this poem was originally composed for International Women's Day...
- - -
All THERE IS...
is the sound of an old woman's voice
in a run-down little house on a piece of borrowed land
this side of the reserve
I remember her in dark skin and white hair telling me, warning me –
a story told without love will not be remembered
like indians do,
I took you as my grandmother, never having met either of my own (or my mother)
and I took those words as commandments
or more accurately, I took stewardship of your words,
I protected them
like indians do
my damaged memory of your ghostly form
is framed by crumpled leaves and dense grasses
deadfall and marshy muskeg,
I am not painting a quaint, rustic, idyllic landscape
not singing to the “oneness” of anything
I am beyond remembering
and singing my own song
in a place where I saw bent women, berry-picking
and one with lips, stained red and succulent
I tried but found I could never taste that good to her
and on and on and on…
I carry my grief and gladness and never look back
in these places…I saw
in every village, every town, each weigh station
I have been a pilgrim, a merchant, trading stories, hands and more
at calgary
at brindisi,
at neskonlith
at santorini
at peace hills
at oaxaca
at napean
at musqueam
at white bear
at oslo
at yellowknife
at oppenheimer park
unvarnished episodes, encounters, entanglements
recorded only in an island of lost memories that you may have
of her telling you: it’s alright…you’re okay,
and these things were so only because she said they were
she has pulled us through birth canals and rites of passage…the death of my brothers
because of men she wore outmoded black veils and still
set broken bones, nourished us with compassion
we were astonished, emboldened, fed and far better…soothed
when we felt as motherless children
when we felt at the brink of cavernous dark
from the margins they shape the world
through cultures melding and those long since vanished
there are still glimpses of something permanent, eternal
it is that I long for the comfort of her voice
snatch for it like a thief
guard it like final embers carried
across tundra by dried mud tribes of stone age
once,
there were long strands of hair, shiny and damp
that fell across her shoulders, beneath the sunlight…
these sapphire-tinted recollections (every last one)
are her words and are air and water and reflection
I am nothing, sometimes not even a man
just a word-finder, conjurer of everything you have already said,
without you I would have stayed nothing, dust or the thought of it
but now something is created across time and space
because she was here, existed
the first mother wears these lakes and rivers,
mountains, meadows, towns and cities
and I am given to worship of things I cannot explain –
condemn those foolish enough to live without magic –
she teaches me
to understand that every woman is someone’s daughter on this perilous journey
that life beyond every kind of poverty is better
and though yet hungry for that great wisdom and power
I am still ashamed (though still alive),
still asking the same foolish questions as in ages past
but for you I am contented with love…every kind of love
and now I know where all words come from
it is sacred faith that there is grace among storm
and on certain miracle nights, sometimes, I almost feel…beloved
the great wisdom of her collective ages:
that love cannot conquer
but it can survive…
it has at least that much power
© 2010 Champsteen Publishing
Sunday, May 9, 2010
The Distance (song)
words and music: Larry Nicholson
guitar and vocal: Larry
guitar: Brett Richardson
(recorded in-studio with Jean Ardilla at Co-op radio)
walk down Pacific Boulevard
the Indian man he sat alone, he played guitar
sat conjuring people and places that he'll never see
(he said) i'm not old but i ain't young no more
i never see the faces of the ones i did before
there's been a journey in my heart full of dark mystery
and it ends somewhere in the distance
I find it sad what some find funny
sometimes making love's like making money
there's no room for men and women in the bottom line
is there still a place for sacred things?
worth more than all the fool's gold, the diamond rings?
is it here?...is it now?...do we all shine?
Sarah sang her gentle song for you and i
that sound across these distant waters, the forever sky
she went home she left our hearts opened wide
hey little sister can you ride the wind?
up around that big old painted moon, back down again
if there’s a memory left behind
i'll meet you there...in the distance
is there nothing left to do? is there nothing left to say?
you can see the bridges burning, we may have wanted it that way
there's a silence lives between us, it's what we build, it's what we make
it's what we take...into the distance
sleep tight my pretty lady, the moon is almost on the rise
when the ghosts have left the room i'll look into those eyes
i'll pretend i'm there and i'll wait
guess i'm just a dusty dreamer in this world that makes you tough
there’s still a chance for poets and runaways if we want it bad enough
to live enchanted in the earth, in the torment
in your eyes...and every instance
are we true just like a northern star?
or like the Indian man whose home is his guitar?
is there something in this night for you and me?
like ragged crows that fill the skies at night down in the eastside part of town
we're all still someone's sons and daughters
never knowing where we're bound
like the turning of the leaves we're all lost and then we're found
one by one we'll fly away...
© 2009 Champsteen Publishing
guitar and vocal: Larry
guitar: Brett Richardson
(recorded in-studio with Jean Ardilla at Co-op radio)
walk down Pacific Boulevard
the Indian man he sat alone, he played guitar
sat conjuring people and places that he'll never see
(he said) i'm not old but i ain't young no more
i never see the faces of the ones i did before
there's been a journey in my heart full of dark mystery
and it ends somewhere in the distance
I find it sad what some find funny
sometimes making love's like making money
there's no room for men and women in the bottom line
is there still a place for sacred things?
worth more than all the fool's gold, the diamond rings?
is it here?...is it now?...do we all shine?
Sarah sang her gentle song for you and i
that sound across these distant waters, the forever sky
she went home she left our hearts opened wide
hey little sister can you ride the wind?
up around that big old painted moon, back down again
if there’s a memory left behind
i'll meet you there...in the distance
is there nothing left to do? is there nothing left to say?
you can see the bridges burning, we may have wanted it that way
there's a silence lives between us, it's what we build, it's what we make
it's what we take...into the distance
sleep tight my pretty lady, the moon is almost on the rise
when the ghosts have left the room i'll look into those eyes
i'll pretend i'm there and i'll wait
guess i'm just a dusty dreamer in this world that makes you tough
there’s still a chance for poets and runaways if we want it bad enough
to live enchanted in the earth, in the torment
in your eyes...and every instance
are we true just like a northern star?
or like the Indian man whose home is his guitar?
is there something in this night for you and me?
like ragged crows that fill the skies at night down in the eastside part of town
we're all still someone's sons and daughters
never knowing where we're bound
like the turning of the leaves we're all lost and then we're found
one by one we'll fly away...
© 2009 Champsteen Publishing
Charlie's Lullaby (song)
words and music: Larry Nicholson
guitar and vocal: larry
drum, bass keyboard, background vocal: Kristi Haavisto
violin: Jessica Deutsch
(produced and recorded by Kristi at1st Nations Longhouse, UBC)
welcome to the world dear
it's warm beside you dear
with mama in the sky dear
and heaven down here on earth dear
you called out my name love
in my sleep where you came love
the wild and the tame love
i look and they're one and the same love
you brought rain to the sky dear
i'm happy to cry dear
i'll never know why dear
that you came all this way just for me dear
you're free like the bird child
you are the prayer that was heard child
i know not the word child
for the light that you brought to the world child
called out my name love
in my sleep where you came love
the wild and the tame love
i look and they're one and the same love...
© 2010 Champsteen Publishing
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
...WELL...THAT'S WHAT I HEARD...
For this one don’t get hung up on the details, think about the message. It’s a – The Power of Story – article. We hear this all the time in Indian country (for the record: every square inch of turtle Island/N. America is Indian country) and typically it seems we refer to a round the campfire, legend type story, designed to reflect a perspective on morality or codes of conduct and so on. This article is similar it - just doesn’t have as many furry animals running around in it.
Personal assertion number one: Nobody KNOWS anything (for certain)…it’s proven time and time again, people merely have their version of the same the story. This idea contains all sorts of implications (ie. meanings, understandings about it); who’s telling the story, why are they telling it today, where did they get the story, will the story be understood differently by a different person or group of people? In my mind all these things are relevant depending on the story.
So.
Dangerous Story-Telling Scenario 1 – in university I observe a young, white, PhD, lecturing on N. American Native History to approximately 40 or so other white people and 7 or 8 Indians. The 35 year old-ish man was American, had earned his credentials in America gathering material on native groups of the Mexo-American Southwest and on the day in question was speaking on residential schools. Many in the (mostly white, mostly twenty-ish) classroom I learned were working toward an undergraduate’s degree in Native Studies, which for many will establish them as experts on the subject (yikes! - and even more annoyingly, probably land them a job with some organization because they will be considered more qualified than say, an actual native person, but…I digress). I watched as they studiously scribbled down the instructor’s words day after day, frequently asking if he would mind repeating some snippet they were eager to record in their notebooks. Then the instructor offered the information that while there was abuse in some residential schools, it needed to be known that the authorities meant well and it was a scheme originally conceived to help the Indians. This caused uproar as you might expect among we native students and we debated the statement and many other aspects of this particular issue for a length of time that eventually was deemed too long and we were forced to move along. Now the reader may or may not know that the Canadian government contracted the Church because they would take of Canada’s well known “Indian problem.” They had experience at this in other parts of the world but what was most appealing to the policy makers of the day? It was far cheaper than doing it themselves. It was a bottom line decision (*in fact, the Europeans who colonized Africa were so impressed by the effectiveness of Canada’s reservation system that it was implemented in South Africa and called Apartheid…look it up!) No sensible person takes at face value the rhetoric surrounding policies that forcibly removed children from their families under threat of punishment, systematically stripped them their language and culture and exposed them to rampant abuse of every kind. No one actually believes (or did believe) this was a way of “helping” Indians. But I did witness a whole bunch of white kids writing this stuff down in their notebooks. They will move on and get their degrees in areas such as native studies, thereby becoming experts (to some) on Native people and their issues and are now armed with “the facts.” This is a mainstream post secondary institution and I witnessed firsthand the perpetuation of a lie (misinformation might be a more politically correct term). But it’s a very, very powerful and weighted subject either in a person’s personal experience at a residential school or those who exhibit complete animosity and disdain at even hearing about the issue. I’m not worried that this issue/story will disappear any time soon and it needs much more exploration and light brought to it (which it will). I will move on.
Another time, I spoke with a highly educated and traditionally aware Indian woman and we talked about the etymology, or history of certain words in our respective languages. I’ve always dug our (hers and my) philosophical and theoretical exchanges and on a particular night we were speaking of justice, balance, good and evil and their manifestation, war and all the rest. Eventually she used words to the effect: - I guess, in the old days, if someone had turned away so completely from the tribal values of the day – they need to be punished, sometimes executed. –
To this I responded, “I see, so you believe that’s how it was for your people?”
She looked at me and asked: “Are you telling me Cree people NEVER did any of those things, weren't abusers?”
I said: “Obviously, after a certain period in history, but prior to that…I doubt it.”
She asked: “You’re people didn’t abuse each other before contact?”
"Not to that degree, not like that. I’m certain there was aberrant behavior which was dealt with (strictly, I might add) but the specific kind of abuse you’re speaking of? – I don’t think so. We learned that…or it was a result of being overwhelmed emotionally, collectively…one doesn’t expect that a healthy person is going to do things like that, is capable of it. I don’t think Cree people are or were perfect by any means but I believe we were pretty healthy before the arrival. Now I can’t speak for your people just as I take it you are not speaking for all native groups, or Nations, when you say abuse of that type was present, or common. How could you possibly know that?"
"How can you think your people didn’t do those kinds of things?"
The clearest answer I could come up with: THERE WERE NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE IT. At this her expression told me she understood where I was going.
Follow me on this, reader: Something takes place, then it is described, named etc. but what does it mean if there are no words to describe something? My theory is that if there are no words to describe or name something, someone or an event, it doesn’t exist. My theory is that there was a time in my people’s history where types of conduct were unknown to our experience and imagination. That is, behavior so inconceivable, so counter or opposite to the precepts of our nature it just didn’t register (or had yet to) in the consciousness. How can there be words to describe or name something you cannot conceive, imagine or dream of? In our languages the world over we don’t define things that don’t exist. I hope the reader understands what I am explaining. Clearly, there have been rampant and ongoing types of abuse, on and by my people. But at one point in our history, there literally were no words to describe this occurrence. Think about what that could mean. To use another example, at one point, there were no words for jet airplane or the internet. These things had not yet been conceived. To me it’s entirely possible, plausible and likely certain things took place only after an inconceivable, unprecedented and overwhelming confluence of circumstances. It’s the only way they could happen.
The discussion also brought up an issue around protocol. Initially my friend’s assertive tone and her words struck me and I was moved to identify myself and make myself clear. I told my friend that with all due respect, she may very well have known these things about her people but as of that conversation and as a Cree person I was in possession of none of that knowledge. I felt bound to make explicit that I had received no information on the things (facts) she was attributing to other (including my) people from any reliable source and it was not useful for me to simply nod or agree and carry on my way. I calmly asked her. How do you know what you say? Where did you get that information? What was the source? Thankfully my friend understood what I was saying, HOW and WHY I was saying it. In that exchange we deepened our understanding of each other as members of our respective nations and each other as individuals.
Another friend, another conversation, and I am told how this person’s nation had very strict laws/protocols surrounding the fishing of rivers in their traditional area. She indicated to me that she knew of a story wherein two men were executed because they fished more than the allowable limit.
“They were executed?” I asked, genuinely shocked. “When was this?
“A long time ago…I’m not sure but it’s what happened.”
“Where?”
“In the spot we were at today,” she answered, referring to a section among the 2nd largest fresh water salmon run on the planet. And she went on to explain about needing to protect the yearly stocks and how the men had put the entire community in danger through over fishing and there were no exceptions and so on. I ask the reader to imagine how many fish the two men could possibly have taken where it would have put the entire community at risk, and this is back in the day? What were the rest of the fishers doing? Why would they do this? Where did they put all this fish? Capital punishment? How were they killed? *(sigh)…it’s not for me to contradict this person or this story but I admit I am dubious as there were no answers provided beyond sensational facts. But there you have it. I cannot speak with any authority to the authenticity of this story and I don’t share this anecdote to refute what the person shared but rather to indicate how my mind works. My guess is that this story remains active to deliver a message: DON'T OVERFISH! I have a very strong opinion of the humane and civilized laws and customs of my people (note we are of the Plains, a world away for all intents and purposes - a completely different landscape and therefore a completely different psychological and spiritual disposition, for what it’s worth) I personally reject most of these sensationalized, blood thirsty scenarios that many (often times, especially, my own) people love to rally around and that maintain the stoic, fierce type, shit kicker characterizations that have become so deeply entrenched in the collective imagination. Nobody, it seems, is free of this.
I share these different experiences to indicate that we learn from and about each other all the time. Misinformation is perpetuated on such a grand scale as I indicated in my experience in the classroom that, at times, it makes you wonder what use it is in even trying. Only at times though. Most days I have a pretty good bead on the things I experience and the people and places I encounter. To my satisfaction I can verify and support what I believe to be true about my people (or what I think I know *laughs). I can easily regulate my intellectual process and my daily spiritual practice maintains my emotional balance. The rest of my medicine wheel is a work in progress (laughs again). But in all seriousness, this is only one of the ways I assert my Nationhood - my idea of it. To call myself (Nehiyaw) Cree is to take on some responsibility regarding my words, my actions even my prayers (do you realize I am responsible for my thoughts as I prepare food? especially when it is for others). These things are real to me. I met a Cree guy at a reading that was gleefully spouting off to a whole bunch of white people about how back in the day you’d get your nose cut off for this and get an ear cut off for that and blah, blah, blah - torture methods of enemies and on and on and on. The audience loved it but does it honor or indicate the complexity and humanity of our people? Is it true? I tend to think it indulges our basest selves rather than exemplify the qualities of a human being we are endowed with.
This post began on the idea of the power of stories and hopefully it sheds light on how certain perspectives which have little or no basis in truth can become facts. Respectful skepticism, diligence and integrity (or lack of each) is what we each will bring to the exchange.
I realize no one is signing up for Champ’s Take On The World – (As It Really Could Be 101), it would be too outlandish to even consider, so what the hell, I may well just start a blog…hey wait a minute!...
© 2010 Champsteen Publishing
Personal assertion number one: Nobody KNOWS anything (for certain)…it’s proven time and time again, people merely have their version of the same the story. This idea contains all sorts of implications (ie. meanings, understandings about it); who’s telling the story, why are they telling it today, where did they get the story, will the story be understood differently by a different person or group of people? In my mind all these things are relevant depending on the story.
So.
Dangerous Story-Telling Scenario 1 – in university I observe a young, white, PhD, lecturing on N. American Native History to approximately 40 or so other white people and 7 or 8 Indians. The 35 year old-ish man was American, had earned his credentials in America gathering material on native groups of the Mexo-American Southwest and on the day in question was speaking on residential schools. Many in the (mostly white, mostly twenty-ish) classroom I learned were working toward an undergraduate’s degree in Native Studies, which for many will establish them as experts on the subject (yikes! - and even more annoyingly, probably land them a job with some organization because they will be considered more qualified than say, an actual native person, but…I digress). I watched as they studiously scribbled down the instructor’s words day after day, frequently asking if he would mind repeating some snippet they were eager to record in their notebooks. Then the instructor offered the information that while there was abuse in some residential schools, it needed to be known that the authorities meant well and it was a scheme originally conceived to help the Indians. This caused uproar as you might expect among we native students and we debated the statement and many other aspects of this particular issue for a length of time that eventually was deemed too long and we were forced to move along. Now the reader may or may not know that the Canadian government contracted the Church because they would take of Canada’s well known “Indian problem.” They had experience at this in other parts of the world but what was most appealing to the policy makers of the day? It was far cheaper than doing it themselves. It was a bottom line decision (*in fact, the Europeans who colonized Africa were so impressed by the effectiveness of Canada’s reservation system that it was implemented in South Africa and called Apartheid…look it up!) No sensible person takes at face value the rhetoric surrounding policies that forcibly removed children from their families under threat of punishment, systematically stripped them their language and culture and exposed them to rampant abuse of every kind. No one actually believes (or did believe) this was a way of “helping” Indians. But I did witness a whole bunch of white kids writing this stuff down in their notebooks. They will move on and get their degrees in areas such as native studies, thereby becoming experts (to some) on Native people and their issues and are now armed with “the facts.” This is a mainstream post secondary institution and I witnessed firsthand the perpetuation of a lie (misinformation might be a more politically correct term). But it’s a very, very powerful and weighted subject either in a person’s personal experience at a residential school or those who exhibit complete animosity and disdain at even hearing about the issue. I’m not worried that this issue/story will disappear any time soon and it needs much more exploration and light brought to it (which it will). I will move on.
Another time, I spoke with a highly educated and traditionally aware Indian woman and we talked about the etymology, or history of certain words in our respective languages. I’ve always dug our (hers and my) philosophical and theoretical exchanges and on a particular night we were speaking of justice, balance, good and evil and their manifestation, war and all the rest. Eventually she used words to the effect: - I guess, in the old days, if someone had turned away so completely from the tribal values of the day – they need to be punished, sometimes executed. –
To this I responded, “I see, so you believe that’s how it was for your people?”
She looked at me and asked: “Are you telling me Cree people NEVER did any of those things, weren't abusers?”
I said: “Obviously, after a certain period in history, but prior to that…I doubt it.”
She asked: “You’re people didn’t abuse each other before contact?”
"Not to that degree, not like that. I’m certain there was aberrant behavior which was dealt with (strictly, I might add) but the specific kind of abuse you’re speaking of? – I don’t think so. We learned that…or it was a result of being overwhelmed emotionally, collectively…one doesn’t expect that a healthy person is going to do things like that, is capable of it. I don’t think Cree people are or were perfect by any means but I believe we were pretty healthy before the arrival. Now I can’t speak for your people just as I take it you are not speaking for all native groups, or Nations, when you say abuse of that type was present, or common. How could you possibly know that?"
"How can you think your people didn’t do those kinds of things?"
The clearest answer I could come up with: THERE WERE NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE IT. At this her expression told me she understood where I was going.
Follow me on this, reader: Something takes place, then it is described, named etc. but what does it mean if there are no words to describe something? My theory is that if there are no words to describe or name something, someone or an event, it doesn’t exist. My theory is that there was a time in my people’s history where types of conduct were unknown to our experience and imagination. That is, behavior so inconceivable, so counter or opposite to the precepts of our nature it just didn’t register (or had yet to) in the consciousness. How can there be words to describe or name something you cannot conceive, imagine or dream of? In our languages the world over we don’t define things that don’t exist. I hope the reader understands what I am explaining. Clearly, there have been rampant and ongoing types of abuse, on and by my people. But at one point in our history, there literally were no words to describe this occurrence. Think about what that could mean. To use another example, at one point, there were no words for jet airplane or the internet. These things had not yet been conceived. To me it’s entirely possible, plausible and likely certain things took place only after an inconceivable, unprecedented and overwhelming confluence of circumstances. It’s the only way they could happen.
The discussion also brought up an issue around protocol. Initially my friend’s assertive tone and her words struck me and I was moved to identify myself and make myself clear. I told my friend that with all due respect, she may very well have known these things about her people but as of that conversation and as a Cree person I was in possession of none of that knowledge. I felt bound to make explicit that I had received no information on the things (facts) she was attributing to other (including my) people from any reliable source and it was not useful for me to simply nod or agree and carry on my way. I calmly asked her. How do you know what you say? Where did you get that information? What was the source? Thankfully my friend understood what I was saying, HOW and WHY I was saying it. In that exchange we deepened our understanding of each other as members of our respective nations and each other as individuals.
Another friend, another conversation, and I am told how this person’s nation had very strict laws/protocols surrounding the fishing of rivers in their traditional area. She indicated to me that she knew of a story wherein two men were executed because they fished more than the allowable limit.
“They were executed?” I asked, genuinely shocked. “When was this?
“A long time ago…I’m not sure but it’s what happened.”
“Where?”
“In the spot we were at today,” she answered, referring to a section among the 2nd largest fresh water salmon run on the planet. And she went on to explain about needing to protect the yearly stocks and how the men had put the entire community in danger through over fishing and there were no exceptions and so on. I ask the reader to imagine how many fish the two men could possibly have taken where it would have put the entire community at risk, and this is back in the day? What were the rest of the fishers doing? Why would they do this? Where did they put all this fish? Capital punishment? How were they killed? *(sigh)…it’s not for me to contradict this person or this story but I admit I am dubious as there were no answers provided beyond sensational facts. But there you have it. I cannot speak with any authority to the authenticity of this story and I don’t share this anecdote to refute what the person shared but rather to indicate how my mind works. My guess is that this story remains active to deliver a message: DON'T OVERFISH! I have a very strong opinion of the humane and civilized laws and customs of my people (note we are of the Plains, a world away for all intents and purposes - a completely different landscape and therefore a completely different psychological and spiritual disposition, for what it’s worth) I personally reject most of these sensationalized, blood thirsty scenarios that many (often times, especially, my own) people love to rally around and that maintain the stoic, fierce type, shit kicker characterizations that have become so deeply entrenched in the collective imagination. Nobody, it seems, is free of this.
I share these different experiences to indicate that we learn from and about each other all the time. Misinformation is perpetuated on such a grand scale as I indicated in my experience in the classroom that, at times, it makes you wonder what use it is in even trying. Only at times though. Most days I have a pretty good bead on the things I experience and the people and places I encounter. To my satisfaction I can verify and support what I believe to be true about my people (or what I think I know *laughs). I can easily regulate my intellectual process and my daily spiritual practice maintains my emotional balance. The rest of my medicine wheel is a work in progress (laughs again). But in all seriousness, this is only one of the ways I assert my Nationhood - my idea of it. To call myself (Nehiyaw) Cree is to take on some responsibility regarding my words, my actions even my prayers (do you realize I am responsible for my thoughts as I prepare food? especially when it is for others). These things are real to me. I met a Cree guy at a reading that was gleefully spouting off to a whole bunch of white people about how back in the day you’d get your nose cut off for this and get an ear cut off for that and blah, blah, blah - torture methods of enemies and on and on and on. The audience loved it but does it honor or indicate the complexity and humanity of our people? Is it true? I tend to think it indulges our basest selves rather than exemplify the qualities of a human being we are endowed with.
This post began on the idea of the power of stories and hopefully it sheds light on how certain perspectives which have little or no basis in truth can become facts. Respectful skepticism, diligence and integrity (or lack of each) is what we each will bring to the exchange.
I realize no one is signing up for Champ’s Take On The World – (As It Really Could Be 101), it would be too outlandish to even consider, so what the hell, I may well just start a blog…hey wait a minute!...
© 2010 Champsteen Publishing
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