Answering the call

WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 1272 [post_author] => 1 [post_date] => 2018-05-10 10:12:54 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-05-10 16:12:54 [post_content] => Drenched in light. Invaded by light, startled into being by light. This is what it means to grow up in southwest Saskatchewan, the country of my birth and my childhood. Though I've lived a thousand miles away for over twenty-five years, in the blink of an eye I place myself, notebook and pen in hand, in the centre of a vast plain where no trees or hills or towering buildings hold back that luminous deluge from the sky. Eudora Welty, the world-renowned fiction writer who grew up in Mississippi and who left her mother's house only for a short time to return and eventually grow old there, said, "Every story would be a different story if it happened somewhere else." The same is true of people and poems. If I'd grown up where I live now, on the edge of the ancient rain forests of Vancouver Island, I would be a different person. My writing would be different too. It wouldn't be simply a matter of west coast plants invading the space in my poems where prairie vegetation once grew; it wouldn't be simply a matter of birds native to this region chasing meadowlarks and redwing blackbirds from my lines, or wind sifting the yellow pollen of giant firs instead of dust onto the covers of my books. Something intrinsic would change. Something that comes from the particularities that define a habitation and shape the characters who thrive there, even those like me who moved away but continue to set their poems and stories in their original place. Lorna Crozier is an Officer of the Order of Canada, and has received five honorary doctorates, including one from the University of Regina in 2004. (Photo by Angie Abdou) What is it about the land of my birth and upbringing that influences the sensibilities of a writer such as me? The plains that surround my hometown of Swift Current confound those who first encounter them. In all directions the grasslands stretch far and away like a desert. Shadows from the clouds swim over the wild grasses and heads of wheat. The rills and shallow coulees shape-shift as daylight declines. With the dry land, the spare rain, come no sounds of rushing water, no stands of trees shouting to the wind, though the wind is always there, a companion of loneliness, a keening that invades the imagination and leaves a solitary traveller speechless with wonder. A stranger to this land complains there's nothing to see, nothing to hear. So many of my friends from the mountains or the coast tell me they drive for hours on the Trans-Canada through the Prairies, and they feel they've gone nowhere. If you're sensitive to this landscape, I reply, this nowhere is somewhere uncanny and true. Your ear and eye become subtly, exquisitely tuned. Writers must, above everything else, develop the ability to listen, not only to other humans but also to the land itself, though its homilies can't be translated into any known tongue. Outside of the towns and cities in southwest Saskatchewan, when you're used to the noise of urban life, the silence you encounter seems impregnable. At first it could be mistaken for the muteness that arises out of emptiness. But it's not that. It's a quiet that demands attention. Something significant is about to be uttered, and silence has prepared a proper place for it. It is up to you to respond in kind.

The Book of Genesis begins with God's first words: "Let there be light." Surely He said that in the middle of the grasslands, perhaps on a small rise smack in the middle of what would become Swift Current to the west and Moose Jaw to the east.

If you are patient and attentive, you'll hear what the grass says as the wind passes over. A susurration as soft as the brush of an owl's wing across the snow will vibrate the small bones of your inner ear. Your task will be to name that sound, to sing it into poetry, to find words that will speak it into being on a page. This is a place that has grown a multitude of writers. Could the silence here be so strong that it demands an equivalent speaking? A man and woman faced with such a muffled eloquence must cry out, "I am here, I am alive, I am dying. Who will hear me?" Only to the uninitiated does the openness of the grasslands appear empty. To the person who feels at home it is charged with possibilities. Something meaningful exists just beyond the grasp of our hearing, touch, smell, sight. It requires all the tools we have to coax it into language, though language will never have the final say. "Look up, look up," you tell anyone who claims this country of your heart, of your imagination, is monotonous. In every season, every hour, the sky, spiralling above you, unrolls its clouds, its cobalts, its paler blues. The sky is an antidote to boredom. It's easy to lose yourself in its weathers and the beauty of its sheen. There is change in everything, it tells you, including in you. The essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson claimed that a writer must be "a transparent eyeball." I can't help but see the prairie sky itself as that - a gigantic, clear orb that holds everything below. We are small inside it. No matter how important we might feel, we are merely specks in its huge seeing. That could be a humbling, depressing thing, but it's a blessing for a poet. When you feel so seen, are you not drawn to look more closely, to gaze more fiercely and fearlessly at what takes shape under the sun? If you pay attention, you'll glimpse a darkling beetle climbing over a blade of grass. In early morning you'll see the small fog of a chickadee's breath suspended above the feeder. You may even decipher a line or two scrawled across the clouds or the shimmer of something that just passed out of sight. Crozier lives on Vancouver Island with writer Patrick Lane and two cats who love to garden. (Photo by Kamil Bialous) A South African writer I met this past fall at a poetry festival in Hong Kong tells me of a word that means "the sky just after a swan has flown through." That scrap of blue looks different from what surrounds it: the swan's beauty, the energy of its being has left a vestige of its flight. This is the kind of thing a poet is looking for, a brilliant trace of what can't be seen. It is the poet's task to make the unseen visible with reticence and grace. The Book of Genesis begins with God's first words: "Let there be light." Surely He said that in the middle of the grasslands, perhaps on a small rise smack in the middle of what would become Swift Current to the west and Moose Jaw to the east. His radiant invention, spoken into existence, rolled out of the darkness of his mouth onto a long, undulating stretch of land. No wonder after 40 years of writing, I return here in the lines of my poems. It was words that created the light. And the light that shone on every worldly thing claimed this place as home. [post_title] => Drenched in light [post_excerpt] => Poet Lorna Crozier reflects on the prairie landscape of her childhood and how it has shaped her writing. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => drenched-in-light [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2022-02-23 16:17:00 [post_modified_gmt] => 2022-02-23 22:17:00 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://www.degreesmagazine.ca/?p=1272 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw ) WP_Post Object ( [ID] => 2114 [post_author] => 7 [post_date] => 2018-11-02 08:54:40 [post_date_gmt] => 2018-11-02 14:54:40 [post_content] =>

It was the start of a new school year in September 2016 when Andrew Miller inadvertently stumbled across a binder of 587 black and white photos in the basement collection of First Nations University of Canada’s Library (Special Collections). The photos, taken between 1877 and 1949, portray the lives of Indigenous peoples on the Canadian Plains. Nobody knew where the photos came from or how they became part of the collections. What was clear is that the photos had been archived, most likely by the Provincial Archives of Saskatchewan (formerly known as the Saskatchewan Archives Board).

Miller views sharing the photos with Indigenous communities not only as a way to deconstruct the colonial narrative but also as a repatriating practice.

Not all of the photographs have captions, but Miller is troubled by many of those that do. Referring to the collection as “colonial photography,” Miller has real concerns that the limited descriptions provided epitomize a settler narrative.

“Some of these photos and their descriptions really fit the colonial gaze,” he says. “I’m not overly concerned with factual names and events. I just feel as though the Indigenous community needs to see these first-hand.”

Thomas Moore circa 1897. (Photo courtesy of First Nations University of Canada Thomas Moore after entrance in Regina Industrial School circa 1897. (Photo courtesy of First Nations University of Canada)

Miller views sharing the photos with Indigenous communities not only as a way to deconstruct the colonial narrative but also as a repatriating practice. He knew his first step was to consult Elders to ensure that the photo sharing was handled in the most culturally appropriate way. He received advice on protocols; what could be shared and what shouldn’t be public knowledge. Elders recommended that the photos be brought out in a ceremonial manner because telling stories of ancestors had to be done in a way that expressed gratitude.

“The simple process of bringing photos to the world and saying, ‘Here, let’s talk about these,’ is not doing things in the proper way,” Miller acknowledges.

To fully realize his hopes of humanizing the photographs and contextualizing the collection, Miller needed to expose the photos to a larger audience. In fall 2017, he took a sample of the photographs to Treaty 4 Days at Fort Qu’Appelle.

Miller’s display was set up amongst other organizations’ booths and local artisan kiosks. Samplings of photos were placed around the room, particularly those that had been taken in Treaty 4 Territory. Miller says the response that day was good. From the 30 photos displayed, at least half ignited conversations, comments and recognition from those who viewed them. One of those conversations was started by Wayne Goodwill.

“Wayne immediately was fixated on the photo of Martha Taweyaka and her husband Louis,” Miller says.

First Nations University of Canada Indigenous Languages, Arts and Cultures professor Andrew Miller. (Photo by Rae Graham) Wayne Goodwill is photographed with the photo he saw at Treaty 4 Days in Fort Qu’Appelle, Saskatchewan. Goodwill recognized the woman in the photo as his grandmother, Martha Taweyaka and her husband Louis Taweyaka. (Photo by Don Hall)

It was the first time Goodwill had seen the photo, but he knew the woman — it was his great-grandmother.

Goodwill is from Standing Buffalo First Nation and is a well-respected Knowledge Keeper in his community. An avid hunter and a long-time artist, Goodwill attended the Qu'Appelle Indian Residential School in Lebret. Many years ago, Goodwill’s aunt shared with him a story of his great-grandmother Martha at the last Sundance (or Ghost Dance) that Sitting Bull attended in the Canadian territory. The ceremony would have been around 1880 when Taweyaka was still a young girl.

Taweyaka loved her community and was known to partake in the community’s Powwows. Her husband Louis was an announcer — or as they were known at the time, one of “the criers.” Goodwill suggests she would have danced in outfits similar to the one she is wearing in the photograph.

“She was a teacher who helped open the day school on Standing Buffalo reserve,” Goodwill explains. “She even cut the ribbon on its opening day.” Goodwill has come to know that Taweyaka was well-respected and fluent in English. She travelled to the Standing Buffalo area after her marriage to Louis. Although it is still unclear as to where she resided before settling there, Goodwill is certain Taweyaka is of Lakota and Dakota ancestry. The couple had four children.

Miller suggests that sharing the photos is the only way to bring the subjects to life. “Martha went from being anonymous to being a person who has a fully developed story,” he says.

Photo from the First Nations University of Canada archive of Louis and Martha Taweyaka in front of A. Rooke's house near Fort Qu'Appelle. The couple were married in 1897. (Photo courtesy of First Nations University of Canada)

Miller notes that the residential schools tried to erase familial lines. “It’s time to flip that narrative and challenge it. It is important to keep in mind who is on the other side of the photographs,” he adds.

It had always been Miller’s hope that an Indigenous archivist would take over the project and connect it to Indigenous communities in a way that he never could. A year after the photographs were displayed at Treaty 4 Days, Miller was approached by a master’s student in archival studies from the University of Manitoba. Carmen Miedema, originally from the Peepeekisis Cree Nation in Saskatchewan and an archivist for the National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation, has a keen interest in the collection.

Carmen Miedema, a master’s student in archival studies at the University of Manitoba has a keen interest in the FNUC archive photo collection. Miedema is also an archivist for the National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation. (Photo by Trevor Hopkin)

“I became interested in the collection while completing an assignment during my undergraduate degree at Brandon University,” Miedema says. “It was also during this time that I learned that archival practices are still extraordinarily colonial and unfair to Aboriginal peoples — something I’d like to change.”

Miedema has plans to take the photographs and tour them throughout Manitoba. It is her hope that the photographs will be more appropriately recognized in an Indigenous context and, more importantly, will be repatriated to the communities in which the photographs were taken.

“Telling our own histories is crucial to being able to teach future generations about our truths, in our languages and through our protocols.”

Miedema believes it is essential to archive Indigenous stories in an Indigenous context. “We should have the right to tell our stories the way we see, experience and understand them,” she says. “It is important because how we look at, experience and understand our stories is often completely different than the colonial point of view in which they have been written. Telling our own histories is crucial to being able to teach future generations about our truths, in our languages and through our protocols. It means giving power back to our people.”

Miller often gets people reaching out to him who have family ties to a photograph. He hopes that will continue on an even larger scale once the photos become more accessible through an online database. The online project is funded, in part, by a generous donation from Pasqua First Nation’s Chief Todd Pagan, who is enthusiastic to see Indigenous students working on the database.

Cheepoostatin, also known as Pointed Cap, a respected Elder of the Indian File Hills Agency, receiving treaty money in 1916. Cheepoostatin was 108 years old when the photo was taken.

(Photo courtesy of First Nations University of  Canada)

“There are a number of photos that specifically relate to Chief Pagan’s community,” Miller explains. “The database would allow the people of Pasqua First Nation and area to easily access the photos and share them within their community. Students, researchers and community members will be able to access them. They have been in the provincial archives but they’re not scanned or online or easily accessible. You’d have to be there in person or ask for the photo by name, which is too tall of an obstacle.”

Once the project is complete, Miller says all the photographs from the collection will be available through the First Nations University of Canada website. Then, students like Miedema, community members like Goodwill, or anyone else with an interest will be able to access these important, historical photographs in their proper context.

[post_title] => The big picture [post_excerpt] => Indigenous Languages, Arts and Cultures professor Andrew Miller was poking around the basement of First Nations University of Canada when he came across almost 600 photos, most of them depicting late 19th century and early 20th century Indigenous life. [post_status] => publish [comment_status] => open [ping_status] => open [post_password] => [post_name] => the-big-picture [to_ping] => [pinged] => [post_modified] => 2018-11-16 11:10:05 [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-11-16 17:10:05 [post_content_filtered] => [post_parent] => 0 [guid] => https://www.degreesmagazine.ca/?p=2114 [menu_order] => 0 [post_type] => post [post_mime_type] => [comment_count] => 0 [filter] => raw )