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.