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.

...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

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

BEING NATIVE 101

Today’s East Side Smudge goes down and for the most impoverished postal code in Canada (statistically, speaking) it is clearly needed. Elsewhere on this blog I’ve written about institutional and systemic failure to address some basic issues of health and safety for the most vulnerable people. And though I may have implied it throughout my blog if not stated it outright - the healing of communities and nations begins here (taps chest)…

Basic universal fact about Indians: Indians pray.

If you are an Indian, 1st Nations, Indigenous, Native, Aboriginal (or WHATEVER) and are reading this and are not one in the regular habit of praying, my question is: what do YOU know that all your relatives and ancestors before you didn’t? I encounter a lot of Indians these days that seem to be too cool for school and get visibly skittish when it comes to acknowledging their "relationship" with Creator (insert lol here), that is, praying. How did it get like this? When did praying become something unseemly or embarrassing for us Indigenous types?

At ceremonies, events and gatherings I hear all the time, we pray for the ones to come and acknowledge those who came before us. Since becoming a father to 2 girls (now 11 and 14), I have come to experience a more profound sense of connection to people from the past (that I never met). I unabashedly pray for my kids (and their kids not born yet) and there is no doubt in my mind as I type this that people well before my time prayed for me. This is partly how it works being an Indian…it’s my part in what I call a sacred duty - All these things are real to me! - Perhaps a simpler way is to say it matters to me to pray and to try and put good energy out in the universe.

I may have never met you (if you are reading here for the first time) but if you are of aboriginal ancestry I am telling you, without question - you come from a long, long line of powerful, formidable, accomplished and deeply spiritual people who ALL prayed. My theory is that it is only due to a wide array of unique, historical circumstances that praying seems currently to have become a novelty among my generation and, for increasingly obvious reasons for the generation before ours, it is now a complicated if not painful subject. But our ancestral ties, our time on this earth, our unique vision of ourselves and our place in the universe are thousands of years in the making and cannot be undone or destroyed by force, plague or policy, it’s all been tried.

I have yet to visit any 1st Nations community where prayer wasn’t an active part in daily lives of those in pursuit of nothing more complicated or easily attainable than balance. This daily pursuit/practice or meditation if you like, has profound implications and potential for transformation and creative possibility. The solutions to our challenges require creative thinking to bring about change. Look to the people you admire, I am willing to bet that most if not all these are people engaged in frequent spiritual practice of one sort or another (cause I know you admire the admirable and not the shallow, superficial types, this is also part of my basic premise, lol).

We as a people have demonstrated consistently (though pessimists will say otherwise) a high capacity to deal with adversity, upheaval, trauma and grief. The evidence is…we are still here. But as I head down to Main and Hastings and the community smudge today I am more focused on the untapped reserves in our capacities for kindness, empathy, compassion, gratitude and our capacity for love. It is the VALUES which make us who we are from day to day. As you read this, YOU are an answered prayer - the fact that you live and breathe – this is not rhetorical. I am telling you: your people before you…prayed…for YOU…think about it.

So - your life-long question at the school of hard knocks or at Being an Indian 101:

Who are you and what do you stand for?

© 2011 Champsteen Publishing