"As Algonquin people, it's our time"

There is a traffic slow down today in my community, Kitigan Zibi Anishinabeg, to raise awareness about First Nations education, particularly our right to post-secondary student support.

Did anyone know that? My guess is no.

My community is doing such amazing things these days, including being behind the First Nations Education Week & Rally in September, but I didn't see or hear much about the slow down in national or local news outlets. The closest I came to seeing exposure for K.Z.'s slow down was in an article about the slow down on the highway 17 near Garden River First Nation (the other kitchi sibi, funnily enough)/Sault Ste. Marie. I was happy to see that there was an article in the Toronto Sun, but slightly depressed to read the last line: "The Kitigan Zibi Anishinabeg First Nation in Quebec is also planning a slowdown Tuesday on the same issues."

My Dad is attending this slow down. When I went to my parents' house (in the city) for Sunday dinner and he mentioned it, I asked, "Did they issue a media advisory for it? What's the point in doing something to raise awareness if you don't get the word out?" (Obviously, I made an assumption between the first and second questions.)

"I don't know," my Dad replied, each word its own sentence. "Last year they contracted a white guy to do that stuff."

I do my best to stay out of rez politics. Of course, like anyone else, I enjoy hearing the latest goss, particularly around election time. But I don't find the need to scrutinize every decision that comes out of the band office.

As I returned home to my apartment after dinner, I found myself drifting off into a fantasy about doing freelance communications work for my band. It wouldn't be that difficult to put together a contact list of local media persons who have interest in these things and throw together a media advisory for distribution. Hell, my friend Howard is doing archival research for his band for free.

I have to do more. Something is compelling me to. I may not be good at a lot of things, but with a B.A. in communications, certainly I can help in this little way? I want the world to know about my cousin Bee's thoughts and what it means for it to be our time as Algonquin people. I want them to know that in our community it is a big deal that we unveiled this awesome billboard shaming the government. I want them to know what it means when we say we have a right to education.


I WANT TO SHOUT IT OFF ROOFTOPS! And, unfortunately, my blog just isn't quite loud enough.

The Plastics

I've never been an Elder's Helper.

Two Elders, Sally Webster and Thomas Louttit, made opening statements and prayers at the opening of a new annual lectureship, featuring the amazing Inuk leader Mary Simon, at the university where I work. I happily accepted the (last minute) request to be an Elder's Helper for Sally at this event.

I'd brought a bottle of water for each of the Elders - just in case. Sally arrived with a young Inuk communications officer named Melissa, and both of them were parched. I admit, I felt pleased with myself that I'd made this call - so far, I was receiving a passing grade as an Elder's Helper.

Not too long afterward, Thomas Louttit arrived with his Elder's Helper (a university student). After a couple of minutes had passed and Thomas seemed to garner that I was at the event in some sort of official capacity, he asked if we had any water. I immediately became flustered - I'd just given the only two bottles away! Luckily (or so I thought), my office was only a floor below and I ran down to grab a bottle of water from the case I had leftover from our pow wow a couple of weeks earlier.

I approached Thomas with the bottle. He took it, looked at it, and asked, "What do you think of these?" Before I could respond - and maybe this was where my luck played a part, because I had no idea how to reply - the event organizer approached with glass of water. "Ah, I'll take this," he said with a smile, putting the unopened water bottle down on table behind him. He was quickly engaged in another conversation, so I returned to Sally. (Elder's Helper fail.)

"Are you the official organization photographer?" I ask Melissa, the communications officer who arrived with Sally, in my usual semi-awkward way.

"Photographer-in-training," she answers with 'smeyes' (yes, I just quoted Tyra Banks). "This was my first assignment," she says and shows me a photo of a plastic spoon on the tiny digital camera screen.


She then proceeded to tell me this beautiful story, which I will do my best to re-tell:

An Inuk storyteller tells about his first encounter with southerners. When he was a young boy, he and his friend spotted some white men who had set up a camp. They were too shy to approach them, so day after day they watched them from afar. When the men had finally packed up and left, the two boys went to their camp to see what they could find. There were empty tin cans and other stuff laying around. The boy picked up a plastic spoon and brought it home. When his mother saw it, she made him clean it and take care of it well. Finally, one day it broke and his mother got so mad! Now, whenever he travels he always packs a plastic spoon in his suitcase.

The three of us laughed at the story and proceeded to wonder what it could mean. Melissa thought the spoon would remind him of his mother. I thought it was interesting how he took such good care of his spoon, yet today in the 'south' plastic utensils are made for one time use.

After the lecture I headed over to the opening of "Haida: Life. Spirit. Art." at the Museum of Civilization.


The exhibit was great - no plastic, but wood, bent box, mountain goat horn, stone and other natural materials. Many of them date back to the 17th century. What made this evening truly amazing was the chance to hear from and be in the presence of Haida power couple Robert Davidson (living legend artist and carver) and Terri-Lynn Williams-Davidson (lawyer on the Haida title case). I hit up the gift shop afterward and in my own attempt to be less wasteful, I bought this awesome hummingbird mug:


Thomas Louttit's question, the story Sally shared, and the Haida experience together worked to remind me, as much as I love pop culture, not to turn into... (and this pains me a little to say because I love Tina Fey so)... The Plastics!

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!

These are my... jeggings

I bought a pair of Mavi jeggings yesterday at the Rideau Centre:


And, whether I'd like to admit it or not, they're all I can seem to focus on today. I've suddenly become consumed (no pun intended) by my want for things to go with my jeggings... Manitobah Mukluks, over-the-knee riding boots, long sweaters, long necklaces and long scarves all top my list.

I've had my ups and downs with fashion. It all started after graduating high school when I discovered...


Holt Renfrew. The bags weren't hot pink back then, but the store was just as nice.

My first purchase at Holt Renfrew was a black and white pop-art Burberry purse with a hot pink lining and patent leather strap. It was one of those itty bitty purses, which were 'in' back then. I felt so good as the cashier (who probably had some fancy title like 'Sales Associate') placed it gently into a shoe bag, wrapped it in tissue and, finally, handed me the bag... until I got home and realized I'd spent $400 on a purse. Immediately, an unbearable buyer's remorse began to set in.

I wore it for about two weeks, but every time I felt the weight of it wearing me down. Desperate, I brought it to Hillary's dry cleaners and asked if they could clean the ever-so-slight graying on the white material. "No can do," the woman at the counter responded. "We can't dry clean it because the strap would ruin." The patent leather strap that delighted me days before was suddenly the bane of my existence.

My mom, who would go to any length at even the slightest sign of her children's distress, scrubbed the thing with dish soap and I headed back to the department store with the purse in its shoe bag and my breath in my throat.

The cashier glanced at it quickly, processed the return with a stoic - borderline bored - look and dismissed me within minutes.

Walking out of the store I felt a mix of relief and shame. I wondered, what did the cashier think of me?

Her outfit didn't match this purse. She's not good enough for Burberry.

She probably had to choose between Burberry and food. Food obviously won out.

Poor.

I've fluctuated back and forth between focusing on and neglecting my style. As I entered grad school, I didn't care so much about what I wore, if only for the fact that I didn't have time to care. I still bought some new boots and sweaters for fall, but also wore *all* of my Christmas present clothing (my undergrad self would have gasped!). I cared a lot in my undergrad, since something about the University of Ottawa's downtown campus seemed to turn hallways into runways. I had subsequent - more pleasurable - Holt Renfew experiences with Juicy Couture and Marc by Marc Jacobs, Gucci, Prada and even a return to Burberry.

Funny, how one pair of jeggings can bring me right back there.

One-Minute Book Review: All That We Say Is Ours

All That We Say Is Ours: Guujaaw and the Reawakening of the Haida Nation (Ian Gill)

This book was constantly pulling me in two directions: one, where I enjoyed the format and the content, and another where I couldn't wait to be through with it.

For all intents and purposes, I totally judged this book by its cover. I *loved* its name. It is so simple and powerful, and reflects the title naming process that I (try to) emulate in my essay writing. What I understood to be the format - a mix of oral history, interviews, the author's reflections, legal history, media of the time, and so on - intrigued me as well.

I didn't so much appreciate the writing style. When the (non-Native) author took the text in his own direction, it was so clearly not the voice of the people that I found myself reading in a British accent in my head. He used western idioms and quoted mostly non-Native scholars.

Of course, he has the right to - it's his book and I, as a reader, have chosen to give it a chance. And that is where I started to kick myself in the butt. While reading this book I also picked up Through Black Spruce by Joseph Boyden and This is an Honour Song edited by Leanne Simpson and Kiera Ladner. Particularly as I reached the last couple of chapters I kept thinking, Life is simply too short and there are too many talented Native writers for me to be spending my time on a book like this.

Now, this review could quickly turn into a post about my idea of non-Native people writing about Native peoples. So I will turn to one thing (of a few) I liked. The book ends with (spoiler alert - d'uh) a speech given by Guujaaw (the subject of the book) about the late Bill Reid. The last line of his speech epitomizes a feeling I get that is so hard to describe. It feels like I was born to be Anishinabe, and that that fact is somehow incredible to me.

Final thought: This book might be interesting for Canadians looking to learn a bit more about Haida culture and worldviews, environmentalism and First Nations' experiences in Canadian courts, but it's always better to hear a story told by the people who live(d) it.

Not the Real Thing

I am a huge fan of Adrienne K's blog, Native Appropriations. At times I have to stop myself from treating her website as a basket for all things offensive to us as Native peoples. For example, earlier this week I read about Lady Gaga saying, in regards to Arizona's SB1070, something along the lines of: "If it weren't for all you immigrants, this country wouldn't have shit." (Oooh, I can say shit on the Interweb! Not accustomed to that.) While I'm all for attempts at anti-racist sentiments, you can't throw other nations and cultures under the bus - c'mon now, Gaga.

Anyway, my first instinct was to e-mail this tip to Adrienne K. Then I realized: this has nothing to do with appropriation. It is just downright offensive to me and I want to send it to someone who will put Lady Gaga on blast for it.

Actually, this has nothing to do with the original thought I had to post, but I would like to give kudos to Native Appropriations - it's an awesome blog.

I have many memories of my move, at twelve years old, from my reservation to "the city" for the start of junior high, like being painstakingly behind in math and French class; passing a white girl in the halls and thinking she was the definition of beauty; and being chuckled at and corrected on my rez accent ("It's three, not tree!"). But one memory sticks out like a sore thumb and I've been thinking about it quite a bit since being hooked onto 'Native Appropriations.'

I was flipping through YM magazine with my friend Lisa (the same friend who, I suppose, I can thank for my proper pronunciation today) when we came across a 'trendy' pair of Native-style earrings. I can't remember whether they were feathers, beads or both, but they were very distinct. My immediate reaction was shock and outrage:

"They are stealing from our style!" I exclaimed.

"They're not stealing," Lisa said, matter-of-factly. "You should take it as a compliment that they like your style."

Always a people-pleaser and confrontation-avoider, I shrugged and flipped the page. But I still felt a fire lit under me. I knew something about this was not right.

A couple of weeks later I was back home, having a sleepover with two of my equally girly cousins. We too were flipping through a magazine admiring the latest fashions and laughing at the more "edgy" ones. And then we too stumbled across a page that featured Native-style earrings. The two of them reacted with some level of shock and disgust.

Suddenly, without much consideration, I found myself adopting Lisa's mantra and, as a result, a certain brand of "white knows best" philosophy.

"Relax," I reassured them, my nose a few millimeters closer to the sky than it had been a moment earlier. "We should be taking it as a compliment."

They didn't buy that reasoning. One of my cousins in particular shot it down, steadfast in her beliefs that it was "just copying" and "not the real thing."

Now I can look back on that time and dissect this cultural appropriation, a white response to it and my own embodiment of the dominant discourse. While not standing my ground - and worse, attempting some degree of lateral oppression - is not my finest moment, I will forgive my twelve-year-old self. After all, I never claimed to be a warrior or an activist or even outspoken at that age.

All I can do now is do my part to right (write) those wrongs.

Struggle to Publish

So, I have come to an interesting point in my journey as a scholar: the end.

Well, that might be a little dramatic. As I said in my previous post, "Life lived like a story", I love learning and, more specifically, being a student and would love to someday go back to grad school for a PhD.

I've finished my M.A. and, for the first time in my life, I am not a student. Gasp! Needless to say as a lifelong nerd, I feel a slight void (but luckily that feeling has been tempered by the new job at a university I began almost immediately upon graduation). But I still find myself stealing moments away from my day to browse PhD programs, google scholars and scan journals. I think it is clearly where my heart is.

In order to satiate the nerd within me, I have settled on applying for 2011's Graduate Horizons so that I can explore whether it's possible for me to go to school in the U.S. Well, anything is possible, I guess exploring whether it is do-able is more accurate. (Or is that the same thing?)

Between now and then I am going to concentrate on making myself more PhD-ready. I've already had the amazing opportunity to co-author a chapter for a book with a professor and a Harvard-educated PhD candidate, both of whom I admire.

Now I come to my current dilemma: my struggle to publish. I was very proud of my MA research essay. And, I was happy that my three graders seemed to feel the same way. I knew that I wanted to share my essay with others, having only shared it with my family at this point, and my graders encouraged doing so in their marking scheme...

But I can't start!


Up until now I've blamed my new job. It's been an adjustment and existing within a learning curve can be tiring. So, I'm not going to apologize for that. But every night this week I've wanted to start looking at my essay again, start sending it to friends who've been asking to read it, start e-mailing it to some of the professors who've helped me along the way to ask for advice.

I couldn't understand what was going on. It wasn't my normal procrastination, which usually only happens when I really don't want to do something. I want badly to get rolling, revise and submit my essay. (Whether to submit it to my "dream" journal, SAIL, or a lesser known journal - so much lesser that I don't even have one to name - is yet another untied end.) But I just couldn't.

Then I met with one of my graders who, until that moment, had been 'blind.' Our conversation inevitably turned to my essay and the possibility of publishing. After coming clean about my recent struggles, I was delighted to learn that I wasn't alone. As a newly 'crowned' (haha) PhD she had several publishers knocking on her door, but she's been sitting on her dissertation for two years.

Suddenly three months doesn't seem so bad. I just hope it doesn't turn into three years.