Grand River Powwow, 2022
From around 2018 onwards, the streets of Toronto have been paved with eggshells. Acquaintances have lurked in alleys, eager to ambush anybody who wouldn't make dismissive jokes about indigenous people, or cancel historical figures without hearing a solid reason based on some sort of rational, decent thinking. This has been the saddening reality of life here recently; extreme feelings have been embraced, whilst nuance, genuine kindness, and reasonableness have been shunned.
During 2020 I tried to forget about these disappointments and focused my efforts at learning more from the online pages of indigenous and non white people. They offered useful advice for those beginning to learn about the reality of colonialism and racism in North America but that process too became saddening after a while. Nearly every day I’d read some firework like ‘All white people need to read/hear this’, or ‘All white men are to blame’, or there’d be a post that inferred that if you’re white, no matter what you do, you’ll never be free of your guilt. I could understand that people were traumatized by how non-whites have been treated here, but I just couldn’t handle that sort of talk for long. Simply because, it’s not true, and it’s not just.
Not all white people are alike, same as any other race in this world. And the white people who committed the crimes in North America have nothing to do with me. My ancestors were Irish dockers, Lancashire miners, and southern English field and factory workers back in the UK. When I heard an African-American say on TV ‘I just want the white man’s foot off my neck’ the singularity of the statement hit me hard. ‘Foot!’ Foot? Singular? Where was the other foot of the oppressor placed? I knew exactly where. On the neck of my family, and others like it. This wasn't so much a race issue as a class issue. Did my family benefit from colonialism? It's possible, but...Grandad worked 18 hours a day, 2 jobs, it took 3 hours to walk between home and them, leaving him 3 hours a day to eat and sleep. Grandma worked the fields as a kid and then 12 hour days cleaning all through her short life. Dad worked 12 hours a day, at least, driving trucks. We rarely saw him as kids. Both uncles died early due to their jobs. I worked night shift in cement and chemical factories. Choked up blue gunk on the regular. We weren't given decent PPE, it would've eaten into white collar profits. Lumping us in with rich decision makers who’d made us live these lives - the same sort of people who’d caused and continue to cause colonial actions, disharmony and strife throughout the world - just didn't seem smart, or fair.
I was truly sorry if my Canadian friends or those behind the social media accounts were dealing with personal family trauma that made them say illogical, unkind words. Maybe one of their ancestors had been sent to residential school. Or maybe they’d played some part in the operating of the residential schools or the propaganda that supported them. That’s going to be hard to take if that’s your parents or grandparents. You’re going to know that your childhood was paid for with blood money.
I was in agreement about placing blame on those who undeniably deserved it. People like the newspaper editors who suppressed the truth for so long, the officials who passed and upheld the laws, and others in positions of high power directly involved, many of whom we know by name. But I wasn’t going to take the heat for what those people did, and what others like them continue to do. Just as I wouldn’t expect them to shoulder any blame for my own mistakes - of which there’ve been many - or those of my immediate ancestors.
So about a year ago I stopped following most of those online accounts and instead reverted to old fashioned methods of finding things out. I took the time to read books, to watch films, to interact with indigenous people when possible, and planned to attend a Powwow in person when the time felt right.
I learnt about the art and thoughts of Morrisseau, Janvier, Odjig, Sapp, and more. The poetry of Joy Harjo has been an immense help. Anthologies of indigenous writers from Australia and North America have illustrated many different perspectives between the inhabitants of those continents. I’ve enjoyed the stories and poems of E Pauline Johnson, a Mohawk poet born not far from where I now live in Hamilton. Various modern two-spirit writers have offered great insight to possibilities beyond categories. I took a university course on indigenous history in Canada, and studied the local language using online tutorials.
It’s not always been easy finding the books I want. Take for instance another poet with connections to the Mohawk, Maurice Kenny, a resident of Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks for the last 20 years of his life. I recently visited the Saranac Lake town bookshop, hoping to find a collection of his work. He’d been published extensively and was the town’s most famous writer. But there wasn’t a single volume of his work available there (you can find some of his poems at Maurice Kenny (hanksville.org))
I drove back from the Adirondacks the day before the Powwow at the Six Nations of the Grand River, excited at the prospect of attending. It was going to be an event where I could learn more and celebrate personal progress, among real people. I'd been hesitant going to large events after Covid. Where they worth the risk of getting sick, I'd ask? In the vast majority of cases, I'd decided not. But in this case, I didn't even ask myself the question. I knew the answer was going to be 'yes!'
Despite the volume of traffic we didn’t have to wait long for parking. The approach road was single lane, there were no police at all in sight or directing traffic, how was it not chaos? Simply, people were acting sensibly, and decently. You waited in the traffic line, the line was moving ok, after about 10 minutes we reached a crossroad. There was a massive hand written sign saying ‘Powwow Parking’ with an arrow pointing to the right. We drove up that road for 30 seconds, there were 3 or 4 volunteers directing us into a huge parking field, and that was that. No over complicated nonsense at all, no payments, no problems. Great start.
It was the same at the entrance gate. None of the funny business that you so often get at events where the flow of people is interrupted by something or other because the organisers over complicate matters. Here, you just lined up, paid your money ($10 each, very reasonable), got a stamp on the wrist, and off you went. Took us less than 15 minutes to get from car to inside the Powwow.
Inside, people seemed to be speaking to each other like real human beings. A welcome change from the guarded talk regularly encountered in mainstream/colonial Canadian workplaces and events, where people seem to have one eye on either their HR department or the political correctness police whenever they say anything.
We had a little look around the traditional arts, crafts and food stalls then got a seat in the bleachers that flanked the grass dancing circle. The elderly and disabled had a covered tent to sit under, the rest of us sat outside. I didn’t see anybody try to sit where they weren’t meant to, that’s how it should be. The atmosphere was one of celebrating community, rather than the cult of the individual. This was reinforced when one of the announcers began talking. One of the first things he spoke of was photography. In his gently humorous way he explained how in the past photographers and artists had used images of indigenous people to make a living without fairly compensating the indigenous people. He said he'd like to ask us to act kindly, and within the vibe of the event. If you wanted to take close ups of anybody, then speak to them about it first. Communicate with those you’re taking photos of, and if you plan to make money from the photos, then act within the spirit of the event. Basically, be a decent human being.
It was a message I’d heard spoken throughout the world. Don’t go sticking your camera in the face of anybody without speaking to them first. It doesn’t matter where you are, or whom the subject is. It’s just not polite or decent. And if you’re going to make money from their image or their art then pay them properly, not just what you can get away with.
Leading the dancers into the arena were armed forces veterans and beauty queens. The dancers followed. I’m not going to try to describe all of them, there were many different styles of dance, clothing/regalia, and age categories. It was extremely colorful, and the handmade outfits were a joy to behold. I understood that this was a complex and at times sacred ceremony, and that it might take me many years to begin to comprehend and appreciate it. But that was ok. I would try my best to understand but also I would enjoy the movement, color, and positive vibe. That was within the spirit of the event, I felt. If understanding came to me, it would be great, but if it didn’t, there was always next year.
After the opening procession there was an intertribal dance. I thought this would mean people of all indigenous tribes dancing together but it actually meant everybody, of all nations. A white guy wearing a red shirt and ‘Canada’ baseball cap got up with his kids and started walking around the circle. Nobody got offended. A lady from Sri Lanka in a sari began dancing the delicate sort of ancient dance I’ve seen in temples in that country. Nobody was offended. Some Europeans and Americans walked around, among the indigenous dancers clad in their feathers. Everybody moving clockwise but apart from that, doing their own thing. Some dancing, some walking, fast or slow, young and old, some engrossed in their movement, some laughing and chatting. All were welcome. This was a celebration of our shared humanity. I loved it.
Mostly we sat and watched the ongoing dance competitions without much idea of what was going on. Judges decided who was the best in each category but try as I might I couldn’t discern any superiority in any dancer’s footwork or regalia. They all looked great to me. But on one occasion, I’d seen a man earlier in the day, and he’d struck me as a special sort of human. His energy was all in his abdomen, rather than in his chest, and he seemed more himself, without being an individual. He smiled infrequently but genuinely. I imagined that his friends must have felt privileged to receive that smile from him. When he entered the arena to dance I said to my partner, ‘I don’t know anything about this dance but I think he will win. He is a serious, natural man, and his energy seems most in line.’ All of the dancers in the arena once again moved wonderfully, but the man I had chosen was indeed awarded the main prize.
I admired the vibe of each competition. There was no aggression or ugly ambition on show. Winners were chosen gently and they accepted their prizes modestly. Everybody congratulated each other, shook hands, and embraced.
We came away from the Powwow knowing that we wanted to return. And we spoke of carrying on the vibe of the event into our everyday lives. I feel confident that we can. Before the Powwow I’d stuck to my ideas of trying to be decent but I did have doubts at times. I’d suggest to myself that maybe things were different in Canada from everywhere else I’ve been in the world, and that perhaps I should adjust. Maybe my old friends had a point with their getting offended about everything, and judging so quickly? Maybe the workmates who’d called me a drama queen for objecting to their casual racism and general nonsense were right? Perhaps I was too touchy, and insensitive? Maybe playing life straight wasn’t what was required any more?
The Powwow gave me a feeling that yes, playing life straight is still the way to be. There were thousands there doing just that. Employing concepts like nuance, respect, understanding, and genuine kindness. This I found inspiring.
I look forward to learning more from the many authors who’ve written well on indigenous and local issues (on my upcoming list include a collection of work by Gary Snyder, and a new anthology edited by Joy Harjo called ‘When the light of the world was subdued, our songs came through’), and attending more real life events in the near future. There’s another Powwow in southern Ontario in 3 weeks time. I’ll be there.
If you're interested in discovering more about indigenous history, perspectives, and culture, I advise learning as much as you can outside of the internet, from books, film, and people. If using social media to discover something beyond details of real life events, take care. Links that might help if you want to attend a Powwow yourself;
PowWows.com | Native American PowWow Culture | Articles, Calendar, Community - PowWows.com
Home | Grand River Champion of Champions Pow Wow (grpowwow.ca)
Akwesasne International Powwow (akwesasnepowwow.com)
So about a year ago I stopped following most of those online accounts and instead reverted to old fashioned methods of finding things out. I took the time to read books, to watch films, to interact with indigenous people when possible, and planned to attend a Powwow in person when the time felt right.
I learnt about the art and thoughts of Morrisseau, Janvier, Odjig, Sapp, and more. The poetry of Joy Harjo has been an immense help. Anthologies of indigenous writers from Australia and North America have illustrated many different perspectives between the inhabitants of those continents. I’ve enjoyed the stories and poems of E Pauline Johnson, a Mohawk poet born not far from where I now live in Hamilton. Various modern two-spirit writers have offered great insight to possibilities beyond categories. I took a university course on indigenous history in Canada, and studied the local language using online tutorials.
It’s not always been easy finding the books I want. Take for instance another poet with connections to the Mohawk, Maurice Kenny, a resident of Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks for the last 20 years of his life. I recently visited the Saranac Lake town bookshop, hoping to find a collection of his work. He’d been published extensively and was the town’s most famous writer. But there wasn’t a single volume of his work available there (you can find some of his poems at Maurice Kenny (hanksville.org))
I drove back from the Adirondacks the day before the Powwow at the Six Nations of the Grand River, excited at the prospect of attending. It was going to be an event where I could learn more and celebrate personal progress, among real people. I'd been hesitant going to large events after Covid. Where they worth the risk of getting sick, I'd ask? In the vast majority of cases, I'd decided not. But in this case, I didn't even ask myself the question. I knew the answer was going to be 'yes!'
Despite the volume of traffic we didn’t have to wait long for parking. The approach road was single lane, there were no police at all in sight or directing traffic, how was it not chaos? Simply, people were acting sensibly, and decently. You waited in the traffic line, the line was moving ok, after about 10 minutes we reached a crossroad. There was a massive hand written sign saying ‘Powwow Parking’ with an arrow pointing to the right. We drove up that road for 30 seconds, there were 3 or 4 volunteers directing us into a huge parking field, and that was that. No over complicated nonsense at all, no payments, no problems. Great start.
It was the same at the entrance gate. None of the funny business that you so often get at events where the flow of people is interrupted by something or other because the organisers over complicate matters. Here, you just lined up, paid your money ($10 each, very reasonable), got a stamp on the wrist, and off you went. Took us less than 15 minutes to get from car to inside the Powwow.
Inside, people seemed to be speaking to each other like real human beings. A welcome change from the guarded talk regularly encountered in mainstream/colonial Canadian workplaces and events, where people seem to have one eye on either their HR department or the political correctness police whenever they say anything.
We had a little look around the traditional arts, crafts and food stalls then got a seat in the bleachers that flanked the grass dancing circle. The elderly and disabled had a covered tent to sit under, the rest of us sat outside. I didn’t see anybody try to sit where they weren’t meant to, that’s how it should be. The atmosphere was one of celebrating community, rather than the cult of the individual. This was reinforced when one of the announcers began talking. One of the first things he spoke of was photography. In his gently humorous way he explained how in the past photographers and artists had used images of indigenous people to make a living without fairly compensating the indigenous people. He said he'd like to ask us to act kindly, and within the vibe of the event. If you wanted to take close ups of anybody, then speak to them about it first. Communicate with those you’re taking photos of, and if you plan to make money from the photos, then act within the spirit of the event. Basically, be a decent human being.
It was a message I’d heard spoken throughout the world. Don’t go sticking your camera in the face of anybody without speaking to them first. It doesn’t matter where you are, or whom the subject is. It’s just not polite or decent. And if you’re going to make money from their image or their art then pay them properly, not just what you can get away with.
I'd already decided to only use a compact camera, and to do so from my seat, without taking close ups of anybody. And I'd listen to the announcer for advice on when not to take photos, too. I'd say a quarter of the crowd was doing the same thing.
As we waited for the Grand Entry, when all the dancers would enter the circle to begin the proceedings, the announcer stumbled over a couple of tribal names. He just gave a little chuckle, asked for the correct pronunciation, and carried on, no problem. Nobody got offended. Why should they be? He was from a tribe down south. There are thousands of tribal names and terminologies. It was perfectly understandable that he might not know them all. This moment was such a relief for me. If I’d have done this in front of some my old friends they’d have silently accused me of being the racist illegitimate offspring of Jordan Peterson, Tucker Carlson, and the devil (‘silently’ because they wouldn’t have the decency to talk to me out loud about it), and then they’d have stopped calling. They would never have reasoned that maybe I’d just made a mistake, or was still learning, or had a different life experience from them, or something.
(on a side note, regarding indigenous words and meanings, I’ve read the life story of Rene Meshake, poet and Anishinaabe Elder, and he mentioned that because he and many he knew had been torn from their families to be sent to residential schools they hadn’t known all the old tribal words for different things, so now if they wanted to know a word it would often come to them in dreams. And those words might be different to what other indigenous people used for the same thing. So with this in mind, it’s really understandable if somebody doesn’t know what a word means, or how to pronounce it, or uses a different word or ‘word bundle’ to the one you’re aware of.)
I was never guided to go to college, or university. Much of my knowledge has been learned from public libraries. Often I know how to spell a word or tribal name but I don’t know how to say it. Then there's my stutter. I’ve had it since I first began talking to humans, aged 3. Sometimes I can’t use one word, it just won’t come out, so I use another. And there’s the fact that I’ve traveled widely. Sometimes my terminology and views are based on having wide ranging experiences with tribal people around the world. And almost everybody, I believe, is like me. We each have different reasons why we’re like we are. It’s really hard to be offended by anybody if you take this into account. So sat there in the arena, with the announcer making a few mistakes or saying things that would have my old friends pouting, cringing and judging (a common ending to his Dad jokes was, ‘that was an old injun joke…’), felt like I was really at home, among my sort of people. We weren’t walking on eggshells, or judging, or looking for reasons to hate. We were doing our best, with kind intention, to enjoy this time together. It felt like real freedom to me.
Leading the dancers into the arena were armed forces veterans and beauty queens. The dancers followed. I’m not going to try to describe all of them, there were many different styles of dance, clothing/regalia, and age categories. It was extremely colorful, and the handmade outfits were a joy to behold. I understood that this was a complex and at times sacred ceremony, and that it might take me many years to begin to comprehend and appreciate it. But that was ok. I would try my best to understand but also I would enjoy the movement, color, and positive vibe. That was within the spirit of the event, I felt. If understanding came to me, it would be great, but if it didn’t, there was always next year.
After the opening procession there was an intertribal dance. I thought this would mean people of all indigenous tribes dancing together but it actually meant everybody, of all nations. A white guy wearing a red shirt and ‘Canada’ baseball cap got up with his kids and started walking around the circle. Nobody got offended. A lady from Sri Lanka in a sari began dancing the delicate sort of ancient dance I’ve seen in temples in that country. Nobody was offended. Some Europeans and Americans walked around, among the indigenous dancers clad in their feathers. Everybody moving clockwise but apart from that, doing their own thing. Some dancing, some walking, fast or slow, young and old, some engrossed in their movement, some laughing and chatting. All were welcome. This was a celebration of our shared humanity. I loved it.
Mostly we sat and watched the ongoing dance competitions without much idea of what was going on. Judges decided who was the best in each category but try as I might I couldn’t discern any superiority in any dancer’s footwork or regalia. They all looked great to me. But on one occasion, I’d seen a man earlier in the day, and he’d struck me as a special sort of human. His energy was all in his abdomen, rather than in his chest, and he seemed more himself, without being an individual. He smiled infrequently but genuinely. I imagined that his friends must have felt privileged to receive that smile from him. When he entered the arena to dance I said to my partner, ‘I don’t know anything about this dance but I think he will win. He is a serious, natural man, and his energy seems most in line.’ All of the dancers in the arena once again moved wonderfully, but the man I had chosen was indeed awarded the main prize.
I admired the vibe of each competition. There was no aggression or ugly ambition on show. Winners were chosen gently and they accepted their prizes modestly. Everybody congratulated each other, shook hands, and embraced.
We came away from the Powwow knowing that we wanted to return. And we spoke of carrying on the vibe of the event into our everyday lives. I feel confident that we can. Before the Powwow I’d stuck to my ideas of trying to be decent but I did have doubts at times. I’d suggest to myself that maybe things were different in Canada from everywhere else I’ve been in the world, and that perhaps I should adjust. Maybe my old friends had a point with their getting offended about everything, and judging so quickly? Maybe the workmates who’d called me a drama queen for objecting to their casual racism and general nonsense were right? Perhaps I was too touchy, and insensitive? Maybe playing life straight wasn’t what was required any more?
The Powwow gave me a feeling that yes, playing life straight is still the way to be. There were thousands there doing just that. Employing concepts like nuance, respect, understanding, and genuine kindness. This I found inspiring.
I look forward to learning more from the many authors who’ve written well on indigenous and local issues (on my upcoming list include a collection of work by Gary Snyder, and a new anthology edited by Joy Harjo called ‘When the light of the world was subdued, our songs came through’), and attending more real life events in the near future. There’s another Powwow in southern Ontario in 3 weeks time. I’ll be there.
If you're interested in discovering more about indigenous history, perspectives, and culture, I advise learning as much as you can outside of the internet, from books, film, and people. If using social media to discover something beyond details of real life events, take care. Links that might help if you want to attend a Powwow yourself;
PowWows.com | Native American PowWow Culture | Articles, Calendar, Community - PowWows.com
Home | Grand River Champion of Champions Pow Wow (grpowwow.ca)
Akwesasne International Powwow (akwesasnepowwow.com)
Here's a few video sequences I shot on the day to give a small idea of what to expect.
