Up Ghost River (30 page)

Did she? I looked at her as she handed a bottle of water to me. No. Maybe. Hard to say. I hoped not.

“Wanted to tell me I was breaking the law,” I said.

“What did you say?”

“I said that I had permission.”

“Do you?”

“Not really. From the band, but not the Ministry.”

“Do you think that's right?” Joan said.

“Yes, I do.” I paused. That we would need permission from the Ministry to build on the tiny parcel of land reserved for us by Treaty No. 9 symbolized what was wrong with the laws that govern my people. All the power rested with the Ministry. Every decision, whether it was chopping down a tree, or building your own home, had to be cleared with the higher-ups.

And we were Crees. We were used to giving everyone their freedom, letting them do as they would as long as they didn't harm
others, not suffocated with oppressive rules. This was supposed to be our land. It was where we had lived and hunted and prayed for thousands of years. Sure, we had negotiated its use with the Crown in the early 1900s. Her Majesty's representatives had canoed here and asked our opinions on our land. We fed them and then we spoke together for several days via translators. They said they wanted to use our land in exchange for a few dollars. No one gets something for nothing, and so we asked what they wanted us to give up. They told us that the treaty would not interfere with our lifestyles, or our hunting and fishing. Things would continue as before. When we expressed concerns about these words, they assured us that we shouldn't worry because they were here to help us. We were nervous, especially because we could not read the words they had written on the paper and had to rely on translators, but they assured us that we were signing a treaty. Any treaty, by definition, meant that they acknowledged that we were a sovereign nation with land rights and attendant powers. For us, treaties meant more, being a totem of respect, honour and good will toward the other side.

“I'd never get permission if I wrote to the Ministry,” I said. “Once I finish this place, Alex and Madeline can live in our old place.” Alex and his wife Madeline had nine kids and had already been waiting seven years on the band's housing waitlist. They were currently living with my parents.

“What if one of the DIAND guys flies in and says it's illegal?” Like the Indian Agents, the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development sometimes flew in to check whether we had broken the Indian Act laws.

“Well that's a risk we have to take. Besides,
Amistagoshow ootu na shway we na
. It's only one of those white man's laws.” It was a Cree phrase that poked fun at all the ridiculous laws imposed on us from above.

“Just don't teach that saying to our kids,” she said. “I don't want them growing up on the wrong side of the law.”

“I won't,” I replied, and I blew her a kiss.

There are some people who can silence you with a glance. I don't know what it is about them, but you look into their eyes, and you see something that you can't put a finger on, something that lays you bare. Oliver was like that. He was an old hunting buddy of my pa's. I had started seeing him when I got back to Fort Albany, trying to record all those practices and rituals that help us follow the Red Road before elders like Oliver passed into the Spirit World.

I'd packed my recorder, microphone and notepad. The paper was because in the best moments, people asked me to turn the tape recorder off.
I have something special to tell you. Turn it off
. No please, I said.
This is important. Turn it off
. That's when you knew you were getting the best bits. The stuff that you were supposed to score onto your memory, the words to embed in your heart.

Outside it was brisk. The sun was just burning off the last of the Albany's morning mist.

“Ed. How's it going?” Oliver said coming to the door.

“Pretty good. Been building a house.”

“I heard. Same as your pa. Built it from the ground up.”

“Ours is going to be a bit bigger.”

“That was some squeeze, eh?” he said.

“Made dinnertimes fun.”

“And how's Mattawasini?” That was the name of the drumming group I had founded. I had been keen to introduce our traditions back to the community, and so had brought in several aboriginal drumming groups from Manitoulin Island and North Bay. The musicians had inspired some Fort Albany men, who had started their own drum group and called it Mattawasini, meaning “the singers of
the powerful rock,” named after an ancient stone located 50 kilometres up river that was said to possess spiritual powers that had long anchored our people. The drum is a powerful tradition, as it strikes the heartbeat of Mother Earth. We drop into that rhythm to symbolize the many coming together as one. My time with Dennis LeRoy and George Callingbull had taught me that these teachings, rituals and practices could help us heal as a people and find our place in the world. We could use them to know who we were, build community, and find our voices again.

“It's good. I'm getting the kids involved.”

“That's good. Lots of them don't listen to us anymore. Off partying or playing video games.”

“Some do.”

“Yeah. Jassen and Shannin are good,” he said.

“And Albalina.”

“Yeah. She's turning into quite the woman.” Albalina was eighteen, and had those effortless good looks that strike fear into every father's heart. I looked at Oliver to see what he was driving at, but he was already preoccupied with the kettle, putting it on the stove for bush tea. Once we were finished, I took out my microphone and turned it on. Oliver put his hand over the mic.

“Just a minute, Ed. You once told me that you wanted to bring the St. Anne's nuns and priests to justice.”

“Still do. Eventually.”

“So when is eventually?”

“I have to become chief first.”

“So you're running?”

“Ahh … I dunno. All that work and answering to the Ministry. It's a bit of a headache.”

“You're starting to sound like a wemistikoshiw,” Oliver said.

“I'm living in their system.”

“The wemistikoshiw have built many prisons. Don't let them build one inside your mind.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He pointed to his heart. “You already know, Ed.”

A few months later, we were in the St. Anne's school hall. The government took over the building in 1969 and, in 1973, kicked out all the nuns and replaced them with lay people, but the place still freaked me out. I hated it when they had meetings in here, but there was no other space. A memory flashed before my eyes: the faces of 140 boys just before I was electrocuted, all transfixed, some scared, hardened or upset, and a few with the glint of sadistic curiosity. Those were the ones that terrified me, as they wore an expression that I saw in myself. I could feel myself being pulled back into anger, and I reached into my pocket. My fingers curled around a tight ball—a cloth bag filled with tobacco. Oliver had given it to me as a reminder not to get pulled into emotion, to let it pass through you so you can follow the Red Road. The herb that teaches us about giving thanks for our own existence. How to follow a spiritual path. I had forgotten to take it out of my pocket, and here it was in my time of need.

I was sitting on a row of chairs, facing an audience of one hundred and fifty adults and about fifty kids. Not everyone in the town—we couldn't squeeze everyone in here; besides, in a population of eight hundred, there were six hundred kids. Next to me were the two other candidates for chief, the incumbent Louis Nakogee, and Simeon Soloman. Louis spoke first. He said the usual stuff, the things that all chiefs tell their constituents.
I'll get the Ministry to make good on their treaty promises. There will be more services. There will be more fresh water. There will be houses for all
.

I looked about the room. We have these elections every two years. Almost without fail, the candidates make the same promises. And every
time, my people buy it and vote for them. Or maybe they don't buy it but they still vote for them. The candidates do their best, I guess. They mean all their promises, even if they don't have the power to keep them.

You wanna build a fence? Talk to the Minister. Want to set up a business? Write him a letter. You wanna get a mortgage on your house? Ask his permission. Then learn the reserve's favourite activity: the gentle art of waiting.

The Indian Act is written like they are doing us a favour, but that's what it means. The Minister decides how we should keep our land, roads, fences and houses. We are not allowed to do anything on reserve land without getting his clearance. Then they wonder why Indians don't take more initiative. When it was my turn, I walked to the front of the stage and looked out across a packed hall.

“You know,” I said, “when I was a kid my parents sent me away to the residential school just over the bridge. St. Anne's. Where we're sitting today. They told me that it was necessary to learn the way of the wemistikoshiw. They said that would be the only way we could get jobs and get out of debt. We had to give up our culture because it was holding us back.

“So we did. We learned that the vision quest and the shaking tent were wrong. We learned that Jesus Christ, not Gitchi Manitou, was our lord and saviour. We learned that we were backwards and needed to be civilized by people whose idea of civilization was to stick us in electric chairs. We were told we were dirty savages by people who would make us stand naked with feces-covered clothing on our heads. That we were dogs, by people who made us eat our own vomit.” I paused, looking out at the audience. Some people looked shocked. Like this was not what they had expected from an election speech. It was getting too heavy, and I had to bring us all back to safer waters.

“We accepted all these ideas because we were used to being
silenced, because any resistance—whether it was against the terms of the treaties or the Indian Agents or the Potlatch laws—was put down.

“So this morning, I walked past the band office, and you know what I saw? I saw a big lineup for welfare. And I heard people complaining there were no jobs. Unemployment at 80 percent. And talking about their debt.

“Many of you gave away your children so that our community would no longer have these problems. So we would have more jobs. So that our kids could look forward to a better life. That's what my parents did. They put me in a place where kids were being abused. Whipped. Half starved. They told me the nuns would look after me.

“They did it because they wanted a different future for me. They were prepared to make great sacrifices. But it turns out that those promises couldn't be kept. St. Anne's has been in the community for almost a hundred years, and yet those issues—the joblessness and debt—have gotten worse.

“I think it's time that we stopped accepting the wemistikoshiw solutions to our problems. I think it's time that we return to the treaties and the traditions. The wemistikoshiw have taken our land and resources. They put Indian Agents, Hudson's Bay managers, priests and the RCMP in charge. They fly experts in here to fix things and take care of our problems, but they don't listen to what needs fixing. They ignore us when we say that we want to do these things for ourselves. We have long been a resilient people. Self-reliant. Resourceful. In my dad's day, nature had a quick way of punishing those who were lazy. They didn't survive the winter. They starved.

“A long time ago, before any of us were born, Chief Big Bear used to remind his people that the Crees were a proud, independent people. We took care of each other and of ourselves. He warned us not to get too dependent on the handouts of the white man. I am telling my people that we need to do the same. We have the intelligence and will
to do everything that the wemistikoshiw does. We need to start believing in ourselves again. To know that however hard it is, we can do it. We are worthy. We need to take our power back.

“So if you elect me, I can't promise that I'll get the Ministry to build more houses. I can't promise that I'll get them to install a new sewage plant or running water. I will try to do all of these things. But what I will focus on is giving each of you more control over your own destiny. If you elect me, I will focus on taking our power back from the Ministry and giving it to our people, the Mushkegowuk. We are the Crees of Northern Ontario. We are a sovereign nation. A proud, independent people. We must remember what it is to follow the Red Road. What it is to stand tall and say, ‘This is who I am. This is what is right. This is what I believe in.' We must be strong in our struggle and strong in ourselves.”

I finished talking and looked at Oliver across the room. He nodded, then pointed to his heart, a sign that I had spoken from my soul and in the spirit of the eagle, with love and wisdom.

We voted by secret ballot. I won by a landslide—110 people voted for me. That evening we celebrated at my parents' house. Ma had cooked smoked pike, goose, mashed potatoes, cranberry jam, and mac and cheese. We were all there: Ma and Pa, Alex and his wife Madeline and their daughter Evelyn, Mary-Louise, Chris, Leo, Jane, Denise, Mike, Marcel, Danny, Albalina, Shannin, Jassen, Joan and myself squished around a long wooden table.

“When will we have this at your place?” Ma said.

“We're getting there. Right, Jassen?”

“Yep,” he said, grabbing some homemade bread.

“You know your pa tried to take our power back,” Ma said. “Tried to take control over policing on the reserve. The Indian Agent didn't think much of the idea,” she said.

“Things are different now, Ma,” I said. We'd gained a little more control over our own affairs when the Indian Act had changed three years ago in 1985. Now our band council could make their own hires for construction, reserve services and cultural programs. Of course, they still needed wemistikoshiw supervisors, but it was a start.