WHEN THE FIRST National Aboriginal Day was announced in 1996, I thought it was a wonderful idea. One day each year set aside for Native people to strut their stuff and be recognized for their contributions to the development of the larger nation. The day was set to coincide with the summer solstice, a time when Sun Dances are traditionally held. Those elaborate, powerful ceremonies are meant to align people’s energy with the life-affirming energy of the sun. The whole thing seemed perfect. But time passed, and the political aspirations of my people continued to go unheeded by a series of governments. The horrendous social conditions on most reserves and the correlative urban issues persisted. It became apparent to Native people that a day devoted to song and dance and finery wasn’t cutting it. So the National Day of Protest was born.
The first protest day was held in 2007. Except for a couple of train blockades and a few thousand disgruntled motorists, it was a non-event. When the government still failed to act on Native issues, the country’s Aboriginal leaders called us out for a more sustained assault. They wanted Native people to become more vocal, more strident, more disruptive— and, in the end, more divisive. It didn’t sound much like nation-building to me. To my way of thinking, our energies ought to be directed towards that. Certainly action is desperately needed to bring First Nations people into equal partnership in Canada, but we’re all neighbours here. A day devoted to disruption doesn’t make sense.
Here in the mountains, our community is peaceful. A protest action on my part wouldn’t achieve much. There’s only the one road leading to town. It’s a beautiful drive, and everyone needs that road for access to groceries, water, work and entertainment. Laying my body across it as a barricade would be counterproductive. Besides, for the rednecks who are a significant part of the demographic up here, an Indian on the highway would be nothing more than a speed bump.
Then there’s economic disruption. I could refuse to add my hard-earned dollars to the local white economy. I could stockpile the goods I need and remove myself from active participation in commerce. That would be fine until the buzz wore off. Contemporary Indians like me have grown too used to conveniences, and I’d have to spring for pizza and a movie at some point. Besides, taking my cash out of the mix would be like sneaking a penny out of a lard pail full of change.
I could always march. I even have a hand drum. There are warrior flags for sale almost anywhere these days, and I could walk a few yards out from my house and hew a stout sapling to hang one from. The avenues are wide in town, so I could stride the length of the main street with my drum, singing, denouncing injustice and aggravating shop owners. But there’s always that dang Indian speed-bump thing.
My safest bet would be to occupy a plot of land. Surely, at some time in the primordial past, a Native person must have performed a ritual in the trees beyond our home. That would make it sacred land. I wouldn’t need to prove that; Canadians, being a trusting lot, would take my word for it. I could head out there and construct a barricade from beetle-kill trees, light a sacred fire, schedule a press conference, make a big statement, wave my warrior flag and beat my hand drum. There must be an Ojibway word for photo op. I just haven’t learned it yet.
I wouldn’t be bored. While out there waiting for the military ouster, I could pass the time listening to jazz tunes downloaded onto my iPod. I could stay in touch with other protest actions by surfing the Internet on my BlackBerry, send messages to other warrior factions through my Facebook account and Twitter details to everyone in cyberspace. During slow periods, I could shoot a cell-phone video of me, all stoic and resentful, to upload onto YouTube.
My protest would call for some preparation, of course. If you’re going to occupy land, you need the appropriate wardrobe. For Native protests these days, camouflage is the new Hilfiger. I’d also need my eyebrows done: they need to display cleanly above the camouflage bandana and the mirrored Oakley shades.
In the end, it sounds too stressful. I’d lose a few days of work. My neighbours would complain about the smoke from the sacred fire and my throat would be sore from singing late into the night. Besides, there have been so many marches, protests and barricades that they’ve become passé to most people. An indignant Indian is as much as a Canadian motif now as the beaver on the nickel.
No, for me the idea of protest lacks vision. My neighbours and I co-exist marvellously. We’ve learned to live together in a degree of harmony. There’s always someone around to lend a hand. We keep an eye on each other’s property. We’ve created a community without the need for labels and divisiveness. Everybody wants security, belonging and fellowship when they step beyond their yards.
We don’t need a national day of protest. What we need is a national day of communication. We need to foster human understanding. Native people need to be good neighbours, and we need our own leaders to point us in this direction. Let’s lean over the back fence and talk to each other about our lives. Let’s get beyond differences, beyond rednecks, beyond stereotypes and hear each other’s stories. It’s not hard. As Canadians, we were raised with that small-town, do-a-favour mentality, and all we need to do is remember.
Simple, everyday acts bring people together. I don’t feel much like an Indian when I walk around my community. I feel included. I feel a part of things. What it took to accomplish that was an earnest desire on my part to create a sustained front with my neighbours—and it works. That’s lucky, because camouflage makes me look fat.