You can't return home again

Page 5

Growing up on the Curve Lake Reserve located somewhere in the deepest, darkest part of tourist Ontario, I enjoyed a certain amount of social and cultural familiarity, knowing that within those artificial walls created by the Department of Indian Affairs I could expect life to change very little. Living on a reserve was, in many ways, an oasis against momentary trends, fads and other patterns of a fickle society. In fact, and I say this with great appreciation, those reserve walls protected and isolated me during the disco and punk rock eras. I was spared the perils of polyester leisure suits.

As often as possible I return home to the land where I was born, to visit family, recharge my batteries, and generally remind myself where my stories come from. And for many of the years that I have been away, little has changed in my home. I used to believe, paraphrasing an old saying, that "only death, taxes and Curve Lake are eternal."

But the more I go home these days, the more I can see the steady, encroaching fingers of Canadian society making their way across the bosom of my beloved community. It's akin to an alien invasion - a bureaucratic one; the completion of an invasion started more than 500 years ago. And I am afraid, very afraid.

These days, the streets of Curve Lake echo with an unfamiliar influence. First of all, the streets of Curve Lake now have official names, with signs and everything. When I was growing up, we all knew where people lived, so the need for street signs seemed unnecessary, even silly. I mean, if you didn't know where you lived, or your cousin or uncle, you were a pretty sad individual.

And perhaps there was some personal pride in the fact that if anybody from off the reserve made their way into our humble community, they would find themselves helpless and probably lost, with nothing but the stars and sun to guide them. Ancient Iroquois used to build huge walled stockades around their communities which included an elaborate maze near the front gate so intruders and hostile parties would hopefully get lost long enough for the inhabitants of the village to mount a defence. Not naming our streets was the Ojibway method of doing this.

But now this little Ojibway community is crisscrossed with streets named Weequod, Whetung, Mississauga, and Lonely Pine (which was cut down recently making the street name even more redundant).

Not only are the streets now named, but, heaven forbid, the government has seen fit to give each individual house its own number! Unfortunately (though it pains me to say it) there is a certain logic to it. This way, emergency vehicles can find the right street and the right house rather than relying on local directions. "Take a right at the pine tree, go over the ditch and then through the sumach and you'll find Fred's. And say hello for me."

Another fond childhood memory deals with dogs running free, playing, cavorting, being one with the land. But that is no more. New bylaws by the village have now made it illegal to let your dogs run free. They must be registered and tied up at all times. But I think, what's the point of being a dog on the reserve then? The last time I was home, I saw dozens of dogs now chained to trees and stakes, doomed to spend the rest of their lives in a 10-foot circle. This is not the reserve I knew and loved. It's now like living in a small non-Native town! I knew we were in trouble the day we could get pizza in the village.

But, as always, there are certain things that still remind you that things will always remain the same no matter what. Just a few months ago, local residents in one part of the village were requesting speed bumps on some of the subdivision roads to detour fast drivers from hitting children. Through some bureaucratic mix-up, the speed bumps were installed without proper authorization. And they were placed too close to the various corners, so they had to be dug up and removed. There are now depressions in the pavement showng where the bumps used to be. I'm told the depressions are now just as good as the deterrent of the speed bumps. Things like this still remind me that I'm home.

Luckily, there are a few universal truths that still exist, and no doubt will continue to exist long after the hype over the Y3K bug. I speak, of course, of denim (as versatile and ubiquitous as buckskin used to be), plaid (where Scottish styles go to die) and country music (where everything goes to die). At least these will allow me to retain my sanity.

Though I hear, there is talk of a subway line...