Tuesday, June 26, 2012

International Indigenous Leadership Gathering...


The 4th International Indigenous Leadership Gathering (June 21-24) went down this weekend and it was amazing. Overseen by the St’át’imc Chiefs’ Council in their un-ceded territory (at Lillooet, BC) and once again fronted by Darrell Bob, it was once again proved that a powerful, grand-scale, traditional event can come off beautifully if people take ownership of their intentions and actions. I attended for the second the year in a row to camp, take part in ceremony and hear the words of (mainly indigenous) leaders and speakers from all parts of the globe. Each day saw speakers from all over the world address the crowd on various global and local issues that affect not only indigenous but all people and the earth - the "first mother". Great speakers, some of them, and you'd have trouble sitting still when so stirred by meaningful words - truly medicine for the heart and mind. The St’át’imc people hosted but everyone attending pitched in to work the kitchen, serve and clean up the 3 meals a day that were provided for all attendees at no cost to anyone…It was touching at the closing ceremony when Mr. Bob commented: if anyone went hungry, then I failed at my job…of course no one went hungry and you are left with admiration and honor for the commitment displayed by the St’át’imc people to get the word out and make people feel welcome and like family, they are skillful but sincere – very, very accomplished people. One simply had to be at any one the gatherings to fully appreciate what an undertaking it is to host and feed a few thousand people from all over the world. Keep in mind the logistics involved regarding space to for everyone camp, clean water, family safety and enough food for everyone. There were sweats, prayer vigils and drum circles constant drum circles everywhere, a few scruffy hippies, a few dippy new-agers (always will be when Indians are involved) but all-in-all mainly everyone’s heart was in the right place.


I brought out my hand drum during the closing gratitude ceremony to drum alongside, Peruvian, Nigerian and Asian drummers…a buzz! As with any outdoor event the weather was a factor and after nearly freezing my schnitzel off last year, I was better prepared and this year the main concern was rain. Mostly the weather was fair with inter-mitten rain but Saturday night a mighty rain storm appeared in the south valley, the direction the weather arrives from and you could this was going to be a doozy. At dusk the ominous dark and swirling clouds appeared and you could see sheets of rain looming. In mere minutes, swollen drops turned into torrential rain chasing most into tents, trailers or whatever cover they could secure (for me it was into the safety of my buddies’ Honda). As I sat in the vehicle listening to the rain pelting the car and watching as it fell almost sideways outside I was struck by the fact that the drum group made mainly of boys from East Van did not surrender to the weather. In fact, the drum group and a few dozen die-hards remained steadfast in their determination to celebrate the drum…and life. They danced, though drenched to the bone, and the drummers paused long enough between songs to drink some water and soothe their throats for a minute or two only to pound away once more at songs which repeated verse after verse giving dancers songs to live by. This is special shout out to the drummers and singers (some ladies, too) of East Van and the rain-dancers who exemplified the spirit of what the event seems to be about.

See you next year.

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

...It's called progress...(I guess)...


the view when I first moved into my groovy
little pad...(and my original Blog page pic)


once a community garden...

when i first moved in, an empty lot (and the garden)
and the amazing western exposure...construction
had begun by this point (clearly)...


the same view this morning, 1 building
(out of frame, right) completed and this one
to be 30-some stories...

...it's been great, though, at this spot...moving July 1st...EVERYTHING changes, I guess
...

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing

Sunday, June 10, 2012

(Magpie) Language of the Heart

I constructed this poem sometime in 1998 or 99 and at that time had been aware of my brother’s contracting the HIV virus for (just under) 10 years – he’d been living with it years longer. I tried to workshop it in a UBC creative writing class right after I wrote it because I liked it but I could never get through it.

My brother Kelly was called Magpie because he was brash, loud, occasionally a pest…and beautiful. He and I spent time together in the same foster home as very small children and I remember us constantly running away and every time (for some reason) taking off our shoes and socks (which always made them SO mad, lol). We were split up for this and I was not to see him again until we were grown men by which time he had become ill.

It would be a lie to say we got along well all the time though we did have our moments. On rare occasions we sat up all night drinking at the rez and regaled each other with our exploits and daring adventures. The other end of our experiential equation is that for subtle and deep reasons we could almost never seem so get along. I was needful but not in the same way as when we were children and he clearly had basic needs of a kind we intuitively understood could not be met. On some level, I believe we were resentful towards each other for apparently leaving the other way back when (which of course is ridiculous), while at the same time angry at ourselves for feeling powerless to help someone (your own brother) so clearly in need of help. This kind of anger, frustration and unresolved feelings of futility are so prevalent in our community that it can make people lash out at whoever is near. My brother and I fought at a house party on the rez (which I had invited him to as a means of reconciliation). I came away from that encounter with a broken ankle and today I wear the incident as a badge of honor in some circles, and in others, it provides clear evidence of the the fact that often it is hurt people who hurt people.

It so happened in the palliative care ward of an Edmonton hospital one night (as outside a late spring blizzard was subsiding) that I was alone with Kelly for the last time in this life. Due to weather, timing and grace it was just my brother and I. These were the days of SARS-related health concerns and so hospital staff insisted visitors don all manner of protective-wear (latex gloves, gown, mask and cap) which of course I removed once we were alone soon after midnight. He was far past any ability to speak or communicate but I was aware he could understand me because tears would stream from the waxy hollows where his eyes had once been as I began to speak as I felt compelled to do once we were alone. I thanked my brother for looking after us as little boys in the best way he could and told him how good he looked (Magpies crave attention, you see) and how lucky he was to soon be with everyone who had come before us. His hands were cold as I held them and told him I had written a poem about him and though I could only remember the last part I would recite what I had memorized (the stanza beginning: in my dreams – we are boys again…)

It was, as mentioned, his last night on earth but it is the best of him which with stays with me, informs me, guides me, comforts and protects me. He is still my big brother. It is special on a personal scale but it feels like a blessed and pre-destined thing to have been with Kelly and to have been able to look after him, if only once and to know for certain there was love in his final moments. Art can be transcendent at times and is, I believe, spiritual practice.

Ekosi





Magpie

Carrying tobacco
and colored prints of fabric
I stand barefoot in wet grass -
traffic drowns out the sound of my voice
but I am speaking
and I am looking to the sky

Saying that you have gone south
and you still have the gun with you,
they promise me they will catch up to you
(who is to punish them for their crimes?)
I would believe them were it not for the knowledge
that none has ever been able to catch up with you
so hard and fast do you run -
and I am wary of promises

It has never been the way between us to agree
but tonight,
I want you to keep on running

With clenched teeth
and fists
I demand answers
(where there are none)

I demand answers!

In every direction that I look for you
I see faces committed to forgetting,
dedicated to relegating us to mere “social
constructs
,” rejecting antithetical images
of what they think Indians are

we are:
boys stolen at 2 and 6 years old
boys raised by strangers without black hair, and then
boys who return home as strange men
boys sharing a mother poisoned by prescriptions
boys whose cousins hang in trees
boys finding uncles with shotgun holes in them
boys who have not forgiven their fathers – only forgotten them
boys who are bleeding


In my dreams
we are boys again
and running barefoot through city streets
our shoes discarded
It must be that you remember
a place worth running to -
I am scared
but you are older
and I will follow you anywhere

Magpie,
you are that dark bird
wounded,
singing in the dead of night
waiting your whole life for a moment to arrive

Tonight
I can feel a cold wind at my back
on this wind
will you fly over gray fields?
your feathers long, blue and black
along the river’s silent edge will you soar?

If only one good memory
is left in our hearts
I will meet you there


©2012 Champsteen Publishing