Genocide of the mind  Wednesday, May 12, 2010

I just got back from seeing the documentary called Reel Injun a film about portrayals of Aboriginal people in film dating back to the birth of film right to present. I saw this movie with a good friend who I expressed a certain amount of anxiety to about seeing this film. I have been aware of it for a quite a few months, I even had a nice chat with the creator Neil Diamond back in the winter but I have been hesitant about seeing it for a few reasons. Films of this nature, ones that involve Native people, social (in)justice and North American history in general tend to angry up the blood as they say. This film had all of that, I was hesitant but I saw it. As good as it was it certainly triggered all those things that make one angry about the past the present and the sea of ignorance that is embraced, cultured and then denied when the light of reason is aimed at it. I am having a hard time writing this.

My past is as much mine as it is Canada’s; I suppose anyone could say that. A few moments in my past stand out as very poignant and I reference these moments when I am speaking to people about the struggles of being an “Indian” in Canada and the effects that racism and ignorance may have on an individual. Tonight brought up one of those poignant moments that I guess I think about often, it is still clear as day, I tell this so often I should write about it.

Most of my time in school was in a mostly white suburb of Ottawa called Kanata named after a Mohawk word for “small village” and which “Canada” gets its name from. This irony is delicious I know, but nothing compared to a couple I know, good friends of mine who are both First Nations and live in Kanata on Bannock Crescent! Mmmm, irony flavoured bannock.

I had many moments where simple schoolyard racism was expressed in name calling which lead to fighting. When they found out I wasn’t a “paki” I became a “fucking Indian”. I didn’t mind the fighting as I never started the fight but I ended most of them. I was in the principal’s office at least once a week. In grade six, during social studies we were learning about the wonderful multicultural society that is Canada. As an exercise our teacher pointed to kids in our multicultural classroom and they would share with the class where they were from or where their ancestors were from because, as you know, Canada is a land of recent and not so recent immigrants. He pointed at me and I had nothing else to say except that my ancestor’s where from here. “No they’re not.” He said rolling his eyes. “Yes they are” I rebuffed him matter of factly. “NO, they’re NOT”. He repeated obviously annoyed beyond reason. I have always been very proud of my heritage, I am related to Joseph Brant for god’s sake. “YES they ARE!” Social studies became “stupid studies” right then and there. Something clicked in his head at that moment, “Oh really? They are? Your Native?”. Sheepishly he realized something for the first time, I am not sure what. I don’t know if he thought it wasn’t possible for an Indian person to be in front of him in a mostly white classroom in the suburbs of Ottawa or if Indians simply didn’t exist anymore so my existence wasn’t possible as if a genocide happened in his mind.
To this day both thoughts chill me.

Tonight the film I saw explored these thoughts as well. It ended in the present looking at the artistic endeavors of Native people creating films dramatizing their own history where there weren’t any white actors in red paint and no white characters heroically saving Indians from white calvary and no Indian princesses re-writing history to assuage some residual guilt (thanks Disney), and no grade six teachers asking “Where are you from?”.

You did a great job Neil!

“So you agree to do this?” Sunday, April 25, 2010

This weekend I was asked by a good friend to accompany her to a sweatlodge. Of course, why wouldn’t I? Personally I do not sweat. People have many different reasons for participating in a sweatlodge but I have never felt the need and it is not really a part of my culture although many different people have adopted the sweatlodge to connect to community, themselves and Mother Earth. It was a great experience for me as I saw people I have not seen in a long time and met some new wonderful folks and, of course, there was a feast afterward. As a personal policy I never turn down the opportunity to feast!

The sweatlodge was taking place on an amazing piece of property on the Quebec side of the Ottawa River in a mixed forest on a horse farm. I don’t really know the intricacies of the ceremonies that were a part of the sweat but this one was a Cree style sweatlodge hosted by a well known Cree Elder.

We get there and introductions are made I say hi to old friends and new ones as they come into the sacred space nestled within the mixed forest, the fire heating up the Grandfather stones is already blazing, the heat is impressive.

This time of year I am always looking for wild leeks and other edible forest delicacies so I thought while people are participating in the sweatlodge I would forage around the property looking for mushrooms, leeks and whatever else might be available. As I was speaking to a Cree friend of mine he asked if I wouldn’t mind being the Firekeeper for this sweatlodge. I have tended to many successful fires in my lifetime so of course I would, why wouldn’t I? Then my buddy looked very seriously at me and said “So you agree to do this?”.
Ummmm, ok.

It was a warm spring day, the sun was beating down, for sure I was going to get some well needed colour on me, I dressed light. I picked up the pitchfork and began moving wood around the fire keeping all the stones covered, one of my duties as Firekeeper. I quickly realized I couldn’t get anywhere near this fire to move anything involved. I had to put on my coat that I wear in the bush during fall and winter, now a ball cap then gloves all of this to ironically protect me from the incredible heat of the fire. I noticed the person who was tending the fire before I got there had singed his beard and hair because he got too close. I began to sweat freely and I notice people giggling at me as I negotiate the heat of the situation.

After more than an hour of keeping the fire blazing the Elder begins to let people know that it is almost time to enter the lodge that is maybe big enough to hold a Honda Civic, 17 people go in. They all enter and my duties of handing the rocks into the lodge on a pitchfork begin. Some rocks are five pounds others are more than ten all of them are making my back groan the only thing keeping my mind off the heat. In total around 40 glowing rocks were gently placed into the lodge as sacred participants of this ancient ceremony.

In the short moments that I had to myself I could sit away from the heat and collect myself. I noticed the veins coiling around my arms like snakes, I could feel the veins in my temples pulsing and noticeable under my skin, the pressure was dizzying. A strange realization came over me, my veins were protruding because the intense heat had expanded my blood.

With the water available I did all I could to lower my body temperature as I thought this is probably dangerous, the pressure slowly subsided as did the heat from the fire. After a few hours the sweat was over and the feasting began. I shared my pickerel and later made tea from some of the wild ginger that was around. With a smile my friend mentioned he had done my job many times which explained the seriousness of his question “So you agree to do this?”

Stupid beaver Monday, April 13, 2010

Last night my Father and I traveled to our commmunity to do a little spear fishing. We collect Pickerel this way. We do this at night with a spear in one hand and a flashlight in the other walking through the water in the bay trying to jab a fish in the back with pointy metal spikes. We have collected fish this way for a thousand years. Well, replace a torch with a flashlight and replace pointy metal spikes with pointy anything else, still the same thing, as awesome as it sounds it did not work out so well last night.

Spear fishing is how Mohawk people have collected fish for a very long time. Having experienced "sport" fishing with a rod and reel all my life (why would I release a fish I catch?) I can honestly say that spear fishing is much more exciting and satisfying than sport fishing ever has been for me. We traditionally collect fish at this time of year when they come into the rivers that connect to the lake and they are in shallow waters which means we can see them. So there are different places that we go where they could be more abundant or more convenient depending on certain factors. More abundant means a way more dangerous situation where we might be more than hip high in a raging river where when you pick your foot up to take a step forward your foot goes whipping back from the rushing water that would surely take you away if you ever fell. You have to fight to get your foot in front of you to make any distance forward against the river that you have joyfully jumped into with hip waders, waders that would surely be your anchor then coffin if you slipped on any of the the rocks beneath your feet . River rocks offer no promise of traction but absolutely hint at every opportunity for you to slip and slide beneath the fast moving water with their assistance.

So, I did collect a lot of pickerel in that raging river and my Father, Aunt and Uncle all have some of the pickerel that we think about, dream about and can't wait for certain times of year to eat those fish, personally, I can say it is the best food I have ever put in my mouth.

So, that beaver.
Last night I was at my Uncle's place. He lives on the water. Not like, "Oh, if you walk that way a bit you will reach the shore". No, he lives "on the water" where if you spit from his porch it will hit the water with no effort. Last night I was walking in the water wearing hip waders and had a brand new spear in hand wondering if I might get any fish in this calm part of the fishing situation. Within two steps of getting wet I saw a glowing pickerel eye in the dark water. I followed it into deeper water beyond the reach of my spear, it was gone, then.... SPLASH!
For some reason the beaver was right there and it did not like the fact that I was in the water at midnight. It responded to my occupation by slapping his tail on the water as loud as anything. It followed me as I walked. Remember doing cannonballs? Just like that, SPLASH! So I ignored the water bound rodent as I should, SPLASH! one minute later. I continued to walk along the shore with the same beaver slapping it's tail every one to two minutes as if I was interrupting something important it had to do past midnight in the water in front of my uncle's place. So all the fish were scared away from that crazy beaver splashing. I did not spear any fish last night ...stupid beaver.

Go ahead touch it. Sunday, April 12, 2010

All of my paintings from about 1998 to present have a textured background made of tissue paper. The effect of the wrinkled layers of tissue paper looks almost like leather and is a wonderful contrast to my graphic style. I started experimenting with this technique as a reaction to the very flat graphic style that I had started to get bored with. So I added texture and depth with tissue paper applied with gel mediums and liquid acrylics. People look at my work and I can tell that they really want to touch the painting, the texture looks really inviting and they wonder how I did that. My paintings are very resilient so I tell people "Go ahead touch it".

The application of the tissue paper is actually pretty labour intensive. For a large painting say about 30x36 inches it takes a good day and half to get the background done. I start by applying torn pieces of tissue paper to the canvas in all different sizes, this is the first of three layers. I use gel medium and liquid acrylics mixed together as the adhesive, the colour is chosen at this point as well. None of the pieces of paper touch each other on this layer. When all is dry I begin to apply the second layer of larger pieces of paper and I may adjust the colour at this point. These pieces of paper will be applied on top of the first layer but they won't touch each other as well. Wait to dry. The third layer is where I begin to completely cover the canvas. I have to be careful with the sizes of paper as it acts like a wick and can bleed the colour to the edges as it dries. This is where craftmanship comes into play. It took years for me to perfect this application, it can be a very tricky process. When the third layer is dry I begin to add layer upon layer of very watered down paint and more gel medium to get the colour and gradation that I want. I also throw a lot of paint at the canvas partly for my own amusement but it gives it a nice affect of texture as well. I sometimes sand in between layers with a fine sand paper to smooth the background a bit.

The tissue paper is locked onto the canvas with a lot of acrylic gel medium and paint. I like to say that I could throw a pizza at my paintings and wipe it off without harming the piece, I have never tried this and I don't suggest anyone who owns my work to try it but go ahead touch it.