This weekend saw a number of events held to mark the 199th birthday of Canada’s first Prime Minister, Sir John A. Macdonald. At one such event, it seems guests were encouraged to dress up in period costume, circa mid-to-late 1800s, the era when ‘SirJAM’ intermittently served as PM.
[EDITOR’S NOTE: The costumed woman in this picture is NOT Niru Kumar: Ms. Kumar only took and shared a photograph of the woman and her similarly costumed acquaintance. We apologize unreservedly for the error. As is tradition on the Internet, we will strikethrough (like so) the mistaken text but leave it in for accountability purposes.]
Among those costumed revelers, the pair of people you see pictured here, neither of whom are First Nations. The picture originally appeared on Twitter, but has since been taken down after [the photographer of] the woman in the picture faced an instant and sustained backlash, particularly from Indigenous people. In taking down the tweet, the woman [photographer] (Niru Kumar, who happens to be a member of the media and a lawyer in Toronto) also apologized. For some, it seemed, the move was too little, too late, but others apparently took it as a teachable moment.
In any case, the titter on Twitter was amazing to witness: and so, to try and capture some of the contours and dimensions of this uproar, I thought I’d pull together some of this reaction and consequent discussion in a Storify. See what you think.
Jane Glennon (Woodland Cree), B.A., B.S.W., M.S.W., is a retired social worker, counsellor and teacher who currently lives in Prince Albert, SK. This is the fourth in her series of writings for MI about her time at residential school and beyond.
Assiniboia IRS as it appears today
Upon my arrival in the Fall of 1958 at the Assiniboia Indian Residential High School in Winnipeg, it wouldn’t be long before I once again found myself disappointed with the way things were run.
In my late teens by this point, I was a reluctant student. But the parish priest and my parents never wavered: both were still firm that I continue my education, so that I might fulfil the potential they saw in me. “You are smart, and learn quick,” I’ll always remember my mother saying. “You can become something and have a good life,” she’d urge.
Speaking of potential, after my first two schools, I thought this experience might prove more modern and uplifting. But the same basic rules and regulations were in place at Assiniboia. There was one difference: the order to which the sisters belonged, namely, the Grey Nuns. Along with the Oblate Fathers, they administered the school, in co-operation with the federal government. There was even an Aboriginal nun. Some students related to her but, beyond being understanding and helpful in some areas, she couldn’t really obtain any concessions for us. Yet more disappointment, I guess.
At Assiniboia, I was mostly preoccupied with trying to get good grades but at the same time got very homesick, even if I was now older. That sense of forced isolation from loved ones was one shared by many of my classmates. On the edge of this fenced yard where we all played baseball, my girl friends and I endlessly walked and reminisced about our homes or boyfriends. Many years later, I revisited those school grounds: the path we used to walk, week after week, was still visible.
There were times that I tried to act on my homesickness. Once, a couple of friends and I tried to run away. We didn’t get very far, however: possessing neither the money nor the courage to venture into the big city, we soon turned back. Another time, me and a friend from my reserve missed home so much we protested by locking ourselves in the bathroom, refusing to go to class. Eventually, the principal came and talked us out of there by persuading us that it was important that we continue our education. Looking back, I’m thankful he did, as both my friend and I went on to make something of ourselves by following a learning path.
But now, school wasn’t just about books for me: it was also about boys. Of course, at Assiniboia, having boyfriends consisted of smiling across the dining hall and waving. (Still, some may have stolen a little kiss or two in a forbidden part of the school now and then.)
Secret letters or notes were also a way of communicating young love. A relationship I had with a Cree boy at Assiniboia was memorable in part because love notes I’d written got snatched up somehow by a teacher. When I consequently got taken to the principal, I knew I had to think fast. Believing myself to be the rather convincing sort, I pleaded with the principal not to read my notes in front of the whole student body. It took some effort but, on the promise that I would never do such a thing ever again, I managed to succeed. Such theatrics over the foolish musings of a boy and girl caught up in innocent puppy love!
Not so loving was the rivalry between Cree students and our more numerous Saulteaux / Ojibway classmates. (At my previous schools, conflict between the Cree and Dene children was less obvious.) Tensions never really escalated beyond the verbal at Assiniboia: the only scars that came out of it were hurt egos. When those negative comments did come our way, we Crees retaliated by outsmarting our Ojibway counterparts through other channels, such as games or academics.
* * *
By spring time, some of the girls would literally count the days until we were headed home. After ten straight months of forced separation from our families, we were deeply relieved to rejoin them. The happiness I felt when the plane touched down and I could once again see the smiling faces of my waiting parents is something I’ll never forget.
My mother would try to make a special meal to welcome us home. I remember one time she had cooked Kraft Dinner — not nearly so common then as it is now — attempting to stretch it so that we would all have some to enjoy. Simple as it was, to me the meal was fantastic. I understood that my parents did not have much, but they tried their best to let us know that we were special.
These all-too-short summer holidays over, I dreaded the idea of going back to school and being away from my family for so many months. It never got easier. One year, I hid under a big wooden bed to avoid going back. When the parish priest and the Indian Agent first came for me, they told my parents that I had lots of potential and shouldn’t waste it. Then they said that it was against the law to hold back a school age child. Unable to win my parents over by persuasion, these officials turned to threats to make me go back.
* * *
Not all of my troubles were confined to the grounds of the residential school. In fact, what I am about to tell you took place while I was at home on holidays. It is the story of my first experience of sexual abuse.
That dreadful summer, I was about eleven years of age, maybe younger: I’m not entirely sure anymore. As we did every season, our family’s tradition was to either go camping or head to my father’s commercial fishing spot. Sometimes, this expedition would grow to include friends and extended family.
At night, we’d all share a tent: sleeping arrangements consisted of me being sandwiched by my parents on one side, a man (one I’ve decided not to name here) on the other. As the evening wore on, he must have moved closer and closer into the space I was sleeping. I cannot say exactly what happened next because I don’t remember, but I do know with certainty that I had been sexually abused for, when I woke up, I was hurting and wet between my legs.
I was scared to tell my mother about it because I thought she would not believe me: this man was someone my mother liked very much. For the longest time, I was angry at her for not hearing anything while I was being abused. I even came to believe that she did hear something but chose to say nothing. However, reasoning that such a thing would be too horrible to do to one’s young child, I let the notion drop.
While my mother was alive, I never had the courage to ask her about what took place. Making it worse was how this man subsequently tried to lay the blame on me for the abuse, ridiculing me and calling me names. I used to feel awful and mad but, again, did not have the courage to tell anyone about what he’d done to me.
As I got older, I tried to forget. I even prayed for my mother and this man, right up until their deaths. With professional help, I have slowly come to terms with what happened, to the point where I can now share my story with you today. I do so knowing there are more and more revelations of such abuse, with media reports revealing its prevalence among Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal families alike. I’ve also heard similar stories first-hand from people that I know well. And yet, due to a sense of shame and people’s tendency to somehow lay the blame on themselves, no one reports this abuse, leaving them to carry around this misplaced guilt alone for years.
* * *
At around 14, I got a job working summers at a fish plant; my starting wage was eighty cents an hour. I was part of a crew whose task it was to pick lice-like worms out from fish fillets. We’d clean the fillets on a glass table that was lit from below so we could better make out the worms. Thinking back, I am sure the boss was breaking some sort of labour laws by hiring underage girls. However, because I was finally earning some money to help the family, I didn’t ask questions.
After I left the Assiniboia Residential School, the parish priest made arrangements for me to join Assumption House, an organization that trained lay missionaries up north in The Pas, Manitoba. I must admit that was never my ambition. It’s clear to me now that the priest had always wanted me to leave the reserve and, for him, this was a good reason for doing so.
When I got to Assumption House, I was shocked to learn that I in fact had been slated to finish my grade 11 and 12 at none other than Guy Hill Indian Residential School! It had since been renovated to accommodate high schoolers, and I was left no choice but to start classes at a place I thought I’d never set foot in again. Though the surroundings were familiar, the teaching staff came from a different order of nuns. I felt invisible to them. I also felt trapped as I revisited my memories all over again. Most of all, I felt profoundly alone.
Surrounded by nothing but white faces, I heard not a single word of kindness or encouragement from these nuns. Unable to stand this unkind, uncaring environment for more than a few months, I was done. Though I’m sure it disappointed a few people, I’d made up my mind: I would quit school and the missionary training in order to return home to my reserve.
I’ve written here before of the potential of Indigenous crowdfunding campaigns: today, I thought I’d do a quick scan of actual projects that people hope to fund through sites like Kickstarter and Indiegogo.
Leela Gilday is a long-standing Dene folk/roots singer/songwriter based in Yellowknife, NWT with three full-length, award-winning recordings to her name. Here’s her pitch:
My campaign is to assist me in recording my fourth album, which I plan to do in February in Winnipeg, Manitoba. With the help of wonderful producer Murray Pulver, and my trusty bandmates, we hope to record 12 beautiful tracks that capture my songwriting and the beautiful vocal and instrumental arrangements. I plan to release this CD in the spring of 2014.
For a $1,000 contribution, you can take away her biggest ‘perk,’ a “solo acoustic house concert for you & 10 of your friends… anywhere within Canada.” Categorized as a ‘Flexible Funding’ campaign (i.e., it will receive all funds raised even if it does not reach its goal), it closes February 6.
“Just Another Dead Indian: Phase 2” is a film-related crowdfunding call, one that builds on an earlier Indiegogo campaign for, you guessed it, Phase 1. The project is a feature-length docudrama that explores “the senseless deaths of 10 Aboriginal men in Canada over a span of 25 years.” This time around, contributions would go toward the costs of a re-enactment scene, interviews and post-production, among other expenses. For just $160, you can see your name appear in the film’s credits (plus other goodies). This Flexible Funding campaigns end January 9. The clock is ticking!
Clayton Windatt is a Métis curator, visual/media artist and arts administrator based out of North Bay, Ontario, and his campaign is simply entitled “Help Clayton buy a Panono Camera.” It’s a crazy cool-looking panoramic camera ball that he pledges to use “for the powers of awesome and share a lot of great moments with the world. ART MOMENTS!” Note that Clayton’s set up what’s known as a Fixed Funding drive, so he only receives funds if a minimum $600 is raised by the fast-approaching deadline of January 12. Otherwise, he gets nada.
The Tar Sands Speakers Tour hopes you’ll cover some of the costs associated with transporting First Nations activists Crystal Lameman (left) and Eriel Deranger across the US states of New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts and Maine. (The Tour will also feature the images of National Geographic Photographer Garth Lenz.) They will share “stories of the environmental and human costs of tar sands extraction… [including] Mikisew Cree, Beaver Lake Cree, and Athabasca Chipewyan First Nations.” Its deadline is January 11.
Meanwhile, the StartSomeGood website is hosting a campaign aimed at supporting the health-related work of The Western Desert Nganampa Walytja Palyantjaku Tjutaku Aboriginal Corporation (WDNWPT) in Western Australia. They hope to get help with the cost of acquiring a dialysis chair for the very remote community of Kiwirrkurra. Among the higher value pledge rewards up for grabs, some bush medicine products prepared right in the community. Their campaign closes January 30.
Prisoner rehabilitation: it’s often referred to as a system set up to fail. Only it seems to fail some much more than others.
An ongoing issue that’s only growing, Indigenous women are filling up Canada’s prisons. But once released, many of these women are left to face a harsh reality.
“Basically, they’re dropped off in Toronto and there’s no real transition,” says Patti Pettigrew, a caseworker at Aboriginal Legal Services (ALS), an agency serving the city’s Indigenous community. “It’s not addressing their needs, so they find themselves re-offending.”
Pettigrew has seen a high number of Indigenous women end up in Toronto after serving their sentences. Most come from the Grand Valley Institution for Women, a federal prison based in Kitchener, Ontario.
But Pettigrew says the statistics and outcomes point to the need to make more options available to these women. At close to 32 per cent of all incarcerated females, Indigenous women have been deemed the country’s fastest growing prison population — an 85.7 per cent increase over the past decade.
Having spent a little over a year in Grand Valley, Mary Ann Villeneuve says she saw firsthand this spike in Indigenous incarceration. At the time she was locked up for a violent crime back in 2010, Villeneuve says there were just 12 Indigenous women at Grand Valley, including the ‘max unit.’
By the time she got out in fall 2011, the member of the Nipissing First Nation (near North Bay, Ontario) says “that number grew to sixty” in the minimum/medium security area.
Founded to help women such as Villeneuve, the Toronto Aboriginal Social Services Council (TASSC) has an ambitious vision for their future — to build an urban healing lodge for federally-sentenced Indigenous women. The ‘Thunder Woman Healing Lodge‘ would include Indigenous values and traditions, with a focus on education.
“The real desire for it has to do with the work that we do everyday, and the people we see every day and the families and community that is affected everyday,” says Christa Big Canoe, legal advisory director at ALS, one of TASSC’s ten member organizations. “A number of [these women] live in cities and that’s where they found themselves having issues with the law to start with.”
Paul McKenzie, director of investigations at the Office of the Correctional Investigator (OCI), an ombudsman for federally-sentenced prisoners, made this trend clear in Spirit Matters, a report released earlier this year.
“What we found is that 70 per cent of Aboriginal released offenders do not return to a First Nation community, but often go to an urban setting,” says McKenzie. “One of our recommendations was to start looking at urban communities.”
Thunder Woman Healing Lodge would fall under section 81 of the Corrections and Conditional Release Act (CCRA), allowing the transfer and custody of an Indigenous offender into a community rather than a CSC institution.
Section 84, another provision designed to address the over-representation of Indigenous offenders, allows them to be returned and released to their community.
Currently, there are a total of eight lodges in the country: four managed by First Nation community organizations, four by CSC. However, only one is a “section 81” meant for Indigenous women: Buffalo Sage Wellness House in Edmonton, managed by the Native Counselling Services of Alberta.
Allen Benson, CEO for the agency, said it took the organization one year to get Buffalo Sage up and running. “It was a real effort to make it happen,” says Benson. “There is definitely a need for healing lodges, especially for women.”
Paul McKenzie agrees. “Whatever programs the government looks at or wants to look at in terms of supporting or addressing their needs, I think are important and worthy of study and consideration,” says McKenzie.
For Villeneuve, she remembers how hard it was to attend a sweat lodge ceremony during her parole. “I had to fight with CSC hand over fist to get what I wanted,” says Villeneuve.
“This is something sacred: we look at this differently than how they look at their laws. That’s where that divider is,” adds Villeneuve.
In Spirit Matters, the OCI asserted that CSC is failing to meet its legislative obligations under sections 81 and 84.
According to the report, despite 3,500 Indigenous inmates, only sixty-eight “section 81” beds were available, with not one of those beds set up in all of BC, Ontario, Atlantic or the North. There has also been no further work on new section 81 facilities since 2001, despite the growing number of Indigenous offenders.
Where they do exist, Indigenous-controlled lodges face both underfunding and salary/benefit disparities compared to their CSC counterparts.
Working together, the Doctor’s Lions Club of Toronto and TASSC are spearheading several fund-raising events to hire a project manager to begin the research process. It is their goal to apply for a Lion’s Club matching grant of $75,000 next year. As well, the team currently has an Indiegogo campaign, and a benefit concert is also in the works.
Despite the challenges, Patti Pettigrew is determined: “There’ll be people who just don’t agree with the whole concept,” says Pettigrew. “But it has to happen.”
Elizabeth Brass Elson remembers standing on the picket line when she was just seventeen-years-old.
Elizabeth Brass Elson at Camp Nibi. Photo courtesy: Hayden King
Her mother, once a member of the Canadian Armed Forces, was with a group of women trying to form a union.
Elson says her mother taught her to make a stand in times of need. Today, she is doing just that.
Originally from the Beausoleil First Nation in Ontario’s Simcoe County, Elson is now living at Springwater Provincial Park. She and a small group having been occupying the park – approximately 10 kilometres from Barrie, Ontario – since early April 2013.
The small group is made up of people from other Indigenous nations. They’re based in a part of the park they call ‘Camp Nibi,’ meaning “uncompromised water” in the Ojibwe language.
“We plan on keeping our lodge here forever, we don’t plan on going anywhere soon,” she says.
According to Elson, the area was historically used by Indigenous peoples. She says she is exercising her right based on Article 26 of the United Nations Declaration of Indigenous Peoples; having the right to lands and resources that were once traditionally occupied.
Known as an environmental champion, Elson was also behind the protest against Mega Quarry and Dump Site 41 – the creation of a rock quarry and a landfill in Ontario. Despite heavy pressure for the projects to go through, both projects were ultimately stopped.
As an Anishinabe woman, Elson says it is her duty to protect the water from harm.
Made up of 193 hectares, including12 kilometres of trails, Springwater Provincial Park is a major headwater to the internationally recognized Minesing Wetland, and has been regarded as a place of ecological importance since the 1930s.
Front entrance of Springwater Provincial Park. Photo courtesy: Hayden King
But on March 31st, Ontario Parks took down its flag and changed the park’s status to non-operational due to low visitation and funding. To run the park annually it costs $60,000.
With a gated entrance, visitors may still access the park but washrooms, running water and grass maintenance will no longer be provided. It is part of the province’s plan to pull itself out of debt.
Springwater, along with six other parks have been shut down and since then groups like Camp Nibi, both native and non-native have taken an active interest in the park.
Don Morgan, chair of AWARE Simcoe, an environmental group worries the park will get sold to an offshore developer.
But Ken Lacroix, program manager with Ontario Parks says the province is only interested in business proposals from potential partners to open the park for 2014 operating season.
“What they’re doing is divide and conquer basically,” says Morgan about the government’s approach.
“As time goes on, the Mega Quarry was stopped, Site 41 was stopped, you would think after that the government would start getting the message that people are not going to put up with this nonsense anymore.”
Les Stewart, long-time resident of Simcoe county and supporter of Camp Nibi is also concerned.
“They’re cherry-picking who they have meetings with and that doesn’t indicate good faith,” says Stewart.
So far the Ministry has not received a viable business proposal from anyone to give due consideration, says Lacroix.
“The ministry is not going to be operating the park so anybody that comes forward will have to have a viable business proposal.”
Ian Johnson, chief negotiator for the Chippewa Tri-Council, an alliance of three First Nation communities in southern Ontario, understands the province may have economic concerns but still feels this is the wrong approach.
“Not everything in life, in particular parks or protected areas should come down to economics. There’s some higher social, cultural benefit to a park than simply a business model,” says Johnson.
According to Johnson, if lands are being used by the crown for a purpose such as a park and ceases to use those lands for that public interest, then there’s an argument that Indigenous interests should advance.
“At a minimum it calls for a dialogue,” says Johnson with those who take an interest in the park.
Even though Elson is from Beausoleil First Nation, she is acting separately from the community.
By occupying the park, Camp Nibi is showing their interest.
Camp Nibi. Photo courtesy: Hayden King
“We do have some things on the table and its just a matter of time before we can let them out,” says Elson.
It is the group’s goal to see Springwater as an educational and spiritual centre. So far, they’ve held full moon and drumming ceremonies, children’s programming and feasts.
Elson is hoping other First Nations will follow her footsteps.
“I wish that they all do this somewhere wherever there’s a park and it’s First Nation land,” she says.
“I think they should take this as a template and take back control of our land.”
Hayden King, assistant professor in the department of politics and public administration department at Ryerson University says Elson’s actions represent a broader trend of First Nations reclaiming provincial parks.
Parts of Awenda Provincial Park was reclaimed by two First Nations a few years ago, and Nishnawbe Aski Nation people have been violating park regulations to fish and hunt, says Hayden.
“The reclamation of Ipperwash can also be added to the list or even the 1974 reclamation of Anicinabe Park near Kenora.”
Camp Ipperwash, an area once used for military purposes by the federal government during World War II was eventually transferred back to the people of Kettle and Stony Point First Nation. But it didn’t happen without a bitter war between both governments and First Nation, and the death of Dudley George from Stony Point First Nation, who was shot and killed by an OPP officer.
“The difference between Camp Nibi and all these other examples has been the lack of violence and lack of prosecutions,” says Hayden.
Determined and refusing to leave the park, Elson has no intention of letting things get out of hand.
“This will be her third victory, Dump Site 41 and Mega Quarry and now Springwater Park,” says Les Stewart about Elson.
“If they [MNR} are playing a game of delay hoping the freezing temperature and lack of snow clearing will force Elizabeth off, they’ve really chosen the wrong activist.”
Elson is now in her 7 month of occupying the park. Slowly with temperatures dropping she is enjoying her stay.
“This land is very spiritual, it grabs you when you come here,” says Elson.
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This weekend saw a number of events held to mark the 199th birthday of Canada’s first Prime Minister, Sir John A. Macdonald. At one such event, it seems guests were encouraged to dress up in period costume, circa mid-to-late 1800s, the era when ‘SirJAM’ intermittently served as PM.
