Sandbox Indian Blues

Page 4

Over the years, ever since some smart-ass had the audacity to establish the summer solstice as "National Aboriginal Day," I have tended to disregard, if not boycott, celebrations of that day. Initially I was angry that Canada wanted to dismiss us by giving us a day. Angry, that is, until I attended the "blues night" at the Yale Hotel.

I watched as brown faces drank and bobbed in the crowd, swaying and singing to the abo-solutely best blues in the world. I rocked with Indians of all ages. The changes in my people are phenomenal-pierced noses, exposed belly-buttons, trannies, hip-hoppers, and wannabe TV producers with dyed blond hair. It was a bonfire of the vanities.

While swirling in and savoring my own memories of uncoordinated dance movements of another era, Rory, a young Kwa Kwak U wak man, walked up to me and said: "Right on!" Right fist clenched in a familiar fist pump.

"I read your column. Great stuff! Everyone I know says it's about time you wrote that kind of stuff!" I was surprised and pleased. Just that day I had been asked by my editor to justify some of my opinions.

I was, it seemed to some, only seeking vengeance through the media. According to some AFN fellows, my column was being used to get back at the Assembly of Furious Natives (AFN) for not giving me a job.

And then there was that contract that was initiated by some chiefs in British Columbia, a fee for service agreement with my video production company to produce videos on the so-called "Joint Initiative."

We produced the materials and got paid. We used the comedic duo Susie and Sarah to poke fun at the Indian Act. The B.C. chiefs then sent the material to Ottawa. The AFN loved the stuff and flew me to Ottawa for a meeting.

But Indian Affairs didn't like the material. Former deputy minister, Swirley Sarafini of the Indian and Natives After Caucasians department (INAC) axed the project, although it had been funded by B.C. Indian chiefs. Undeterred, the AFN said 'let's take the videos to Winnipeg and let our people decide.'

Seven hundred people, including me on the AFN's tab, attended the so-called "Banish the Indian Agent" conference in Winnipeg in June 2000. The videos were a hit. My expectation was that the messages to banish the Indian agent would go over well in Indian country. National distribution, I thought, was the logical next step. But that was not to happen.

According to AFN "communications officer," and in-house comedian, Donned Kelley, this disappointment meant that I should now be counted among the Furious Natives, a disgruntled and bitter TV producer. Was he flacking or trying to be funny? Who knows?

If the AFN argues that my views and opinions don't count because the organization paid me a grossly high fee to attend a meeting, then it only substantiates my contention the AFN tried to buy me out. They have made several attempts and overtures to entice me with larger fees, more perks and free meals. Why have I turned them away? Are they right to say I am disgruntled?

Recently, a dear old friend of mine appealed to me that I should shift my attention for awhile and write about something else.

"You don't want to go to war with the AFN," he said in a hushed tone. I wondered about his friendship. I wondered about his message. This person was an insider. And then I wondered about some of the long nights we'd had together. Hmmm. What did he know?

War? With the Assembly of Furious Natives? Is this the reaction we get when we open our mouths to criticize?

Nothing will shut me up. I'll make no apologies for spilling the beans. For far too long the Indian world has remained a Pandora's box, closed tightly around the adage that if we don't have anything good to say, then we should say nothing. Our leaders have used welfare cheques on the reserves to shut people down. They continue to use housing programs and DFO money to keep dissidents quiet. But out on the urban rez where there is no colonial fence to keep us segregated an oppressed, we can say and do what we please.

No matter what the AFN will say in their attempts to undermine me and my good intentions I will still do what I do best. I will tell my stories without the muzzle. I will not go to war with the AFN, nor will I work with the National Sheaf. Sorry Matt: You had your chance.

Frankly I am tired of writing about the wasted efforts of an organization that has lost its way. If the AFN didn't tax the future of my grandchildren, I might not write about them at all. If the AFN stopped wasting millions in its efforts to play politics with their own people, writers like myself might find some good things to say.

Ten years ago I had a friend who doubled as a father-in-law. He told me about his theory on Indian self-government, the one that is defined by AFN politics. He called it the sandbox theory. He said that the AFN is like a big sandbox. Every time it runs out of sand, the government comes along and fills it up again.

He said that government sand trucks hold about three years worth of sand. Every three years there is new sand to be played with and nobody seems to care where the sand goes. It is only now that I recognize his genius.

Back at the Yale Hotel and just before closing time, I remembered the sandbox theory. I looked for Rory to share another laugh and yet another anecdote about my boring history as an Indian journalist. When I couldn't find him I found myself humming the tune being belted out by the lithe frame squirming on the Aboriginal stage. The song was called "Indian Blues." By the next morning I had changed the chorus to "Sandbox Indian Blues." It sounded pretty good but I don't think I'll try to sell this one to the AFN.