Who You See Here, What You Hear Here, Let It Stay Here

I was doing a night shift at an Adult Treatment Centre (for Alcoholics) when I was 20 years old. I didn't have much to do, just walk around the building as everyone slept. It was an old building with two floors and a basement. It was about 6 in the morning and I was looking out the window of the second floor. The south view was of a big field and the Reserve Townsite across the highway. I saw two people walking towards the Centre from the Townsite and they were holding hands. As they got closer I knew it was the cook, a very nice lady who was always nice to me. The man she was walking with was a friend of my Dad's. He was a married man with a family. So it was interesting and funny to me. I was young and didn't really see "older people" as being sexually active, never mind fooling around. Both of the people are now deceased and I may have not followed the slogan of, who you see here, let it stay here. I may have told a few people about what I saw. In my defense, I am a gossip bag and relatively stupid. 

I was thinking about the whole Sinead O'Connor dying at 56 years old thing. The reason it resonated with me is for a couple of reasons: one was her song Nothing Compares to You was released at a time when my wife and I were young and were only a few years into our relationship. The other reason is, Sinead didn't adhere to the whole "what you hear, let it stay here" law. She went public with the Pope and how his Christian Soldiers were raping kids at their pleasure. It was a "State Secret" and no one was to speak publicly about all that "fucking, sucking and let the good times roll" done by the Jesus's team. Of course for the Indian population it was an open secret. We weren't really suppose to acknowledge it. We were to keep it like how you keep your sins to yourself. Except only to be stated in a dark closed closet, where a small window is open and you tell it to another person sitting in the dark with a cloak on. Only then can you say it. With Sinead, her little letting it spill out about all the kids being used as a smorgasbord of sexual desserts by the Pope's boys, caused a roar, an uproar actually. People vomited at the sight of their Pope being ripped in half on live television. Sinead was quickly burnt at the stake. Not literally but pretty close to it. Her professional career, her personal life was actively ruined by Jesus and the good folk of the Cross. All because she did not adhere to what you see here, what you hear here, let it stay here. 

The amount of secrets people are expected to keep is staggering. We live in a world where we are demanded to keep secrets: signing non-disclosure agreements, following privacy laws, and societal norms of denouncing the whistle-blower, the snitch and the rat. We quickly adopt the negative terms for people who expose information, for people who dare to share what they see and hear. We've seen it with people who have exposed the crimes of government, the bad things the military does. Secrets are normal and some are needed, there is no doubt. When to say what you see or hear can be clear as a sunny mid-day in the Prairies or as dark as when you are sitting in the outdoor-shitter at midnight. We just have to trust our own decision, I guess, like when Father Arthur Masse was buggering the young girls in our Reserve. We just put our collective hands over our eyes, our mouths and Masse continued with his desires of the flesh, as he would have known from Galatians, 5:17-21. 

Indigenous communities have been taught to keep secrets. It went against their whole societal ways of living. The little dark closet with the man in a cloak was forced upon them. Confessional Booth, Boxes were the tool of the Church, a tool to keep secrets (and provide verbal porn reading for the Priests).  We Indians now live with keeping secrets as the default. Secrets have allowed all sorts of mold, corruption, abuse, violence, and predators to evolve. The Church was ripe with jackals, hounds and whores with crosses around their necks, and nice gold rings with red gems in the middle: "Enter the confessional booth, a.k.a. the dark box, a piece of furniture designed by Cardinal Charles Borromeo, with a grille and curtain to separate the priest from the penitent. “The box was meant to bring an end to the scandal of sexual solicitation,” writes Cornwell, but tragically it only increased the incidences. “The Borromeo box, for all its physical barriers, still allowed for whispered pillow talk in the dark: the penitent’s voice and breath up close to the confessor’s ear. Many married woman, suffering from domestic and marital frustrations, became addicted to the atmosphere of crepuscular intimacy.”  Can you hear the priest saying, "you dirty dirty whore, tell me more." 

We went from community openness to a closed circle, a dysfunctional society. Well, things are once again changing, the community Circles are becoming a source of openness and transparency. We go into Sharing Circles, speaking to the Creator in front of witnesses. We share without fear inside the Sweat Lodge Ceremony, the Sundance and other Ceremonial Gatherings. We don't rely on the sneaky cloaked man in a dark closet telling us we are forgiven as long as we go do a few silent prayers. Still we have a long way to go. Many of our Chiefs and Councils live with the secrets of what they do in their lofty chambers of decision making. As well the Indigenous lobby groups, like the Assembly of First Nations, Manitoba Metis Federation, et al., are making deals which affect the lowly Reserve dweller, Indigenous Joe and Sarah. Indian People in the political arena getting rich off the financial minnows they get from the Big Sharks, governments, resource companies and other predators. 

Privacy laws can protect the innocent for sure, but those same laws protect the Windigos, the sexual demons, poisonous flies, greedy skunks and wily coyotes. So our communities need to embrace the open voice. Even if it is hard to hear or to see. I would rather our own community draws open the curtains, rather than some government entity, law enforcement Stormtrooper banging on the community door (Financial Transparency Act). I expect to see more Indian leaders taking off their cloaks and exposing pure nakedness of information to the people. 

Norval Morrisseau: Windigo 

And I don't really believe the slogan, "Who you see here, what you hear here, Let it stay here" is as beneficial as Alcohol Anonymous (AA) promotes. Simply because of all the secrecy in AA, there is no way to measure or see the results of success with AA. It has become modern folklore as the only way to sobriety success.  But who in the hell knows. 

Holy Christ, Winnipeg Hero Kyle Klochko Is An Arsehole

Well it is quite a thing to be living in Winnipeg, Manitoba. A couple of bodies, (more for sure) Native Women are buried in the city's landfill, the garbage dump. A serial killer Jeremy Skibicki has been butchering Indian Women and using the big metal garbage bins to trash the Women. So it is known there are least three dead Women in the landfill and perhaps more. Skibicki killed three Indian Women, where two have been identified but the third is not identified. It is sad but Indigenous Women are murdered and go missing in Canada (and the United States) regularly. The police knew the Women were trashed in the land fill, the garbage dump but didn't reveal it, until they had charged Skibicki. It is understandable they didn't want to mess up the case against him, I guess. Skibicki is one of those Nazi-loving, Women-hating, Racist monsters.

Jeremy Skibicki - Indigenous Women Killer 

I noticed being labeled a racist has no real meaning any more. If you are labeled misogynist, or being anti-semitic, or homophobic, then it might have some consequence of damnation. Racism is almost accepted in North America as part of society. So knowing you are a racist, you carry it like a gold trophy and it seems to be rewarded. Winnipeg once carried the Racism torch as being the most racist city in  Canada. A label they earned with ease, but Thunder Bay came in heavy to take the crown. Thunder Bay saw Winnipeg being glorified in the Maclean's magazine article and said "hold my beer." Thunder Bay went on to stomp the Indigenous people and have taken over the banner of being the most racist. A difficult task because of all the competition from White Supremacy provinces, like Alberta, Saskatchewan and the Maritimes where anti-Indigenous sentiment soars like a white dove. The anti-Black sentiment is also high in Canada, but Quebec and Ontario carry top-dog ribbon when it comes to hate on Blacks. 

Manitoba was asked to search the landfill, the garbage dump for the Indigenous Women's bodies. Canada, Manitoba and the City of Winnipeg choked on their perogies and cabbage rolls before saying "ah it's too expensive." What did the daughters, sisters, moms of the Indigenous people do, when they heard the news of "too fucking expensive?' They raised their voices, moved their feet over to the landfill roads so they could be seen. What did the average Winnipegger do? They (media included) spat garbage on the Women through social media. One White man of Winnipeg, took it a bit further, he literally loaded the back of his truck with mud and took it to dump on a MMIW image at the dump. The MMIW image was painted on the road, where Kyle Klochko went to dump his garbage on the mural. Kyle screamed at the folks at the land fill road. He mocked them about their Women being dead. It seems people don't like that kind of thing, so people went to visit Kyle at his house. Police came to look after Kyle. The media news crews came and did stories on Kyle being victimized. Winnipeggers got teeth gashing mad at the people who went to Kyles, calling them angry Mobs. The news did an positive interview with Kyle ensuring he was to martyred for his heroic stance against those "Merciless Indian Savages." 

The Premier of Manitoba has no compassion for the Indigenous people. Recent polls suggest majority of Winnipeggers do not want to spend cash on searching the land fills for the Women. I guess Indigenous Women don't matter. It is quite funny, while there is a push for people to do search landfills for metals. There is an increasing call for land fill searching because of the "precious metals" found in amongst the garbage and  the filth. Land fill searching is actually called treasure hunting. Looking for Indigenous remains is of no value to main stream society. It is really weird what they (society) consider value  in looking in the dumps? A white man was uncharacteristically dumped in an Ontario land fill. Something you really don't hear about.  Guess what happened? That is right, they took searching the dump just like they were searching for hidden treasures. It is of no coincidence that individual was a man and was white. Ah yes there is the treasure. They could use the treasure hunting for metals and do search for remains at the same time, maybe that would gain public interest. 

Do you understand why people are so upset about the whole not searching for the Women and why Kyle touched a nerve or two? There is a crisis in Canada, and the United States. Indigenous Women are being taken, being killed and no one cares. Only the Indigenous people care about the Women being taken and in cases slaughtered. There were voices, many voices speaking of this phenomenon, Missing Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW). The act by Kyle was not only insulting, disrespectful, and hateful but it was really hurtful. We are speaking about lives of Women. Women who are sisters, daughters, moms, aunties, and cousins to all of us Indians.  Kyle is the symbol of Canada and how it feels about the Indigenous people. Kyle brought it out in full display, with the knowledge he would be carried around on the shoulders of his peers and his fellow Canadians. He had no worry of condemnation, his group would rally for him. Kyle not only shit on the three missing Indigenous Women at the Winnipeg garbage dump, he dumped shit on every single Indigenous person in Canada. He showed the world what Canada thinks about Indian Women. The resounding "no" by the governments and the main stream population only signifies the deep loathing against the Indigenous people. Kyle's actions and his visceral hatred was full on display and it resonated in everyone. For the main stream population it was "yeah, speak from your heart Kyle," and to the Indigenous folk, it is "their hate has poisoned their hearts, they don't see us as people." 

So you know what I say, Fuck you Kyle, Fuck you Manitoba Premier, Fuck you Winnipeg Mayor, and fuck you too, Canada and may Jeremy Skibicki be given the stick and never sleep. 

What's in a Name.

Giving a name to your baby is a huge responsibility. They have to carry the moniker for their entire lives. Growing up with the name, where it can be twisted, abbreviated, shortened, or amended by their peers and the relatives. I think about this now and kind of laugh, my name is Steve. Actually, on my birth certificate it is spelled Stephen, like in the Bible. In elementary school, when the teacher did attendance, she or he would call out the names of the kids in class. I remember the teacher reading out my name and saying Stefan. The outburst of laughter can be still heard in my ears, my face gets hot, and my head bows down in embarrassment and shame. The teacher pronounced as it were a French name, Ste-fan. My friend, Smiley, was relentless with his teasing. When he found out how my name was spelled, Stephen, he would call me Step, Hen. I laugh now but I still don't like the name Stephen, like in the Bible (who was stoned to death) and like the horrible disreputable Stephen Harper (put a plastic bag over my head now). The strange thing is my Mom never, ever wrote my name as Stephen or called me that. I never knew it was how my name was spelled. My Mom spelled it Steve. Like Steve not in the bible, but like Steve Irwin, one of the greatest Steve's who has walked this great Earth. Or even like Steve McQueen, and the great Steve Buscemi, both awesome in their own ways. 

I am not sure how the spelling of my name was written the way it is. I know the Baptism Certificates were filled out by the Nuns, so maybe that had something to do with it? My Mom and Dad are dead so I never even thought about asking them. So the mystery of my name will remain for all time to come. When they do a documentary about my exploits or TMZ (maggots) report their scuzz reporting of my demise, they will spell it like in the Bible, Step-hen. But don't fret, my family knows what my true calling is and how I came to be. 

I can't remember why I even broached the name thing. I think it was because of something, but what it was, I don't know. I just know it was not about my name at all. It might have to do with getting the Indian Name or as some call it, the Spirit Name.  It is a good thing to have an Indian name for sure. 

Speaking of me, a friend of mine died yesterday. He went to sleep on his couch and never woke up. It is really sad. This man was bigger than life, a generous, kind and really loud in a good way. The wife and I were talking about our friend. I said, but not in a callus way, that he went in the best way possible, go to sleep, not suffer and just not get up. I told my wife that is how I want to go, and if she could somehow make that happen. She said she will do her best. 

Getting or bestowing an "Indian name" to your child, is one of the best things you can do as a parent. I am speaking of Natives here, not non-Natives and getting their names. One of the many things, the "powers-to-be" did when they interacted with Indigenous folk, was to rename them. Not only their whole community name (thus Indians) but their actually individual names as well. Can you imagine, how crazy that is. I bet they would have named Crazy Horse, Chester if they had the chance. The Leader of our community who signed Treaty One was named Kakekapenais (Bird Forever). His named was later changed by government and his descendants now have the last name of Mann. This practice of renaming people was done everywhere. Who knows how things would have been if those damn pesky Church folk and their government cousins, would have just let people be. I mean who knows, my name might have been "Gone with the Wind" or something cool like that. Instead it's Steve. Actually Steve is a pretty cool name but it's no Hole-In-The-Day. We have witnessed some people change their names in public, lot of famous folk, like  Muhamad Ali. He called his old name a "slave name." 

You know what is awesome? People are reclaiming the right to name themselves and their kiddies, with Indian names. Not sure if it is right to call it Indian Names as this is kind of weird and a mistaken label for who we are, so, the people are getting Anishinaabe names (If I was speaking out loud with people around, someone would go, Ah-ho). There was Indian Woman who wanted to get an Indian name, so she went see an Elder who did Naming Ceremony. She received the name Buffalo Woman. She didn't like being referred to as a Buffalo. She decided to go to another Ceremony person for a new Indian name. She received the name, Brown Buffalo Woman. There you have it, What's in a name. 

I Never Hugged My Mom

I have watched this film "Juste la fin du monde" a few times. Not sure why I watch it, it is not an enjoyable film. There are a couple of actors I recognize, Vincent Cassel and Marion Cotillard. Cotillard, I recognize from the film Inception.  Cotillard had a small role but pivotal and it is the same thing in this movie as well. Cassel was a hit man in the Jason Bourne movie. This film, Juste la fin du monde, is about a gay man who comes home to his Mom, sister and brother, to tell them he is dying. The family dynamics is filled with ugliness, resentment and no compassion. The film just makes me sad. I am not sure why I watched it. Maybe for the feelings it draws out?

I grew up knowing an alcoholic father, my Dad. It bothered me. I didn't like him as a result. I wondered how could a strong man, like my Dad, be so weak when it come to the drink. I hated it, that feeling of not liking my Dad. I adored my Dad, I loved him. My Mom in my eyes was a saint. We all say that about our Moms. In the movie, there is a scene with the young man, who is being talked to by his mom. At the end of the scene, despite the awkwardness of the mom's words, she hugs him and he hugs her back. That scene of the man hugging his mom, had me thinking. I never did hug my mom, even when she was dying of cancer. By the way, the English translation for the film title is "It's only the end of the world." It occurred to me as I was thinking of my Mom and how, for us, touching was not a thing our family did. As I see it now, and hear about it, not many families who grew up with the Indian Residential School experience, hugged each other as well. That is weird and funny. Since the Christian experience is one of love, charity and all the good stuff. 

The thing about it not hugging my Mom, my Dad or my Siblings, it is normal. It is not normal to hug them, never mind tell anyone you love them. But we are changing, I hug, I tell people I love them. It's not weird to hug or tell people you love them. I say it with my wife, my kids, grandkids and my nephews and nieces, it is great. I guess what I used to think about the hug, was it was intimate. To be intimate with your Dad or Mom was not right, gross a sin-like thing. Not sure how the message came to be in my brain, but it took up room in there, just saying "it's forbidden." 

In the movie, you hope there is a chance for some kind of good moment. Sadly the movie plot doesn't take you there, the hero just leaves the home without ever telling his family, he is going to go die. The film leaves you thinking about the future and how it must have been for the family. For me the hero in this story, my story, not that movie, but my movie, there is a twist, a good twist, a good feeling to the movie moment. It was about 25 years ago. I went to my friend David Blacksmith and his Teacher, the Elder Joe Esquash's Sundance Ceremony. It was at this Sundance where I fulfilled my personal obligation to drag Buffalo Skulls and give flesh offerings. I gave 35 flesh offerings, although very small cuts and dragged a number of skulls, maybe four skulls. It was after the cutting of my arms and the dragging of skulls where I hugged my wife and my Mom and Dad were there as well. I hugged my Mom and told her I loved her. This was the very first and last time I hugged my Mom. Granted, I was delirious and overcome with the emotions of sacrifice and ceremony, but I still count it as a win. It took an archaic, old Native ritual, once against the law, to provide me the opportunity to show, to say "I love you, Mom."