Our Story: Aboriginal Voices on Canada's Past

by Tantoo Cardinal

  “Maybe,” Lisa responded, “but Richard’s smoking sure as hell isn’t my poison. If I choose my own way of dying, then I want it to be from too much loving. Not cigarette smoke.” Uncle Thomas laughed at that one. He had always liked her, and she him. Sadly, one of the unfortunate after-effects of a divorce is that you don’t often get the opportunity to maintain the friendships with your partner’s family. The memory of Uncle Thomas brought a pang to her heart. Almost as severe as seeing Richard on the television.

  The news went back to the reporter on location. The weather looked the same as outside her window, a beautiful summer day. The only thing marring it was several hundred people on the verge of killing one another. The reporter was talking about the history of Oka, and how 270 years had led up to this past month. Lisa had heard it all before; surprisingly, she had become a news junkie during the crisis, which was very unlike her. An unlikely Aboriginal expert via her circumstances. She always preferred watching the entertainment items, while Richard had obvious leanings toward the business news. Perhaps she too was changing.

  God knows a divorce can do that. Often it has shaped more lives then than marriage has. Though her divorce was fairly unobtrusive. When the end finally came, after too many months of being distant and moody, she finally challenged him on it. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t argumentative. It was actually civil. “Sometimes I feel like I’m on a reserve in my head, and every time you ask me what’s going on, it feels like you’re trying to colonize me. Again.” Though she tried to comprehend, Richard’s statement made absolutely no sense to her. They were married. Bonded. Sharing each other’s lives. There was no “mind reserves” or “intellectual colonization” involved. After that, he said little else. And from there onward, the marriage seemed to dissolve. She quit arguing with him, and he quit caring.

  Lisa always attributed the changes in him to a reaction to Donnelly’s death. Something else Uncle Thomas once said came to mind: “You take something important out of a person’s death, it creates a vacuum. Something will rush in to fill it, good or bad. That’s why people who quit smoking usually get fat. People who quit drinking sometimes find God.” Lisa didn’t view Richard’s new-found interest in his heritage as good or bad. Just unusual. “It’s just a phase,” she’d tell herself.

  Earlier on, Richard had tried to bring her into his rapidly changing world. He would talk with her over breakfast about Lubicon Lake, Wounded Knee, and a variety of other Native political catchphrases that any first-year Native studies student would know. He even encouraged her to take a few Native studies classes at the university. Lisa always begged off, saying she had had enough university and was now more interested in life. Once, while attending an elders’ conference, Richard had suggested they attend the evening social, but she wasn’t in the mood. After two days of attending workshops, she was “all Indianed out.” It was said in all innocence, originating from legitimate tiredness and cultural inundation. But after that, Richard stopped trying to connect. And she noticed.

  A few months later, she brought up the subject of separation. Then divorce. Richard, in the process of applying for a new job at the Aboriginal Economic Development Corporation, nodded solemnly. They both knew it was time. Within a month, they were on to their own little lives. She moved back to the city, and he moved back to the reserve. And life carried on. She hadn’t dated yet; it was way too soon, and she had a new life to establish. She didn’t know much about what was happening in his life. They hadn’t talked in almost four months. She heard rumours from various mutual friends, and admittedly there was the odd occasional twinge of … something. A poet might have called it wistfulness, a cynic nostalgia, but she preferred to call it a marital hangover. She was sure it was just a matter of time before those twinges would disappear and the hangover would dissolve, like all polite hangovers.

  Then it happened. The proverbial shot heard round the Aboriginal world. July 11, 1990. The day the Sûreté du Québec stormed the encampment at Oka, determined to put an end to the Mohawk presence in the area known as the Pines. The town of Oka had long planned to bulldoze this traditional burial ground, adding an extra nine holes to an existing golf course. Protesting against this desecration, the Mohawks from the Kanesatake First Nation had occupied the land for several weeks. By the time the smoke settled that morning, there would be one dead police officer, Corporal Marcel Lemay, and the world would hear about the two sleepy little communities of Oka and Kahnasatake.

  Lisa had never heard of the place. Granted, her knowledge of other Native communities was limited. She’d been to a few powwows, mostly in Otter Lake and other nearby First Nations. She was once proud of the fact that she had developed a fondness for corn soup, an Otter Lake staple. It took almost two years, but before she knew it, it had become a fixture in her powwow life. She related the experience to her discovery of the Korean delicacy known as kimchee, cabbage fermented in hot chilies. Normally, when it came to food, she instantly liked or disliked something. There was no middle ground. These were the only two things she knew of that had slowly grown on her taste buds.

  This place in Quebec entered her consciousness around noon on the day it happened. She was getting ready to go to her new job, a daycare centre position that her degree in sociology made her ridiculously overqualified for. But she liked children and it was something to do. She was even considering taking a few early childhood education classes to upgrade herself. During lunch hour, the kitchen staff had the radio turned on as they were making sandwiches. Lisa was pouring glasses of orange juice when she heard the news report. At first it didn’t register … then key words gradually made it into her working mind.

  “Mohawk … Native … shooting … death …” Her ears perked up and she put the pitcher of orange juice down. The rest of the staff were surprised when she loudly shushed them to hear what was being said.

  “First Nations people from all over the country have pledged support for the actions of the Kanesatake Mohawks. And publicly condemned the Sûreté du Québec and the Quebec government for its actions. Native communities across the nation have vowed to send community members and supplies to aid the besieged Mohawk village.”

  Over the next week, she watched what was happening in that not-so-far-away place. These were not the people she had known, married, or known through marriage; in fact, traditionally, the Mohawks and Ojibways were enemies from the days of the fur trade. Now that rivalry extended only to hockey and baseball tournaments. Like the proverbial squabbling fingers, it was OK to fight among yourselves, but when a single digit was threatened, all the fingers came together as a fist. Men and women from all over the country, from a dozen different Nations, and dozens more from the States, were flooding into Quebec to aid the Mohawks.

  Lisa hadn’t thought of Donnelly Spencer in months but she couldn’t help thinking that was where Richard’s older brother would be right now, “doing his bit for the cause.” Richard no doubt would be watching the news religiously. Especially with his new-found Aboriginal conviction. It was a pity Donnelly wasn’t alive any more, she thought, they would be so close now. Two peas in the indigenous pod. But then again, if Donnelly hadn’t died, it’s probable that Richard wouldn’t have changed so much. Thus becoming, as her old psychology professor often said, “a mooty moot point.”

  At one point, early on in the developing confrontation, she was consuming a bowl of soup, watching intently the latest details of the standoff, wondering and fearing where this might tragically lead. Then, in the background, hidden by a dozen or so other people of Native heritage, she thought she saw a familiar face. But she couldn’t be sure … it had happened too quickly. Too quickly for her to even be sure who it was. She tried, in her head, going down the list of every Native person she knew. Most of those she knew, almost all residents of Otter Lake, would support the Mohawks, but it was unlikely that they would actually relocate and participate in this historic civil disobedience.

  The last person on her mental list, of course, was h
er ex-husband. At one level of her consciousness it made sense, it was the natural progression of his social awareness … Perhaps, Lisa theorized, the road to Oka had started with his growing belief that the Cleveland Indians and the Atlanta Braves were racist organizations. But still, another part of her found the prospect of him doing such a rash thing completely unfathomable. This was definitely not the Richard she had married. But the more Lisa thought about it, the more she became convinced that that was indeed her ex, Richard, prowling somewhere in the crowds of Oka. So convinced was she that Lisa dialled a number she hadn’t dialled in months. A number that had once connected her to another life. There was no answer. Frustrated, she tried another number, in the same area code and community. Richard’s mother answered, somewhat surprised to hear a voice she considered gone out of their lives, but polite enough to tell Lisa the news. Lisa’s fears were confirmed. Richard was indeed mingling with the Mohawks. And now her curiosity turned to concern. Yes, they were divorced and hadn’t talked in months, but she had spent eight years living with and loving the man; she knew she didn’t want to see him wounded or dead, the unfortunate by-product of a police sniper’s rifle—he hadn’t yet picked his poison. Her hands clinched and her neck started to ache. What was Richard doing there?

  In the past week Lisa had done everything a concerned wife—ex-wife—could and would do in a situation like this. She had tried to contact the treatment centre, which seemed to be the central headquarters of everything that was going on. No luck. Same with the band office. It seems they were a little too busy to worry about the rantings of a Caucasian ex-wife of one lone Ojibway amid several dozen, some even said a hundred or so, Native people milling about, apparently ready to explode. All her old friends back in Otter Lake were less help. They were just as surprised at Richard’s actions. And what if she was able to contact Richard: what would she say to her ex-lover?

  She wasn’t sure. “Stop. Don’t do what you’re doing. It’s dangerous. Go home.” All the possible statements that came to her seemed silly. Ineffectual. Even downright melodramatic. Especially considering she was no longer really part of his life. So, seemingly impotent, she was reduced to watching television. Sometimes three or four channels at a time, trying to perfect the highest channels-per-minute ratio she could devise while slowly destroying the channel changer in her hand. She even called in sick three times that week, putting her employment at the daycare centre in danger, especially considering she’d been working there for less than a month.

  Did she still love him? Was that the reason she watched the television coverage so feverishly? Possibly, even probably. Lisa had never stopped loving him, she had just stopped being in love with him. A big and distinct difference, but these things happen. She’d even read it in a newspaper article. Still, would every ex-wife spend hours, days even, watching the television in the almost hopeless attempt to catch glimpses of her one-time husband? Unlikely. Maybe different forces, other then simple concern, were at work here, ones that she refused to recognize. If he walked out of Oka today and into her new apartment, would she take him back? Improbable, even unlikely. But there was definitely something about those fleeting glimpses, those fleeting and maddening images of him, somewhere on the other side of the insanity.

  Maybe it was her own heritage that was making itself known. The Irish were known for their obsessive behaviour. Look at their own intense connection to the lowly potato. And summing up her life to that point, here was a woman of Irish descent eagerly watching an Aboriginal uprising on television, praying she could grab a peek of her ex-husband somewhere in the multitudes. She’d combined the two heritages and become a couch potato. Her own bizarre and dark mental comparison made her laugh out loud. Alone in her apartment. With a cold cup of tea sitting on the coffee table. Beside a second one.

  Several times Lisa told herself she was being silly. Nothing she was doing was helping the situation. It was possible to go to work and get on with her life, and still care about what was happening to Richard … Richard who hated camping. Not showering on a daily basis. Confrontation. Again, she asked herself, what was Richard doing there?

  And most recently, the Canadian army had been called in. Lisa wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not. Yet another potential match lit near the powder keg, or possibly the famed Canadian peacekeepers might actually be able to keep the peace. She had an uncle who had been in the army years ago, the famous Van Doos, in fact. The stories he had told Lisa about his service had been tales of valour, brotherhood, patriotism. Yet there was something definitely ominous about this development.

  The army now encircled the whole community, severely restricting anybody and anything that wanted to cross yet another imaginary line imposed on the Native people by representatives of the government. And that imaginary circle kept getting smaller and smaller gradually choking the life out of the community, like a noose. There was a palpable tension in the air, like a bad smell; a rumour that at some point, the Mohawks and their allies would try to push that line back. After all, one spokesperson said, that’s what this whole thing is about. “Being pushed beyond a reasonable limit.”

  According to some of the things Donnelly had told her, relations between Aboriginal people and cops were often a tempestuous affair. Years ago she thought just maybe he had been exaggerating things. And sometimes he would say things to playfully provoke her. Now she wasn’t so sure. She had seen things in recent weeks that had puzzled, then scared her. Now Lisa could only imagine what the army had brought into the whole damn thing. This was Canada, these things weren’t supposed to happen here! Tanks on streets, rows and rows of guns facing one another, barricades … She couldn’t help wondering if this would help or hurt the separatist cause currently making the rounds yet again in la belle province. It seemed everybody was angry with everybody.

  Reflex action made her leg knock over one of the cold cups of tea when the phone rang. Very few people knew her new number, other than those at work. Lisa’s divorce and relocation had cost her quite a few of her and Richard’s former friends, and with the new job, and the Oka crisis, she had had precious little time to carve out a new social scene. They were running some background footage on the television, stuff she’d already seen a dozen times, and Richard wasn’t in any of the shots, so she answered the phone.

  “Hello. Lisa speaking.” She thought she could hear wind in the background. Who’d be calling her from a pay phone?

  “Lisa? It’s Richard.”

  With those three words, her present life, her past life, and the events in a far-off small community merged within the confines of her brain with a sudden thud that racked her body. It was Richard. She recognized the voice. And he had called her. Why?

  She struggled to respond, again fearful of sounding silly or confused.

  “Richard … Why … What … You phoned me …?!” No luck this time.

  “I called home. They said you were trying to get a hold of me. I guess you’ve heard that I’m at Kanesatake.”

  In her mind’s eye she could see him standing at a phone booth, no doubt one of those damned cigarettes in his right hand, his left cradling the phone. He sounded tired but was probably as nervous as she was. A life that was once together, then torn apart, can make small talk kind of difficult. Lisa chose her next words carefully.

  “Richard, what are you doing there? This is so out of character for you. You might get hurt. Or worse.” She had found her phone voice again. Lisa could hear him taking a drag from the cigarette, and before he could respond, she blurted out, “And you’ve started smoking again. Do you want to kill yourself?” There was a pause, then a hearty, familiar staccato laugh. Then it occurred to her what she had said. It was her turn to laugh. They laughed together, for the first time in many months. And it felt good. The uncomfortable part of the past year seemed to drain away.

  “No, I don’t want to kill myself, but thank you for asking. They’re light cigarettes. That should count for something …” He paused, then added a
s an afterthought, “… Mom.” Again she laughed, the tension of the last week easing up.

  “Are you OK?”

  Lisa could almost see him nodding as he responded. “Haven’t slept much in weeks. Between the helicopters, the loudspeakers and bullhorns, sirens … this is a very noisy place. I’d kill for some earplugs. I’ve had a headache since the whole thing began. But the funny thing is the trees look so quiet and calm … That’s the contradiction in this place. Could sure use some clean clothes too, but other than that, and more frequent showers … I’m surviving. Is that why you phoned?”

  “No, I want to know why the hell you’re there.” Direct and to the point.

  “That’s a good question. Been thinking about that myself. You find you have plenty of reflecting time while looking over a barbed wire fence. And I think I’ve come up with a good answer.” For a moment the sound of his voice was drowned out by a whoosh of sound that flooded across the phone lines. It was like a gush of white noise, making her cringe. “Richard? Richard! What was that? Are you there?”

  The sound quickly receded. “Yeah, sorry, that was a chopper going overhead. Occupational hazard around here. There are choppers, APCs, tanks, you wouldn’t believe the stuff that’s happening here. Your tax money at work.”

  “Quit trying to be funny. There are guns pointed at you.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. It’s not the Bahamas, that’s for sure. I remember the days when getting our taxes in on time was my big worry. But don’t fret about me. I’m exactly where I want to be, Lisa.”

  “This has something to do with Donnelly, doesn’t it?” she asked.

  Somewhere in the background, she could hear voices. Men talking. A woman nearby laughing. All that was missing was the sound of children playing and it would be like Otter Lake. But it wasn’t like Otter Lake. This was Oka, and there was a dead police officer, and several hundred guns, half of them pointed in her ex-husband’s direction.