Twist of TIFF

A few weeks ago, R.J. and I were sitting around at home. He checked the "tink tink" of his cell phone, then blurted out, "J wants to know if we want to go to TIFF."

My response?

"Hell yes! That's where all the celebrities go!!"

Literally.

Star gazing aside, R.J. and I are serious movie junkies. In our heydey, we'd be at the theatre at least once a week. We knew--as much as we might have hemmed and hawed over logistics--that we'd be there in a flash. And thanks to R.J.'s friend J lining up at 6 a.m. for feature film tickets, we were on our way to the Toronto International Film Festival.

The work week flew by, and before I knew it the sunny Saturday morning rolled around. I whipped up some Skinny Chicks berry delish oatmeal, and R.J. and I hit the open road.

We arrived with just enough time for me to shower and curl my hair, then it was off to the TTC.


It was hard to find anything in my giant purse, especially with a pair of gold sparkly peeptoe platforms stuffed inside.

Our first movie was Hick. It starred Blake Lively and the young actress from Kickass. A festival organizer introduced the film's director, who told the audience to stick around for an audience Q&A with the cast after the film. The cast? A surge of excitement cut through the air.


It's been a while since I've cringed, cried, sat on the edge of my seat, laughed and covered my eyes all in the span of an hour and a half. Hick, a very colourful film in acting and cinematography, took me on that kind of emotional roller coaster.

And, sure enough, once the credits were rolling, the director, writer and two cast members graced the stage. The audience was invited to raise their hands and ask questions, as they would in a classroom setting.


After Hick there was a short break. Apparently I was thinking more about fashion than practicality, because it was getting dark and I was getting cold. I stole a few moments to grab a jacket at Urban Outfitters and made it back just as the line for The Oranges was beginning to move inside.


Entering the theatre, we walked passed the roped off area where the stars were being interviewed.

"I saw B!" R.J. exclaims. (Yes, I watch Gossip Girl and yes, R.J. knows who B and S are.)

At the request of dedicated volunteers, we hurried through the hall to the theatre. By some stroke of fate, we got seats in the first row. Now, normally, who'd want to sit in the front row of a theatre and crane their necks to see the screen? Only at TIFF...

The Oranges was AMAZING. I don't know if I was on a starstruck high, but I feel like it is the funniest movie I've seen in a long time. The comedic timing was perfect, and there was a real synergy between the ensemble cast. Two suburban families are thrown for a twist, but after a disturbing series of events the characters still manage to come off as people you'd want to befriend.

Needless to say, having front row seats to the Q&A session was awesome.


The first two seasons of Gossip Girl are my guilty pleasure around Christmas time, so I've got to admit that Leighton Meester being feet away was cool.


We capped off the night with dinner at Milestones and a midnight madness showing of the gory, blood-fest, You're Next (not my fave).

Still, R.J., J and I were all happy campers.


See you next year, TIFF!

Labour Day: Reflections on My Education

Working at a university and living across the street from a high school, I am acutely aware of the back-to-school excitement ringing through the air this September. Forever a student/learner at heart, I'll satisfy my yearning to truly return to school by reflecting on my academic career thus far.

I've graduated a total of seven times: kindergarten, elementary, junior high, high school, college, university (b.a.) and university (m.a.). My brother constantly jokes about how many graduations I've had - that he's, of course, had to attend.


I was in the "smart," a.k.a. maths/sciences, stream in high school until I started flunking out of the advanced classes in grade 10. This led to two reasonable pre-university programs at my local college: liberal arts vs. social science.

I was drawn to liberal arts by their seemingly close knit community and (I'm not going to lie) sense of elitism that came from studying "great books."

I even got a taste of Native history in college through the mandatory "ethics" offering--but I'm ashamed to admit my grade in that class probably fell somewhere around the middle.

By the time it came to apply to university, I was aching for something different. I wanted to study what was happening and what affected me now, not Plato, the Industrial Age and Chaucer. So I enrolled into a bachelor's of communications. I was so excited for my very first university class, Popular Culture, and was only slightly jaded to find that the course was more about reading Bordieux than watching the Simpsons.


Sometime over the course of that three year degree, I became more concerned with my eventual career and began taking what I deemed to be more serious courses than the ones that actually interested me. So, by the end of my time at that university, I had a b.a. honours in communications, I think with some emphasis or other on organizations.

But, I'd been taking as many Native-type courses as I could throughout my b.a. and decided that I wasn't finished yet. I wanted to look further, through an academic lens, into the ways of my people and our history. So I applied and was thankfully accepted into an m.a. in Canadian studies. I went into Canadian studies only because it housed the Native studies stream, and instead I received the added bonus of exposure to "critical thinking."


My m.a. program successfully (I hope) educated me on all the "isms": racism, sexism, classism, ablism, etc. I was happy to learn about these things because they made so much sense. Suddenly I had concepts and theories to go along with phenomena I'd seen my whole life. But another part of me was angry--angry that I had to reach the graduate level before even a mild exposure to these critical areas.

After that, I must admit, I scorned the disciplines I'd learned in my college and undergrad. Wished I'd gone into sociology or women's studies or some other area that was more critical.

Until recently.

After beginning this blog, joining twitter, publicizing the events we put on at work--I realize I genuinely like communicating messages. I've come back to valuing my diverse education, and even crediting my undergraduate experiences with allowing me to have a truly interdisciplinary way of structuring my graduate work.

So, I guess you can say, I've come full circle. Where to next?

I Want: PhD & Creativity

About once a month, I find myself obsessing over PhD programs. I furiously jump from university website to website, looking for the most interesting interdisciplinary programs and progressive English departments. Some people stalk their exes on Facebook or celebrities on Twitter - I stalk my academic idols' profiles on university websites. Young and brilliant scholars like Lisa Brooks, Daniel Heath Justice, Christopher Teuton, and Taiaiake Alfred make my heart go ba-boom, ba-boom. (Okay, that might be pushing it a little).

As a Native academic/writer/education advocate myself, I am looking for a PhD program that allows me to marry creative writing and pursuits with Indigenous academic thought and theory. Some programs I've come across combine a PhD in English with an M.F.A. This could be the one, I thought. BUT - in my university career I've never taken a creative writing course. So I might as well see if I like to study the art of writing, right?

So, I enrolled in a summer fiction writing workshop at the university where I work.

The course wrapped up 2 weeks ago, and I didn't get a magical answer to the question of whether I want to study creative writing. It did get my creative juices flowing. I got some nice compliments from the instructor on my work. It reminded me of the things I love about creating a fictional world. It provided some touching moments, like when two students expressed their appreciation for my writing. It challenged me, as one student read his Tom King-esque trickster turned philosophy piece.

While I was looking to this workshop for some kind of revelation, I think I always knew at heart that I love to write and it's something I want to pursue. What the workshop really provided me is a renewed love of writing fiction, some tools to keep with it and the confidence to share my work with others (look out for some pieces on the blog in the future!). For this, I am grateful.

And, in the end, I am still a wannabe writer and academic.

What means "political"?

I can't tell you exactly when it started to piss me off.

I considered myself someone who was proud to be political. Many of our respected leaders in Native communities are political people, Chiefs, though they didn't necessarily always think of themselves that way - and maybe some still don't. But lately, I've been wondering: what exactly does it mean to "be political"? And why, more and more increasingly, am I becoming annoyed when people use that term in relation to Native-ness?

A well-respected Elder from my community, Grandfather William Commanda (as well as other Elders), has said: "All First Nations people are born into politics." And I understand what he means. Our history of colonization, being born as a status or non-status Indian, being born a land beneficiary or treaty signatory, etc. are all examples of how an Anishinabe baby "is political."

But lately, I find myself wanting to respond: "Take your 'political' and shove it!"(And, for anyone who knows me IRL, I really am not that vulgar!)

A few examples...

Number one. I am taking a fiction writing workshop this summer at the university where I studied and work. It's great, tonnes of fun. I cannot make this statement with full certainty, but based on voluntary self-identification, I seem to be the only non-white person in my class. A lot of my writing could be classified as "Native literature."

We all take turns bringing stories or chapters of novels in for the class to critique. The story I brought was about a brother and sister who move to the city from the rez, play bingo, and deal with issues like poverty, racism and homelessness.

"A lot of well-known Native writers, like Sherman Alexie and Tomson Highway, have political undertones in their work," begins the writing workshop instructor in his introduction to my piece. "Mallory, what is your story about?"

Politics, apparently. "Ummm... I guess it's about siblings... A brother and sister who want to make something of themselves, and move off the rez and encounter, uh, barriers." I totally stumble all over my words.

The message to the class: Indian stories are political.

Number two. I'm watching my boyfriend R.J.'s baseball game Monday night. There's a bigger fan section than on most evenings, and it includes a player's father. It's a nice night, we're both in a good mood, and we begin making chitchat.

"Where are you from?" I ask.

"Out east, Newfoundland," he responds. "This is my first time visiting my son in Ottawa."

"That must be nice," I say flatly, unsure of where to go from here.

"Are you from Ottawa? Where do you work?"

"I'm from the Ottawa area. I grew up about an hour and a half outside of the city. I work at the university."

"Oh." He sounds impressed. "And what do you do there?"

"I work in the Aboriginal Centre."

A freighter truck passes on the road next to the baseball diamond and muffles his words. But I hear most of them: "...most universities have that... political thing, I guess."

His understanding of essential programs and services for Native students: political.

I'm beginning to get the sense that being called "political" isn't such a great thing after all.

If "Native problems"--poverty, transitions, land claims, missing and murdered women, languages--are deemed political rather than, say, human rights issues, then your average Canadian doesn't need to worry, right? Not really, because it's a political issue to be dealt with by the politicians. It's not a human right that humans need to be concerned about and that should be immediately resolved.

I was at the Indigenous Feminisms Rock! talk show/concert a few weeks ago hosted by Jessica Yee and something she said really struck me: "I don't debate human rights, I just defend them." Isn't that what we should all be doing? As soon as an issue that relates to Indigenous peoples comes up, the "political" label is slapped onto it and it becomes a topic for debate. It's not a human rights issue, where there exists an absolute right or wrong, but a political issue where there is a lot of grey area.

Nowadays, whenever anyone says anything to me along the lines of "you are political," I cringe. Soon, after I work through this, I'll respond.

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.

A Response to Prof. Doomsday & Where are the Sheep?

Don't you just hate it when you put your heart and soul into writing something, only to have your computer crash before it saves or to have Blogger tell you it cannot complete your request and when you hit the 'Back' button it's gone?

Yeah, me too.

I was just reading the blog post 'The Mythological Indian' over on Where are the Sheep?, and it was totally provoking my thoughts. I started typing my comment, and I entered into one of those writing modes where the words just flow out of you and appear perfect on the page (you know, those ones that are impossible to recreate?).

Rather than slamming my head on the desk and declaring myself done for the day, I decided to pull up my socks and write my own blog post in response to Robert's.

One particular paragraph in 'The Mythological Indian' ignited a small fire within me:

It is true that the stripping away of language and culture has had a devastating effect on Aboriginal peoples that will continue to have repercussions for generations to come. It has had a negative effect on my family; I do not speak the language or practice much of the cultural traditions. I do not consider myself to be less than another Aboriginal person however. I know who I am, where I come from and I am still learning what I am capable of and where I might be able to take it, were I permitted the space and trust to do so.

I'll never forget the words of an Irish anthropology professor I had in my undergrad who was teaching a course on 'Aboriginal History in Canada' (or some variant of it). The day's lesson was on language, with an apocalyptic focus on Indigenous languages and their demise.

"It's a well-known fact and proven in history," he began (and you know professors always tell the truth), "that when a language dies, the culture and the people follow."

Never in my life had a single statement instilled so much fear in me!

Of course, me being maybe 21 at the time and him being a professor, I took his words as absolute fact (and, to top it off, he prefaced his statement by citing it as fact).

But these days, I'm beginning to wonder...

I understand the importance of our language. I am faced with it oftentimes when I ask my grandmother the meaning of a word in Algonquin and she pauses, squints her eyes closed for a strained moment, then answers me in a paragraph in English. There are so many cultural nuances contained in our languages that only the Elders understand. My grandmother speaks the old Algonquin, always the second term in the English-Algonquin dictionary, not the new one which I suspect is influenced by Ojibway.

I am fortunate enough to have opportunities to learn my language, if only I make the time to take advantage of them. But what if I don't? And what if my children don't? And my children's children? And then my community? Does that mean we will cease to exist as Algonquin, as Anishinabe?

I hope NOT!

If we acknowledge that our people and our cultures are not static and capable of "death"; if we understand that our people and our cultures will grow, transform and flourish; if we use the English (or French or other) language in our own ways; if we take so-called "western" concepts and traditions, and meld them with our own to form something new...

...if we do all of that, then we will always be here.

We laughed

I knew all along I was going to vote.

Since turning 18 I've voted in two federal elections, making this my third.

I understand that there are two camps of First Nations thinking when it comes to voting in Canadian federal elections: pro-vote vs. anti-vote.

But after reading Martha Troian's post at Media Indigena, which contains an interview with Taiaiake Alfred, a highly respected Mohawk scholar (at least in my purview), on why Indigenous nations shouldn't vote, and after seeing well made videos espousing why we should vote, I am left with more questions than answers.

Is it possible to change a colonial institution from the inside?

Does it mean that "I am Canadian" if I vote in a federal election?

Would not voting improve anything for our people?

If I don't vote, what should I do instead to be heard by the country that, for better or worse, currently makes decisions that affect me as an Anishinabekwe?

On a theoretical plane, I totally understand the many reasons not to vote. If we want to be in a nation-to-nation relationship with Canada, we should not vote for their leader. Their leader should neither represent us nor make any of our decisions. But regardless of the fact that I've never really considered the Prime Minister to represent me, that he makes fiscal and ideological decisions that affect me is an inescapable fact.

What's more, a part of me wants to ignore the vote simply out of spite. Did you know that First Nations (or "Status Indians") were the last racialized group to "receive the right" to vote (that's my sarcastic tone, FYI) in Canada? We "got" the vote in 1960.

In 2010 I was working at a national Aboriginal organization. I was sitting at my desk one day, when my director--cheerful, intelligent, feisty, and non-Native--popped her head into my office and requested a mini-meeting. The six of us "subordinates" dragged our chairs into her large office, not knowing what to expect, but accustomed to these mini-meetings.

"So this year, our organization is being invited to speak in parliament to celebrate 50 years since the First Nations right to vote," she says, slightly upbeat, but not overly excited. "Does anyone have ideas for speaking points?"

We asked about some of the details of the event, brainstormed a few points, then one of my co-workers, blunt and hilarious, spoke up.

"Can I make a request?" she asked, and everyone knew there was no denying her. "Can we not celebrate the fact that the colonial institution which denied us the vote finally 'granted' it in the '60s?" (Okay, so maybe those weren't her exact words--hers were actually much more poignant.)

And the room roared with laughter. It's so true!

Many Canadians don't know that First Nations couldn't vote until 1960 without giving up their identity as Native peoples. Instead, they read headlines like 'Elections Canada marks 50 years of voting rights for all First Nations members', and think this is a reason for First Nations and Canadians to jump for joy.

I hate to break it to you, Canada: it's not.

- - -

I am writing the second half of this post on May 3rd, 2011. I have an emotional, electoral hangover.

Quebec amazed the country by completely reversing power within left wing. Both of my ridings (and yes, I have two) saw huge gains for the NDP. Back home in my community, Kitigan Zibi, a relative unknown karate teacher ousted the former Foreign Affairs Minister; and in my current residence across from the Odawa River, the NDP broke through the 100+ year Liberal stronghold. But, of course, it's difficult to celebrate these victories when many First Nations' worst nightmare has come to light.

So, what can I do to keep myself from falling into a deep, dark place, worried about the treatment of my people by the feds over the next four years? Well, my first instinct is to hole up on my couch with a pint of ice cream (forget Skinny Chicks!) and pop in a '30 Rock' DVD. Then the next one. And the one after that...

But then I remember our very Native response to the idea of "celebrating" our right to vote.

We laughed.