Does war make us equal in Canada?

Page 5

Ten years ago I attended the funeral of my Uncle Jim who had been a soldier in the Second World War, and I found myself crying tears as big as golf balls. Mom cried too, but her grief was more understandable than mine.

Later she asked what had moved me. I had hardly known my uncle. I told her it was the portable stereo playing TAPS, and the sight of all those Indians dressed in uniform, and the idea that we got messed up in a war in the first place that was all too much for me to bear.

My mother used to talk gleefully about her brothers who had gone to war. Jim had even lied about his age to get in so he could fight the 'commies.' Uncles Jim and Charlie came back from war feeling like equals to their Canadian comrades, but to join the Canadian legion (the only place an Indian might buy a beer) they had to get signatures from their mostly white comrades.

The war had known no color, but here in Our Home and Native Land, the colonial fence was still painted red.

Uncle Jim had been a cook and never saw the frontlines. At the time of this war, my mother was not allowed to vote in a Canadian election.

When they returned from war, my uncles couldn't vote either: They had to wait another 16 years.

I was six years old when my mother had her first opportunity to vote in a Canadian election. She jumped at the chance. Within five years she was so enthusiastic about politics that she ran for a councilor position in the reserve election. She won. Next thing you know she had a job. Poof! Just like that Mom was in the fast lane. Before we knew it there was a new car in our dirt driveway and we were on our way to a long democratic tradition. Or so I thought.

In no time flat I was 16, politically aware and anxious to vote in an election, any election. At school I voted in student council elections and raised my hand to answer almost any question. Something weird about this process began to emerge. No one I voted for got elected, and most of my answers in school were either wrong, or sounded stupid to my teachers. There had to be something better.

By 18 I wanted, so badly, to vote in an Indian reserve election that a group of other radical youth and I sat in on nomination night and asked for everyone's support to change the minimum voting age. Rather than stand behind us, they all had a good laugh. Not Uncle Jim though. He looked at me with a broad grin on his face as we outlined our reasons: If we are old enough to fight in war, to have a driver's license, to run away from home, to die for our country, then we should have the right to vote.

We all sat down humbled by the Elders who had to wait a lifetime to vote in a Canadian election. Sit down you little no-good-for-nothing barked the only Elder I knew who hadn't gone to war. "I was 56 before I could vote," he said. I felt a little embarrassed until my father leaned over and whispered: "It's OK kid. Don't let him get to you. He still doesn't vote." I loved my father cause he always made me laugh.

Just then, the man who would become the second highest vote getter in my reserve's election history sauntered up to the podium. He propped one leg up on a chair and looked upon the crowd. Like a skilled orator he held the audience in a grip of silence. Then he gave way to a disgusting and obnoxious act of flatulence that left the gathered crowd gasping for air!

"That's all I have to say," he explained. This was one of my first lessons in the hypocrisy of a democratic world. Lest we forget is right!

Much has happened in Indian politics that we should not forget. We have seen the rise of political organizations that don't allow public voting-like Aboriginal friendship centres; Aboriginal communications societies; the taxation advisory board; healing centres to name a few. There are too many Indian organizations that have restricted voting.

The Assembly of Furious Natives gets its mandate from 633 Indian chiefs who get elected via the process described above. A so-called Nationa Sheaf, who the common people can't vote for, has turned away the possibilities of a free vote. Why? Because His constituents don't give a fart about the rest of us. They get elected by our votes (roughly 21 per cent of us) and then they go to work for INAC (Indians and Natives After Caucasians).

And just when I thought I'd seen everything, this person named Corbiere went and challenged the government and won. First, Sandra Lovelace helped the displaced non-status Indians regain their status and now Corbiere wins the right to allow us to vote in our reserve elections from anywhere in the world.

Here on the Left coast I am still waiting for my ballot to arrive. I have phoned the band office 12 times in as many days. I get an answering machine and never get any calls returned. But my brother got his ballot, and he never even called them.

Voting from here on the Left coast for an election taking place near the Right coast, feels weird. According to my brother there is only one envelope where we are to put our "secret ballot" alongside the declaration of who we are. Is this a spoiled ballot waiting to happen or what?

On Remembrance Day, I'm gonna go looking for a memorial where they will play TAPS on a real trumpet. I'll light a cigarette in memory of Mom and Dad and close my eyes and try really hard not to cry. I'll remember their love and kindness and their commitment to fairness and equality. I'll remember my uncles who sacrificed a few years of their lives for so-called national security. I'll remember those frail men who stood in silence as they lowered Uncle Jim into the earth. I'll remember the fallen society of America for their collective grief of Sept. 11th. Most of all, I'll remember what it's like being an Indian in a time of war.