The paradox of leadership

Page 5

One of the least pleasurable activities of human existence, and there are a few, is to select a leader, or better yet, to decide which leader to follow. In the past I have criticized many of them, but today I am back-peddling and there is good reason. When you fling around as much mud as I have, you have to have a big cloth with you. From time to time it is evident that you must go around and wipe up your mess, otherwise no one will cook you supper anymore.

A few months back I had called the little man from Grand Rapids, Man. a tired horse. I had referred to him by the name most Elders had been calling him, Obidey, but if there were an election held today, and if I could vote in it, I would vote for Obidey over any other candidate for national leadership. Now I have to be careful as I hear that the campaign is under way for the National Sheaf of the Assembly of Furious Natives (AFN).

I had always thought that the skinny guy from northern Quebec now occupying the position could become the leader of the century, but I was wrong, wrong, wrong. Most of his good policies seem to be coming from the shadows of his office. The present national chief takes months to make a decision because he has too many advisors, little wannabe chiefs, at his side. Obidey, when he was in office, listened to no one but to his own conscience.

I once followed Obidey around the country for several months in an attempt to paint a profile suitable for telecast on the Caucasian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC). In the process, I saw a man who worked tirelessly for the betterment of his people. In his first years of power, Obidey was the darling of the media. He enjoyed status as the 11th premier, and as McClaim magazine's ninth sexiest man on the planet. He knew Canada AM's Valerie Pringle by first name and had the home number of 62 politicians in Ottawa. His name was on bathroom walls in every airport across the nation. He hardly ever slept.

"If you wanna know more about me, just keep quiet and follow me around," he told me. I asked him if it was OK by him for me and the TV crew to visit his parents. He said it would be up to them. I called his mother and asked if I could come to Manitoba to interview her and she said anytime. The ultimate historical context: Mom and Dad.

When I arrived in Grand Rapids, it didn't take long to find out where Obidey derived his good sense of humor. His mother has a subtle, but sharp, sense of observation about people that when expressed can make you laugh and think.

"So you wanna learn about my son?" she queried as her eye-glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose. "Well I can't tell you anything he hasn't already told you yet. You know that he was an altar boy and he used to pretend he was a priest. He used to hold mass in his room. But after he went through that school in Manitoba he started liking the teachers. His first girlfriend was a teacher." Her only regret was that he didn't date any of the locals. "He was always a little different from his cousins."

We tuned into the six o'clock news and, sure enough, there he was in Halifax coming out of a high-power meeting. You could feel the power of television, as time and distance did nothing to separate parents from their offspring.

The expression of pride and accomplishment seemed painted on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Mercredi. We all sat in silence as we awaited the words of the 11th premier. Mrs. Mercredi finally broke our silence as she laughed and said "He's tired.....He needs a rest."

"How can you tell?" I asked, smiling along with her. "See the line between his eyes? Looks like a hole between his eyes. Well, it gets deeper when he doesn't sleep enough."

One month later I came upon Obidey lounging on his couch in the comfort of his Ottawa offices. I could see through the ceiling to wall glass that he was lying in the fetal position. What a metaphor for the influences in life not often counted upon to understand the motivesand behavior of men n power.

He awoke for our interview and the first thing I told him was the stories his mother told me. He lit right up. He glowed in the darkness of Ottawa's night-time sky. This man really loved his parents and he asked if his father had played the fiddle for us. This is when I became aware of a level playing field for journalist and politician, a safe place where we could laugh together. As we began a three-hour interview the furrow in between his eyes was gone.

So what happened? Why did Obidey leave the national stage? Why did Furious Natives oust him from the national podium? The reasons are not complex. Politics is unkind. You take a lot of punishment and abuse. You hardly ever sleep.

The choices made in politics by power hungry people change things forever. Obidey had gotten too big. He was burdened by his own popularity. He had become the de facto conscience of a nation ashamed of its historical treatment of the First People.

When the worst Indians and Natives After Caucasians (INAC) minister to have ever lived came to power, Cowboy Ron Vermin, Obidey had been asked for his comments about the newly minted Indian Agent. His first words were: "Ron who?" Of course Minister Vermin would never forget this? Cowboy ministers of government never did appreciate the subtle sense of humor that informs Indian politics. But Cowboy Ron's political apparatus would be built to discredit Obidey. And this attitude became the culture of INAC until the election of Filler Up Phontaine whom the lovely Jayne (I wannabe Martha) Stewart gushed all over him. The difference between Filler Up and Obidey was that Filler had helped Jean Crouton and other liberals in the past.

Such is the paradox of leadership. I witnessed as Obidey convinced nine provincial premiers that the inherent right of self-government was a good and proper thing for Canada to agree to. In a national vote Canada turned down the idea. Our own people turned down the idea of being "third order" of government-hatever that means. In the end it may have been for the best. After all, who would be running our 11th province today?

Speaking of running, I'm waiting for the mail today for my mail-in ballot for elections on my reserve. Seems that through the miracle of Supreme Court decisions I can now vote in an Indian reserve election-all the way on the other side of the country. Should I vote? Or, should I lie down in protest at the stomach pains caused by having to decide upon a leader? Well I might as well get used to it. It's a democratic world, damn it, not an ideal one. I better dig out my cooking tools to prepare for a long cold winter. It looks like there's going to be plenty more mud to fling around.