In recent weeks, Chief Island has found itself in the news when it was learned a group of boaters was planning to host a party dubbed a 'live music protest' that included concerts and gathering - in the midst of a pandemic - on sacred land. Rama First Nation referred to it as a "tipping point" and asked organizers to cancel the event.
Many may not know why this land is so important to local Indigenous people. In this guest column, Jeff Monague, a local elder and knowledge keeper, explains just that in a fictional story based on real-life events experienced by many.
It’s noon.
I can tell by how high the sun is in the sky over what the literary aficionados refer to as the Sunshine City. Plus, my t-shirt is sticking to me in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been squeezed into it, tube like.
I’m sweaty, thirsty, and grumpy. A perfect trifecta, were I in a race to be as uncomfortable as possible.
I walk into a coffee shop and seat myself at a small table in the corner. It’s farthest away from the stares that I received the second that I walked in. They start as a casual glance, and quickly degenerate into a wide mouthed racist stare.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But you never get used to racism. If you do, your soul is as dead as a racist stare.
The young waitress glances at me as she begins to serve an elderly couple three tables from me. She is charming, polite, though a little over the top in her bubbliness.
The smile drops from her face as she turns toward my table. She greets me in an entirely different manner from the syrupy goodness she just poured over the elderly couple.
“What do you want?” she says, not really asking. I order a glass of water with ice and a cup of tea, steeped, bag in. “It was a long walk from the Rez,” I tell her.
She makes no acknowledgement that I may have said anything. I should have just grunted, if only to fit the stereotype in her head.
“You have a half hour to finish your drinks then you have to leave!” she said.
I’m meeting someone here. A white person, if that helps.” I tell her.
She grunts and turns to leave, fitting nicely into the stereotype of her in my head.
I look about the little coffee shop. It had been here forever. There are yellowed wood framed portraits on the walls dating back to 1920 depicting this building and the town’s main street as well as the founders when the world was in between Wars.
You could smell the history between the floor boards. It was musty, dank, and just a bit rotten.
I had heard my grandfather talk about this place and how while it was being built the locals unearthed the graves of our Indigenous ancestors. It became the talk of the town. It became a grave robbers paradise.
To me, it was another sad part of the history of my people. We mourned this very piece of sacred ground.
This was the very reason I was here today. I had contacted the editor of the local paper and I told him I had a piece of history that would help to explain the significance of my peoples’ place here on this land, in what today was known as the Sunshine City. It was the writings of my grandfather.
Sheets of yellowing, faded paper, pulled from a box my father must have placed in our attic some years ago. It took some time for me to decipher the cursive handwriting, some of which ran down the page as black blotches from a leaky fountain pen.
My grandfather wrote of how he was told that in the 1840s, as this town was transforming between a logging town to an industrial town and the “Indians” were being removed from it and forced onto Reserves, our burial grounds were being destroyed.
The elders fretted about it constantly.
As the remains of my ancestors were accidently unearthed, the graves were quickly robbed of the skeletons, regalia, and ceremonial items of the dead. They would fetch a heavy price on the collectors market and sold round the world.
It would be the second time my people would be part of the world wide economy. The first was during the Fur trade. But this time, we would not be the beneficiary. This time, we would be the ones sold on the market as the remains of our ancestors found their way to museums in Europe and placed in exhibits depicting a godless, primitive society.
Some of our ancestors' remains were placed in a box by the town’s people and they were reburied on an Island belonging to us. The Island was a part of the lands set aside for my people, the Reserve.
Today it is encroached upon by non-indigenous boaters and picnickers who party on it and use it as their personal playground.
My grandfather wrote that our people wanted to do a traditional ceremony called the “Feast of The Dead.” The ceremony, which was fairly elaborate, would have properly honoured the memory of the old ones. But it was not allowed.
At the time it was against the law for Indians to congregate or to hold traditional ceremonies. So, the ancestors were reburied, with a Christian ceremony attended by only a few.
My guest arrived before the waitress returned with my order.
The editor of the local newspaper was young, stylish, and popular. The other patrons recognized him and they immediately stood to greet him as he passed their tables. The quiet little coffee shop suddenly became alive; you could almost hear the fanfare. It wasn’t quite the same reception I received.
The editor seated himself in the chair facing me as the young waitress seemed to dance across the room to take his order and to flirt. She giggled, blushed, and turned to me and said, “Your tea is on its way sir!” Wow. She treated me as if I had magically transformed into a human. She must have completely forgotten herself, smitten with the youngish editor.
“So, what do you have for me?” he asked, always polite. I gave him my grandfather’s writings and he immediately buried himself in the history.
At one point he looked up from the papers and said, “Is your grandfather still alive?” I told him no. He died many years ago. “My father also passed on when I was just a boy; Diabetes,” I said. But, he wasn’t really listening.
When he had finished reading, he told me how this story was intriguing. He asked what level of education my grandfather would have had.
"Probably Grade 8 at the most.” I told him.
“Hmmmm…therein lies the problem. It’s a great story but we…you see, we have an archeologist in town who wrote about many of those same gravesites. He was accredited. Your grandfather wasn’t,” he said in the same even gentle tone he always spoke in.
“I can’t print this. It would upset too many people…being called grave robbers and all. The town’s not ready for this,” he said.
“When do you think they’ll be ready?” I asked.
The editor turned his head just as the smiling young waitress came waltzing back to our table with a tray filled with our drinks.
I rose from my chair and took the papers from the editor. “I think I’ll be leaving.” I said. “I have overstayed my half hour.” I turned for the door and left, leaving them both, mouths agape.
During the long walk back to the Rez, a butterfly fluttered past me and between the bars of an iron fence which surrounded a well-kept cemetery. I stopped for a second and thought, I bet this is where the ancestors of the editor and the flitting waitress are buried.
From that vision, from that sign, came the realization of what I must do next.
I will learn the ways of my people. I will learn the Feast of The Dead ceremony and give my ancestors the rest they deserve. I will take back our Island…in a good way. It will be recognized as the sacred ground that it is supposed to be.
We have been reduced to .02% of the land mass in Canada since the time my grandfather walked this land. We must protect and have others respect what we have.
And I will tell his story. It needs to be told. His hardship is now my hardship. That is accreditation.
