Generations of Indians have grown up behind a buckskin curtain of indifference, ignorance and, all too often, plain bigotry. Now, at a time when our fellow Canadians consider the promise of the Just Society, once more the Indians of Canada are betrayed by a programme which offers nothing better than cultural genocide.
— Harold Cardinal, Cree. On Trudeau and Aboriginal Rights (±1969).
— Harold Cardinal, Cree. On Trudeau and Aboriginal Rights (±1969).
Mamascatch [1]
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Deservedly, the current Canadian government has had to admit to the evidence of their inexcusable part in letting such things happen. Sadly, that admission of culpability had not occurred at the time of McLeod's writing; even now, it seems incomprehensibly difficult for the government to admit how horrible they have been—Trudeau and that same government seem to have done their best to wriggle out of taking serious steps to remediate the abuses.[2] Cultural genocide, indeed.
What some dismiss as "identity politics" is a tricky thing. Observing the disarray that advocates of social justice seem to be in, the necessity for forging alliances, for coalitions, spring to mind. Yet the genuine need for respect—let alone for genuine efforts to understand and be compassionate— for those of various identities, these often seems obscured by the pressing need to affirm our own. Too few sit down at the table together and say, "look, the opposition is after you and me, so we need to get together and form a solid block of opposition. If my sexuality/the color of my skin/my religion/my ethnicity offends you—forget about it! The populists and the right wing love the fact that we battle each other; and they will take us down, one by one, if we don't get together." Indeed, the above Cardinal was one of those who advocated Native and non-Native collaboration; and interestingly, that surname is listed by McLeod as one in his family tree.
Clearly, there is a pressing need to listen carefully to the stories of the trials and struggles endured by others and respect their dignity. And I am getting ahead of myself. First, McLeod's growing up years. Or as the book's epigram, a quote from Jean Paul Sartre says, "Freedom is what we do with what is done to us."
The consistent entanglement in that "buckskin curtain," the poverty and family disintegration which the European invasion and its legacy have rained down upon Americas' First Peoples, the abuse of Darrel's uncle Andy who tried to rape McLeod's favorite sister and which young boy, Darrel, was able to prevent by running out of the house and summoning his mother from the local bar; his own sexual abuse at the hands of his brother-in-law starting when Darrel was 11 years old—which he was not able to prevent. Taking care of his siblings at aged thirteen, as his mother comes and goes, often a week at a time— All this plus the continued and confusing guilty pleasure and profound sexual confusion from an adult's sexual abuse, the combination of which a therapist later tells him is often characteristic of such cases. McLeod abandons Catholicism (apparently not difficult) and for a time embraces Pentecostalism; but it his own emerging homosexuality ultimately allows him to free himself from the sect. The real freedom, however, seems to have come even as he performed his duties, developed his various talents, went to school, held down several jobs, went on to university, first at Calgary, then, as he finally escaped to Vancouver, finishing at the university of British Columbia. All the while, commendably, not once does he consider hiding his Cree ancestry.
This is not a book written for passive "entertainment," nor is it a chore to read, despite the seriousness of its content. Mind, I could be accused of being one of Coleridge's "tea strainer readers"; but I raced through the book because I simply could not put it down. McLeod's prose is effortless, his mix of memory, the deep sense of his identity, and a pragmatically focused narrative—all envelope the reader.
What some dismiss as "identity politics" is a tricky thing. Observing the disarray that advocates of social justice seem to be in, the necessity for forging alliances, for coalitions, spring to mind. Yet the genuine need for respect—let alone for genuine efforts to understand and be compassionate— for those of various identities, these often seems obscured by the pressing need to affirm our own. Too few sit down at the table together and say, "look, the opposition is after you and me, so we need to get together and form a solid block of opposition. If my sexuality/the color of my skin/my religion/my ethnicity offends you—forget about it! The populists and the right wing love the fact that we battle each other; and they will take us down, one by one, if we don't get together." Indeed, the above Cardinal was one of those who advocated Native and non-Native collaboration; and interestingly, that surname is listed by McLeod as one in his family tree.
Clearly, there is a pressing need to listen carefully to the stories of the trials and struggles endured by others and respect their dignity. And I am getting ahead of myself. First, McLeod's growing up years. Or as the book's epigram, a quote from Jean Paul Sartre says, "Freedom is what we do with what is done to us."
The consistent entanglement in that "buckskin curtain," the poverty and family disintegration which the European invasion and its legacy have rained down upon Americas' First Peoples, the abuse of Darrel's uncle Andy who tried to rape McLeod's favorite sister and which young boy, Darrel, was able to prevent by running out of the house and summoning his mother from the local bar; his own sexual abuse at the hands of his brother-in-law starting when Darrel was 11 years old—which he was not able to prevent. Taking care of his siblings at aged thirteen, as his mother comes and goes, often a week at a time— All this plus the continued and confusing guilty pleasure and profound sexual confusion from an adult's sexual abuse, the combination of which a therapist later tells him is often characteristic of such cases. McLeod abandons Catholicism (apparently not difficult) and for a time embraces Pentecostalism; but it his own emerging homosexuality ultimately allows him to free himself from the sect. The real freedom, however, seems to have come even as he performed his duties, developed his various talents, went to school, held down several jobs, went on to university, first at Calgary, then, as he finally escaped to Vancouver, finishing at the university of British Columbia. All the while, commendably, not once does he consider hiding his Cree ancestry.
This is not a book written for passive "entertainment," nor is it a chore to read, despite the seriousness of its content. Mind, I could be accused of being one of Coleridge's "tea strainer readers"; but I raced through the book because I simply could not put it down. McLeod's prose is effortless, his mix of memory, the deep sense of his identity, and a pragmatically focused narrative—all envelope the reader.
Peyakow [3]
Mamascatch, above, is volume I of McLeod's memoir. By pure happenstance, I read volume II, Peyakow, first; and I would advise the reader not to do that, not out of any sense of linearity so much as sequence gives light to the more recent state the author describes himself experiencing. The scars and open wounds of the original (and, sadly, ongoing) crimes of European invasion are still present, as are the casual cruelties and dismissal of Native humanity. McLeod does not list every indignity visited upon the Americas First Peoples: for one, that list would be too long. Rather, he respectfully reveals sufficient indignities in the further telling of his story, affecting his own individual struggles. Still, the focus is the story. McLeod is most certainly not asking for the reader's pity. Rather he is simply revealing his life as is. Here's the mirror; I can tell you what happened, the way I think it happened, what I think it means, but you will have to figure it out for yourself. The reflection itself is, of necessity, after the storm, after the desecration of the individual and the collective community.
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At one point in the book, the author refers "a tragic but fascinating story" he is reading, “La saga des Béothuks, about the extinction of an entire tribe in Newfoundland”; and I cannot help but think that the description, "tragic but fascinating," fits his story as well. What happens when the assault is upon the very collective from which one comes from? The "individualism" of the colonizers is a poor substitute for a sense of community; and offers little, if any, genuine stability to those who—still—fervently espouse it.
Mind it serves to reiterate that, McLeod, the adult, does not abandon his Cree identity. Yet, while part of the legacy of the assault upon Native life and culture, communally, is the tragic state of that community—an assault upon their very center—individually, it is also a peculiar assault on the individual, emerging from the question we ask, growing up, who am I? The Canadian government does not even recognize the full authenticity of McLeod's personhood; for, as the heirs of European colonial power, the Canadian government defines who you are— at least in the case of its indigenous peoples—not you or your family. For example, when McLeod attempts to apply for official status via his grandmother's ethnicity, the bureaucratic answer is that while his grandmother is entitled to be registered as such under Canada's Indian Act, sections 6 (2), her children are/were not. That is, not even McLeod's mother. Worse, for neither McLeod nor his sister, Trina,
Mind it serves to reiterate that, McLeod, the adult, does not abandon his Cree identity. Yet, while part of the legacy of the assault upon Native life and culture, communally, is the tragic state of that community—an assault upon their very center—individually, it is also a peculiar assault on the individual, emerging from the question we ask, growing up, who am I? The Canadian government does not even recognize the full authenticity of McLeod's personhood; for, as the heirs of European colonial power, the Canadian government defines who you are— at least in the case of its indigenous peoples—not you or your family. For example, when McLeod attempts to apply for official status via his grandmother's ethnicity, the bureaucratic answer is that while his grandmother is entitled to be registered as such under Canada's Indian Act, sections 6 (2), her children are/were not. That is, not even McLeod's mother. Worse, for neither McLeod nor his sister, Trina,
...there is no provision in the Indian Act to allow for the registration of a person when one of the parents is entitled to be registered under section 6(2) and when the other parent is not an Indian as defined by the Indian Act or is not identified.
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Thus, he remarks ruefully, "...I will have to continue living with the shame of being a 'non-status Indian.'" (At another point he notes that even among the McLeod's so called Métis side—his paternal side—there were Cree.)
Educated, with degrees in French and in education, McLeod leaves Alberta and rises in the Canadian civil service. He leads a successful professional and personal life, with friends, a lover, good food and pleasant activities in Vancouver. But then he up and moves from Vancouver to a bereft school for Native children; he does well and, while he is passionate about its work, yet again he packs up and leaves after only a year for a better job. Soon we find the narrator working in more and more prestigious posts within the bureaucracy that deals with Indian Affairs and between it and various governmental agencies. Travels to various indigenous communities, nationally and internationally. Treaties contested, reaffirmed, behind the scenes deals uncovered but which he is not necessarily able to do anything about. Some successes. Some stone walls.
Making that first move, McLeod has left his comfortable urban life, friends, and soon thereafter his partner, Milan. For, yes, to top it all off McLeod is by his own admission homosexual—called "two spirited" in the Native tradition, as he finds out later. At this juncture, though, he is scrupulously careful to hide his private life, depending on secretive one-night stands as an anodyne to his stressful and beleaguered professional life. At some point he even describes this as a "sex addiction"'; at other times he simply covers it up. He mourns the death of his transgender sister, the aforementioned Trina, who dies of an overdose. Somehow, McLeod deals with the wreckage, strewn everywhere, of European colonization, both professionally and, less incisively, personally: the disenfranchisement, displacement, cultural destruction, the addictions, suicides, and not inconsequentially, the confused identities. Yet, he cautions himself,
Educated, with degrees in French and in education, McLeod leaves Alberta and rises in the Canadian civil service. He leads a successful professional and personal life, with friends, a lover, good food and pleasant activities in Vancouver. But then he up and moves from Vancouver to a bereft school for Native children; he does well and, while he is passionate about its work, yet again he packs up and leaves after only a year for a better job. Soon we find the narrator working in more and more prestigious posts within the bureaucracy that deals with Indian Affairs and between it and various governmental agencies. Travels to various indigenous communities, nationally and internationally. Treaties contested, reaffirmed, behind the scenes deals uncovered but which he is not necessarily able to do anything about. Some successes. Some stone walls.
Making that first move, McLeod has left his comfortable urban life, friends, and soon thereafter his partner, Milan. For, yes, to top it all off McLeod is by his own admission homosexual—called "two spirited" in the Native tradition, as he finds out later. At this juncture, though, he is scrupulously careful to hide his private life, depending on secretive one-night stands as an anodyne to his stressful and beleaguered professional life. At some point he even describes this as a "sex addiction"'; at other times he simply covers it up. He mourns the death of his transgender sister, the aforementioned Trina, who dies of an overdose. Somehow, McLeod deals with the wreckage, strewn everywhere, of European colonization, both professionally and, less incisively, personally: the disenfranchisement, displacement, cultural destruction, the addictions, suicides, and not inconsequentially, the confused identities. Yet, he cautions himself,
...I came to understand that, in addition to life's daily trials and tribulations, there are genetic, cultural and historical factors that influence a person's behavior in powerful ways. As a survivor of what some call acculturation and others call genocide, and a survivor of systemic and individual racism, of sexual abuse and other family violence, I would have to remain vigilant for the rest of my life. [Italics mine.]
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The second volume of his memoir occasionally stutters. One gets a bit bogged down with the acronyms for the various agencies McLeod worked or tangled with. (A glossary would have helped.) The ins and outs of bureaucratic maneuverings got a bit tedious. However, in his work for and with Native people he is both clear and realistic. As a negotiator for the Nisga'a Nation's modern land claim and treaty with Canada, then the Nuu-chah-nulth still laying claim to their traditional territory, McLeod does not stint about the history of some Native ancestors' conflicts with one another—Nuu-chah-nulth ancestors' enslaving their conquered enemies, an allusion to a history of cannibalism—nor about the dignity of both group's descendants in what I can only call The Long Wait. Perhaps "Interminable" would be a better adjective.
So the facts of the "cultural genocide," Cardinal's term and a phrase McLeod uses in another part of the book, are unsurprising. Further reflected in his mirror, though, is an individual who is both a good man, dedicated to whatever his part can be in ameliorating the situation for indigenous peoples, yet sometimes rudderless. The book's title itself—one who walks alone—gives him away, His primary Native community has been wounded at its core—how, then, does one honor one's identity in the context of the world he lives in? Even as McLeod returns to some of the spiritual practices of his people, invoking his ancestors at times of crisis, outwardly his urban lifestyle is not distinguished from that of any other professional. He blends in but, inwardly, seems to feel, rightly or wrongly, that he does not quite fit. What, indeed, would a Native's life look like if their personhood was accepted as one way of being in a larger, more inclusive society? Would we be a bit more respectful of the natural world? (McLeod himself makes reference to Natives as being "guardians" of Nature.) Would we all be a bit more community-minded?
Because of that cultural genocide, McLeod has spent both his growing up years and his adulthood with only a minimum familiarity with his mother tongue: he knows some words, but soon gets lost as others lapse into Cree. Thus he has had to teach himself the language of his own people. He seeks out some Cree spiritual practices, but when looking for some further healing balm, he turns to kundalini yoga. He takes a course in how to be a standup comic (the jokes he relates are godawful and painfully self-mocking.) All the while he continues to look for something more substantial. Even coming to terms with being gay does not appear to give him much rest. The absence of a robust community seems to have left McLeod with a compass that sometimes wobbles.
* * * *
In considering the indigenous collectivity, Ngugi wa Thiong'o's phrase, "decolonizing the mind," seems appropriate here. Among other indignities, Ngugi, like the Native children of Canada (and the US) was punished, beaten, in school for speaking Gikuyu, his own language. As an adult, Ngugi's response was, together with fellow Kenyan academics (and those from other parts of the continent,) to assert the centrality of their cultural traditions (esp. what they have called 'orature'--the oral tradition which is every bit as rich and germinal as the West's written one), and to assert the importance of their own languages.[4]
Make no mistake, colonisation teeters between extermination and forced conversion: not only horrendous abuse, out and out seizure of indigenous resources (to quote Proudon, "Property is theft,") not only the imposition of a grim guilt-inducing religion, but also a bald attack on native culture. In that attack, often the most creative aspects of the culture can vanish. One thing colonisation most assuredly is NOT is a "civilising" mission as its apologists arrogantly claim. Take, for example, the case of many British colonial endeavors in which British colonizers aspired create a colonized person "more British than the British," more someone than the someones. Or worse, as McLeod has stated, like the Béothuks of McLeod's book, the people themselves are simply extinguished. This must not happen
Finally, whatever demons McLeod struggles with, he does not hold back; and that makes his work even the more powerful. He writes well and knows there are many stories to tell.
Let him then tell them.
- Bronwyn Mills
So the facts of the "cultural genocide," Cardinal's term and a phrase McLeod uses in another part of the book, are unsurprising. Further reflected in his mirror, though, is an individual who is both a good man, dedicated to whatever his part can be in ameliorating the situation for indigenous peoples, yet sometimes rudderless. The book's title itself—one who walks alone—gives him away, His primary Native community has been wounded at its core—how, then, does one honor one's identity in the context of the world he lives in? Even as McLeod returns to some of the spiritual practices of his people, invoking his ancestors at times of crisis, outwardly his urban lifestyle is not distinguished from that of any other professional. He blends in but, inwardly, seems to feel, rightly or wrongly, that he does not quite fit. What, indeed, would a Native's life look like if their personhood was accepted as one way of being in a larger, more inclusive society? Would we be a bit more respectful of the natural world? (McLeod himself makes reference to Natives as being "guardians" of Nature.) Would we all be a bit more community-minded?
Because of that cultural genocide, McLeod has spent both his growing up years and his adulthood with only a minimum familiarity with his mother tongue: he knows some words, but soon gets lost as others lapse into Cree. Thus he has had to teach himself the language of his own people. He seeks out some Cree spiritual practices, but when looking for some further healing balm, he turns to kundalini yoga. He takes a course in how to be a standup comic (the jokes he relates are godawful and painfully self-mocking.) All the while he continues to look for something more substantial. Even coming to terms with being gay does not appear to give him much rest. The absence of a robust community seems to have left McLeod with a compass that sometimes wobbles.
* * * *
In considering the indigenous collectivity, Ngugi wa Thiong'o's phrase, "decolonizing the mind," seems appropriate here. Among other indignities, Ngugi, like the Native children of Canada (and the US) was punished, beaten, in school for speaking Gikuyu, his own language. As an adult, Ngugi's response was, together with fellow Kenyan academics (and those from other parts of the continent,) to assert the centrality of their cultural traditions (esp. what they have called 'orature'--the oral tradition which is every bit as rich and germinal as the West's written one), and to assert the importance of their own languages.[4]
Make no mistake, colonisation teeters between extermination and forced conversion: not only horrendous abuse, out and out seizure of indigenous resources (to quote Proudon, "Property is theft,") not only the imposition of a grim guilt-inducing religion, but also a bald attack on native culture. In that attack, often the most creative aspects of the culture can vanish. One thing colonisation most assuredly is NOT is a "civilising" mission as its apologists arrogantly claim. Take, for example, the case of many British colonial endeavors in which British colonizers aspired create a colonized person "more British than the British," more someone than the someones. Or worse, as McLeod has stated, like the Béothuks of McLeod's book, the people themselves are simply extinguished. This must not happen
Finally, whatever demons McLeod struggles with, he does not hold back; and that makes his work even the more powerful. He writes well and knows there are many stories to tell.
Let him then tell them.
- Bronwyn Mills
NOTES:
[1] About the title: the Cree word used as a response to dreams shared. McLeod says, "I gave the book that title [Mamaskatch] after going online with some fluent Cree speakers. I asked them what it meant and they gave various meanings, ranging from, 'How strange' to 'It's a miracle.' It is the perfect title."
[2] The US has been no more honest; and persists in being, if not worse, no better. Consider the racist laws passed in Texas that forbid teaching "American" history that includes the truth about indigenous peoples' and other minorities. But as of 29 Oct. 2021, Trudeau has continued to appeal the Canadian human rights tribunal's decision to award compensation to Indigenous children.
[3] “one who walks alone” in Cree.
[4] The most compelling argument in this case is that if you do not use your mother tongue for creative purposes, that language becomes impoverished. Withers on the vine. And many of us have certainly had it drummed into our heads, albeit at times by anthropologists (understandably not so popular with indigenous communities), language is culture. As I have mentioned in other articles here, Ngugi now writes his fiction in Gikuyu, his traditional mother tongue; and his books are immediately snapped up by a Gikuyu readership. Thinking back to my introductory remarks about coalitions, though, as Cardinal himself said, it also helps to have friends. Ngugi translates his work for the benefit of readers outside his community and still writes non-fiction in English. In the recent past, he has also served as head of an academic institute at UC Irvine that specialised in preserving endangered languages.
For further informaton, there are several sites about various groups of Cree.
[1] About the title: the Cree word used as a response to dreams shared. McLeod says, "I gave the book that title [Mamaskatch] after going online with some fluent Cree speakers. I asked them what it meant and they gave various meanings, ranging from, 'How strange' to 'It's a miracle.' It is the perfect title."
[2] The US has been no more honest; and persists in being, if not worse, no better. Consider the racist laws passed in Texas that forbid teaching "American" history that includes the truth about indigenous peoples' and other minorities. But as of 29 Oct. 2021, Trudeau has continued to appeal the Canadian human rights tribunal's decision to award compensation to Indigenous children.
[3] “one who walks alone” in Cree.
[4] The most compelling argument in this case is that if you do not use your mother tongue for creative purposes, that language becomes impoverished. Withers on the vine. And many of us have certainly had it drummed into our heads, albeit at times by anthropologists (understandably not so popular with indigenous communities), language is culture. As I have mentioned in other articles here, Ngugi now writes his fiction in Gikuyu, his traditional mother tongue; and his books are immediately snapped up by a Gikuyu readership. Thinking back to my introductory remarks about coalitions, though, as Cardinal himself said, it also helps to have friends. Ngugi translates his work for the benefit of readers outside his community and still writes non-fiction in English. In the recent past, he has also served as head of an academic institute at UC Irvine that specialised in preserving endangered languages.
For further informaton, there are several sites about various groups of Cree.