The Medicine of Peace by Jeffrey Paul Ansloos

Author:Jeffrey Paul Ansloos
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fernwood Publishing
Published: 2017-04-10T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOUR

TOWARDS AN EMBODIED INDIGENOUS IDENTITY AND RITUALIZED INDIGENOUS BODIES

Having grown up in Winnipeg, a city with one of the fastest-growing Indigenous populations in Canada, as well as a city with the distinct reputation for being one of the most racist places in Canada, my childhood is littered with experiences of confronting racism. And while I lived in a context of privilege compared to many of my relations, I have so many memories of overt and covert experiences of racial xenophobia. I remember seeing the way that Indigenous men and women in my neighborhood were profiled by police, or the way that in schools Indigenous children were repeatedly told that our cultures and ways of being were bad. The politics of shame were never far from the surface of my experience of education. I was fortunate, however, to have a number of guidance counselors who understood the important role of culture, and did their best to tend to some aspects of Indigenous identity.

I remember one particular school assembly where Indigenous dancers were invited to do a performance for the school. There were hoop dancers, jingle dress dancers and drummers. They were trying to teach my predominantly white school about issues facing Indigenous peoples and our traditions. I remember sitting on bleachers beside teachers, who were sneering, talking about how “primitive” my people were. I remember my peers laughing these dancers off stage. I remember two students in particular who kept referring to my people as “dirty” and “weak.” And I remember the one teacher who tried to explain that the solution to all of the “Native problems” is that “they should stay on their reserves and be separate from us.” I remember feeling deeply ashamed as I sat in my invisibility. On the sidelines, I felt deeply connected to these dancers. I felt so ashamed by the words of these teachers and peers. Something I saw of the dancers left a deep struggle in my heart. It was a brilliant and powerful struggle. With every hoop linking across the dancer’s back and with every dip of the eagle’s flight, with every jingle of her dress and the gentle jig on our turtle, I could see Indigenous pride that caused me to wrestle with the layers of colonial shame that entangled me.

Years later, I would find myself participating in a similar affair, standing with Theresa Spence who was hunger striking across from the Canadian Parliament in Ottawa. Having followed the news about Idle No More for weeks, I slowly made my way to Ottawa to check things out for myself. Approaching the camp was an amazing experience. As I entered the camp, a grandmother approached me and asked if I wanted to smudge. The smells of sacred medicine burning flooded my senses. I could hear people singing prayers in their Indigenous languages. I could see jingle dancers, media reporters, settler allies and Elders, all together, demanding justice. There was a fire and next to it, a big drum. I remember the moment clearly when an Elder came up to me and asked me to join him at the big drum.

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