IF THE PEOPLE HAD DECIDED
The Kennedy family has had a lasting impact on American politics, but they also left their mark in Mi’kmaq culture. Yes, we’re talking about John and Jackie, Robert and Ethel, mother Rose, and the rest of the famous Massachusetts clan, although their glory days have faded. According to Mi’kmaq cultural researcher Lynda Kuhn Boudreau, in the 1980s it was still possible to hear someone on a Nova Scotia First Nation being called “a Kennedy.” It wasn’t a compliment. Local families featuring a strong matriarch and politically ambitious children with a taste for luxury and power were “Kennedys.” So was someone who was enjoying the power of patronage that came from being kin to the chief or councillors, thus having access to the best jobs and best houses. It was less about knocking a caricature of the American “royal family” than it was a condemnation of band members for being too materialistic.1
When Indian Affairs was ratcheting up its economic development policies in the 1970s based on its top-down inversion of the Red Paper, the results in Mi’kmaq communities were close to total failure. It didn’t seem to matter how well-crafted were the plans worked out in the offices in Ottawa (or in Amherst), they just didn’t seem to work on the reserves. After years of failure, it seemed logical to ask about what was going wrong. Why didn’t IA’s development plans “take”?
The simple answer is that the people didn’t want to be Kennedys, or anything like ambitious people constantly striving for economic status. Yet the development policies that Indian Affairs bureaucrats were mandated to enact were based, more or less, on the assumption that all people wanted to be the Kennedys, given half a chance. It was almost entirely at odds with what the Mi’kmaq people would have welcomed, if they had been allowed to decide.
The Mi’kmaq communities in Nova Scotia were centralized in the 1950s for the convenience of Indian Affairs, with one reserve at Eskasoni on Cape Breton and the other on the mainland at Shubenacadie. The people were promised new houses and jobs at sawmills that would be built. To help people “decide” to move, IA officials burned schools to the ground and set farms on fire, and threatened to end medical care for families showing resistance.2
The centralization program destroyed the “delicate economic equilibrium” that had sustained the Mi’kmaq communities since the 1880s.3 The men had been employed in the coal mines, the lumber and pulp industry or the Sydney steel plant or supplemented welfare payments with fishing and farming. That ended with the relocation to the two reserves, where they found poor-quality housing and a paucity of decent land to resume farming. And there were no jobs because the promised mills were never built.4 While rations and social assistance had played a role in the earlier communities, it became the primary source of income support, especially on Eskasoni.
As with many reserves, the Eskasoni and Shubenacadie communities faced overcrowding, high unemployment and tensions created by relocation and the disruption of familiar community dynamics. The Cape Breton reserve, in part due to its relative isolation, retained a stronger attachment to a traditional approach to the social and political structures. Many of the mainland Mi’kmaq chose to live off the Shubenacadie reserve. Most Cape Breton Mi’kmaq continued living on the Eskasoni reserve, but there were the usual problems of poor education, high suicide rates, poverty, depression and drug abuse. However, the separation from mainstream society helped them preserve their language, and enjoy the benefits of living close to family and friends, with pride in being Mi’kmaq.5
It’s not that the Mi’kmaq people were unable to change or adapt to new ways. They could and did, if that was what they wanted. They were exposed to the Roman Catholic faith by the early French fishers, traders and missionaries who arrived on the shores of Acadia. In 1610, Grand Chief Henri Membertou became intrigued by the similarities between the rituals and symbolism of the Catholics and of the Mi’kmaq traditional spirituality. He was a man of considerable standing in the Mi’kmaq community, in part because he was taller than other Mi’kmaq men and sported a long beard, and because he was old enough to recall having met Jacques Cartier when he came ashore in 1534. He was about 100 years old when he and his family became the first Mi’kmaq baptized into the Catholic faith, and on his deathbed, he made his family promise to continue as Catholics.6 The community embraced Ste. Anne as their patron saint, the mother of the Virgin Mary, who they considered an Elder and Grandmother. People still make the annual pilgrimage to Chapel Island (Potlotek) in late July for the Feast of Ste. Anne.7
If many people were going to stubbornly remain on the reserves (and they were), the Mi’kmaq communities in the 1970s certainly seemed ripe for economic development programs. Community leaders wanted small projects that originated from reserve residents, employing maybe two, but no more than ten, and preferably linked to traditional jobs in fishing and forestry.8 In other words, employment that was familiar to people, even if it was seasonal or sporadic.
Indian Affairs, however, was organizing its policies around wage-labour and capital investment. The senior management designing IA policy were simply reflecting the long-held belief within mainstream Canadian society that the value of a human being was measured by his or her economic status and ability to contribute to the Gross Domestic Product (GDP) as “economic man” and “economic woman.” Yes, this ideal required a great many people to become wage slaves, where they endured employment that brought them little joy, until they “got their numbers” and could became “pension slaves” and retire with a decent pension. There is a price to be paid for becoming part of the rat race.
The Mi’kmaq can be excused for not really wanting to buy into that particular lifestyle, even if the Indian Affairs department had been actively pushing assimilation for many years by trying to get Indigenous people to join the rat race. It turns out that many Mi’kmaq could see no appeal in working their lives away in the role of “economic man” or “economic woman.” Theirs was a simpler view, where you worked for as much as you needed and after that you were free to enjoy other aspects of life.
However, such an attitude has always been anathema to the capitalist system. As economist John Kenneth Galbraith described it in 1967, “The system requires that people work without any limiting horizon to procure more goods. Were they to cease to work after acquiring a certain sufficiency, there would be limits on the expansion of the system. Growth could not then remain the goal. Advertising and its related arts thus help develop the kind of man the goals of the industrial system require — one that reliably spends his income and works reliably because he is always in need of more.”9
In traditional Mi’kmaq culture, there was no value in acquiring more than was needed for one’s family, other than for the prestige of offering a surplus to the Chief to distribute to the rest of the band.
Cultural researcher Boudreau noted, “Once sufficient energies had been expended to ensure a stable food supply, sufficient clothing and a warm place to live, an ‘economic ceiling’ was reached which allowed individuals to devote their time to social, educational and spiritual matters.”10
The Mi’kmaq people were exercising the inherent right of humans to decide for themselves how to spend their time. If it meant living a welfare-based lifestyle, so be it. Boudreau described the value of the family-based community:
“Every individual grows up with the comfort and security of knowing that he or she will be provided for, primarily by the extended family unit, but also by fellow Band members if called upon… This facet of [Mi’kmaq] culture enables individuals to subsist on a welfare economy as the family, not the individual, survives on the welfare budget. This situation indicates the viability of the family, not the individual, as the central economic unit on reserves.11
If the family was the central economic unit, it would make sense to develop economic policies to suit families. A small business in a small community that had to pay regular wages to employees might not survive for long. But, as in many small rural communities across Canada, whether on or off a reserve, an enterprise where family members contributed their time and energy — sometimes paid, sometimes not — is for the benefit of the whole family. It means Granddad can snooze behind the counter between customers in the convenience store, while a fourteen-year-old daughter pumps gas. Or the other way around, if that’s what the family decides. It would also mean the freedom to close up shop in August so the whole family could join the other half of the community picking blueberries in Maine.12 Or let the cousins take over a garage bay for their snowmobile repair business at no charge until they had a bit of extra cash to pay rent. They’re family, too.
This was not, of course, the capitalist, wage-based type of enterprises IA had in mind. Where were the professionals to write up the management plan, keep the accounts up to date and file financial reports? How could IA possibly justify using public funds to subsidize such a haphazard operation? Ultimately, the refusal by IA to support economic efforts that could work and the insistence on imposing development projects that wouldn’t work — or worked exactly as long as the government subsidy lasted — led to a general failure all around.
It wasn’t just the fact that development projects were designed, implemented and monitored by people from outside the community. It was the overall assumption by Indian Affairs that development policies for mainstream society would work the same on reserves.13
This disparity in expectations was pointed out in the 1996 report from the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples: “While new initiatives were undertaken, the federal approach continued to be premised on the idea that development of Aboriginal communities should proceed in a manner similar to that in the mainstream; that is, if given a kick start, Aboriginal communities would develop business and economic infrastructure resembling the rest of Canada.”14
A new kind of employment
Was it really so difficult to find a compromise, a way to marry wage-based employment with the preferred lifestyle of people living in remote communities and reserves? That was exactly what Jean Allard was trying to do in Manitoba in 1970. As a Member of the provincial Legislature and legislative assistant to Premier Ed Schreyer, Allard had been given special responsibility in the new NDP government for developing innovative job programs for people in northern Manitoba, about 90 percent of them Indigenous.15
Schreyer wanted to avoid imposing a quota system on northern companies, many of them forestry and mining companies, to force them to hire more Indigenous people. “I hope we will never have to resort to that, but a quota system is still better than what we have where out of 100 new jobs two or three, if that, will wind up with northerners.”16
In 1968, a mining company discovered copper and zinc deposits in the northern wilderness, about 1,000 kilometres northwest of Winnipeg. The new operation, called the Ruttan Mine, was expected to produce ore over a twenty-year lifespan. Accessing a stable workforce in remote locations had always been a challenge for mining operations. The companies had long since shifted from work camps filled with single immigrant men to constructing proper towns with good housing and amenities, intended to attract and keep the quality of workers they wanted. It was considered part of the cost of doing business. In the Ruttan Mine case, the company deemed it essential that the town site be developed as quickly as feasible “in order that the percentage of married men be as high as possible.”17
Married men were more desirable employees. When they moved to the company town with their families, they were much more likely to settle in and stay put than single men who were not encumbered by mortgages, children in school or a spouse with her own job. The Schreyer government was looking for “innovative practices to alleviate widespread and worsening unemployment, underemployment and welfare dependency in much of the remote north.”18 There was a problem, however, with enticing Indigenous families to relocate to mining towns. They did not want to move from their communities.
Allard was pushing the idea that there was a better alternative for the company than building a typical Canadian town and filling it with married men and their families from the south. What if men from the northern reserves were allowed to fly into the mine camp on rotating shifts? It would allow the men to work, get paid upon leaving, and return to their families with money to spend. Families could stay in their communities and the men would have work as they needed it. The companies would avoid the time and expense of building a whole town from scratch. Dormitories near the mine would do the job.19
A gathering of northern companies in mining, forestry and fishing met in Winnipeg in August 1971 to discuss exactly these kinds of innovative ideas with Allard, Schreyer and other government officials. The gathering included “decision-making” executives of northern resource companies, local presidents and some international officers of major unions, representatives from Crown corporations with business in the North, along with representatives from the Manitoba Indian Brotherhood and the Manitoba Métis Federation.20
There was a need, Schreyer told them, to try out new ideas, such as the idea proposed by Allard, that would include the kind of transportation facilities it would take “for a systematic commuter system so that native workers would not be uprooted from their communities, while earning an income.”21
A media release four days later announced that a commuting employment experiment for Indigenous workers was starting at another northern mining operation, and it would serve the Ruttan Mine, too. A work schedule of two weeks on and two weeks off had already been established, with commuting flight service arranged between selected remote communities.22
Allard was pleased with the results. It seemed like a workable balance between the desire by Indigenous men to remain close to their families and community, while also earning good money working at the mine.
Except that is not what happened.
The NDP government, with the zeal of the first socialist government to hold power in Manitoba testing its ideological wings, suddenly switched gears. There would be no commuter plan. And the mining company wouldn’t need to build a new town for the mine workforce. Instead, the government itself would build the town. Leaf Rapids, as it was called, would be a government town, and it would be a bold social experiment in taking an idealized southern town for 3,500 people and transplanting it into the remote North.23 The public investment that had been planned for a substantial commuter transportation system for Indigenous people was now to be invested in building roads, houses and a shopping mall. The mining company cut its support for the commuter program down to just fifty jobs.24
The government encouraged Indigenous people to move with their families into the new homes built on tree-lined streets that were given Cree names. In other words, they were supposed to emulate the modern, mobile nuclear family. They would be self-sufficient and have no need of deep community roots or a network of family supports. A winter festival in Leaf Rapids with muskrat-skinning and flour-hauling competitions could not disguise the fact that this was just another effort at pulling Indigenous people into the wage-based consumer economy. It was still the rat race.
The Manitoba government invested $30 million into what its critics called “pie-in-the-sky little-boy socialism.”25 The construction of the “instant town” happened at lightning speed. The roads were built starting in September 1971, and by December, eight families had moved in.26
Allard was furious. He had spent two years cajoling and arm-twisting stakeholders and fellow legislators, only to see his plans for developing a regular income stream that would suit the lifestyle of Indigenous people thwarted. Allard was not afraid to push hard for what he wanted to accomplish and use sharp elbows if necessary, but in the process, he exhausted the political goodwill of the NDP caucus. He abruptly and bitterly quit the NDP in April 1972 and sat as an Independent.27 In retrospect, it was unrealistic for Allard to have expected the company behind Ruttan Mines to go all-in on an untested employment model, especially when the company never intended to fly in more than half its workers. A town site had always been on the table.
Allard could at least console himself that during his tenure as a legislator he had achieved the long-sought goal of honouring his great-great uncle, Louis Riel, with a sculpture on the grounds of the Manitoba Legislature.28 The stylized figure of a tall, tortured martyr was, to say the least, controversial. It was not all that dissimilar from Allard himself.
It turned out that political parties and bureaucracies have a way of bush-whacking big ideas and shredding the dreams of idealists. It was more or less what happened to the Manitoba Framework Initiative in the 1990s, too. What seemed to be a clear effort by the Assembly of Manitoba Chiefs to arrive at a model of genuine self-governance was derailed by a bureaucracy determined to pursue its own plan.
If the Manitoba First Nations people had been allowed to decide for themselves what kind of self-governance they wanted, what might it have looked like? Researcher Jennie Wastesicoot asked the same question in 2000, and set about interviewing Elders who were known in their communities for their traditional knowledge and understanding of traditional Cree governance.
A long time ago in self-government, an Elder told her, “everyone was given a voice to speak. At meetings the men spoke and the women spoke. Even the young people had a say. Everyone was listened to. Their needs were heard. That is what happened a long time ago.”29
Another Elder shared the same idea about the importance of people being heard when there were decisions to be made that affected everyone.
“The ones who spoke were not really old men but were of age. They spoke of how they wanted everything to work. They talked about how they did not want anyone to control the way we live.”30
According to Wastesicoot, Cree self-government would depend on returning to the traditional ways, where the governing philosophy is based on love, respect, sharing and humility, and the traditional governance positions are reinstated. The Caller gives the roll call at council meetings and organizes ceremonies that are important to a shared community experience. A second Caller brings people to meet with the Headman to address issues, and makes community announcements to keep everyone informed. The Council is made up of representatives of women, youth and elders, with positions for Warriors and Helpers. The Warriors are responsible for keeping peace in the community and maintaining law and order. The Helpers do just that — help community members as needed. The governance system also has Societies to deal with the law, environment and hunting issues.
Traditional governance, Cree-style, contained many of the same elements of modern government, with a leader (Headman), protocol officer (Caller), chief executive officer (second Caller), law and order (Warriors), social services (Helpers), and various civil society groups (Societies). At the root, however, would be spirituality.31
“If the Cree Nation is to succeed,” said Wastesicoot, “they must restore their traditional governing system first by reclaiming their spirituality. Second, they must rekindle their kinship ties and thirdly, they must pick up their traditional spiritual practices and start conducting the ceremonies they need to bring balance and harmony back to their Nation… The Cree Elders cannot stress enough how critical it is for them to bring balance and harmony back to their communities.”32
The ideal of traditional governance remained out of reach even though, by the late 1990s, many reserve communities across the country were desperately in need of balance and harmony. The village-level tyrants were running amok.