M.F.A. from Iowa Writer's Workshop. She is a well
published author. Her books include "She Had Some Horses",and "Mad in Love
and War".
28. lpellie, Alootook
A freelance writer, Alootook was born near Frobisher Bay on the Baffin Islands
of the North Coast. A graphic artist, writer, cartoonist, photographer and
translator.
29. James, Darrell, Billy, Jimmy and Richard
The James brothers, ages 8 through 12, are from the Salish tribe of the Bridge
River Band, Lillooet, British Columbia, and are currently attending school in
Winfield, British Columbia.
30. Joe,Joyce B.
.
Radio, film, stage playwright and poet, Joyce Joe, of the Nuu-chah-nulth
Nation obtained her B.F.A. at the University of Victoria, and her M.F. A. at
the University of British Columbia.
31. Johnie, "Shingoose" Curtis
Singer, songwriter Curtis "Shingoose" Johnie is of the Cree Nation and has
turned his talents to writing articles of late. His new album release, "Natural
Tan", is now available.
32. Kakegamick, Mitchell
A Cree-Ojibway Native belonging to the North Spirit Lake Band in Northern
Ontario. Mitchell has written over 250 poems and is published in various
newspapers and magazines .

238

35. Louie, Arnold
An Okanagan Native, currently enrolled in the En'owkin International
School of Writing, this is Arnold's second published works, the first being
in "Gatherings - Volume r'.
36. Lyons, Sarah
A Native of the Peublo Nation, Isleta, New Mexico, Sarah was born in Oregon
and currently lives and works in Portland, Oregon as a paste-up artist.
37. Lysons, Leona
A member of the Shuswap Nation, Leona currently lives in Penticton, British
Columbia. After attending the En'owkin International School of Writing,
she is now working towards her B.A. through the University of Victoria, British
Columbia.
38. Manossa, Geraldine M
Geraldine Manossa is a Cree Native of Bigstone Band in Northern Alberta. She
is a graduate of the native Theatre School, of Toronto, Ontario. She is currently
exploring her second year of writing at the En'owkin International School of
Writing.
39. McMaster, Gerald
Curator for the Native Display at the National Museum of Man in Ottawa,
Ontario, Gerald is a Cree Native who is also a visual artist and writer.
40. Maracle, Lee
Lee is of Cree and West Coast Native ancestry. She has published several
books and is writer-in-residence for En'owkln International School of Writing.
41. Marchand, Duane
Duane is of Okanagan Native ancestry from the Okanagan Indian Band, near
Vernon, British Columbia. He is a student at the En'owkin International
School of Writing and has published works In "Gatherings - Volume I".
42. Mercredi, Duncan
Duncan Mercredi is from Manitoba and will be soon releasing his first
book of poetry, from Fifth House publishers.
43. Olsen-Dunn, Eutonnah
A Tsalagi (Cherokee) Native, Eutonnah's name means "Serpent Women",
following in the footsteps of Beloved Women who went before her, she
journeys to the Earth Worlds and enters Dream time.

239

l
44. O'Sullivan, Gunargie
A Kwagiulth Native, Gunargie's most recent training includes a Yiem Writers
Society course and a voice intensive workshop at Simon Fraser University
in Burnaby, British Columbia. She currently resides in Vancouver,
British Columbia.
45. Phillip, Nelson
A twelve year old Okanagan Native, Nelson will be entering high school this
fall in Penticton, British Columbia.
46. Sanderson, Sheila
A Cree from Manitoba, Sheila is a student in the After Degree Program at the
University of Winnipeg, Manitoba. She is presently a free-lance researcher
with the Manitoba Museum of Man and Nature.
47. Shackelly, Kowainco
Of the Nooaitch First Nation, Kowainco writes through her Native heritage
beliefs. She has written poetry since age twelve.

Contemporary Music
by
Aboriginal Musicians
Available Through THEYTUS BOOKS LTD.

The 7th Fire/
Well, What Does It Take
World beat, reggae, rock and traditional rhythms laced with politics,
poetry and innovative song writing.
Songs include: "Buffalo Jump",
"Colonial Attitudes", and "High Tech
Teepee Trauma Mama"

48. Taylor, Drew
A successful T.V. scriptwriter, stage playwright and short story writer, Drew
is from Cape Croker, Ontario out of the Anishnawbe Nation.
49. Volbroth, Judith Mountain-Leaf
Born in the Moon of Changing Leaves in New York City, Judith is a member
of the Commanche Nation. Author of 'Thunder Root: Traditional and
Contemporary Native American Verse."
50. Welburn, Ron
Of Conoy, Cherokee and Black descent, Ron currently teaches American
Literature at Western Connecticut State University, Ron is a well published

poet.

Shingoose/N atural Tan
Latest album from the well-known
Cree singer/ songwriter, Shingoose.
Songs include:
"Reservation Blues", Mother Earth",
and "Seeker of Visions"

In Memoriam: 'Ift.eytus '13001<:§ £ta. ana tM 'En'owfj.n International

Scfwo[ of 'Writin,g are fwnoureti anagrieveti to postfiumous[y pu6[isfi
Cofken 1'ieUer's worl<:§, 'Me tis 'Woman, • 'Mountains I ~member,· ana
''EagCe. •'lnese pieces of work.inaicate tfiat tM 9{p.tive community lias
Cost a fine writer. Our conaoCences go out to Mr famiCy anafrienas.

$12.00 each
Direct orders to:
THEYTUS BOOKS LTD.
P.O. Box218
Penticton, British Columbia
V2A6K3
Phone (604) 493 - 7181
Fax (604) 493 - 5302

240

THEYTUS