Drew Hayden Taylor is an Anishnawbe playwright and humorist.
Recently, I took part in the Who We Are: Exploring Indigenous Identity symposium at the Wabano Centre in Ottawa. For two days, attendees at the conference discussed the political, cultural and social manifestations of identity – all on one bottle of Aspirin. During the symposium, I joined three powerhouses of First Nations/Métis understanding on stage for a panel discussion: Pamela Palmater, Kim TallBear and Brenda Macdougall.
The first interesting thing that became apparent on the panel: almost everyone disliked the term Indigenous. The critiques? It was too academic. Too politically correct. Surprisingly, panelists admitted to using and almost preferring the term Indian, proudly. Yes, it was archaic, but it was familiar. In many ways, we had reclaimed it. It was the term our grandparents used. It had a history (good or bad) that we could joke about (the sports teams of Cleveland notwithstanding). “Indigenous” always appeared next to a box on a government form. “Indians” were the people we went home to. Except, of course, for Ms. Macdougall, who was there to espouse the virtues of the Métis culture (there have been many new and controversial Métis communities popping up across the country, so Ms. Macdougall should be considered Métis Classic).
To deal with all the politically correct fights around championing the right name, I have occasionally used the term NAFNIP – Native Aboriginal First Nations Indigenous Peoples – to cover all my bases, but it never caught on. Still, at the panel, “Native” came in as a strong second-place preference to “Indian.” Surprisingly, First Nations came in a distant third. And who was I to argue with three such powerful women?
Perhaps some context is required. We were originally there to discuss the popular practice of Pretendianism, wherein members of the dominant culture, for various reasons, decide to switch teams and play for the underdogs, without having been invited.
But it’s difficult to talk about Pretendianism without first clarifying the concept of Indianism.
Among those who identify as Indian or otherwise, who are we and how do we define who we are?
First, admittedly, there is no one definition of an Indigenous or Native person any more than there is one type of cheese. There are more than 630 communities across this country, not including those off-reserve. They are as varied as – maintaining the same metaphor – shopping in a cheese shop. There are certain similarities and radical differences across the brands. But all are yummy (if you’re not lactose intolerant).
On the one hand, you can process Indigenous culture through individual nations: Cree, Algonquin, Salish, Innu, Dene, Anishnaabe, Kwakwaka’wakw and several dozen others. That’s the most logical. But when you’re speaking in a broader context of who and what can be considered part of the potpourri that is our community, that’s when things get a little more complicated, even amongst us. And then you open the Aspirin.
In the last census, it was estimated there are 1,807,250 Indigenous/Native/Indian people, or 5 per cent of the population (not including Pretendians of course) hanging out in Tim Hortons when not at the theatre watching Lily Gladstone. But all of our people constitute a wide spectrum of what is presumed to be Indigenous. Broadly speaking, you have urban and Rez Indigene to begin with, but from there, they can split off into a thousand different categories like a multiverse. Playing the Native card can involve a kaleidoscope of characteristics.
Let’s tiptoe across that playground. It’s more than blood. It’s more than background. There are those who love and prefer wild meat. Moose nose can be a delicacy for some. Yet many don’t enjoy such cuisine … myself and Pam Palmater included, yet we both grew up on the Rez. At one house my partner and I lived at, we would have deer regularly visit us and fill us in on the local raccoon gossip. Later that same day, one of my cousins who loved to hunt would ask if I’d seen any deer in our area. “Not so far,” we’d say.
My mother’s first language was Anishnaabemowin, but I’m pretty sure she had never been in a canoe.
I knew one Indigenous woman who grew up on a Rez but shuddered at the thought of going out on the land. “I don’t camp,” she would fiercely say. So much for being one with the land, some would say. My partner, who is Kwakwaka’wakw, loves and embraces salmon in any form but shudders at the thought of an outhouse. Most Indians my age recognize it as an ancient rite of passage.
I know great visual artists who have never been in a sweat lodge. Conversely, I know many people who have been in a sweat lodge but do not have a spirit name. I know storytellers, who know our stories backward and forward, who haven’t bothered to get up at dawn to greet the sun. There are powwow dancers and drummers who’ve never gathered wild rice.
You can work in an urban office and still respect the Four Directions. I’ve met Indians who live in Europe who can eat a German pretzel Indigenously. Some burn their hair after getting it cut while at the same time wearing faux moccasins. The point being, no Indigenous person does it all. Being Native or Indian or Indigenous is a stew of all these things. Some stews have carrots. Some stews have moose. Some stews have rutabagas. I’ve even come across one recipe that suggests a small spoonful of powdered chocolate to give it a unique kick. We, as a people, are no less complicated or tasty. We’re a mélange.
Oh yeah – our panel also discussed the Pretendian issue. Some of those individuals do all of the stuff I just listed. But the point is, you can’t earn indigeneity like a scout badge. There’s a certain amount of complexity that comes with the heritage.
I met a Pretendian once. His name was something like Descartes Wolf Whose Spirit Flies With An Eagle As The Moon Rises, Jr., and he told me, “I think Indian, therefore I am Indian.”
Not quite.