Elegy by A Cree Sojourner (poem)

I am not afraid of being poor, being homeless…I’ve done that…

I am not afraid of breaking ribs (twice), my neck, my ankle, my skull…

been there done that…and feeling much better now

I am not afraid of having a gun pointed at me (3 times)

cause only one ever actually pulled the trigger…and he missed

I am not afraid of my mother going away, or my father or all my grandparents…

for those things happened a long time ago

I cannot say if in his lifetime, my father ever knew freedom

but in mine…he is free

It could be true that like history, it is by now well-established

that I am, as they say: an open book

and thankfully subject to revision

brother can you spare a dime?

hey man, change comes from within!

There is no longer fear of a broken heart or abandoned love

I know what those things are

I confess to the mercenary intentions

of having her soft lips on mine

there, I said it

what am I but one among this rogue species

like the mountains I have been shaped by time

in fact, I am here because of those long-gone, graceful ones

who somehow walk beside me still

in memory, in spirit

guiding me safely

through the no man’s land of my own good intentions,

to yet more meaningful ways of being

helping locate a measure of grace

during damp arthritic coastal mornings

learning to care for this temple bruised and battered through 43 winters,

grasping that there are surely now more sunsets

in the rear-view mirror than lie before me…

(but you never know)

yes, their presence comforts me

as I experience these fearsome markers of time

most days I have transcended my ancient wounds

free of that kind of pain

though the psychic tissue of scars will always remain,

just out of sight

clung to and kept in my own place of sacred things

summoned when needed to inform, to illuminate,

to be together during your own long dark night of the soul

for why else are we here?

and I stand shoulder to shoulder with front-line helpers and healers

who do the heavy lifting,

who understand that we will only heal together or die one by one

alone as individuals

as a man of the plains it is ironic that I am once again at the frontier

only this time at the borderline of the imagination

standing opposed to ones who elevate human constructs above the natural world

people unable or unwilling to understand

that the way you think about something changes the way it works –

I oppose worshipers at the altar of the holy market

with their inflationary interest in histories’ latest empire

they seem induced by some archaic voice stranded in time

a voice spouting authoritative versions of events

tenure-tracked versions of events

second-hand, borrowed and stolen knowledge

with concerns somehow vested

in salacious accounts of quote-unquote history

ideas are the currency in my trade

in this most crucial reclamation project

for some reason

the challenge seems to be to respect the ancestors and celebrate the living

do you see that it is the very rugged and elemental nature of this hard land

that makes the Indian heart and spirit so pliable?

It’s tough love from our first mother

I have no illusions of permanence and little time for regret,

despair is a sin against the imagination in places like this

my destiny is no longer shaped by others without shame

or without reverence for the things I am…I am the elements…

my life is a subterranean call, no – it is a demand for justice

I am not…but the way? -

the way is righteous

the truth is righteous

even in the city

I know places where can I sit alone among stones polished by mild-mannered rain

I can always locate a vantage point to watch the crows

and be moved by their nightly, spectral pilgrimage

through the great nation that is the sky

even in the city

I hear creator

in my daughter tapping keys on a piano in the next room

there are stations, thresholds and bridges

constructed by others before me that I cross

to arrive in places I could not possibly have gotten to on my own

I keep frequent company with other ways of thinking

road men and matriarchs who have all walked the long road

when necessary developed other modes of orienting themselves in

social and spiritual space

I seek counsel with those happily immersed in old-growth forests of the mind

who may yet teach me other ways

of interacting at all times with the earth itself

I am touched by these warriors of the heart and road

in this company there is space for you

in this company may you find watershed thoughts

of the sacred heart of the world –

come know what love is really like

and dream of worlds to come

© 2013 Champsteen Publishing

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        

(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

Conversation on Poetry (interview)

*update (added March 13) - the page totals referred to in this clip include ALL writing, ALL genres; professional, academic and otherwise, NOT simply 1600 pages of poetry as may seem to be implied...which isn't really THAT many pages considering a novelist writing a book per year (or every other) may easily have completed well over 2000-3000 pages (or more) since 1998...still, i think of it as an accomplishment...



met the interviewer (Kathleen Imbert) at a book launch/reading (Salish Seas Anthology) i hosted - she was interested in my writing experience in poetry as a subject applied to her current training in broadcasting - a fascinating 1st Nations woman, from Wikwemikong Un-ceded 1st Nation in Ontario, owns and operates an art gallery in France and has lived in Aix en Provence these past 30 years - the entire exchange demonstrates one of the main ideas i had when i began this blog - our people networking, collaborating and utilizing various media and their creativity to tell stories...


*(who in the !@#$% left the Starbuck's cup in the shot?!?)




© 2011 Champsteen Publishing

Dismantling A Mystery (or How Come It Doesn’t Rhyme?)...

the poem:



Seeing You For The First Time…

is like remembering
that with Indians, it is all one:
Velvet rain falling over lush Peace Hills back home -
Old man stone glowing in fire
at Beetle Omeasoo’s sweatlodge at Ermineskin -
Hundreds of black wings beating in the great nation that is the sky
each night high above Coastal Salish ground -
Or…your gentle voice heard in woods at Qu’appelle




photo of larry by j-ro
editing a friend's poetry manuscript and helping another with their work it occurred to me that this poem might shed some light on MY theory and process (in particular), it is simply the way i see and do it...proceed at your own interest...

poetry is NOT for everybuddy...one of my favorite crushes, one of the ten most beautiful people in the world informed me she wouldn't even finish reading one of my poems that she came across...this is not to focus on her (i mean it’s clear she loves my body…but i want her to love my mind - i’m an artist after all) but to indicate how adamant people can be or how adverse to verse some people are...but why should this be? - many theories out there but i tend to think the reasons are mainly these:

a) people tend to think of poetry ONLY as that Shakespearean sonnet they made you memorize while holding a gun to your head back in high school...it was traumatic, you know it was AND you never did figure out what the hell was meant before and after the words: tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow...

b) the only poetry you've read since high school was by that ditzy, hippy-chick or the whacked out dude so spaced on the chronic that you thought everything they said was poetry (cause you were a little whack-y AND ditzy yerself back then)...until much later you realized they were committing to paper every pointless, free associative, incoherent pile of syllabic word-turds you ever read but it also occurs to you much later how badly you wanted to get in their pants or how bad they wanted in yours, so much so that even the words "fuck off and die!" seemed to resonate with insight (at last - someone really gets me!), seemed razor-sharp with clarity of purpose and breadth of vision and…romance, even (whoah...think i love him/her).

So people have either read the most difficult and challenging poetry in the English language (the dreaded Elizabethan iambic pentameter) OR the shit that literally means nothing…at any rate had you the chance to read a cross selection of contemporary poetry (that is, poetry written in your time, which typically is free-verse or not in a specific structure on the page) there isn't a doubt in my mind that you would eventually find work by someone that does in fact speak to you, resonates with you and has you come to appreciate what can often be the profound power and beauty of language (more about this topic in future posts)...

for now, it would appear that i must be changing, growing or getting weak in the head because i'm doing something i NEVER do...which is – ANALYZE A POEM...of my own... this one called: Seeing You For The First Time...(located at the top of this post)

using the first line as the title is a device that goes back centuries...couldn't possibly remember where I first saw it, though i know Shakespeare did do this often with his numbered sonnets as did ee cummings, bill bissett, al purdy and many, many other poem-makers have also done this through the ages and i rather like to do this at times when the opening line results in a sense of intrigue or contemplation in the reader...i try to find (use/write) something specific but also it is working if there’s a chance the reader believes they could actually contribute the next line...admittedly, though, writing this first section of explanation reminds me that the first line of THIS particular poem became the title only AFTER most of the rest had been composed...so, the use of this device didn't become apparent to me to until later in the process but it's an example of what i call a happy accident...this might seem to imply that ALL or ANY poem or poetry could simply use as it's title the first line of the poem but this is not the case…

back to the poem…I’ll come clean, now…this one was inspired by (surprise, surprise)…a girl!...i had the opening line (which became the title)…then, very simply…I compared that meeting to 4 different and beautiful things:

1. rainfall
2. rocks in a fire
3. birds flying
4. the woman’s voice

...and that’s all there was to it...more or less...

seeing her for the first time WAS beautiful…the title/first line would be a cliché if the rest of the poem used typical language or imagery…it would not work if I simply said:

…seeing you is like rainfall, rocks in a fire, bird’s flying and your voice…


we learned in early grade school what the words “like” or “as” do to a sentence…it takes a phrase from being understood literally and then makes it a figure of speech (a metaphor)…so, seeing her wasn’t actually or in fact (literally) all those things, it was LIKE all those things, this idea goes a long, long way in language…if you say: seeing you IS nice…seeing you is good - these sentiments may be true but they are bland, mundane and hearing them a thousand times will mean much less the thousandth time you hear it…and haven’t we heard “nice” or “happy” used thousands of times by the time we become adults?...nice and good are for babies and puppies…

the craft of writing involves your choice of words and arrangement of them, the specifics that will spur the imagination of the reader - it's in the details...this is where it can be way, way overdone or one uses descriptions heard a million times (but you know what? people love that...ask Hallmark), OR the poem can become something fresh, not said in quite the same way before, evocative of so much OR it may simply sound lyrical to the point where speech and music seem to meld...ALL these things are possible at this stage if you care enough (or if you care little about what you make) - - in this poem, alongside the 4 items, i have also included four specific Indian PLACES; peace hills, ermineskin, coast salish ground and qu’appelle…NOT ALL readers will be aware of all the references but I’m betting the good reader will make those connections without having heard of one or all of the geographical places referred to in the piece…

i confess, i can’t say precisely what: with indians it is all one, means, but i don't need to…i did want to convey the idea that…indians…know…what do they know?...this question in my mind propels the poem, elevates it, transports the reader’s mind, implies so much, opens the piece so that any reader of any background will intuitively define this phrase for themselves…this, in my mind is where god came in, the synaptic exchange, the happy accident, where the rubber met the road, where the exposition became art…

It then occurred to me that indians are only here today BECAUSE WE REMEMBER, we exist the way we do because of the way we keep our histories’ alive…with our voices, through orality, through externalizing memory (in other words, talking - and now, through writing, even blogging, very subversive if you ask me, you may disagree but go ahead,…you’re allowed)…so it also felt intuitive to place the idea of memory or remembering SOMEWHERE in the piece…

This all could be summed up by saying: first seeing her reminded me of these beautiful things – but i wanted her to fall in love in with me, i wanted to inspire the reader to look at objects of their own desire in a way they never had before…it was and remains a tall order but it’s what you want to do every time out…you want to somehow change the universe for someone (sometimes it’s just yourself) with your ideas because it was done for you, to you by others before you and it’s a safe bet that these experiences/exchanges will continue long after my time…you want the words you choose to be vivid and strong and say a lot with a lot of power but often times it is (what you don’t say or) what you say by implication that has the most power.

SO…how much of this, in the end, applies to what i wrote that day?...all of it.

How much of this occurred to me WHILE i wrote it?...none of it.

it this i call…magic



© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

All There Is...(audio poem)

All There Is…

is an old woman's voice
in a run-down little house on a piece of borrowed land
this side of the reserve
I remember the old woman 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 I now know where all words come from
with me 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 does not conquer
but it can survive…

it has at least that much power


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

Audio Poem (Is It Your Blood?...)

(Larry Nicholson)

IS IT YOUR BLOOD?...

in these children
as they lark in the shallow water of the river
oblivious to old words
and so much time

these shiny-haired children at play
some named after you,
some with your eyes
these sons and daughters of darkness and light
carrying our best hopes, vague as they may be
that here, 100 years on
things might be different

to sit and look upon the young at their brilliant best
is to hear echoes of you in their laughter
it is to remember time out of mind
before a cavalcade of others
and their rush for gold – their lust
left so many of the brightest trampled underfoot

Is it your blood?

in dense sagebrush, sun-baked hills
and coursing through steel-head streams
that moves us to demand an accounting of things
to cling to the notions behind words that read:
they might do the square thing by us in the end

some days it takes a kind of strength
to remember (or believe)
that there ever was a day when hearts were warm
when all the country was so much more
than just pieces of land

to sit quiet and listen for the rush of water
is to seek your whispered words
learn your hard lessons
know the quiet victories
of you the peaceful soldiers of nameless nights
many times without place to rest your thoughts

100 years on
we know the tongues of angels and the tongues of men
we ride the ribbon highways
walk the golden valleys
see the endless sky-way
we leave our own impressions
spread across silver sand and diamond desert

we form markers and monuments
so others may know something of the sacred trust
that lies before us all

we find ourselves, at times, in the border towns of despair
asking what it is to regret what you’ve done
when you’ve never had a choice
(forgetting there is only one thing we must do)
thinking that somehow we needed to nurse your wounds
heal your hurts, soothe your aches
losing sight of the fact
that as you surge through these veins
we are your prayers answered

Is it your blood?

that sounds in the windy voice of conscience
that resonates louder and more deeply
with each passing hour
each passing day
each passing life

that reminds us the land is not merely a stage
upon which mountains, rivers and forests are simply props
little places, set pieces, where we play out our human drama

no,
this land lives
surely as i walk and talk and take you with me
some days the best i can do is resist the urge to sit back
and curse being caught between overlapping nightmares

Is it your blood?

that remind us
that children raised to revere this land as the domain of spirits
will not be the same as ones brought up to cut the land –
to tame it

there is no wilderness but what is in the heart
if you know this country as the people do

long, long after there are any voices
to ask these questions
there is just your good blood
coursing throughout

i raise my arms to the night time sky –
the great nation that is the sky
where you glimmer in constellations

where the only darkness is in not knowing
that we are lost…

only in wonder



Vancouver, July 27, 2010


© 2010 Champsteen Publishing

I'd Like To Spank The Academy...

Recently I attended a conference hosted by Jeanette Armstrong’s En’owkin Center at Penticton BC. For 3 days, mostly indigenous, academics from an array of disciplines from North America, New Zealand and Europe presented on various aspects of their theory, research and practice. The conference was called Transformation and Praxis and it came just when I needed it.

Typical lecture subjects ranged from forestry, water issues, language and history and generally speaking, the theme or point wasn’t commercial, it was real. I know this is a poor sentence and sounds vague but what I mean is that regardless of the topic or the presenter, most, if not all seminars were decidedly lacking in a commercial bottom line. In fact, it seemed that commerce was often the key factor that hindered much of what most are trying to accomplish in their chosen field. Add to that, the common experience of utter disregard or disrespect for indigenous methodology in the academy was clear. I can’t recall anyone who didn’t experience the same type of hardship within their respective institutions over the fact that Indigenous people don’t seem to get into these fields to exploit but rather to serve their communities (and no - I’m not naïve – I am very aware we have just as many exploiters and money shaker-makers, as any body else but c’mon we’re people too, ya know!). This stood out as the indigenous bottom line for me. I saw mostly PhD’s (or candidates) and master’s scholars detailing their research and their experiences in trying to learn how to help their communities. They want to learn so they can help their people. Universities don’t support this philosophy as it pertains to aboriginal people in any real way (of course some individuals in a particular institution have been supportive but they had to be found, at times in very obscure places around the world but then again that’s what good scholarship is).

For instance, one lecturer detailed her pioneering work in geographical satellite mapping of forest species types, locations and densities. Now the big forestry companies are very keen to utilize this kind of technology and information obviously to maximize their exploitation of this resource. But this individual is trying to use the information to find ways of enacting responsible and real sustainable forestry practice (not the completely inappropriate and misleading industry definition of “sustainable”). She also seeks to collect data in order to prevent industrial forestry practice from occurring near important traditional aboriginal hunting and fishing places and near important river systems and watersheds. Her expertise and knowledge of non-indigenous forestry practice shows clearly that it destroys the health and vitality of aboriginal land and water (eco-systems and bio-regions). As industry now knows, you cannot clear cut a mountainside, then plant small saplings of a cheaper, genetically modified (and often foreign to that area) species and say that the forest will simply grow back in time. Old and moderate growth forests only work because of their unique and abundant density and diversity and inter-related nutrient exchange at points located below tree lines or nearer the forest floor. Add to this the fact that snow, precipitation and its runoff is now completely altered and unfiltered and serves mainly to choke and contaminate any river system or freshwater source that lies below it, not to mention the large scale impact on wildlife that comes with road construction and installation of machinery by the forest industry. Sending a bunch of pot-smoking summer students out there after the fact, planting saplings for minimum wage is not sound, sustainable or ethical forestry practice. - - The presenter wants to identify areas that if forested, will have maximum negative impact on aboriginal people. Industry wants this information in order to build the cheapest roads to get to these very same places. Why does industry not go elsewhere? Because the reason aboriginal people inhabit these areas in the first place is because of its richness and density in natural resources. The ironic fact, aboriginal people have been there for untold thousands of years…but you would never know it, so expertly and deftly has their use of indigenous knowledge and practice been in place. - - So this person is under immense pressure because forestry provides millions to universities in endowments and grants solely for the purpose of accessing more efficient means of industrial scale forestry methods (i.e., to make more money, faster).

Next, our brightest minds must deal with the fact that at that non-indigenous academia is often reluctant to endorse the information we've cited - your sources for information and knowledge need to be cited, this is not the problem, in fact it's good. Though universities and other bodies claim to respect indigenous and “traditional” knowledge, when it comes time to assess or adjudicate material wherein a traditional source (i.e., information or knowledge not found in a liberry or a book) has been cited, the scholar (student, researcher etc) often has an uphill climb in having the work approved, endorsed, sanctioned, certified or accepted. Now some readers at this point will think: well, screw them we don’t’ need…blah, blah, blah…But the people engaged in this struggle are every ounce as committed as anyone else. They take on these challenges with a warrior’s spirit. They actively seek and find those places within and without that need to be found. When necessary, they engage with the oppressor, confront the barrier…and proceed. Research and learn about what Indigenous people have done for themselves in places like Hawaii and New Zealand. Look at the models they have developed for teaching their people their way. It’s very interesting and very powerful.

What’s really powerful is that they can now (indigenous scholars) more frequently and specifically articulate with data this “inter-related or inter-connectedness” that indigenous people have been speaking of since contact. In the past, there were simply linguistic barriers to mutual learning. I am not referring to the concept being new as of contact I am speaking of the effectiveness (or lack of) and difficulty in mutual understanding, based on language.

Vine Deloria Jr., Jeneatte Armstrong, Leroy LittleBear, Hunani Kay- Trask, Jack Forbes are just some of our people who have not compromised their spiritual or cultural selves to reach previously uninhabited places in the academy. And people like Armstrong and LittleBear, each of whom is a fluent speaker of their own nation’s language first, are also more articulate than most people whose first language is English (i.e., white people). What this does is that it gives no place for non-indigenous academia to run. They can no longer blame OUR deficiencies or OUR inabilities…they can only exhibit their unwillingness to see…and they do. Their (silence) is deafening but antiquated ideas and methods are on their way out…all sensible people know this. But just because they bury their heads in the sand doesn’t mean we’re going to…*(sigh)…(I'm so happy).

I mentioned at the top that this conference came along just when I needed it. This was in reference to frequent company i had been keeping that consistently slandered people who chose to pursue goals at universities, colleges and various institutes. If people could have seen the power inherent in stories of the struggle to achieve in the hostile and often lonely halls of academia, one couldn’t help but be inspired. For me I wanted to high five these women (as usual, it is mostly women, doing the hard work…but that’s a topic for another post) because of what they were giving me. Just hearing of their trials and tribulations AND, it must be said, their PROGRESS proved that nothing we do is in vain. I had been letting all these bad vibes sink in about what value he, she, they or it was having and I was slowly starting to give my power away to influential people (Indian lefties, yet…and I am one) and their cult of “the system.” Then creator sends me to this conference and I am restored and my faith and conviction gets stronger. Now more than ever, I see attitude is everything.

For those of a particular or hardcore stance, those who wield culture like a weapon, who have no room for other points of view who, have deemed and judged others (see previous blog on “judgment”) inferior or deficient…thank you for caring enough to share your opinion. We understand you don’t believe approaches such as education or other areas of endeavor (art?) are necessary. But I am so glad to disagree (what’s difference between you and them? They ALSO have god on their side, remember?).

It is necessary and difficult. But it is necessary in the same way we need people (wherever they are) to learn and practice traditional language and ways of knowing. In my own experience I have been to lots and lots of places to learn and find teachings that I now carry but these things were gathered with a respectfully critical process that takes nothing at face value (nothing). It is not helpful (or realistic) to think that only in the country does one have access to their cultural and spiritual influence and power. If that’s true, then most of us are wasting on our time aren’t we? Fundamentalists – beat it! I love my fellow sojourners and spiritual groove locaters and self/spirit makers who have no choice but to seek and find solace, comfort and power in these places in the heart and in the hood. Wouldn’t everybody love to have an island, cottage or home (a home, home on the rez) to retreat to a place to go to replenish? But we make do and some of us do the best we can for ourselves and each other. I see the willingness to engage at every level in every field and in every way that is meaningful and it’s powerful also. It is in keeping with traditional values I’ll have the reader know.

In fact, I would contend that most of these presenters I wrote about are solidly immersed in a traditional, spiritual and/or cultural identity and practice. You’d have to be to make it in the hostile environment of “higher learning” (or amid the urban wilderness) while hanging on your soul.

These scholars are working tirelessly to better themselves and their lives, and their communities. In the process they are creating space in these institutions and the larger society for their people to follow and contributing to a body of knowledge useful for a type of student after them. Eventually we will cite our own people in our work and in our scholarship and it will not be questioned. The idea is that down the road we have our own institutions, with our own curriculum, based on our own knowledge, values and philosophies and practices based on our own ideas of what is appropriate and most useful to our people.

We have a long way to go but what alternative is there? The only way to get through…is to get through.

Two Indians stood at the bottom of a mountain, each needing to be at the top by sundown. The one Indian started off and looked behind him to see the other sit down and bow his head. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’ll never make it in time…I am praying hard the Creator gives me wings.”
“Good idea,” said the other, “but I think I’m going to head out and pray along the way.”

© 2010 Champsteen Publishing