Birthday Reflections

I’m a fairly reflective person, but I become particularly so on and around my birthdays. (I’m sure many of us do!). My sister once told me that the body’s cells replace themselves every seven years. In a brief internet search, it seems like this can happen every seven to ten years, but I like the idea of seven. Of change on a molecular level. Of cells becoming new again. I am not sure exactly how it all works, but this year marks the sixth such time this phenomenon has happened for me. And in truth, I do feel something of a lightness. A change. A release. A relaxing.

I have felt at times, like I’m always striving and trying to reach something. Trying to get to somewhere far off in the distance. Up a mountain. Across an ocean. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve tried to learn (and unlearn) up until this point has been in pursuit of this goal. For the longest time, that goal was to get to a place where I could write stories and make books—every moment of the day. 

It is still this. 

There have been times though when I wasn’t certain storytelling was what I should be doing. I worried that focussing on storytelling would not serve my community—my people—in the ways I ought to. And in truth, I still worry about this, as I love our community so much and I want to see it, and all the people within it thrive. 

For the last ten years I’ve balanced some of my storytelling work with my work in the area of education. For the most part, this has worked well because I believe wholeheartedly in creating spaces and opportunities for empowerment and learning, especially being someone whose life has been transformed many times over by the generosity of others who carry knowledge, share information, offer history and context, and have modelled ways to question or challenge thinking.

The times it hasn’t worked as well have been those moments where I let one take precedence and overshadow the other. Usually, this means letting the storytelling work be set aside because there are other pressing matters to attend to. I haven’t been able to take steps to remedy this imbalance, but I hope to and I think it’s really important that I find a way to.

Yesterday, my other sister sent me a screenshot of a tweet and this tweet really helped to anchor some of the thoughts I’ve had about what it is I am doing with my storytelling. The tweet was this:

Nya:weh to Jennifer Powell (and my sister for sharing it with me).

Learning through imagination. 

In so many ways this line is what I’ve always hoped for our publishing company to be. A place that made creative, fun, and engaging stories that also, at times, shared truth and information or could be linked with non-fiction reference material (or experiences) to promote learning. But first and foremost, for imagination and the creativity to always take the lead. After all, this is what I have always wished for myself as a reader at different points in my life: 

When I was 9, A middle grade book like Goosebumps or Fablehaven inspired by our legends: The School That Ate Children

When I was 20, An urban fantasy about vampires inspired by our legends: The Vampire Skeleton

When I was 30, An Austen retelling that considered how differently a story might be if told in the context of Haudenosaunee women’s rights and experiences: Pride & Rezjudice 

When I became an auntie and then a parent, a book that would help me teach my children about inherent and treaty rights: Treaty Baby and We Give Our Thanks

And perhaps most of all, when I have needed to see and be reminded that our stories are real and true, our power—magnificent:  A fantasy that showcased other worlds and beings and powers of wind and lightning from our legends in a new way: The Fortune Teller’s Daughter. 

I am so excited to have been able to share these stories, and look forward to writing more, as many of the titles above belong to series that are not finished yet. And so, I will mark this birthday as a kind of stepping back into storytelling and a letting of every experience I’ve gained as an artist, a language learner, and an educator ground the sharing of what I create. I am so grateful for the learning these past years and experiences have brought me and am especially grateful for all the readers who have read and shared my books. You are amazing. Thank you.

And I wish you all a good start to the school year! 

S.

Back to the Work

It’s a Friday evening as I sit down to write this post and I’ve officially been back to work for three weeks. I can’t believe how quickly that time has gone! Being on maternity leave during the pandemic has meant that for healthy and safety reasons, we’ve foregone time with family and friends we would have otherwise spent the last year with. And while I’ll probably be processing the sadness of that lost time for a little longer, I know there’s still much to be grateful for. This last year with my little family and our new baby has felt strangely insulated, but we were also able to spend a lot of time focussing on one another, and being able to focus on anything—much less something so positive—this last year feels like an absolute blessing. There’s been a lot of change and adjusting to do, and I’ve felt a need to maintain an almost continual state of acceptance about much of it. That hasn’t been easy, of course, and though I’ve done my best to manage the stress and anxiety of the times and go with the flow of things, it feels good to join the world again—to set intentions and make plans, however small.

The plans I’m making right now are primarily creative. I’ve spoken at length on this blog about how honouring creativity and telling stories fuels everything else that I do, and I’m super excited to resume my storytelling work in this next half of 2021. It was however, a definite challenge to write and edit this past year. As a result I’m more behind than I’d like to be on my book writing schedule (thank you everyone, for your patience with me). But! I am planning to release both The Fortunes of Ithaca and The Wall of Bones (the next Vampire Skeleton series title) this year, and I’m so excited about both of these books. I can’t wait to share them with the world :). I’m also really happy about the one thing that will make all this creative writing work a bit easier—this amazing little writing cabin that was a gift from my husband for our 5th wedding anniversary. I’ve been writing in it for the past few months and I’m amazed at how much it has already helped.

In the meantime, some of the smaller projects I’ve been working on over the last few years have come out into the world. I love writing speculative fiction but for sure have a special place in my heart for children’s books. This last year, I’ve been able to work on a few interesting pieces. This one is a short article for the children’s history magazine, Kayak. It appeared in their February 2021 issue and is about the Great Tree of Peace. It also features some of my art. Suffice it to say, I absolutely loved working on this project and am so grateful to the Kayak team for the opportunity. The second book that was released this last year was a Rubicon Inquiry title called The Birthday Gift. This was another really enjoyable project I worked on with my sister (who was the illustrator for the piece), and I’ll be sure to link the book once I have the chance :).

There are also some new projects in the works that I’ll be talking about in the near future, as well as a short story and poetry collection I’ve been working away at over the last few years. Some of the poems for this collection also appeared in a Hamilton Arts & Letters special edition last year, and I’m really looking forward to releasing the rest of them once the collection is ready. I’ve always wanted to write and illustrate comics and graphic novels, and have been practicing with some small form pieces that may be fun to include. We’ll see :).

Speaking of art, as many of you know, I started working on my art a lot more while I was finishing my doctorate. The art I was doing rather quickly overtook the small page I had built for it on this site, and so I’ve moved it over to a website of its own that you can now visit! Please feel free to check it out, if you’re so inclined. I’ll also be shifting some of my research articles away from this site, as those ideas also seem like they need their own place and space to grow. In some ways it feels funny to have so many different spaces, but my hope is that it will help those who are interested in a particular part of the work I do to stay connected to it in an easier way. All in all, I’m grateful and excited to move forward with my many projects and look forward to seeing the ways they’ll connect to each other.

And with that, I will end this blog. Happy May everyone! I hope you’re all finding your way in these strange times, and send my wishes for your good health and continued happiness as we move about the world. 

Happy creating,

S.

The Long September

September is usually my favourite month of the year, given that it heralds the start of fall, the start of school and the start of a new year for me—as my birthday falls in September. But, as it has all year, 2020 continues to reshape the familiar and expected. Case in point—I originally wrote this post on September 1st, and then just became completely consumed in getting my six-year-old ready for her Cayuga language immersion class (choosing to follow the paper option because the internet where I live is so terrible), and then felt like it was hard to know what to write about when there were so many things on my mind and in the news cycle that were affecting my community and Indigenous Peoples across Turtle Island. I’ve also had a tremendously hard time letting go of the summer—a definite first for me. 

And while I am someone who thrives on creating things: books, art, and stories, my great unwavering hope for this entire year has been for the continued good health of my family, my loved ones, my community members—the entire world, really. Still, it is only now, as we head into the last few months of 2020, that I’m able to fully process that this “new normal” will likely be the way of things for another year, if not more. We have been told all along that we’re in this for the long haul; that we’re grappling with change of enormous proportions, and witnessing firsthand how long it takes for humankind to learn about and develop a resilience to new ailments and illnesses. 

All of this makes it feel impossible to take anything for granted, and yet, there seems to be an open invitation to do just that, especially in these these days when goods and services are delivered almost instantly (depending on your location) and where anything can be streamed or consumed on a whim (also depending on your location). There is this sense, something approaching an expectation perhaps, that there should be immediate and unfettered access to the things we want. And this too, is not so, because, of course this is only one way the world can feel. For many, the world is experienced in a vastly different way, one where gaining access to goods and services is difficult, if not impossible and where seeking help might not always feel or be safe. Where seeking justice is even less so. Indeed, as I write this, members of my community are being targeted by police and the Ontario judicial system for drawing attention to the still unresolved land matters our community has been actively been seeking to address for hundreds of years using a variety of available mechanisms, and all while the land is further developed. These are hard things to watch for many reasons, not the least of which is that there appears to be no sign that the history of this matter will be well understood and approaching resolve by the time my own children, and the children of many of the people who I attended school with in Caledonia, are grown.

And now we are here, on September 30, a day known across Turtle Island as #OrangeShirtDay, in which we collectively remember and honour the experiences of our children and family members who were taken from their families and placed in residential schools for the purpose of cultural genocide. Some of those children never returned home, and the impacts of attending these schools for those who did, have been felt through the generations. It is important to remember these happenings, even as we work to recover, repair, restore, rebuild what was lost—such as we can. And yet—as recently as a week ago, I saw mean-spirited, hateful and inhumane social media posts calling for the reopening of these schools in response to the exercise of treaty rights by our Indigenous brothers and sisters on Turtle Island’s east coast. To me, this kind of hateful response to the exercise of inherent and treaty rights is not only deeply disappointing, it’s another example of how the desire and effort to eradicate and assimilate Indigenous Peoples is very much tied to the intent to subsume land and resources. To own and control them.

#LandBack. #OrangeShirtDay. These movements are connected and they always will be, until efforts to confront systemic racism include a genuine and fulsome examination of the purpose, intent, and structure. For until that intent is examined with a truthful, honest lens, and shifts are willingly made along every policy corridor, it is difficult to see a future where reconciliation between the Canadian State and Indigenous Nations will ever be possible. But I am a hopeful person, something that is hard to be when people have and are losing their lives to this inaction and the biases, attitudes and prejudices it fosters. And so I know that change of this magnitude will be slow, even as I know that the state appears to actively fight its own efforts to restore peace and justice at times. The response to the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal confirming Canada’s discrimination toward First Nations children through the child and family services program are just one example of many that signals the road will remain long and arduous, and the discussions equally so.

Slow or not, we need this machine to reckon with itself. Just as we need to focus on fulfilling our own responsibilities and honouring our own intent in the meantime, however we can, however we are called. It is a lot of work. And it looks different for everyone. Some are called to language. Some are called to ceremony. Some are called to organize. Some are called to care for others. Some to art, to law, to writing, to teaching, to learning, to gardening, to entrepreneurship, to health care, to leadership, to archaeology, to museum work, to academia, to dance, to film, to music. And some are called to defend, with their bodies and their presence, on land and on water.

All of this work comes with its own challenges, and many of those challenges have shared origins: the cumulative, cascading impacts of colonialism. It has shaped us. It has shaped our treaty partners. It has shaped our responses for tense moments of resistance, when suddenly everyone wants a conflict resolved right away, instantly even though Indigenous Peoples are urged to be patient while the slow-moving wheels of process play out: tribunals, legal decisions, policy frameworks, legislation, program delivery, mandates to make any kind of change at all. And as we have seen in the case of the tribunal, even when we are winning—there is a desire to reverse and reject actions to rectify and resolve. A desire for things to stay as they are—whether people are being hurt by the status quo or not. 

And at times, I think I understand, in some small way, this desire for things to remain the same. If this pandemic has taught me anything, it is that I am not immune to mourning how things “used to be”. There are days when I want life to resume exactly as it was, or when the desire for normal, precedented times is so great I could cry. But even though I long for that—it hasn’t changed the fact that tomorrow, I will wake up to a world where we will still need to take simple steps to safeguard ours and others, and more importantly—where we are still not unified in the fight against climate change, still have not undone these oppressive systems of power. The pandemic hasn’t changed those things after all, it has simply laid them bare in another way. This is no future to leave to anyone’s children. And not choosing a side here or engaging some way, some how, would feel like betrayal. And so, the work remains.

My work right now while on maternity leave from Deyohahá:ge: is mostly with my children, and my oldest daughter in particular, doing what I can to support her learning with one of the local immersion programs she attends Grade 1 through. Even before my husband and I enrolled her, we knew there would be challenges with this. Schools are not perfect, infallible places after all; they weren’t for either of us and as much as we wish they were, we doubt they will be for her either. And Cayuga is a critically endangered language with few speakers and few learning resources. Learning it in a school environment creates this need to balance teaching language with teaching in the language, and we can appreciate that this balance isn’t always easy to strike. Still, curriculum development has been ongoing throughout the community and several schools at Six Nations are responding to and growing their programs to better reach language proficiency goals in ways that align with their school’s particular educational approach. Learning to speak language amidst all this development and growth will not be easy. Learning other parts of the curriculum, are also challenging in this current environment. Fortunately for my daughter, my husband Kehte is actually quite a good language speaker and there are a ton of great grade 1 resources that can help us become regular users of Gayogoho:nǫ’. This is, essentially, what I’ve spent much of this month doing, looking over the content, the various curriculums and thinking about activities we can do to really immerse our whole family in language—and asking myself where and how I can help with the language skills that I have? And while there are still so many resources that would be useful to this effort—indeed, it’s part of why we started writing our own little Cayuga books a few years back—I’m heartened to think that those are also something we can create together.

It is now then, when I reflect on all these happenings and news items on today of all days, and about the opportunity for learning and creating that our little family has over the next six or so months until I return to work, I can’t help but feel a profound sense of gratitude. I am probably not alone in sometimes wishing that I could be everywhere, helping everything all of the time. That I could retrain a dozen times and be at once: a lawyer, an educator, a language teacher, a linguist, a land defender, a water walker, a seed keeper, an everything, all-the-timer. Instead, I am at home doing a little bit of gardening, a lot of art, reading and my own particular kind of writing, working on my Cayuga language, signing petitions, donating, watching webinars and lectures, and doing an obscene amount of planning and house rearranging. And definitely, absolutely sending my appreciation and support to those people who are doing all of this aforementioned, specialized work. Much of the time, this is as lovely and fulfilling as it can be during a global pandemic. Some of the time it is stressful because I’m pushing myself too hard to be “productive”. But in truth, all of it would feel incredibly, unbearably lonely if I couldn’t spend my days with the girls and our awesome new baby, Hugo. Which I suppose, brings me to my point: our school aged daughter is home and she is safe. She can learn her language with us and her siblings, with the support of our local schools and educators who want and value a parent’s role in their child’s education, and who know and use her Ogwehoweh name. I am a part of her educational journey. These are good, simple things—the very least of what we might expect of an education system—and they were not possible for Indigenous children in the not so distant past. It will never stop being important to remember that, to remember them, and to know in the very core of our beings that we should never let something like it happen again. 

Until next time, happy creating. Hug your little people close. Sign up to support the Spirit Bear campaign. Listen to podcasts. Donate to the Woodland Cultural Centre and the #1492 Land Back Legal Defence Fund. And Happy Orange Shirt Day. 

Nya:weh,

S.

Some Thoughts On Reading Books That Include References To Your Culture

Note: I wrote this blog post yesterday but am just getting around to posting it now. It was written in response to a reference to an aspect of my culture in a book I’m reading, and that (artistic license aside) was so startlingly off or inaccurate, that I felt the need to address the thoughts I was having about it.

I am not sure where to start with this, and so I’ll start here: I am by no means someone who always gets it right. I get plenty of things wrong and am in a constant state of learning. I have compassion for the learning process and the people who are on it, and I always will. However, over the several years or so, I’ve noticed a trend in the reading/media consumption I do that feels important to address, such that I can. Thanks to many efforts and individuals, the issue of representation (of Indigenous nations, peoples, cultures, perspectives, and stories) is a topic of broader and more widespread discussion than it has been previously. What follows here then is less a commentary on the topic of representation of Indigenous themes in literature as a whole, and rather an example of where I’ve personally felt surprised, affronted and dismayed by the way something that is very much a part of my lived experience appears to have been used as a plot device in a story.  

Earlier this morning I was deep into reading a book that I had previously been enjoying a great deal.  The book felt like a breath of fresh air, well written, richly imaginative and insightful (I blogged about it in a previous post). And in truth—it remains all of these things. However, shortly after I started reading I came across a passage in which the author made a reference to a vital part of my culture (although culture does not feel like a strong enough word to describe what it is and what it does for us), that felt so off—so inaccurate, it caused me to lose my appetite. The passage included reference to a ‘false face mask from an area near Lake Ontario’ (note: this is not the direct quote). Reading these kind of things hits you like a brick, smacking you right out of the story. And instead of asking—what will happen to such-and-such a character next, you find yourself coming to a full stop and asking: What is this author’s background? Where did they find this story? What Nation’s practices are they referring to? Did they research this before they wrote it? Do they know that this knowledge belongs, collectively, to my people? That it is special and sacred? And worst—do they care? 

Basically—all of the questions and more. Suddenly it feels like you’re back in high school or university, the only Indigenous person in the classroom being compelled to speak up because—because you just have to do or say something. And I have to admit, I didn’t expect to feel such a thing from a book that had (in my view) done such a fine job of navigating (and even calling out) the tensions of representation, salvage anthropology, and imperialism. I was bewildered and frustrated, and while I cannot confirm for certain that this author is talking about my people’s masks—the description was so similar to ours that I can’t imagine it not being. Either way—it stirred up a lot. So I decided I should take a minute and talk about that here.  I’m not in a classroom anymore, but I’m still feeling all these feelings—and so—this blog post is my equivalent to speaking up in class. (And for anyone who’s curious or doesn’t know me or why this reference struck the way it did, I belong to the Mohawk Nation and the Turtle Clan and grew up/live in a First Nation community in Southern Ontario, located very near to Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. These false face masks are embedded in my people’s stories, ceremonial cycle, culture and lives—a presence to be treated with respect and reverence. That said—in no way am I speaking on behalf of my entire community. These thoughts and perspectives are my own). 

I am someone who reads across most fictional genres, but fantasy is without a doubt my favourite. I recognize in reading fantasy that authors draw inspiration from all manner of places: from stories, legends, and history. From ideas, science and study. The discussion of author choices around what this inspiration should or should not include is not a new one: see this old blog post written after the whole Magic in North America debacle. And I myself, have done the same when writing—attempted to work with stories and my own experiences of this world in the truest manner possible albeit in mostly fictional, magical settings. I doubt I have done so perfectly and I am certain I have more to learn/reckon with as I continue. Writing has been a powerful way for me to synthesize my experiences as an Indigenous woman, but I know that doesn’t give me “a pass”—and I don’t want it to. I’m happy to learn and do better—even when it’s hard and humbling. 

Growing up in my community, I’ve come to appreciate the very real and every day power of words, relationships, and the human and non-human beings of this world. I’ve also come to value the stories, languages, knowledges and ceremonies that belong to my people. I came to this appreciation despite being educated in a system that obscured the true history of happenings here on Turtle Island, and sought to eradicate our knowledges, languages and relationships with land. I am deeply appreciative of what learning I’ve had and continue to do, and the way that our ceremonies have personally helped me to heal and grow. I think this is in part why it frustrated me to see aspects of that incredible culture represented inaccurately—it continues or contributes to that legacy of obscuring or misrepresenting our culture at a time when my people, our children and the children after them, need and deserve that knowledge to help them thrive and survive in this world. 

As a writer, I recognize I have to navigate. And as a Haudenosaunee writer—who really only writes Haudenosaunee characters and for a Haudenosaunee audience—I want to be thoughtful about the lines I draw in writing about certain things. I take cues about this from my own community, where we do not necessarily teach certain subjects or content in schools for example, although perhaps other communities may, because we are fortunate enough to have other ways and places where these things can be learned. And though our community has definitely been subject to extractive research—there is still a generosity here, a willingness amongst our knowledge holders, young and old, to help people learn more about our ways, our knowledges, and our stories. I think it is fair to say also, that knowledge does not always flow freely or easily. There are certain things in our culture that are not for everyone—even if you are Haudenosaunee and live here in the community, and grew up with the culture, in a family who does have ties to a certain ceremony—it doesn’t follow that you will have that exact same experience. And while this can be challenging, I think many (most?) of the people in my community have grown up understanding that certain things are done certain ways for a reason, and where there is not a reason that comes engrained in the practice, or where that reason has come from the impacts of colonization and settler-colonialism, then we know there is work to do to help our people learn about and reconnect to our ways. 

I understand this both as a community member and as a writer. And though I’m an independent author who writes quietly off to the side of the mainstream literature world, I can still appreciate firsthand the need to honour and write the story that comes to you. I understand when writers feel like they have to press forward with what the story is telling them to do, but I’m also grateful when they decide not to. For instance, there is a fantasy series out there that I haven’t ever wanted to read because it is a fantastical/fictional telling of the story of the Great Law written by non-Indigenous/non-Haudenosaunee authors. I have never read it and probably never will (and will obviously not critique it at this time, either, having not read it). I have however, attended one of the Great Law recitals put on by our chiefs, clanmothers, faithkeepers, and community members and endeavour to read versions of the Great Law shared by previous generations and written in our languages (with English translations though because I have fairly low levels of fluency). I’m grateful that our people have done these things to share that story in this way—it makes up so much of who we are and we need to hear it. And moreover, hearing it in this way feels right, especially as I have a responsibility to determine how to live the lessons of the Great Law in my life right now. Reading it in a fantasy novel, would feel out of context for me. And that is what the reference to false faces in this book felt like. Weird. Out of place. Out of context. And actually—wrong. 

Why do I care or feel the need to write about this? The answer to this, is probably nobody’s business and I’m not even sure if I should be writing about it. But the reason I care is because I, and many people I know, have an actual relationship with false face masks. Hatowi is an important helper to my people. And it would feel disrespectful to not speak up for them after reading something about them that feels off. I had a similar reaction when I read Lewis Henry Morgan words about false faces in Elizabeth Tooker’s Lewis H. Morgan on Iroquois Material Culture. I would not want my children to stumble across the representations/characterizations in these works and think that they were true, or—that they should be silent if they felt compelled to speak up about something that bothered them. It feels important to say then, that false faces have a story of their own and this is not it. And while I’m sure you can find reference to it by googling around on the internet—as a writer, it’s not a story I personally would have included, much less changed the meaning/background of and then used as a plot device in one of my own. Because in my community and others, the story of the false face mask is the story of Hatowi, and it’s told to remind my people that we have a relationship with this being who heals and protects us, and we have a responsibility to honour them for their help. Changing that story in the way it was changed, does not feel like it honours that responsibility. 

Now perhaps, it can be argued that this author doesn’t have a responsibility to Hatowi. But I do. I also have a responsibility as a mother of Haudenosaunee children who are learning to read. And so I am going to give life to those responsibilities, such as I can and make sure at the very least, that my own children are aware that there are books out there, including this one, that can get things wrong. That they may write things about us inaccurately, for plot purposes or political purposes or because of artistic license, perhaps without realizing what they have done. And further, that not all books in the world will cause them to feel a sense of confidence, or pride in who they are—even though books themselves can feel like confidants or companions. And so I’m writing this blog for them. To have a place where I shared that the story of the false face mask in The 10,000 Doors of January (and yes, it is such a small part of the book to spark such a long post) is not the story of the being that helps our people and share also, that if I had been the editor of this book (and kept my own personal worldview/lens as a Haudenosaunee woman) I would have questioned the author about this passage and suggested she change it to something else that advanced the story accordingly. 

This all said—The 10,000 Doors of January is a fine book and the author is a wonderful writer. I enjoyed their story a great deal up until this point and it’s entirely possible I’m the only reader who might have an issue with the passage that I did, and felt the need to say so/write this post before I could conscionably finish the book. This is okay. This is what I think demonstrating respect for the work the masks do for my people can mean at this moment. And on a whole, this is just a small part of the ongoing discussion that’s happening around #ownvoices and #representationmatters, and my own experience of it. Because while my own experience and reaction to the content I’ve encountered over the past few years has been varied, the trend I’ve noticed is around how I feel about a work’s treatment of colonialism and the impacts thereof, or the presence/recreation of these ideas somewhere in the text (inadvertently or not). There are video games I lost interest in playing because they had the goal of colonizing outer space (Mass Effect’s Andromeda) or that I had to push myself to finish playing even though they had colonizing undertones (Ni No Kuni II). My experience with books has been much the same. And in truth, I have no expectation for anyone to get it perfectly right all of the time and am perfectly happy to disengage with books that have certain undercurrents. Everyone can make their own choices about what they do or do not read, and do or do not like. This experience was different. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the book—I did. But there was no denying the shock I felt reading this passage.

My experience as a student, an educator, a reader and a creator of things has taught me that there’s no sense avoiding talking or thinking about it when something feels wrong—even if only to yourself and even if no one else agrees. Because while an artistic or creative work may not intend harm—it can still cause it, and being able to talk about those incidents of harm and consider them against lived experience or different perspectives is important and necessary. My experience as a mother to Haudenosaunee children has taught me other things—that it’s important to ensure my kids know our stories, languages, ceremonies and that they have a relationship with the natural world so these things can help them know peace. And also, that they are aware of the systems, beliefs and world views out there that wanted to (and still seek to) disrupt that peace (and the peace of others) by fracturing our languages, knowledge systems, family systems, political systems and relationships. Aspects of that destructive energy can pop up from time to time in the books, in media, in newspapers, in policy—perhaps even in ourselves and perhaps even unintentionally. When it does, I want them to feel able to pinpoint, think about and articulate when something does not ring true, or represents our people and responsibilities inaccurately. 

In saying this, I recognize that confronting inaccuracy is time consuming. It’s not always easy to know what the best approach is to do so, and in truth, it’s hard to give up time when there is so much work to do in areas like language revitalization or relearning how to live sustainably. But being able to pause and identify when and why something does not ring true is important. For me, it can happen through something as simple (and admittedly insignificant) as writing a blog post—even if it does not result resolve anything. After all, the discussion of who is writing about what will probably continue far beyond this post. It’s a good discussion, and one I hope can continue to be had in kind, respectful ways. And while my blog post may not change the words printed in the book or the author’s choices, writing this post has eased the unsettled feeling I had a few hours ago and allowed me get refocussed on what is important to me: honouring relationships, passing on knowledge, and learning our languages (and right now, while doing our best to keep our family healthy amid a global pandemic). Basically, back to the difficult and joyful work to be found in ceremony, songs, culture, relationship, community, language learning, justice seeking, healing work, supporting one another, telling our own stories, and expressing our gratitude. I’m grateful to my ancestors for doing their best to keep our ways alive. Their efforts ensured that my children can know the true story of the masks, and how they are connected to us through relationships embodied in story, song, ceremony, and community—even food. And I’m glad I can ensure they learn and engage with our languages and stories, even as we attempt to support them in thinking critically about what they read, about where it comes from, about why, and how to find ways to do that from a place of peace. It is perhaps not the best or only thing that we can do—but it is a start.

And with that—I am off to go do some more planting and enjoy our community’s Bread & Cheese celebration. Until next time, happy writing, and as you create, I hope you will create with care. 

S. 

Slowing Down. Hurrying Up. A Life & Writing Update.

It’s May now and we’ve just gone through our second socially-distanced birthday party, this one for my six year-old daughter, Ione (pronounced in three syllables: i-oh-knee). My husband’s birthday followed shortly after the birth of our son, which was just over four weeks ago in April (🖤!), but Ione’s celebration was definitely the one that had me the most anxious. All in all though, I’m feeling exceptionally happy and grateful for how it all went. I won’t lie, it definitely took some effort to make sure I didn’t project my own sadness that she wasn’t going to have her usual birthday celebration onto her, but fortunately—that effort was successful. We had a wonderful day and though I didn’t hear it, my husband shared that Ione told him it was the best birthday she’s had so far, so there’s that. 

This pandemic has been reaffirming many things for us and we’re probably not alone in recognizing just how much we truly value and treasure time with our loved ones. All of us were moved by the way our family managed to reach out to Ione, responding with great enthusiasm to the call for virtual signs, songs and window visits. And I’ll be eternally grateful to our youngest daughter, Vivian (whose birthday is coming up next), for hugging Ione the moment she woke up and exclaiming how excited she was for her sister. That kind of selfless joy and sisterly love was pure magic and helped set the tone for the entire day.  

Writing and Reading Again.

Reading.

I’ve said before that writing and creative work is the thing that fuels everything else I do in my life and so it doesn’t surprise me that as I start to make my way back to a daily writing habit, my overall wellbeing has started to improve. It’s taken almost the entire last two months to get to a place where I can feel like I am able to write and read again, even as the return of these activities to my day-to-day have called for some changes. First up—I’ve had some really intense screen fatigue the last week or so, and have subsequently noticed that reading print books is much more preferable to reading things on screens. This has been both good and bad. Good because it’s forced me to read a lot of the books I’d purchased pre-COVID and bad because a lot of the newer books I want to read are hard to get right now. That aside, it just feels wonderful to read for enjoyment again. I read across most genres, but fantasy is my absolute favourite and so I’ve been reading a lot of Hugo nominations, both this year and last. I just finished reading Mary Robinette Kowal’s The Calculating Stars and Naomi Novik’s Spinning Silver. I enjoyed them both but Spinning Silver was probably my favourite of the two. I found myself relishing every word and loved the way each viewpoint came together at the end. I’m also finishing up V.E. Schwab’s Vengeful and Marie Brennan’s A Natural History of Dragons.  But the book I’m most excited about is The 10,000 Doors of January by Alix E. Harrow. This book is STUNNING. There’s something about it that reminds me of one of my all time favourites, The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It’s definitely one of the most beautifully written stories I’ve encountered in a long time. It’s also the book I’m having a hard time getting a print copy of even though the paperback just came out on May 12, and so I’ve been reading it on my Kindle app, which brings me back to the whole screen fatigue thing. (UPDATE: I wrote another post about The 10,000 Doors of January here, a day after writing this one as I stumbled across something in it that kind of unsettled me and felt like I needed to write about it).  

Although I’m a Kobo fan through and through, (I’ve probably had just about every Kobo that ever came out) I’ve been reading a ton of Kindle ebooks lately, and so I decided to go ahead and purchase my first ever Kindle. I got the Kindle PaperWhite and a nifty little case. I didn’t need or particularly want another e-reader, to be honest. I’ve been comfortably reading books on my iPad mini apps for ages but ever since the screen fatigue set in, I find I can barely look at a screen much less read whole books on it. Plus, I like to read in “night mode” which I can’t get on my current e-readers. And, with all the news I’ve been consuming, I really wanted to be able to read without getting the urge to hop online to see what was going on. So I took the plunge and bought the Kindle and am looking forward to trying it out. Fingers crossed, it will help ease my eyes and overall support my mental health somewhat. 

Writing

So I’m doing lots of reading. I’m also doing a little bit of writing, easing back into what I hope will be a productive year where I can finish the majority of projects I have in progress. Screen fatigue is slowing me down a bit here as well though. I do most of my writing on my Macbook and while I have Dragon for Mac, I rarely use dictation. I’m going to try using transcription and dictation more a little later this year once I’ve been cleared to exercise. For the time being though, I might try working longhand to give my eyes a chance to rest. I have some really great notebooks I bought for just such a purpose and while it will make assessing my word counts really challenging (I’m aiming for a meagre 300 words a day at present to redevelop that daily writing habit), at least I will be getting some words on the page. 

Art 

I’ve also continued to work on my art, which has had it’s own set of challenges. I had set an intention to do a lot more practice drawing and sketching this year, and had picked out some online courses to guide me along. And while I’ve had these great subscriptions to a few illustration services for the past two years, in truth, I’m barely able to use any of them living where we do, in the middle of a forested area, in a First Nation community at a time when the networks are strained with the considerable increases in use. A lot of disparities have become more apparent in the time of COVID-19, and internet access is definitely one of them (a less vital one, perhaps, but one nonetheless). The struggle with accessing workable internet has made me look at online learning in remote areas quite differently than I did before, and I honestly don’t think online learning would be feasible or desirable for learning in my community for the foreseeable future. While I am deeply grateful to all of the educators who continue to show up for our children, there has been something sad about watching the girls try to connect to their friends and family over screens. It doesn’t light them up in the same way. Sometimes, it even seems to make them more sad or distant, and so I find myself reluctant to engage with it (or using a lot of care when we do). Regarding my art then, I’ve decided to not worry about all the classes I had wanted to take. Instead, I’m going to find a few sketchbook challenges and have a rough goal of trying to fill at least one sketchbook over the rest of the year. That should get me into a fairly regular drawing habit while keeping me off screens and not being frustrated by slow internet speeds.  

Language 

Finally—we are about to start an intensive language effort again. I’ve been reluctant to set specific goals for my language learning over the last little while. Instead, I’ve just been consciously using a lot more language around the house. But as always, I’m hitting a point where I need more guidance, immersion and focussed practice of particularly concepts to expand what I’m able to say in day-to-day life. I’ll be writing notes/updates about my language learning as I go, but for now, it feels like a good idea to at least mention it because writing this blog has helped me envision what the next few months could look like for me, and articulate some simple and achievable goals (300 words a day/one sketchbook/reading/speaking more language). Writing this blog has made me realize that I need these goals right now, in part, to help give shape to what can feel like a never-ending day at times.

Slowing Down.

All in all though, I know I’m fortunate to be able to work on any of these things during such a challenging time. The year we are having is not the year we thought we would be having, and trying to let go of that while managing all of the other change that has swept over us can feel overwhelming on the best of days. I am letting go of a year I thought would be filled with me and the baby doing lots of solo bonding, art, writing, and piano playing. I was excited for that year, but I’m also really grateful to be able to share this time and those same activities with the girls too, even though it’s much more challenging to do so. And even though it seems like being together and home should be easier to do because things have slowed down around us, it still feels like our days are so packed and like we are bustling around from activity to activity trying to meet all of our work, play and wellness needs. It is a lot.  Slowing down. Hurrying up. Sometimes it feels like we are trying to do both at the same time, lol.

Anyways—this blog has been far longer than I intended it to be! You’ll have to forgive me :). It has been a strange, wondrous, and stressful time for us and we are doing our best to make the most of it. There is no denying that our family is lucky—lucky to be together, to be in a forest, to be close enough to our extended family for window visits, to be in a community that is doing its best to prioritize the health of our people. There is much to be thankful for, and I hope some of that gratitude will come through in the creative work I do over the next year. Until next time, I hope all is well and happy creating!  

S. 

P.S. The Hamilton Arts & Letters editions that features some of my art and poetry is now available online! There’s a ton of lovely work in there by many other talented Indigenous writers & artists, so do check it out if you can 🖤.