The first time I realized that the answer to a question didn't have to be obvious was in grade two. My teacher, Freeda, asked: "What is your favourite season?"
Each student had the chance to answer and a chorus of "Summer!" rang through the classroom. One of the kids responded, "Winter" and was met with looks of horror or disgust.
"My favourite part of the year is the change in seasons," said Freeda. "I love it when the first snow falls and then thaws to reveal fresh plants and flowers. It's a beautiful cycle and we get to witness it again and again."
Intrigued by how the answer stood outside of the standard responses us seven-year-olds could think up, I tried to employ this new technique later in Algonquin language class. We were playing a handmade board game, basically an Anishinabe version of Scattergories.
The teacher read from a list of categories and we had to silently write down our responses on a piece of paper, hoping that no other student would have the same answer and leave us both pointless.
Of course, we all knew there were four colours in the medicine wheel: white, yellow, red and black. But I remembered my grandmother explaining to me why she always hung a purple ribbon on her medicine wheels: "Purple is a very sacred, spiritual colour," she explained.
When the time came to read our responses and count up the points for each unique answer, I proudly responded, "Purple!" to the medicine wheel question, convinced that I had bested them all.
"There's no purple in the medicine wheel," said my teacher. "Wrong." I began to protest, but she was already moving on to the next kid.
Much to my dismay, my constant companion and competitor in class was the only student to answer white and received one point.
Showing posts with label grandmother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandmother. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Do Indians have heirlooms?
I've always been jealous of my non-Native friends.
How cool, I'd think when I'd imagine my Jagnash (white) friends sneaking into their mom's jewellery chest and pulling out some rusty comb with a ruby on it or a tarnished silver spoon.
Where are my family artifacts? Why haven't I seen anything belonging to family members beyond my great-grandparents (four of whom were and are still living in my lifetime)? Oh, right: museums. Most recently, my community is engaging in a process with the the National Museum of the American Indian to repatriate some items. I guess this is where our artifacts (potential heirlooms?) are.
Or are they closer than I think?
I was visiting my Mama (grandmother on my mom's side) before Christmas. My mom, always proud of her beautiful Christmas tree, asked my Mama if she could use some of the ornaments they had when she was a child. My grandmother disappeared into the basement for a few minutes, then came back up with some boxes, one of which held these mittens and a pair of (what she called) mukluks:
Simple white leather mittens with white wolf fur trim. My late Papa, Allan, "commissioned" a woman from our community to make them for my Mama as a gift.
"I don't wear them anymore," my Mama remarked. "I hardly ever wore the mittens. But I wore the mukluks outside lots. For walks in the bush. Anyway. I don't wear them anymore, so you can have them."
Maybe it's as simple as that: we use things. Or, if we're not using them anymore, we give them to someone who will.
How cool, I'd think when I'd imagine my Jagnash (white) friends sneaking into their mom's jewellery chest and pulling out some rusty comb with a ruby on it or a tarnished silver spoon.
Where are my family artifacts? Why haven't I seen anything belonging to family members beyond my great-grandparents (four of whom were and are still living in my lifetime)? Oh, right: museums. Most recently, my community is engaging in a process with the the National Museum of the American Indian to repatriate some items. I guess this is where our artifacts (potential heirlooms?) are.
Or are they closer than I think?
I was visiting my Mama (grandmother on my mom's side) before Christmas. My mom, always proud of her beautiful Christmas tree, asked my Mama if she could use some of the ornaments they had when she was a child. My grandmother disappeared into the basement for a few minutes, then came back up with some boxes, one of which held these mittens and a pair of (what she called) mukluks:
Simple white leather mittens with white wolf fur trim. My late Papa, Allan, "commissioned" a woman from our community to make them for my Mama as a gift.
"I don't wear them anymore," my Mama remarked. "I hardly ever wore the mittens. But I wore the mukluks outside lots. For walks in the bush. Anyway. I don't wear them anymore, so you can have them."
Maybe it's as simple as that: we use things. Or, if we're not using them anymore, we give them to someone who will.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Two-Minute Book Review: Life Stages and Native Women
Life Stages and Native Women: Memory, Teachings, and Story Medicine (Kim Anderson)So, you're supposed to read the entire book before you write a review, right? Well, I have a confession: I've only read the foreword and introduction.
In my defense, I'm a firm believer that the introduction is the most important part of the book. (Ask R.J.--I was aghast to learn that he skipped the introductions to his books and, needless to say, he doesn't do that anymore.) Why? The textbook answer is that "it sets the tone." As an aspiring writer and scholar, I am interested in the story of the person writing the book: why they chose this topic, what their processes were, how they feel now that they've finished it. The introduction is where you listen to that story.
I got my book in the mail the day after attending Kim Anderson's book launch here in Ottawa at the Wabano Centre for Aboriginal Health. A shame that I couldn't get her to sign it, but they say everything happens for a reason. I was half an hour late for the launch (working at a university in September, it's impossible to leave by 5) and Kim was well into her reading. The room reminded me of gatherings at the community hall back home. Hectic. A baby was crying, couches and chairs all spoken for, a girl lying on the ground in the fetal position. (Okay, maybe that last one didn't remind me of home.) But, Kim's voice rose above the bustle, as she spoke from the heart about the tradition of finding a tree at whose trunk to lay an infant's umbilical cord; the role of old ladies in cleaning/preparing dead bodies and feeling "death without loss" (thanks Kat); and her love for Maria Campbell.
Kim describes her intimate relationship with Maria Campbell. She talks about how, dejected and discouraged at not being able to get an interview for the book, Maria took her by the wrist and pronounced, "We'll do it together!" (I can picture Maria, now an elder, just as energetic as she was in the youth/adulthood she describes in Halfbreed, determined to get everything from her family's stories to political clout to an escape from the streets.)
In reading texts like these, I look for opportunities to identify a relationship with the seven sacred Grandmother/Grandfather teachings: wisdom, love, humility, courage, honesty, respect, truth. Writing with an honest voice, Kim's introduction is both courageous and humble. In the margins of my copy of the book I've scribbled "honest" as Kim references her anxieties in the introduction's opening paragraph, and "humble" next to where she writes:
I have not lived long enough nor have I done all of the work that is necessary to carry this knowledge.
Perhaps that's why I've found it easy to refer to her as "Kim" in this (slightly longer than) one-minute review rather than "Dr. Anderson" or, *shudder,* the detached "Anderson."
But, the most important pencil scribblings I've made in the margins are these: ask Nanny this question; Mal & R.J. to do this; where does Grandpa fit in these categories?
Kim's book, although adapted from her dissertation, is not an academic text. Sure, a student can reference it in their papers and no professors will think twice about it because she "is" a PhD. It caused me, as I'm sure it will others, to situate myself and my partner and my grandparents and my family in the text. It isn't written in some distant academic jargon; Kim promises teachings about pregnancy and vision quests and how to deal when you're "stuck" in one life stage. Her book will for me act as a "guide" (for lack of a better word) to understand myself and reconstruct my spirituality and relationships with those around me.
This book is so much more than just a book for us as Native women, families, communities, nations.
It is us.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Wannabe Writer
Both on Twitter and this blog, I've marketed myself as a "wannabe writer." And it's true. Maybe someday I'll feel confident enough to drop the "wannabe" and say, simply, "I am a writer." I don't know exactly what I am a writer of, and without a content-designated niche, I'm having trouble taking that step.
I felt like more of a writer between the ages of 10 and 16 than I do now, to be honest.
As a kid, about 10 years old, I used to write plays and have my friends act them out (I'd often have the lead role, of course). While I loved showing off the finished product to my family, my favourite part was sitting alone in my room, thinking of a basic storyline, then allowing my imagination to do the rest of the work. I'd draw a picture in the background of my title page, bind the three holes in the left margin together with tiny bits of yarn, then get on the phone to start casting.
When I reached high school age, I had a new obsession: The Moffatts. Still, when I wasn't busy recording their every television appearance or lining up in the wee hours of the morning for concert tickets, I was writing. I had a "Moffic" website, my own little corner of the web where I published a novel (probably more of a novella) and short stories featuring the four (or one of the four) Moffatt brothers.
And in case you were wondering, yes, I was a nerd.
Nowadays I feel a lot less focused. And I'm not surprised. I believe that youth, in general, have a lot of strength and talent. In some ways my creativity has been slowly chipped away by the organizations I've sold my life to and the academic institutions that got me there.
I'm trying to get it back.
I blog: Apparently. Though I'm not as prolific as I'd like to be, this blog is much more successful than my last one (Musings of a Native Grad Student, which had, I think, one musing). And I enjoy blogging about whatever suits my fancy - a contentious issue that I feel affects me as Anishinabe/racialized/woman/"colonized"/etc. or about my weight loss journey (which hasn't been going all that well lately, by the way). I don't feel like a blogger - just a girl who blogs.
I write poems: This might be the medium I'm closest to these days. Though I would never deign to call myself a poet! It's just that sometimes things come to me in poems. After hearing a cute story about my boyfriend R.J.'s five-year old understanding of being an Indian, I wrote a poem about it. After my grandmother opened up to me for the first time about her experience in residential school, I wrote a poem about it. I have no idea if they're any good. But they're there.
I write fiction: I have this longing to return to fiction - and a dream to someday write a novel. My Dad is convinced it'll be my one-way ticket to fame and fortune. (Actually, he wants to be the creative force behind a novel or movie script that I'll write so *we* can make millions. Most of his stories are about dogs. I love my Dad.) To test whether I was still interested and able to write fiction, I've enrolled in a fiction writing workshop over the summer. I struggled through some pieces and breezed through others, but I'm still waiting for that "aha" moment. That moment when I decide that I can do this and want to pursue it full-steam ahead. I don't know if it will come.
I write "smartly": I have the most confidence in my academic writing, and I'm still trying to figure out if that has anything to do with those couple of letters behind my name. I got some really nice comments from my reviewers, so that may have contributed to this little confidence boost. I'd like to revise and submit my essay for publication in a journal - maybe then I'll be able to say I am a writer? ...If when I'm googled something related to writing that's been acknowledged by someone else pops up??
All of this to say... I'm still an Anishinabekwe wannabe writer.
I felt like more of a writer between the ages of 10 and 16 than I do now, to be honest.
As a kid, about 10 years old, I used to write plays and have my friends act them out (I'd often have the lead role, of course). While I loved showing off the finished product to my family, my favourite part was sitting alone in my room, thinking of a basic storyline, then allowing my imagination to do the rest of the work. I'd draw a picture in the background of my title page, bind the three holes in the left margin together with tiny bits of yarn, then get on the phone to start casting.
When I reached high school age, I had a new obsession: The Moffatts. Still, when I wasn't busy recording their every television appearance or lining up in the wee hours of the morning for concert tickets, I was writing. I had a "Moffic" website, my own little corner of the web where I published a novel (probably more of a novella) and short stories featuring the four (or one of the four) Moffatt brothers.
And in case you were wondering, yes, I was a nerd.
Nowadays I feel a lot less focused. And I'm not surprised. I believe that youth, in general, have a lot of strength and talent. In some ways my creativity has been slowly chipped away by the organizations I've sold my life to and the academic institutions that got me there.
I'm trying to get it back.
I blog: Apparently. Though I'm not as prolific as I'd like to be, this blog is much more successful than my last one (Musings of a Native Grad Student, which had, I think, one musing). And I enjoy blogging about whatever suits my fancy - a contentious issue that I feel affects me as Anishinabe/racialized/woman/"colonized"/etc. or about my weight loss journey (which hasn't been going all that well lately, by the way). I don't feel like a blogger - just a girl who blogs.
I write poems: This might be the medium I'm closest to these days. Though I would never deign to call myself a poet! It's just that sometimes things come to me in poems. After hearing a cute story about my boyfriend R.J.'s five-year old understanding of being an Indian, I wrote a poem about it. After my grandmother opened up to me for the first time about her experience in residential school, I wrote a poem about it. I have no idea if they're any good. But they're there.
I write fiction: I have this longing to return to fiction - and a dream to someday write a novel. My Dad is convinced it'll be my one-way ticket to fame and fortune. (Actually, he wants to be the creative force behind a novel or movie script that I'll write so *we* can make millions. Most of his stories are about dogs. I love my Dad.) To test whether I was still interested and able to write fiction, I've enrolled in a fiction writing workshop over the summer. I struggled through some pieces and breezed through others, but I'm still waiting for that "aha" moment. That moment when I decide that I can do this and want to pursue it full-steam ahead. I don't know if it will come.
I write "smartly": I have the most confidence in my academic writing, and I'm still trying to figure out if that has anything to do with those couple of letters behind my name. I got some really nice comments from my reviewers, so that may have contributed to this little confidence boost. I'd like to revise and submit my essay for publication in a journal - maybe then I'll be able to say I am a writer? ...If when I'm googled something related to writing that's been acknowledged by someone else pops up??
All of this to say... I'm still an Anishinabekwe wannabe writer.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
40 Days & 40 Nights
I don't consider myself religious per se, but I am spiritual. Add to that the facts that my parents are semi-practicing Catholics (my mom goes to church every Sunday and my dad on Easter... sometimes) and my grandmother is traditional, and you get me! A veritable mishmash of religious and spiritual practice.
One thing my family has always happily practiced is Mardi Gras, a.k.a. Fat Tuesday.
For those of you non-Catholics (or non-Christians?), this means stuffing your face, particularly with pancake feasts in my experience, and being completely indulgent before beginning Lent: giving something up for 40 days and 40 nights. And sure enough, 2011 proves no different. I stopped in at my parents on my way home from work last night and enjoyed three pancakes topped with blueberries, strawberries, bananas and fresh whipped cream. Yum!
My weakness (and subsequently, my waistline's) is sweets. I love ice cream, birthday cake, apple pie, Rice Krispie squares, you name it! So, I figure this so-called Lent is a good opportunity for me to give up sweets, in some way, shape or form, with a little extra motivation/guilt attached to it.
So this morning I decided to give up "cake- and pie-type" desserts. Only then I stopped by Starbucks after lunch and saw this:
Cute, delicious cake on a stick.
So is it a cake or a lollipop? I wonder, as I let two people go ahead of me in line as I contemplate my decision. It hasn't even been 24 hours! You're stronger than that.
"I'll have a Skinny London Fog," I order, with only a slight grumble in my voice.
I've made it too easy on myself. A slice of key lime pie could qualify as something more tarte-like and what the heck is tiramisu, anyway? And oh, the Cake Pops!
I needed a bigger challenge, so here it is...
For 40 days and 40 nights I will not touch a drop of chocolate.
No chocolate bars, no mocha lattes, no Fudgesicles, no chocolate chip cookies. (Unless the cocoa content is 70% or higher because then it's heart-healthy, right?)
Wish me luck. I will need it.
One thing my family has always happily practiced is Mardi Gras, a.k.a. Fat Tuesday.
For those of you non-Catholics (or non-Christians?), this means stuffing your face, particularly with pancake feasts in my experience, and being completely indulgent before beginning Lent: giving something up for 40 days and 40 nights. And sure enough, 2011 proves no different. I stopped in at my parents on my way home from work last night and enjoyed three pancakes topped with blueberries, strawberries, bananas and fresh whipped cream. Yum!
My weakness (and subsequently, my waistline's) is sweets. I love ice cream, birthday cake, apple pie, Rice Krispie squares, you name it! So, I figure this so-called Lent is a good opportunity for me to give up sweets, in some way, shape or form, with a little extra motivation/guilt attached to it.
So this morning I decided to give up "cake- and pie-type" desserts. Only then I stopped by Starbucks after lunch and saw this:
Cute, delicious cake on a stick.
So is it a cake or a lollipop? I wonder, as I let two people go ahead of me in line as I contemplate my decision. It hasn't even been 24 hours! You're stronger than that.
"I'll have a Skinny London Fog," I order, with only a slight grumble in my voice.
I've made it too easy on myself. A slice of key lime pie could qualify as something more tarte-like and what the heck is tiramisu, anyway? And oh, the Cake Pops!
I needed a bigger challenge, so here it is...
For 40 days and 40 nights I will not touch a drop of chocolate.
No chocolate bars, no mocha lattes, no Fudgesicles, no chocolate chip cookies. (Unless the cocoa content is 70% or higher because then it's heart-healthy, right?)
Wish me luck. I will need it.
Monday, September 27, 2010
My Treadmill & Me
About a month ago, my boyfriend R.J. convinced me that we should buy a treadmill. I was hesitant; I've heard too many stories of treadmills becoming clothes hangers (not to mention that there always seems to be a treadmill on any episode/clip of Hoarders).
Nearly three weeks had passed and neither of us had touched it. R.J.'s grandmother put us to serious shame, logging in a total of 15 minutes during her two week stay with us in August. The cold, plastic-y smell of its new material taunted me upon my return home from work each day. Although it stood in the furthest corner of our apartment, I knew it was there: a lonely, unused treadmill.
A couple of weeks later, my guilt was replaced by apathy. I can say that I kind of forgot it was there, but really, I just didn't care that I wasn't using it. Then - I decided to weigh myself.
Baaaaad decision. Weighing myself often makes me feel horrible, as I'm sure it does for many other women (and men - but let's face it, women "have" higher standards to live up to). I know when I'm gaining weight (my clothes feel tighter) and why (I'm neither exercising nor eating healthy). So why do I do it? Why do I step onto the fancy scale R.J. bought, which uses our heights and ages to determine our body fat percentage and all kinds of other stuff? Maybe my subconscious, who isn't quite as apathetic as my conscience, nudged me on.
I won't provide a number, because numbers don't say much. I am probably still within my BMI, but the fact is I feel like crap. And that has to change now! Yes, we can!
So, I am starting a running program. I broke my treadmill in last Thursday and have been on it twice since then. Granted, I am walking for six minutes and running for one (eventually working my way up to a half hour run), but still.
Wish me luck!
Nearly three weeks had passed and neither of us had touched it. R.J.'s grandmother put us to serious shame, logging in a total of 15 minutes during her two week stay with us in August. The cold, plastic-y smell of its new material taunted me upon my return home from work each day. Although it stood in the furthest corner of our apartment, I knew it was there: a lonely, unused treadmill.
A couple of weeks later, my guilt was replaced by apathy. I can say that I kind of forgot it was there, but really, I just didn't care that I wasn't using it. Then - I decided to weigh myself.
Baaaaad decision. Weighing myself often makes me feel horrible, as I'm sure it does for many other women (and men - but let's face it, women "have" higher standards to live up to). I know when I'm gaining weight (my clothes feel tighter) and why (I'm neither exercising nor eating healthy). So why do I do it? Why do I step onto the fancy scale R.J. bought, which uses our heights and ages to determine our body fat percentage and all kinds of other stuff? Maybe my subconscious, who isn't quite as apathetic as my conscience, nudged me on.
I won't provide a number, because numbers don't say much. I am probably still within my BMI, but the fact is I feel like crap. And that has to change now! Yes, we can!
So, I am starting a running program. I broke my treadmill in last Thursday and have been on it twice since then. Granted, I am walking for six minutes and running for one (eventually working my way up to a half hour run), but still.
Wish me luck!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
So soon?
I have just barely reached my third post and already it is time for a confession: I have had a blog before. More than one, actually. I am not bold enough to assume that I have any readership yet, so I will go ahead and point out what potential future readers may notice -I began my blog in April 2010, but I have been a member of Blogger since November 2007.
Yet, somehow my blogs always seemed to fall through the cracks. I began two blogs, most recently, during the past 2+ years spent in grad school. One was called "Musings of a Native Grad Student" and I had a good 4-5 posts. I can't even remember the name of the other blog, which never saw the light of day, but I remember it played with the overused "brown eyed girl" theme.
But nothing felt right until now. The title, theme, and ideas I have for posts are far different from my previous attempts to enter the blogosphere (is that term still relevant? Or is it the equivalent to web vs. 'net?). Hence, this unrelenting guilt I feel for going so long between posts. And double hence, this unplanned, spontaneous post about blogging.
One of the first things I did after handing in my master's research essay was to begin this blog. "I'll have all the time in the world!" I thought. But no. A self-proclaimed and shameless nerd, I canceled a Friday night date with a friend to go to the opening of a new bar to stay home and co-author part of a research paper. Tomorrow I am heading back to my reserve to visit my grandmother, and Sunday I have Mother's Day brunch and a date with a friend home from B.C. And in between all of this, completing this chapter!
Long (convoluted) story short, this post it my attempt to alleviate blogger guilt.
Migwetch for listening.
Yet, somehow my blogs always seemed to fall through the cracks. I began two blogs, most recently, during the past 2+ years spent in grad school. One was called "Musings of a Native Grad Student" and I had a good 4-5 posts. I can't even remember the name of the other blog, which never saw the light of day, but I remember it played with the overused "brown eyed girl" theme.
But nothing felt right until now. The title, theme, and ideas I have for posts are far different from my previous attempts to enter the blogosphere (is that term still relevant? Or is it the equivalent to web vs. 'net?). Hence, this unrelenting guilt I feel for going so long between posts. And double hence, this unplanned, spontaneous post about blogging.
One of the first things I did after handing in my master's research essay was to begin this blog. "I'll have all the time in the world!" I thought. But no. A self-proclaimed and shameless nerd, I canceled a Friday night date with a friend to go to the opening of a new bar to stay home and co-author part of a research paper. Tomorrow I am heading back to my reserve to visit my grandmother, and Sunday I have Mother's Day brunch and a date with a friend home from B.C. And in between all of this, completing this chapter!
Long (convoluted) story short, this post it my attempt to alleviate blogger guilt.
Migwetch for listening.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
These are my moccasins.
When I was sixteen years old, I asked my grandmother to make me a pair of moccasins. My grandmother is a talented craftswoman who owned a Native arts and crafts shop, and had made me moccasins as a child (and ribbon dresses, and shawls, and Halloween costumes, and beaded barrettes, and skirts for dances, and the list goes on). But this request was different. I felt grown up – after all, I was banking my first pay check as a summer day camp counsellor on the reserve – and I wanted a pair of moccasins for a specific purpose: I wanted boot-style moccasins, as opposed to slippers, that I could wear outside.
On Christmas Eve a year and a half later, I opened my present from my grandparents to find my moccasins (and a pair of PJs). They were lace up boots, made with durable hide rather than thoroughly softened leather, and had a fuzzy lining inside. Most stunningly, their faces were entirely beaded and their bodies were a beautiful bright red. They were perfect.
Fast forward five years. I was in my third year of university majoring in communications and I registered for a course in public speaking. The course consisted of a series of different types of speeches and the first assignment was to introduce ourselves in a speech about an object. I wondered, what makes me unique? How am I different from the lululemon-and-Ugg-wearing blondes around campus? (Although I must admit, I had and still have a pretty hefty collection of lululemon yoga gear.) The answer was, of course, my moccasins. More importantly, the culture, history, traditions, and heritage that my moccasins embody.
So, I wrote my speech. When my name was called, I walked to the front of the room in my moccasins, and began: “These are my moccasins.” And that’s when it started. I could feel my throat starting to constrict, my palms beginning to sweat, and my voice shaking with every word I managed to squeak out. I stared at the faces in the crowd. Every colour in the medicine wheel was represented; one black, two yellow, one red (me), and, all the rest, white. I realized I wasn’t getting ‘stage fright.’ I was nervous because in this speech I wasn’t simply introducing myself as the assignment called for; I was confronting these people with my identity, my ‘ethnicity,’ my indigeneity, my pride of being Anishinabekwe.
Now here I am. It has been almost ten years since I asked my grandmother to make my moccasins. They are still in excellent shape, unlike those sold in stores, and I wear them all the time. At work. On the city bus. Around the house. Walking through 'bo-bo' (hipster) neighbourhoods. What feels like a lifetime ago, I offered fellow university students the opportunity to get to know me and my moccasins. And today, I make that offering to you.
These are my moccasins.
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