Alanis Obomsawin: The Real Deal

L to R, The Champ, Alanis Obomsawin, Storm Standing-On-The-Road

Serendipity is a wondrous thing and it brought Storm and me to the chance to spend time with 2 Aboriginal women filmmakers of immense talent this evening. This week W2 is hosting the 2^nd annual Vancouver Indigenous Media Arts Festival…I actually called in sick this morning with a stupendous head cold but when I discovered through social media that Abenaki filmmaker Alanis Obomsawin would attend screening of her latest NFB documentary, The People of the Kattawapiskak River, I knew I would be there. But the added bonus was that the double feature included Ojibway director Darlene Naponse’s feature Every Emotion Costs. Darlene, it just so happens, is related to Storm (through her mama, again) and she and I were fellow artsy, writerly-type students at Okanagan artist Jeanette Armstrong’s beloved En’owkin Center at Penticton for 2 years and we are old pals you might say.

Plenty of times on this blog I’ve given high praise to the creative types or various others but I can’t think of anyone more deserving of accolades than Obomsawin. I’ve always felt this way about her ever since I first viewed her ’93 doc Kanehsatake: 270 Years of Resistance which chronicles the 1990 Oka Crisis. Oka was of course a defining moment in history for Indians like me – Oka changed everything. And I am not the only one. The elegant and gracious director is now 80 years old (amazing) and I hounded Storm all day to commit to coming with me to the screening. The film was, as usual, powerful and heartfelt and I recommend any of her 30 films all based on subjects having to do with Native People and the majority of which have been produced by the National Film Board. This woman holds several honorary doctorates; a Governor General’s Award and is an Officer of the Order of Canada. She is supremely dedicated and so clearly loves our people that I never miss a chance to hear her speak. She is the real deal.

L to R, The Champ, Storm, (film maker) Suzi Bekkattla, (Director) Darlene Naponse

Naponse’s film is an emotionally charged piece on grief, healing and the complexity of relationships. Her film is lush and visually crafted on a script she wrote and produced (all while holding down a band-council position) at Whitefish Lake 1^st Nation, Ontario where it was shot (it was a trip whispering to Storm during the film: hey, that’s your relative on the left of the screen). Back in the day, Darlene was always shooting and writing, shooting and writing and you just knew she possessed the determination to go wherever it was she intended. I am so proud of and for her.

Ironic and lucky for me that I should wake this morning discouraged that my previously oncoming sniffles had become a full-on ragin’ sneeze orgy, only to be now hitting the sack fed and fortified by the healing power of art…and great company.

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing.

That's (Real) Showbiz...

Recently, I produced a list of 10 fillems that I insist my daughter Storm see at some point in the next year or so. Note that I refer to these as fillems, not movies. Movies are something different and not important (something full of explosions, CGIs or lame jokes and usually very predictable and not much fun) . I look at it a something of a rite of passage and a way of educating her to some works of celluloid art that have left an indelible mark on me. Late this past summer we viewed The Shining together (was that wrong? – REDRUM!?), which she claimed to enjoy. Last week came a rare and thrilling opportunity to not only watch Smoke Signals together, but also to be among the audience for an interview following the screening with Evan Adams by Duncan McCue. Coast Salish actor Adams, of course played the now-iconic role of Thomas Builds-The Fire (Hey, Victor!) and McCue (Anishnabe) is a nationally re-known CBC television news journalist. The film is based upon characters and stories found in the short story collection, Tonto and the Lone Ranger Fist-Fight In Heaven by Coeur d'Alene writer, Sherman Alexie (another gem and among my favorite literary achievements). For someone like me it was a beautiful opportunity to have Storm experience the power and beauty of a fillem that speaks to the soul and never fails to get me…right here! But it was also a chance for Storm to see demonstrated (more importantly) the generosity of spirit and an authentic exchange of ideas that are the true means to empowerment and community-building.

L to R, Evan Adams, Duncan McCue, Storm Standing-On-The-Road and Loretta Todd

SFU Downtown Campus served as venue and was moderated by (Metis/Cree) film-maker Loretta Todd. My daughter is old pals (through her mother) with McCue and Todd and it was so much fun to listen to the discussion ostensibly on humor and healing but which managed to be full of hilarious insights and poignant reflection by both actor and interviewer. It was also a chance to experience the finest talent in Indian country in a relaxed and intimate setting. Throughout this blog, one of the themes I’ve consistently tried to explore is creativity. Now, obviously the participants mentioned all bear a high profile but what was most evident this night was the natural grace and humility of all involved. This aspect also has found its way frequently into the articles I’ve posted and I believe is a feature, quality or trait found in many, many of the successful persons of profile in the 1st Nations community. It has been my experience over and over again, through the years that typically, a well-known person or someone we may identify as successful is generally down to earth and very approachable. I love this about our people.

Beyond this, Smoke Signals itself is a fillem that is exceptionally moving and utterly guileless in its charm. This means that it’s nearly perfect in its modest (though exquisite) execution and could not have been improved upon with more millions in its production budget or alternate casting choices. It’s a fillem that is tough, tender and whimsical and as I mentioned before, profound. Like all pieces of true art, it remains, timeless.

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing        

...A Good Journey...

On the way home from the movies the other night I asked my bro if he was up for going down to the water to drop tobacco and pray. We had learned earlier in the evening of the passing of Rose Point and decided to go see a light-hearted fillem to perhaps take our minds off the news. He agreed to stop by his place allowing me to fetch the medicine I had stashed there and we proceeded to make our way to the ocean-side despite the late hour and persistent rain. It felt important to pray and make modest ceremony to honor the late and beloved elder. A tireless advocate for educating our people in all ways you could think of (not merely the formal education one may think of first). At the prayer/memorial Thursday evening down in Musqueam it became apparent how formidable she was and how easy it may have been to underestimate this tiny bundle of beautiful energy. As was frequently mentioned, Rose was EVERYWHERE. Every event for every conceivable reason, political or artistic, and everything in between, she was always there and as anyone who knows what a hike it was just get out of Musqueam, a certain type of determination was implicit in everything Rose did.

I carry my own special experience because I lived next door to the elder at Musqueam reserve for a couple years (renting a room from her son) and was able to spend many hours with her in her home. She learned how to cook Chinese food in a class and was proud of this skill and it did not take much convincing to get her to whip us up some good vittles, it was a source of well-earned pride. It just never occurred to me coming out to the coast, me, - a plains Cree man being served gourmet Chinese dishes from this sweet little old Coast Salish Lady. But I will cherish most our long talks about her life. Ours was a very easy-going and informal relationship and I dare-say I was given special insight into some of her most intimate and profound personal views. Our exchange was of a sort that this week, though I went down to Musqueam to pay respects and support the family, I find myself glad for Rose because she knew some things and someone were waiting for her in the next part of the journey. I will miss her but I cannot think of loss, or any connotations of that sort. I am simply in a place of gratitude because she worked so hard, touched so many and I got to know her a little bit. If each of us did a fraction of what Rose did in her lifetime, what a world it would be. What a world it is to be able to experience such people.

A good journey, Rose, and thanks.

© 2012 Champsteen Publishing

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

...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

(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

Charlie's Lullaby

words and music by Larry Nicholson


recorded live at The Great Hall - First Nations House of Learning (University of British Columbia)

violin: Jessica Deutsch
hand drum, backing vocal: Kristi Haavisto
guitar, vocal: Larry


As well as being Cree, my daughters, Storm and Grace are Ojibway/Anishnabe through their mother and her people. There is so much that is beautiful about the Ojibway and the way they understand the universe and their place in it. There is the Ojibway philosophy that it is our children who determine who their parents will be. The eternal spirit may wait many, many lifetimes until precisely the right mother and father are found. They choose us - it is out of our hands. The weight carried by this idea and all its implications is so immense that it leaves you grateful and of the mind to say thank-you to your children for including you, for coming all this way...just for you

do you see why good ideas and words and music ARE medicine?...

- - -

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

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...


© 2009, 2012 Champsteen Publishing

A Kind Of Symmetry

Recently, in a letter to a friend living on the East Coast, I wrote:

..."I am of the mind that our lives ARE dramatic, ARE filled with unbelievable things that defy description to others. One simply must appreciate the events as they happen (or after the fact) and with luck they may come to understand what profound and meaningful days or moments are unfolding that may be intended only for them, us, or you…and no one else"...

I was fostered out as a baby during what has been coined “the 60’s and 70’s Scoop.” As such, I had virtually no contact whatsoever with my birth community or family of origin. That was until my mother passed away. Up to that point in my life I had visited several countries around the world but fear and trepidation had always prevented me from connecting with where I came from. I always meant to but never did. But when my mother died there was no question of what I must do and I made the journey to the reserve for the first time. To this day I believe my mom called me home for I am not sure if I ever would have mustered the courage to go of my own will and volition. It was during her wake and funeral that I met everybody and that my life changed momentously. It was surreal, it was profound and I know this: she brought me home.

In some of the recent work I do I’ve been involved in connecting with 1st Nations families who, for one reason or another, have come to have various agencies involved in their lives. It’s not easy work and I do ALL SORTS OF THINGS to try and help keep families together (can’t think of too many things right now I won’t try, lol). So it was with some small measure of gratitude that I encountered a young, scrappy woman from northern Alberta as she fought to get her daughter returned to her care after having been apprehended under what I will only describe as dubious circumstances. The woman was obligated by authorities to complete a list of 4 conditions, which were then increased to 6, then 7, then FIFTEEN! At every step of the way for 6 months this woman was compliant and cooperative and I confess I was almost out of constructive feedback for her. The lawyers involved took it all in stride (why wouldn’t they?) but I was becoming frustrated. - Last week, before a court session, she and I went outside to stand near the trees, drop tobacco and pray. I told her about a woman from Vancouver Island who several years ago showed me a way of using water to pray and call for your helpers. It is clear to me that help is needed because I know what it is to feel your future was or is somehow dependent on people who likely, after a time, won’t even remember your name. But lo and behold a mediated agreement was reached with the Ministry and on a chilly and rainy evening this week the woman got her daughter back. The woman has no family on the coast and asked me to be there and so after the social worker left it was just the three of us as. I was touched and happy for them.

**(Aboriginal children are disproportionately represented in foster care in Canada. Data from provincial and territorial ministries of child and family services for 2000–2002 suggest that 30% to 40% of children and youth placed in out-of-home care during those years were Aboriginal, yet Aboriginal children made up less than 5% of the total child population in Canada. This is especially daunting when one realizes these figures are on the increase everywhere.)**

I do believe creator speaks to me through people and so, a couple weeks back, when an elder asked if I was attending a ceremony the next night (Saturday night)in East Vancouver my initial impulse was to decline but instead I said yes – I’m not kidding, if it is an elder I respect, I can’t say no and I fear I am becoming something of a soft touch in this town – they’re on to me! There is something sooooooo beautiful to be experienced among a bunch of Indians drumming, praying, singing then feasting in a run-down gymnasium in East Vancouver. The modest venue was deceptively perfect for our purpose. As the ceremony was set to begin I approached the elder who initiated my involvement and offered her the tobacco I had smudged and asked if she would mention my family in her prayers and I told her I would do the same for her.

As I compose this piece a friend is traveling to Alberta by bus to try her luck in the mountains at Banff, near where, for a time, I lived at Lake Louise. I have high hopes for my friend but her situation is fraught with complicated circumstances. She feels rather apart from the world and believes the connection she seeks is to be found down that next road, in the next town, always over that next horizon. She’s an Indian, fostered out as a baby, not in touch with her birth community and maybe not so connected to her non-native adopted family and not at all receptive to subjects relating to her native ancestry. In days gone by I would have been sad for her but this is not what is called for. She has been here there and everywhere in Western Canada in her short, though to her, grueling 32 years and it was quite by happenstance that she and I became friends almost 2 years ago. But friends we are and I recognize her walk. I know her and I know something of her journey. We talked a lot when she arrived in Vancouver and eventually she agreed to counseling, to go to 12-step meetings and generally take care of herself. Last year she bounced around shared rental situations, recovery houses, emergency shelters and couches. I was happily surprised when she called one day from a treatment center in Saskatchewan, where she stayed put for 6 months and yet again I was surprised when she called once more from downtown Vancouver. She was back. No plan, no prospects just basically keeping her head above water which was, I reminded her, progress. So as I type this she will have departed again by a few hours which I must admit did not surprise me. She is sober 9 months and I hope the best for her. She has my landline, my office number my cell number and we are connected by internet. She knows how to reach me and I send her good thoughts as I understand they can travel vast distances.

This coming Tuesday, February 14 we’ll mark the solemn occasion that is the annual Missing Women’s March and this year I honor specifically the woman identified as Brenda Wolfe, a victim of Robert Pickton. I knew her as Brenda Belanger when we were schoolmates, both of us students at Victoria Park School in Calgary. We were the cast-offs I think you could say, a few Indians but mainly Vietnamese and white kids but all decidedly the underclass and I believe we adopted something of an “us” against “them” attitude though today it is clear we were all the same. Back then, if you were a trouble-maker and couldn’t make it at Forest Lawn School or Bowness Public School (the bad schools), then Victoria Park, situated as it was near the Bow and Elbow rivers, near the Stampede grounds, close to downtown, was the place for you. It was essentially the end of the line. I don’t what happened to the kids who didn’t make it at Victoria Park. Though, sadly, Brenda’s fate was confirmed through DNA analysis and she was added to the official list, the seventh official murder charge. Brenda and I would cross paths occasionally over the years since middle school and she was always struck by the fact that I remembered her and that I would come up and talk to her. Even in my first spring and summer in Vancouver as I sat in a fast food joint on Broadway, wouldn’t you know I spotted Brenda of all people walking by and so I raced out to say hello. She gave me the lowdown and the heads up on a few things about Vancouver as I didn’t know anybody or anything about the city. I would see her briefly a few times more after that but never again.

There appears to be a peculiar but unmistakable symmetry to life, events re-occur and people return or the memory of them resonates in a way seems to inform the goings-on in my life today. The cosmic filter through which I experience consciousness (life) carries real power and is deeply forceful.

I take the Women’s March to be a ceremony. It is a ceremony in every real way that matters. It is a symbolic show of solidarity among the marginalized, the voiceless and powerless. It is a way of acknowledging that people do care. It is our way of saying that smoke and mirror procedural showcases by government and authorities that promote merely a pretense of justice will not undermine the spirit of people who clearly must fend for themselves and each other. I will go there to pray like devout Indians huddled in a gym in East Vancouver, those Indians of faith gathered in what may be the toughest and most dangerous neighborhood in the country, ground zero, praying - praying as though lives were depending on it.


© 2012 Champsteen Publishing