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  • The Politics of Skin Colour

    Born and raised on the Okanese First Nation in Saskatchewan, Dawn Dumont is a Plains Cree comedian, author, playwright and actress. With works featured in the anthologies Native Women in the Arts, Gatherings, and the Rampage Literary Journal, Dawn published her first novel, Nobody Cries at Bingo, last year.

    As you will soon figure out, the title of this essay is misleading. It probably sounds like it will resemble a graduate thesis of some earnest poli-sci major but in fact it will turn out to be little more than an outlet for my grouchy musings about how much people suck. But I digress.

    My troubles all began when I went out with my younger sister on St. Paddy’s Day. She has the worst taste in men. I used to think I did too but if they gave out prizes for bad taste in men (other than STDs, that is), she would receive the Oscar, while I would be making do with a pat on the back from the director/soccer mom at a local community theatre.

    My sister and I are Cree/Metis. Our parents possess different levels of melanin and, in the DNA washing machine, she came out brown with light hair and I came out dark haired with creamy beige skin (which would also be my stripper name if I could afford breast implants). Growing up, my immediate family assigned no value to skin colour. In fact, me and my other sisters often lamented our lack of colour and envied our baby sister’s colouring.

    Now, on this particular adventure, my baby sister and I were hanging out with two Native dudes. I do not know where she met them; I suspect it begins with a Plenty and ends with a Fish. Let’s call them (’cause I didn’t bother to learn their real names) ‘Eric’ and ‘Jake.’ Eric has dark skin, dark hair and (sigh) frosted tips. Jake was a young man with light brown hair, lighter skin and a set of teeth that looked like they were trying to run away from his face. Seriously, his teeth were literally cascading out of his mouth like a waterfall. If you were on acid, looking at his face would make you trip the fuck out. Actually staring at his face long enough might make you feel like you were on acid.

    The guys kept asking us our ages because they were incredibly drunk and also because they were ageists. They would ask, I would tell them, and then they would say, “Well, that’s not old.” To which I would say, “I know.” Every ten minutes, we would repeat the exchange.

    I didn’t care for the company but my sister seemed into Eric (bad taste rears its ugly head again). I also stayed because I had a glass of green wine in front of me (the bartender made it especially for me: the highlight of my night).

    After they asked us our ages yet again, my sister told Eric that she thought he might be East Indian the first time she saw him. He said he got that all the time. At this point, Snaggle-tooth interjected, “Yeah, he’s a black motherfucker!”

    His friend smiled benignly. My sister laughed politely. I rolled my eyes and refocused my attention back to my cellphone where I was trying to post a picture of how much fun I was having to Facebook.

    Toothface Jake interpreted our lacklustre responses as encouragement: “In my family, I am the whitest looking Native. That’s right, I gots the lightest skin in ma family. Yup, I am so white lookin’, it’s unreal!”

    I quickly checked my watch to make sure that we hadn’t been transported back to the 1920s. I’m no stranger to internalized racism. I know it exists. I’m very familiar with Chris Rock’s infamous “Niggers vs. Black people” bit. But it’s still jarring to see it played out in front of you.

    I wanted to point out to young Horse-mouth that his white skin didn’t make him better than us darkies. (Nor better looking, obviously.) But, feeling that Jake’s self-esteem was already in a fragile state (a sense I got merely by looking at him), I gently asked, “Did that make you feel different from your family?”

    Jake replied that he was glad he wasn’t “born black like this loser,” pointing to his friend. Then he asked me again how old I was.

    I was disappointed because this young Native man had swallowed the white-skin-good, dark-skin-bad Koolaid. Then I felt sad because there are so many things we need to fight for — getting an equal part of the economic pie, protecting our treaty rights, and improving education for our children — that we don’t have the time to be mired in self-hate.

    I was about to bring up these points when Eric called the waitress a bitch because she was taking too long to bring him his green beer. It was then that I decided that an intelligent conversation about racial politics wasn’t going to happen with this crew, so I packed up my self-righteousness and retired to the dance floor where I shook my modest native booty as proudly and stoically as I could.

  • No Colonialism Here: An all-too-easy journalists guide to Canada’s aboriginals

    Underwood No. 5

    Some time ago, I read a newspaper column written by a then-expatriate Kenyan living in Johannesburg. At the time, Binyavanga Wainaina‘s piece made me put down my coffee, set down the Mail & Guardian newspaper, and scribble his name into my notebook and onto the back of my brain.

    His story was funny, true, insulting, provocative, disturbing, unsettling, true, accurate, hilarious… and true. Entitled “How to Write About Africa,” Wainaina’s article created a handy guide for foreign journalists, bloggers, writers of books, film and TV documentaries and feature films heading off to the ‘Dark Continent’ of myth and lore in search of fame and fortune. Here’s a taste:

    Always use the word ‘Africa’ or ‘Darkness’ or ‘Safari’ in your title. Subtitles may include the words ‘Zanzibar’, ‘Masai,’ ‘Zulu,’ ‘Zambezi,’ ‘Congo,’ ‘Nile,’ ‘Big,’ ‘Sky,’ ‘Shadow,’ ‘Drum,’ ‘Sun’ or ‘Bygone.’ Also useful are words such as ‘Guerrillas,’ ‘Timeless,’ ‘Primordial’ and ‘Tribal.’ Note that ‘People’ means Africans who are not black, while ‘The People’ means black Africans.

    Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

    In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don’t get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn’t care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

    Go read the rest of Wainaina’s take on things. Meantime, I’d like to take his template and try it out on Canada, to promote similar standards of journalism about Indigenous peoples here. I shall title my humble attempt at the sincerest form of flattery, “No Colonialism in Canada,” or…

    SO YOU WANT TO WRITE
    ABOUT CANADA’S ABORIGINALS
    (h/t PM Stephen Harper)

    »→ • ←«

    Keep it lowercase!

    Let’s start with spelling and nomenclature. Always use the word ‘aboriginal’ with a small ‘a.’ Use ‘aboriginal’ instead of Indian, Métis or Inuit. If you’re writing a story in the high Arctic, who cares if there isn’t a single, solitary Indian or Métis within a thousand kilometres or more? Similarly, use ‘aboriginal’ if you’re writing about treaty rights on a northern reserve. Nobody cares if there aren’t any Métis or Inuit in the story, or that only Indians signed treaties. Details like this can confuse the reader and audience. Facts and details are to be avoided. Your audience won’t know or care. Most likely, the Inuit in that story about the Arctic won’t complain or raise a fuss. Neither will those Indians in that treaty story. Literacy levels are low. They probably can’t afford to subscribe to your newspaper or news service. Why waste a lot of words when one will do — ‘aboriginal?’ (Don’t forget to use the small ‘a’: no need to suggest any complicated legal significance by using a capital ‘A.’)

    Lose it

    Avoid using the term ‘Aboriginal peoples‘ — that pluralizing ‘s’ also has legal complications. It’s like that term older journalists once used, ‘native peoples.’ The ‘s‘ at the end of ‘peoples‘ meant something in international law. Why get into any of that? Who cares? Back then, we journalists called them all ‘natives’ with a small ‘n’ and they seemed quite happy. Maybe people in Africa, Asia or Australia didn’t like being called “natives,” but our natives didn’t mind. Our “aboriginals” don’t mind today either.

    Make sure you use the possessive, such as “our aboriginals” or “Canada’s aboriginals.” It reminds everyone in your audience who really owns this country and who’s in charge. Don’t encourage minor irritants who cling to notions of self-determination.

    Avoid any of the 36 different legal classifications about our aboriginals. It can lead to endless complications. Just try to explain the Indian Act ! Doing so might require an explanation as to why 6.1 Status is different from 6.2. Or why Métis in the west think Métis in the east are a myth. Why Treaty 8 people think they’re better than Treaty 7. Why Inuit are deemed “Indian” under the Indian Act. It just serves to makes the head spin. Why bother?

    The terms ‘Mohawk,’ ‘smuggler,’ ‘criminal,’ ‘lawless,’ ‘chaotic,’ ‘AK-47 toting,’ and ‘masked warrior’ are completely interchangeable. If you feel you’ve overused one of them, you may replace it with any one of the other terms. Consult locals for commonly used terms on issues in other parts of Canada, such as fishing or logging on the east or west coasts.

    Don’t waste time going into the details of the different histories, societies, cultures, value systems, laws, systems of governance, religions of the Mi’kmaq, Mohawk, Innu, Anishnabe, Saulteaux, Lakota, Dakota, Li’lwat, Tahltan, Haida, G’wichin, etcetera. Look at all the words wasted even listing them! Aboriginals, er, aboriginals (sorry for the errant uppercase A) won’t read or watch what you do. Or if they did, they’d never complain. Your reading and viewing audiences don’t care either. Don’t waste a lot of space using such national identities. You can’t afford to and it will only confuse things.

    Most of your audience has never heard of these tribes or nations. Your audience doesn’t need to know that they’re different from one another, hence you — the journalist — don’t need to either. Yesterday’s generation of journalists didn’t need to explain these things, why should you? So what if your audience doesn’t know anything about the tribe or nation where aboriginals live or work? Your audience has way more important things to think about.

    Remember: you can’t go wrong staying as unspecific as possible. Forget the facts. Dump the details. Use one word: “aboriginals.” Simple. No muss, no fuss. No complications.

    Follow these simple guidelines and you too may cover Canada’s aboriginals with confidence.

  • POLL: Is Johnny Depp’s ‘Tonto’ a salute or slight to native people?

    I like you, Johnny Depp, I really do. You were great in Donnie Brasco and amazing in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

    Johnny Depp as Tonto. (Disney/Bruckheimer Films)

    But lately I’m having second thoughts. This past week a photo emerged of Depp as the classic Native American movie character Tonto in a remake of the famed Lone Ranger films.

    Depp has told media that he intends to ‘salute Native Americans’ and push boundaries with this depiction of Tonto — but that really doesn’t change the fact that it’s a white dude dressed as an Indigenous person, and I really thought we were beyond that.

    With all the Native American actors in Hollywood, we really couldn’t have cast one for this role?

    What do you think? Is Depp as Tonto a salute to indigenous people — or is it just plain offensive?

    [polldaddy poll=”6026524″]

  • Does gritty APTN series ‘Blackstone’ deserve a third season? Viewers weigh in on-line

    Week in, week out, it’s perhaps the most consistently intense program APTN has ever offered.

    I’m talking about Blackstone, a weekly dramatic series set in the fictional First Nation community of the same name. Tune in for any of the hour-long episodes and you can bet it won’t take long before the show re-ignites its often searing portrayal of rez life. Portrayed by a who’s-who cast of Aboriginal actors, the characters individually and collectively grapple with every issue imaginable. From youth suicide to tainted drinking water, alcoholism to missing women, Blackstone‘s explorations of violence, dysfunction and corruption are as current as they are controversial, a fact the creators make no apologies for.

    And now that the show has just concluded its second season, I was curious what people thought of the series and whether its unflinching take on the darker side of Indigenous life resonated with or repulsed Aboriginal audiences. Off to the interwebs I went! And as you’ll see right off the hop, reaction is decidedly mixed.

    Now, in case you were wondering, I do in fact watch the program, and do so regularly. And like joolzdaum, I sometimes find viewing Blackstone to be very much like witnessing a slow motion car crash, in that same ambivalent sense of not being able to look away from the carnage. So is that me being complicit in fetishizing or glamorizing Aboriginal dysfunction — a kind of poverty porn — as some critics charge? I’m still figuring it out, to be honest.

    But what I can say now though is that, two seasons later, I am left wishing the show could pay more more narrative attention to the important distinction that needs to be drawn between those problems that are of Blackstone First Nation’s own making and those that come from outside (if I was more of a smartypants, I’d use words like endogenous and exogenous).

    If Blackstone‘s characters are meant to be situated in an all-too-realistic, complex world — mirroring the exact kinds of Indigenous dysfunction we see and hear about regularly in the Aboriginal and mainstream media — then it must be acknowledged that a certain chunk of those maladies have their origins in what are, to a significant degree, foreign influences. After all, ‘Indians’ did not invent the Indian Act. Substandard, remote reserves were imposed upon us after we were pushed off our ancestral lands so non-Aboriginal cities could be built upon them instead. Our children have been perennially taken from us, generation after generation after generation — a potent recipe for inter-generational social implosion if there ever was one. Does Blackstone compellingly capture and convey those sometimes subtly exogenous (i.e., externally-influenced) aspects of our current situations? Can any television program?

    Assuming it is renewed, I do look forward to where the series goes next, just as I look forward to the direction of the debate over how good of a job Blackstone does in representing and illuminating Indigenous realities.

  • Any illusions of credibility for “sham” Missing Women Inquiry fade as Aboriginal rep resigns

    For lawyer Robyn Gervais, it was a case of ‘enough is enough.’

    Appointed as the legal representative for Aboriginal interests as part of the B.C. Missing Women Commission of Inquiry into the atrocities of a serial killer in Vancouver’s downtown east side, Gervais has just announced she is stepping down. Gervais says it had become clear to her that Aboriginal interests were not being taken seriously at the Inquiry.

    Increasingly labelled a “sham” by its critics, whatever illusions of credibility this Inquiry may have once enjoyed have by now completely disappeared.

    Gervais was appointed after the provincial government denied funding for legal representation that would have allowed the participation of organizations from the downtown east side and Indigenous groups and individuals who worked closely with the murdered women. (Police, meanwhile, were automatically provided publicly-funded legal counsel.) Lacking community support for her role, Gervais indicated that she was not able to fulfill her mandate to represent Aboriginal interests at the Inquiry. Indigenous, sex worker and downtown east side stakeholders denied equal standing in the process have largely chosen to expose the Inquiry as a sham. Overall, Indigenous voices have been confined to a handful of the victims’ family members, as well as a small number of ‘experts.’

    Gervais’ departure highlights a central tension over the focus of the Inquiry: is it about the lives and deaths of missing and murdered women (the majority of whom were Indigenous) or is it about police action (and inaction)?

    It might have been possible for the Inquiry to investigate both of these things, as they are so clearly linked through the relationship between police as officers of the law and Indigenous women as marginalized or abandoned legal subjects. The relationship between police neglect and Indigenous suffering is a long-standing legacy of colonialism in Canada, one which continues to manifest most acutely in the bodies of Indigenous sex workers who are criminalized or overlooked by police.

    But in order for Indigenous women to have a voice at the Inquiry, it would seem necessary for Indigenous people to have equal standing with police and other participants. Any hope for this was lost months ago, as it became clear that the role of racism and colonialism would not be taken seriously, despite the vast over-representation of Indigenous women among the 49 victims Pickton confessed to killing.

    The myth of law as authoritative and neutral is being upheld in police discourse heard throughout the courtroom, as panelists continue to deny that racism was a factor. Indeed, some police continue to point the finger at ‘society’ for causing these mass murders. Surely, law and the work of police should be regarded as integral parts of society. These myths could easily be dispelled if Indigenous women themselves were able to speak about their treatment by police, among other life experiences; silencing Indigenous voices, therefore, ensures that only one side of the story is told — the side in which power resides.

    It is important to recognize that, for the family members of murdered women who were given a space at the Inquiry, the process may be positive. They may come away from the hearings feeling good about speaking their truth. But so many others have been denied a voice in the truth-telling process.

    While police have been able to represent their interests at the Inquiry, with 24 publicly funded lawyers present to represent individual police officers, Indigenous communities and organizations have not been heard. Instead, a small number of ‘experts’ have been allowed to testify as to the historical factors which lead to the overrepresentation of Indigenous women in the downtown east side. While 42 days of police evidence have been permitted, scheduling issues were used as an excuse for silencing Indigenous voices: Gervais was told that Indigenous representatives could find a voice outside of the Inquiry itself, in a less formal venue. The marginalization could not be clearer.

    Where are the voices of sex workers themselves in this process? Where are the voices of Indigenous people who live with the impact of police negligence and criminalization on a daily basis? Where are the diversity of experiences and wealth of knowledge that could be provided by those people living in the downtown east side? It seems the ‘justice’ system is not able to accommodate these voices, and instead only police and a small number of family members and ‘Indigenous experts’ have been authorized to speak.

    The clock is ticking for commissioner Wally Oppal, who must release a report by June 30. It seems unlikely that he will report the truth of this Inquiry: that downtown east side and Indigenous voices were omitted from the process. In a legal system where the word ‘justice’ has little meaning for Indigenous people, this comes as no surprise.

    It is hoped by some that a United Nations investigation into the national scale of violence against Indigenous women will hold the Canadian government and legal system to account. I would speculate that a UN investigation would reveal the systemic inequities that have shut Indigenous voices out of the Missing Women Inquiry are the common thread running through police and justice systems which continue to perpetuate violence against Indigenous women.

    How then do we begin to define accountability, beyond the release of another report that has no legal enforcement mechanism? As Indigenous women continue to go missing, what can we do to redefine accountability and justice? These are serious questions that all Canadians must consider, as it is individual Canadians who serve as the police, judges, and politicians that make up the legal system. Just as it is individual Canadians who continue to perpetuate violence against Indigenous women, or who turn a blind eye to realities of violence around them. Law and justice are not just defined in the courtroom, but on the streets and in our homes, and the spaces we all occupy in neo-colonial Canada.