A Popsicle Will Make it Better: In the Time of Horror

I started this post with the title of Indian Humour versus Lateral Violence. It was because of meme with Ethan Bear where Indians said it was lateral violence. The meme was about Ethan Bear the National Hockey League player who is Cree. The meme was teasing about being down in the play-offs hockey series and not worrying because he had been down in Native hockey tournaments. Some Native individuals were saying it was lateral violence. I thought it was a heck of stretch to call it lateral violence, when it was clearly teasing and not even cruel teasing. My take was about the complexities, the nuance of Indian Humour and the difference to lateral violence. But then something else happened. 

Two hundred and fifteen unmarked graves were discovered at Kamloops Indian Residential School. Two hundred and fifteen kids as young as three years old. Two hundred and fifteen children discarded like they were nothing; like trash. It is like when you live in the rural area and when your dog dies you just bury it somewhere out in the yard. There was no service.  No Father (Priest) saying Godly blessings, reading Scripture. No family members at the grave site. No Sacred Fire lit for the deceased. No chance for anyone to wail to sob by the graveside as the body is lowered into the Earth. No cries of "no, no, no, no by a Mom, a Dad, a Sister, a Brother, an Aunty, an Uncles and the Mishoom's, the Kookum's of these children. There wasn't even the chance for the hysterical jump on the casket. There was nothing, just dumped and hidden away, never to be heard of again. 

Predictably the Indians were angry, were saddened and were outraged, but they were not shocked or surprised. The gut wrenching horror of kids being killed, dying just for being Indian, like them, like us is awful, is sickening. Our people have been telling the stories of how evil the schools were for a long time. There are countless accounts of just plain cruel activity by those charged with care; with those following the Golden Rule. So there was no real surprise of finding dead kids at the Indian Residential School. So what now? There it is, right in their collective faces of genocide deniers, some dead bones for them to see.  

Well there is some traction in the National media which seems to cause the political animals to bring out the claws. Even long time political foes of the Indian are growling, snarling and showing teeth. The favoured theme is to investigate, maybe have a review. It is quite funny the call is for a review when there was a Commission which did this a few years ago: "Aboriginal children attending residential schools died at higher rate than school-aged children in the general population, and were often buried in unmarked graves, according the final report from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission." The general population, including political representatives of the various levels of government are shocked about the finding of 215 dead bodies, dead children. Why do you think this is the case? After all it has been told by Elders, by families and even reported in the government report - TRC Report. It is because Canada's people don't believe atrocities can occur here in Canada (and the US). The immediate reaction is always "not here." We think of some far away place; South American jungles, war torn Eastern European conflicts, African countries, Asian sectors but not here, never here. It is easy to dismiss the horror which happens to Indigenous peoples the world over. The 215 children is an anomaly, a freak incident. "Unthinkable" is the headline of a major news station.

With politicians calling for "funds" to be provided, there is going to be the public reaction: "oh those damn Indians getting money again." There of course will be more colourful language to describe the "Indian" as there always is. Let's forget about the fact the average Canadian shouldn't be here to begin with. The enormous wealth the Canadian government (and corporations) reap from the stolen land and broken agreements with the Indigenous people. Nevertheless there will be some funds made available for programs and organizations. Canadians will be upset, the government will have felt they have pacified the Indians again. The local economy will get a boast if money is provided to Indians via jobs; as you know, give an Indian a buck and they (poor people in general) will spend the cash. 

My first granddaughter had a superb angelic personality as a young child. She was very caring, overtly friendly, open and a bit emotional. If a commercial on television came on and it had a sad theme, she would express those emotions. It got to be normal for someone in the house to yell "change the channel!" So when she was sometimes sad or emotional her remedy would be to say "A popsicle will make it better." And of course we would give her a popsicle. What is going to happen is this: government will say a popsicle will make it better. You know what, a popsicle can soothe the sadness of a three-year-old, it is not enough when the babies are killed (by neglect, illness or by murder) by their supposedly care-givers. The families and the people should be heard on what is needed. The first thing people are seeking is accountability. How the government's proceed from here will be telling.  There are many recommendations which have shelved from countless inquiries, review, reports and commissions. Time for government to dust off the reports (RCAP, etc.) and really, really look at what should be done. In the meantime keep the popsicle remedies to cute little children. Time to treat the Indigenous people with serious, truthful respect. 

COVID Derek Chauvin and the Need to Breathe

Well there has been a verdict with the cop who killed Mr. George Floyd. Before I add my two cents on the whole guilty thing, let me tell you about my COVID. March 22 is when I got sick with the virus. It was through family contact and all of us in our home got sick. Luckily the younger ones didn't get real bad symptoms. We, however, my wife and daughter got real sick. Being sick was not fun at all. I am still feeling weak, have a cough but feeling way better. I really thought it was the way I was going to exist this world - weak, very beat up sore and not being able to breath. I recommend not getting sick if you can help it. 

Mr. George Floyd has become the symbol (not by choice) of racism-cops-killing in action. This man was killed in front of a couple of kids, some adults and the world. The cop who killed Mr. Floyd is in jail and convicted of murder (although there are varying degrees of murder in the legal system). I think there was a collective sigh of relief followed by a collective saying of "nah." Nah is an Ojibwe saying like "there." Like when you act up as a kid and finally your mom comes over and whacks your bum and she says "nah, see what happens?" The world went Nah, see what happens when you murder. The reaction of people to the guilty verdict, seems to be of joy but it is not that at all. It is like getting to breathe after being not able to for a long time. The cough will still be there, the lingering affects of not being fully healed. There is relief of being able to breathe so of course there will be feelings of happiness. Not pure joy but the kind of happiness that only relief brings. Many of us thought that despite the evidence this cop would be not found guilty. So when he was found guilty, the response was to be relieved and happy. 

Derek Chauvin is the cop who killed Mr. George Floyd by keeping his knee and his weight on the neck of Mr. Floyd for nine minutes and twenty nine seconds. The world saw Mr Floyd trying to breathe, the world felt the pressure of the knee on their own neck. Society, Black Society, the Indigenous society feel the need to breathe. There is no joy in the jailing of the racist murderer. This is just a chance to catch a breath before someone else starts choking the Black society, the Indigenous society, the LGBTQ society and the People of Colour society. So some folks will look happy and let them be happy. Let them get a chance to feel that the system is not choking them at this one moment. 

The verdict of guilty came 30 minutes after a young Black girl was shot four times by a cop. The circumstances still being examined. I really wonder about the killings by police. Why do they feel the need to kill? I mean look at the video of Mr. George Floyd being kneed on, why didn't the cop get up? I see him with his hands in his pockets all the while people are pleading with him to get off of Mr. Floyd. He looked with no emotion, no humanity, no care and no intent to relent. What was going on in his mind? The cop didn't take the stand so no one can ever know what he really was thinking. Why didn't he stand up? Why did he feel the need to discount the human being under his knee? There is no excuse for what this cop did. The thing is there are many instances where there is no excuse but yet they, the cops are in fact excused for what they do.  I think I know why this happens; they don't see the person they are killing as another human being. That is the basis of racism, they take the humanity out of the equation or in their view. 

Locally to our area, there is going to be an inquest in Winnipeg Manitoba for the shooting of Eishia Hudson, a 16 year old Indigenous girl by a cop. We know the outcome as it is always the same outcome. That is why the outcome for Mr George Floyd stands out, it is anomaly because cops rarely get held to account. It has become so ingrained in society that cops even make cruel jokes; "I can breathe, Blue Lives Matter" at the scene of a deadly shooting of a Black girl. So the guilty verdict of the cop Chauvin is very rare, as rare as seeing a cop stopping another cop from choking an individual. 

Cariol Horne speaks Oct. 17, 2020, during a women's march in Buffalo. (Derek Gee/AP) Cariol Horne a cop stopped other cop from choking an individual. 

"The Debt to Someone Who Saved Your Life Can Never Be Repaid in Full"

 I have saved a life maybe even two or three. Two were little kids who were drowning. Yes, I was a hero. Jumped into the river when a young boy was drowning. I jumped into a pool in Regina Travel Lodge when a little kid went to deep and couldn't swim. I went in clothes and all.  The other person I saved was a cop who was drunk and trying to arrest my friend. My friend would have killed him or would have been killed by the cop. I may have also almost taken a life or two in my time (but it doesn't count, as I think I was in the right).  And I know my life was saved as well. 

The suicide of my son in 2005 did a real number on me. I was a wreck, just like in the movies. He was my boy and he was one of the loves of my life. So it was devastating. I tried to keep working. I was an instructor in a small university in British Columbia. Every single day prior to entering the building I would cry my eyes out, scream at the god I thought I believed in. Even in a few of the classes I would break down uncontrollably. I wonder what was going on in the students mind. They were witnessing someone crash in front of their eyes. My work was suffering as I couldn't concentrate, I couldn't complete lessons, I couldn't grade work properly. It was a shame for the students. I had no will to live, let alone do daily tasks required of me to fulfill the job. I am not really capturing what went on in my head and how it affected me. Getting out of bed, brushing my teeth, washing was awful. As I think back about how I went into a mental decline, it is what I witnessed with my Boy. The addiction took his life slowly, painfully and ugly. He declined and I witnessed it. 

 It came as no shock to me as I found out my friend and boss was looking for ways to fire me. He was a control freak and was strict about all things, like dress code, and time.  This was fine but I started to be late to the office.  Lot of the other instructors resented his style of management for a post-secondary institution. It never really bothered me as I knew my friend to be control freak on all things. He once even made a comment to me about how I talk. I tend not to pronounce the "t h" sound of words like tree and three. So I just mostly went with the flow and ignored him. I almost made it to the end of the semester without losing it completely. The end came when I went into work with the single thought of stabbing my friend and boss. I went to yell at him and was ready to attack him. He talked me through the crisis and I left work and moved back to Manitoba. I think for him he couldn't relate and didn't know how to approach my breaking down. He is a nice guy, generous and thoughtful but he is also a cyborg, not emotional connecting. My boss and my friend didn't save my life. 

It was a number of people who have saved my life. My friend, a colleague at work was also my landlord. I was staying at his home when I went back to Vancouver after my Son killed himself. My Son was a beautiful boy but he struggled with addiction. In the end he couldn't beat the beast of addiction. For him he left his pain at the end of a rope while sitting in the closet at this mother's apartment. I am no stranger to suicidal thoughts. I am one of those who pulled the trigger. I was 17 years old when I took down a .22 rifle, loaded it, put it to my chest and pulled the trigger - click. I opened the chamber looked at the bullet and could see the dimple on the rim of the case. .22's are rim fire. I was going to re-load but the bedroom door opened and my Mom was there. "What are you doing?" She took the gun and put it back on the rack and told me to go to bed. So while I was struggling with the deed my son had done, I took to sitting in the closet at night. I was working up to hanging myself as well. I kept a string, a small black rope with me in the bedroom. One night I knew this is it. I can't throw myself in front of a car, I have no gun, and when I was a the apartment of my friend the idea of jumping was dismissed. This was it. My friend for some reason came to the room and it was late. I sat up and got out of the closet to see what he wanted. He just wanted to talk with me. So we talked. I am not sure how long or even what we talked about. I just know right there he had saved my life. He didn't know or maybe he did, I don't know. I hold him in my thoughts. He is a smart guy, a Romanian who was a refugee and has some conservative views (which I tolerate). He did save my life. 

My wife saved my life. Long ago she doesn't know it. Just with her kindness, her caring, her compassion and her patience. I was a no good guy. And when we went through the death of our Boy, she never gave up on my selfishness. I went through a long long period of regret, of anger, of remorse, of giving up. I know 100 percent I would be dead if not for her caring. Life meant nothing to me. Despite all the great things in my life, I didn't appreciate it. All I did was drown myself in pity, in anger, in grief. She walked me through my roughest periods of despair. Wouldn't give up on me. She continuously listened, continuously reminded of the kids, the grandkids, the family, the friends we have. I still struggle with thoughts of ending my life. Medication helps me I know. But it is her constant strength which helps me. This is a debt I can never repay. She is the one who knows my darkness. She is the one who doesn't let it overtake me completely. I hope you have someone who can be there with you, carry you if they must and be your friend. 

Someone who saves your live.  

Those Real Indians

 My Dad would have been 91 this year. He was an Indian, well actually he was Anishinaabe, a citizen of Sagkeeng First Nation. My Dad came from a big family, with a lot of brothers and sisters. Their Dad, my Mishoom was a bushman and the brothers all worked in the bush as well. My Mishoom died when I was eight years old in 1968, but I remember him well. To me, everyone in the Reserve was an Indian. My Mom also had the big Indian family.  The only non-Indians were the store owners, the teachers, the priests and the nuns. So my world was pretty small when I think back. 

Not everyone saw the world as I did back then, Indians and non-Indians, there was no in-between. Even the bullying at the Residential School that I got for being a white looking Indian didn't change my view. I never thought I was anything but an Indian. It wasn't until I heard my Dad and my Uncle talk about "those Real Indians" when they were picking Wild Rice, that I thought about the notion of different Indians. The Indians my Dad and Uncle were talking about was those Indians from Ontario who still practiced Traditions. At night when they were camping, some Indians would sign on the Drum. These Indians came from Reserves in Western Ontario; Grassy Narrows (Asubpeeschoseewagong) , Waabasemong, Big Grassy and others. So my Dad and other's like him, held those Indians in high regard when it came to being Indian. Although my Dad was a fluent Anishinaabe (Ojibwe) speaker, he felt he didn't speak it as pure. Dad, Mom and lot of the community members were put in the Residential School in our Reserve. The School was run by French Catholics. The other non-residential school (very small one) was run by the English Anglicans, and most of the Indians who went there were not mixed heritage. The schools were designed to "get rid of the Indian." The pressure to stop being Indian was relentless. With the constant pressure there was some fallout. One thing I never did hear from any of my relatives is that they were not Indian. All of them knew they were Indian, regardless of the beatings they took from the system - society. So when Dad and Uncle spoke of those Real Indians they weren't saying they were not real Indians, but they were acknowledging the strength, the resilience of their people despite the attacks and suffering they went through. 

In our Reserve the crush of Christianity almost wiped out the Drum from the people. There was a quick move to accept the ways of the Church (beaten into you at school, and other governmental pressures). So there was a change in how the community viewed things. Even in our community people would talk about Indians who stole Treaty. There were some Indians, descendants of the Chief who signed treaty, who felt some Indians didn't belong. The people who didn't belong were people like my Mishoom, who's grandmother was Wissakodewikwe half-breedWoman, later known as the Metis people. So some of the Indians in our Reserve didn't take kindly to the mixed Indians. The story goes like this:" the Indians who signed Treaty didn't want their grandchildren, the ones with mixed blood, to be left out of Treaty. So they had them registered at the signing of Treaty (Treaty One 1871) as well. These Indians were not be leaders in the community and leave the decisions to the Indians with no mixed blood." Things don't always go as they should. The Treaty brought along with it, the Indian Act, the Indian Agent and the elections of Chiefs, which the Indians called Ogema-con. That added little part, the con in Omega denotes a pretence. Like in the Wendigo and Wendigo-cons; not the real Wendigo.  Same with Gwoskay-can; the person who acts crazy but is not mentally ill. So with Ogemg-con, we know them as Indian Act Chiefs. 

Funny thing about the country, the system (White folk almost exclusively) didn't want the Indian to be  Indian, but they didn't want a half-way Indian as well. It was like they didn't want any kind of Indian at all. Crazy eh? Thing is, Indians didn't think of themselves really as half-way Indians.  Either you are Indian or you are not. Our Ancestors didn't want to throw away their Grandchildren, so they were Indian regardless if they had the Drum or not. Even though Indians are in awe of those who did not lose their Tradition, they still know they themselves are Indian. They know this because there is an "us" and there are a "them," White people. They know they have a long history and a long connection to their ancestors. So we see each other as Indian, the Real Indians. 

"Those Teachings that we are given reflect the identity of the Spirit that is in each and everyone of us. You carry all those Teachings inside of you. As long as you have an ounce of blood of Anishinaabe, you have the genetic memory to know those Teachings. The holy spot of our people is the knowledge the Ceremony, the language, the relationship that we have with the land, that is the holy spot of our people. What an awesome gift that the Creator gave us as Anishinaabe people." Dave Courchene Jr. 

Feel Like the Fraud

• Rejoice not at thine enemy's fall - but don't rush to pick him up either. (Jewish wisdom)
• Can't do it, just can't do it. Can not in good conscience utter a good word about a few people who have recently died. Many times we just have to "mind our business." Some folks have heroes which are actually monsters. When people die, we can see it as a sad thing, a thing which we have no intense feelings about, our we can feel some kind of joy or pleasure. When singer John Prine died, I felt really bad. Not that we were good friends or even acquaintances, but he did have a place in my thoughts. His tunes really touched me in my "special spot." Side story; my special spot is a story I have with my wife. It didn't start off as a joke but a warning for her health, an Indian thing. You see we have a special spot on our back just below the neck. You see people always touching other people in that spot. You see someone crying publicly, and someone will come touch them on that special spot. The special spot is where you get medicine, whether it be good feelings or someone checking you out. With this you have to be careful about who touches your special spot. Someone with bad intentions can put "bad stuff" in you through your special spot.  I was telling my wife this as we walked downtown in the City. We were entering a store and I was saying to her as we were walking in, "and don't let people touch you in your special spot." Context is everything. My wife told her friend about the special spot and how I told my wife about it, while in public, and because I am hard of hearing, I tend to talk loud. I have no inside voice, I don't know how to whisper, I have been told.  So My wife is always being told by her friend, "and don't let anyone touch you in your special spot." We Indians are wary of people with bad intentions, you know, it could be "Bad Medicine." But the special spot could also mean something else, depending on context. So anyways back to someone dying recently. I see Rush Limbaugh died and people are RIP'ing him all over the place. I told my wife about Rush dying. She said she couldn't understand people like him. I told her because you have no hate and when you see people who hate, others,  you can't understand it. You see Rush is a pure dickhead, a douche bag, a rotten bastard who didn't deserve a good rich life, but from all accounts the guy did really good for himself. He gained wealth by spreading hate to others who were not straight,  not white, "not Christian" or were Women.  Convention has it that you don't say anything bad about the deceased but customs should be broken. As my friend says to people in the Reserve who are bad people; "And you! Your'e going straight to hell when you die." He tells them when they are still living so he doesn't have to say anything when they are dead. 
• There was this local guy who died a little while back. On social media there were plenty who were praising him and saying "a great man died today." I was not one of those people who would say he was a great man. Actually to me, he was far from a great man. He was a total toad, a predator, a blood sucker, a louse, a maggot, a rodent and a jackal. The kind of person who would feed off a corpse. I say this because of how I knew him. I met him about 22 years ago. He was being held in jail with about about 30 of other gang members. I heard he had turned his life around before he died and was working on helping people to stay out of gangs. Lot of gang members make jobs for themselves as they get older. They spend a good part of their lives leaching off people and then decide to tell kids not to be like them. I once drove a couple of ex-gang members to a school in a Reserve. I heard them tell their tales of being gangsters. These guys were very straightforward with no tales of fun and riches. It pleased me to hear them speak with no vulgarity to the kids in school. They treated the kids with respect and didn't pretend to be anything other than a couple of guys who quit gangs. So I respected them. The fellow who recently died, him I had no respect for. But then again I didn't follow his path after he left the gang life. I base may view on when I knew him in the gang, so I may have a bias against him. I wish I was big enough of a person to wish him all the best in the after-life. Can't do it, it would be real phoney of me and I would be a fraud. 
• I grew up very fortunate: I had a great Mom, a good Dad, a beautiful community, food, nice home and strong family ties. This background has done good by me. I have a strong attachment to my community, our people, our history, our culture and this is due to my up bringing. This does not mean I was always a good person. I mean yes, generally I was respectful, generous, kind and thoughtful. I was also jealous, cruel, petty and violent at times. There are people who adore me. They look at me as a kind good soul. For them it is true, because I have given them no reason to think but anything else. There are those who know me as being cruel, jealous, petty and violent. It is true, because I have not given them anything to think otherwise. It is this duality that makes me sad and filled with regret. I look in the mirror and wish the bad part of me didn't exist. I want to be what I seem to be, a good guy. It is not really true. I am a fraud or at least I feel like a fraud. The memories of my bad actions come to me almost every night and remind me of who I am, or who I was. So I try to quantify the good things and measure against the bad things. Good things should be the default in our lives. Trying to gage how much good you have done against the bad is a futile attempt at redemption. You can never erase the bad you did, no matter what you are doing. But you know what? Giving up on trying to do good is not an option. If it were then you truly are a fraud. 
• Everyone must feel like a fraud at some point. The academic may feel they are not worthy of the status of professor. The cop who uses their power in bullying manner. The Judge sentencing a man who is abusing the spouse all the while he is an abuser.  There are many who are literally frauds but there are many who are not but feel like a fraud. The good person who looks in the mirror but sees a bad person. The Mom who is loving but feels bad for having at least once lost their patience. 
• Feeling like a fraud doesn't have to be a constant. I have an education, some Native Traditional knowledge and Teachings. I have a Catholic knowledge from being at the Indian Residential School as a kid. I am a Dad, a husband, a brother, a cousin, a nephew, a grandpa, and a friend. So being a fraud is just one of the many things I am, we are. It doesn't have to be our number one characteristic. In fact many of you who feel you are a fraud are nothing close to being a fraud. It is a moment in time when we have doubt. That is it. So good ahead and feel like a fraud for a brief moment, but know you are much more. You are someone's special. Being a special is a heck of a better place to be. 

Twist Your Face If You Make Fun Of Me

 My Cousin Boyshum was a really big guy. Tall, broad, brown, strong and forever working in the bush or on machinery. He was not a bully but you didn't mess with him. He was constantly teasing folks. Sometimes teasing is not easy to take. Still in the world's eye (my eyes), Boyshum was a heck of a good man. One of the things about people growing up in our Reserve was, you didn't make fun of Indian Medicine people. It was also one of Boyshum's sayings: "Boy, you make fun of those old Indians and your face will be all twisted and your mouth will be by your eyes." People in the Reserve were lead to believe Indian Medicine was bad medicine. Ah the good old priests and nuns sure sold a sad tale of serpents and demons to the Indian folk in the community. And many folk bought into it a little bit. They still practiced it; keemooch (secretly). It is said even famous actress and human rights defender Angelina Jolie had her face twisted. Bad Indian medicine? Of course the news calls it Bell's Palsy. 

Twisted Faces. 

Through it all Angelina Jolie stood strong with her twisted face. She suggested that her health, the twisted face, was because of the all the pressure, stress and issues she has been facing in her life (cancer, divorce, raising bunch of kids, etc). So she had a case of Bell's Palsy. I think maybe a medicine person or person's did that to her through some unseen power, magic or curse. Someone got jealous of her and decided to twist her face. Who knows who it was? Maybe someone had some of her hair or heaven forbid her blood, like in a necklace or something and they did it to her. I can't believe the handsome bugger Brad Pitt would do something like that, but you never know, it could be a jealous ex? You know like Billy Bob or even Jennifer? 

I imagine the twisting a face is not an easy thing to do, right? Where do you go for instructions on that? I tried looking in the classified's years ago when there was such a thing as a newpaper classifieds. Now you can google stuff on the internet. I haven't found any credible services for how to learn how to do "bad medicine" and twist someone's face. I once read a Christian book about 40 years ago, called the Bushman and the Spirits. It is a nice little read about the life of this Indian trapper and how he was practicing Indian Medicine for years and then converted to Christianity. Funny thing about the story, he never practiced bad medicine but did good things with his practice of Indian Medicine. Never did understand why he converted to Christianity. It didn't seem to make sense as his life seems good, but oh well, it wouldn't have been much a Christian reader if he didn't convert. In the description of the book he is presented as a witch doctor. He did mention a time when he went did offering in the bush for some good thing to happen. Maybe it's the same with when you want bad to happen? Who knows but you could try it if you feel the inclination to do so. Go out in the bush and make an offering to the Spirit's you want to help with your request. Look for a good spot in the bush, take your offering and speak to the Spirits. Then wait and see what happens. If it was good for the Bushman and the Spirits maybe it will be good for you? 

I had a friend who would twist your face. No, he didn't use Indian Medicine, he literally twisted your face.  If you fought him, he would grab your face and twist it in his hands. We called him "Mean Man." My friend, Mean Man was actually just a very nice guy. He was tough, a good rough and tough hockey player. Sort of like the legendary Boston Bruin Stan Jonathan. Stan Jonathon a Tuscarora Indian, was  a professional hockey player in the 1970's. Stan was not a very tall man but stocky. He is most noted for his powerful left hand which was on display when he took on the NHL's tough guy Pierre Bouchard. Stan Jonathan may have twisted Bouchard's face with this fists that 21st day in May, 1978. I actually watched it on television. Can you imagine how excited we were when this Indian guy twisted the face of the big white bully? Mean Man was like that, stocky and wicked in a fight. I remember he fought this guy, a bully when we were young, and Mean Man made him cry by twisting his face. I was never able to be a literal face twister. 

So face twisting fo me is going to have to be of the bad medicine type or in cyber-space. When I get the power to twist faces, I will for sure send a twist to Mitch McConnell. Have you ever seen a human being more deserving of a twisted face than that guy? Until I learn how to twist faces I will just have to keep blogging.  And to leave you with a pubic announcement: watch your hair, keep your body fluids safe and don't make fun of those Old Indians, you might find your face up by your eye one morning. 

If you don't believe, give some hair to be put in a rodent's nest. Like a rat or mouse and see how it goes from there. 

Cultural Appropriation: Do It Right If You Are Going to Steal

Another Indian identity theft seems to have taken place.  Like Ward Churchill, Jospeh Boyden,  William Wages, Elizabeth Warren, and others;  Michelle Latimer has been found out. Latimer has for years claimed to be Indigenous and has made a career with her Ingenious background. Just recently produced a television entitled the Trickster.  The show was well received in its first season, but the Network CBC has decided not to renew, most likely because of the stealing Latimer did with the whole Indian thing. It has gotten so out of hand (they want to be Indian) a list has been made of who is not a "real Indian", the Pretendian list. Indians are getting sick of all this stealing. It started with the Land, to the clothes off their backs, their art, their songs, their Ceremonies and their identity. No wonder the Indian gets a little peeved when they see "Indian Art, Indian clothing, Indian crafts" being made by non-Indian folk (just so the Indians don't get their underwear wedged too tight, I am well aware of the better terms used to  categorize us, like Indigenous and the old one Aboriginal but for non-Anishinaabe folks I use the moniker Indian for simplicity purposes). 

In general, everyone can agree that stealing is bad. No one wants to be robbed of something which is theirs. No one wants their stuff taken, even stuff like their homes, their household items, their families, their stories, jokes and their ideas. I wonder if there is anyone who has not had something stolen or "borrowed" without their permission? So why is it so easy to steal from people? It is done without any regard it seems.  I guess some stealing is acceptable? It becomes so easy and normal the original ownership of an item, an idea, is lost. 

We live in a world where Jack Black is your Judo master. You are being taught Yoga by Gwyneth Paltrow. The original ownership of these arts is unknown but it must be of some European origin as we are assured all things come from there. I think the Samurai has its origin from there as well. Yoga has similar origins with everything leading back to the coming of Jesus. Steven Seagal has developed a martial art of his own, Aikido. Even when we eat pizza we know the tomato is Italian as the mob is to making "people swim with the fishes." I jest about Judo, Yoda, and Aikido of course, but we do live in times where many things have been borrowed and have become owned elsewhere and by someone else. But does it matter? If stealing didn't matter there would be no questioning it, but it does matter. If you advertise for a trained proctologist and I come in and look into your arsehole, that wouldn't be right. After all I am not a trained proctologist, I am not what I say I am, I'm an amateur at best. Being authentic is just the right thing. But do all things need to be authentic? Maybe there is room for borrowing? I just don't know where the line is to what is acceptable and what is not acceptable.

There are of course the obvious stealing, borrowing and appropriations we recognize as wrong. We know not to dress up like a Rastafarian, a Geisha, a Sikh just so you wear a turban and a Kirpan (except if you are Justin Trudeau, the PM of Canada). But... if it's for Halloween then fine, you are excused. In fact you can be anything you want as you can go to any Halloween store and find every type diverse peoples on the planet. However, if you dress up in someone's cultural identity make sure to pick one where you won't get the piss beat out of you. A white person dressing up in Native Regalia or "costume" in my Reserve and you will end up dressed up as a mummy at the nearest hospital. I imagine if you show up dressed to mimic a member of a certain community, your presence may not be appreciated. I mean if I dress up as a Saudi prince in their community,  I could be given a stern talking to (or be treated like Jamal Khashoggi). 

I do wonder why some things appropriated are accepted? There is a fashion where women like to wear headdresses mimicking the Traditional Eagle Headdress of Indigenous people. I guess it is attractive to these women. People should understand when you mimic someone's heritage you are not being respectful, regardless of what they say. I mean the Football club the Chiefs have taken "our tomahawk chop" and cheapened it. They use it as a taunt to the opposing football clubs. For me the Tomahawk chop doesn't belong in the football stadium or the Rasslin' Arena. It is to be used only when you are chopping the head off the big Salmon, or chopping the legs off the Deer you shot. I mean come on man, that's no way to use the Tomahawk chop, sitting in the cheap plastic seats of a football game! At least have someone's head on the end of your tomahawk chop for heck sakes. 

For me I don't know what is okay and what is not okay to be borrowed, appropriated. I leave that to the folks who are aware of the impact, the costs (not money costs but more the cost to the psyche of the community), and the message of the appropriation. For example I am a fan of artworks, all kinds. So when people argue about appropriation on Native artworks, styles I wait. I look and think about the situation and listen. There are some Native folk who don't like white artists copying the styles of Native artists: Norval Morrisseau-Woodland style, Native West-Coast style. There is a difference between copying a style and passing off a painting as some else's painting; a forgery. It is easy to say it is wrong because it is lying and theft. But what happens if you don't try to do a forgery but rather do the style and admit you are borrowing the style, is it wrong? With the Norval Morrisseau situation it got so ugly, a fortune made by white people on forgeries. There are people who passed paintings off as his, while there are some people who copy his style but don't try and say it is a Norval painting, just his style. 

This is where I am not sure about where the line is; can other artists, copy the style and not steal the image? We know it is wrong to steal. We know copying something exactly is wrong. We know saying something is real but knowing it's not, is wrong. There is also painting a subject matter and this seems to be acceptable. Just like Beverlys Doolittle and her Guardian Spirits painting; very beautiful Indians on horse back. Still can someone copy not the actual piece but use the style in their own works. Like in music, art work, clothing, and of course an Identity. I see many Native artists incorporating different artists' styles in their own work, and I don't believe it is wrong. 

Picasso Style by Indigenous Artist

There are very knowledgeable people who know where the line is when it comes to appropriation.  I will of course listen and go from there. I may not agree but I know when to listen and when to think. There are so many elements of colonialism imprinted on our daily lives. We just accept it as normal life. It is necessary to have people challenge what we have become accustomed to. We are living with so much pushed on us and taken from us.