“Under normal circumstances, maybe.”
Digging deep in my raincoat pocket, I removed the thumb drive and thrust it tightly into her hand. She looked at it for a second, growing oddly calm. The thin summer scarf she’d been wearing slipped down to reveal a necklace I’d never seen before. Nestled between her collarbones was a delicate gold dream catcher. Sally tucked some of her long black hair behind her right ear. She had matching earrings.
“Those are new,” I managed to say.
Speaking in a monotone, she answered, “They came yesterday. Courier. From my mother in Tyendinaga. Very pretty, don’t you think?”
“I think they’re beautiful. Don’t you, Pamela?”
Now I heard the voice that had forced its way into my life just a few evenings ago, this time coming from her table. Her iPad was on and pointed at me. Once again, Skype was activated but there was no return picture.
“Here we were, trying to figure out how to find you and you just show up. It’s always hard to anticipate the benefits of luck. We were just planting a suggestion in Sally here, just in case you decided to contact her.”
I didn’t say anything. I could feel my options quickly slipping away. And the voice just kept talking, so calm and confident.
“You’re quite clever, young lady. I will give you that. We’ve found the gentleman who sent you the thumb drive. Evidently, he was infatuated with both you and your writing. I believe you met him at a political conference some months ago, but the less said about him the better. The here and now is always more interesting than the then and there, don’t you agree?”
“Speaking from an Aboriginal perspective, not always.” I had finally found my voice.
“Touché, Ms. Wanishin. I stand corrected.”
“Was I right?”
The blank screen looked back at me. “About the dream catchers? It’s a lot more complicated than that, but I believe you got the gist.”
“But why? I assume a lot of time and money went into this… this…” I couldn’t find the right word.
“Ah yes, it was inevitable you would ask that. Suppression of Indigenous unrest, young lady. Both urban and rural. Our best scientists designed today’s dream catchers as a sort of pacification protocol. We initiated it to help keep the Aboriginal population less… volatile. Simply put, dream catchers, whether they are on walls, windows, rear-view mirrors or jewellery, act as receivers for—let’s call them radio waves for the moment, to help eliminate, or at least moderate, the more radical and detrimental social outbursts that on occasion have plagued our country. Truly, we just want our Native people to be happy. And protesting First Nations are not happy people, which in turn aggravates other segments of the population. You see, it’s for your own good.”
I found myself leaning against the kitchen sink, struggling to talk. “When? How?”
“You look a little perturbed, Ms. Wanishin. Perhaps you should sit down.”
I sat down on a kitchen chair with a thump.
“I don’t… This is… You can’t…”
I looked at Sally, but she hadn’t moved. She was still looking down, her gaze unnaturally fixed on the thumb drive in her hand.
“Yes, I realize this is all rather overwhelming. When I first took over this portfolio, I was amazed. You might be surprised to know this was originally put into development right after the rejection of the infamous White Paper. My predecessors could read the writing on the wall, even back then. What with the growing power of the civil rights movement in America, it would only be a matter of time before the same unrest moved north to our little hamlet of freedom. Except, we correctly surmised, it would come from the Native community. We decided to be a little more proactive and discreet than our southern neighbours. Americans can be so over the top, don’t you think?”
I thought about the first Trudeau era and the government’s attempt to renegotiate the special status of Native people and reserves, basically aiming to politically eliminate us out of any meaningful Canadian existence.
“The White Paper… That was over forty-five years ago!”
“Oh good, you remember your history. Yes, but it was the Oka Crisis that began Project Nightlight. The gradual infiltration of the First Nations community via specially designed dream catchers. That’s the beauty of the whole situation. Dream catchers were already becoming all the rage. All we had to do was replace them with our own specially designed ones. You see, we currently have 143 Native women across the country unknowingly pumping out all different variations, sizes, makes and designs of our special dream catchers. We supply them with the proper material and those women alone, specially conditioned by us, supply the vast majority of powwow traders, arts and crafts stores and conference vendors, making saturation of the market total and complete. Of course, there are a few made here and there by random entrepreneurs, children or therapy groups, but they are just a small percentage. The whole operation is remarkably effective.”
I tried to stop myself from hyperventilating. He was telling me everything, but why? Because I was trapped and he was amusing himself. If I could have remembered the Lord’s Prayer, I would have been saying it then.
“You’ll notice that since Oka and Ipperwash, other than a few flare-ups here and there, things have been relatively quiet. The Idle No More movement was reasonably calm and non-invasive. The Native population, though still vocal and opinionated, has become largely non-violent. Add to that a few apologies here, a royal commission there… and the Canadian government and public shuffle along, dealing with the more important issues of the day. See, a much better, regulated society. And the real beauty of the plan is, for the most part, only those within the target population would want or have dream catchers, and they then voluntarily pass them on to those outside their immediate cultural environments who share similar political and social views. Meaning, of course, that non-Native sympathizers who would be likely to march or protest alongside their Indigenous brothers and sisters are frequently given dream catchers by their Native friends, thus completing the saturation. Brilliant, wouldn’t you say? We’re very proud.”
I looked at the docile Sally and wondered if that was my fate.
“Obviously, your friend needed a rather large dose to ensure her immediate compliance. But as I am sure you would agree, the general Aboriginal population is not even aware that they are being socially massaged. Well, that’s how I like to refer to it.”
“Socially massaged… How long do I have?”
“For what?”
“Until you socially massage the hell out of me? Or you kill me?”
The man at the other end of the conversation laughed. “My dear Ms. Wanishin, we are not going to kill you. That would be too… American.”
“So what are you going to do with me, then? This is not an ‘agree to disagree’ situation.”
He laughed again. “Quite right. You will simply be… removed. To a more secure location for containment. To ensure the continuing calm of Canadian society, you understand. We have a wonderful facility located on Ellesmere Island. You will love it there.”
“And Sally? What will happen to her?”
That’s when I learned about the decision made by Otter Lake’s resident proud Mohawk to move to the other side of the world and humbly embrace a violently patriarchal system.
“I love the irony,” the voice commented. “I’m big on irony.” Almost gleefully, he told me about his plans for the others at the paper and for the West Wind itself. “It’s called ‘containment and cleanup.’ It will be a bit messy, but we can make it work. We have before. These little scenarios are how I exercise my creativity. I know you’re not really in a position to appreciate the solution, but maybe someday you’ll grow to be amused.”
My mind was tap dancing. I have always believed that every problem has a solution. Somewhere in the back of my overtaxed mind, a dim but possible plan was be
ginning to form. But would I have time?
“I assume you’ve already got Sally’s house surrounded and are ready to move in.”
“I wouldn’t be very efficient at my job if my people weren’t in place already.”
“Will you give me a chance to sing my death song?”
Silence. In the quietness, I could almost hear the man’s puzzlement. It only lasted a second.
“Death song? The Ojibway don’t have a death song. And as I said, you aren’t going to be killed.”
“I misspoke. I meant my removal song.”
I don’t know where that idea came from, but I assumed that somebody who was used to being in control, and arrogant, probably had a shallow understanding of Native culture and thought of himself as sympathetic and respectful—in his own way. Also, it might appeal to his penchant for irony.
This time, there were two seconds of silence. I could sense the man’s control of the situation flickering, just a bit. “Removal song? Again, the Ojibway—”
Now was my chance.
“Yes, we do. Reserves, residential schools, the Sixties Scoop, prison—we are being removed all the time. It’s become part of our contemporary culture. Necessity and tradition dictated that we develop a removal song. Please allow me the cultural consideration to—”
“I am sorry, but we cannot—”
“Then I will burn this house down, thereby causing as much chaos and drawing as much attention as possible, a condition I am sure people in your position hate. I’ve burned an island to the ground; a house would be a lot easier. What do you say to that, mysterious white guy? All I need is ten minutes. Oh look, lighter fluid…”
If silence could be angry, I thought, his would be screaming. Each second passed with agonizing slowness. I looked out Sally’s window and couldn’t see anything, but I knew, sure as my ex-boyfriend owes me $1,400, they were there.
“Ten minutes… for your removal song.”
I grabbed the iPad on the table and quickly disabled the internet. Then I made sure Sally’s cellphone was turned off. To be safe, I took the battery out.
The cool thing about Sally is she did triple duty at the paper—receptionist, IT person and reporter. First thing I did, on the off chance the house was bugged, was start chanting. Random noises and vocalizations. Second thing was I grabbed Sally’s voice recorder and turned it on. As accurately as possible, I have recounted everything that has happened to me since hell arrived in a small paper package. Luckily, she also had one of those programs that converts voice to text. Hopefully, that is what you are reading now.
As a small business operating out in the country, the paper often had its own unique difficulties to deal with. Power surges, thunderstorms, spontaneous blackouts that could severely affect internet and phone reception. So Sally, in all her wisdom, saw fit to connect the West Wind office to her own house about forty metres down the road with a hard line to ensure none of these problems would interfere with getting the paper out. Being the smart woman she is… or was, Sally even got a grant to pay for it. This meant her server was connected to the server at the paper, with no way for the mysterious white guy to listen in or monitor, unless he physically tapped into the actual cable. He was working on the fly just as much as I was.
The beauty of the situation is I will upload my story and the thumb drive files onto Sally’s server, which will immediately send them to the server at the office—with its huge mailing list, website and contact files. As Sally, who is still sitting at the kitchen table looking blankly down at her now-empty hand, explained to me once, if there is a break in power or connection at her end, whatever is loaded on the office’s server will automatically be emailed wherever it has been pre-programmed to go. Or from here, if necessary, as a backup. The second they storm this house, I assume they will grab Sally’s hard drive in an attempt to secure the evidence. And the minute they disconnect the server I am about to plug the thumb drive into, everything I have just recorded will go international and they’ll be fucked. I, too, love irony.
So this is my story. Tell everybody. Do not trust dream catchers, especially ones made from metal hoops, wire and plastic string and beads. They are evil. They are destroying the Native people. Rip them from cars, windows and walls, necklaces and earrings, crush or burn them, wherever you see them. This is the only warning you will get. Fight the dream catcher!
What will happen to me, I don’t know… I’ve always wanted to go to Nunavut, but not—
Oh shit, gotta go…
Mr. Gizmo
In a small community, on a tiny island on the edge of a huge ocean, sat a boy. He was not a small boy, nor was he a large boy. He was a medium-sized teenager, fast approaching the beginning of his third decade on Turtle Island but feeling the weight of a thousand years upon his shoulders. In his unremarkable room, he sat on the edge of his unmade bed. Around him was the detritus he had so far acquired in his unmemorable life—a mishmash of outgrown toys, casually read graphic novels, rudely piled clothes—and he held a small .38 snub-nosed revolver firmly in his hand.
The house was empty and quiet. Only the sounds of the island’s animal citizens could occasionally be heard filtering into the room from the world outside. Squeezing the wooden handle, the boy could feel the criss-crossed texture of the gun’s grip. Lying dead centre in his palm, it felt heavy. Heavier than he had expected, but then it was a sizable chunk of forged steel. It should be heavy. Why he had thought it would be less substantial he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the way it was whipped out and waved about so casually on television and in films that made it seem less formidable. Whatever. Make no mistake, the sheer ominous heft of the six-chambered firearm told him it was an instrument of violent death. He squeezed the handle again, making sure his index finger stayed distant from the trigger. For the moment, anyway.
Seventeen years of walking the planet had landed him here, at this very moment, at this unique juncture of his life. Half of it lived in the big city of Vancouver, the other half a little ways away in this isolated First Nations community bordering the edges of both a continent and an ocean. Today his thoughts ran dark and bleak. You see, the boy was rapidly running out of family to rely on, and as a result, his sense of self-worth was also depleting. His father… dead from what was described as an “incident” in prison. What was it… eleven years ago already? He could barely remember the man who had called him son. The boy was now probably as tall as his father had been when he’d last seen him. But the man whose DNA he shared had become a mere number, one of the thousands of Aboriginal men who disproportionately “enjoyed” the hospitality of Canada’s correctional services. And whether he had been guilty or unfairly caged by the dominant culture’s so-called “justice system,” somewhere in his journey he had become just a memory for the boy and a statistic for some future royal commission.
The boy’s mother had disappeared one night while out in the city. Pleas to the police and the media proved ineffective, and the woman stayed missing and was quite likely dead. Now just another name in a much larger tragedy of murdered and missing women. That was when the boy was sent home, to live with his grandparents. In this house. On this island so far away from everything he knew.
He pulled back the hammer of the gun. “Cocked it” was the term he said silently to himself. The boy was dressed in black, having just come back from his grandmother’s funeral. Another branch broken off his heavily pruned family tree. He’d read somewhere that cocking it reduced the amount of pressure needed to pull the trigger from five pounds per square inch to two pounds per square inch, making it easier to fire. He could feel the satisfying click as the hammer locked into place.
This island had been home for a little more than seven years. It sure wasn’t like Vancouver. And even though he was probably broadly related to everybody in the village, he still somehow felt alone. And his peers let him know it. That he talked with a city accent. That he knew practically
nothing about fishing or his people or anything everybody else found interesting. There were girls he liked who didn’t like him. It had been a difficult and lonely seven years. Especially now, with his grandmother buried and his rigorously sober grandfather… now not so sober. The old man had passed out in his room, awash in a rye-and-beer-induced coma. The death of a partner he had shared his life with for more decades than most people live had taken its toll.
So there sat the boy, cradling the gun owned by his grandfather, a gift from an American he had been a fishing guide for a long time ago. Neither he nor his grandfather knew if it had ever been fired.
His grandparents had taught the boy that life was a gift to be treasured. It was now a philosophy the boy had difficulty accepting. In fact, the gun in his hand demonstrated his curiosity about returning that precious gift. He was finishing high school in two months… perhaps a better way of saying it was barely finishing high school, or that high school would be finished with him. What next? University? The thought almost made him laugh. His teachers, though supportive, gave him the impression that would be a waste of time. The fishing industry that abounded in the area? That seemed equally unlikely. It was backbreaking work that required a certain amount of commitment and endurance, neither of which he felt he possessed. Also, embarrassingly, long hours on the open sea made him seasick. Some Kwakwaka’wakw man he was.
All of that added up to a bleak past and an equally bleak future. As the poets would say, it was a shitty life that was seemingly getting shittier. That was the realization that had sent him to the top shelf of his grandfather’s closet a little less than half an hour ago. Now in his room, the revolver sat comfortably in his left hand. Slowly, he transferred it to his right hand.
Impulsively, he lifted the gun, extending his arm and looking down the sights of the short, stubby barrel. Aiming. At everything. First, at the poster of some video game his grandparents couldn’t afford and whose ancient television probably couldn’t process the twenty-first-century technology necessary for him to play it. Still, it was a cool poster. Then, over at the window and the mountain that stood far off in the distance. It was beautiful, dark and distant. Next, on the wall across the room was a mirror with a sullen teenage boy in the middle of its frame. His arm hovered as he looked across the expanse of his room, trying to recognize the person at the other end. The boy was pointing a gun at him, too. Probably as pissed off as he was. Their eyes locked for a moment before both boys slowly lowered their guns.
Take Us to Your Chief Page 10