A Tragedy

Posted on August 9, 2013 by South Wind

So, an anniversary sacred to many Canadians has come and gone. The celebrated day, which took place on Morrison Island near Pembroke last weekend, marked the 400th year since one, Samuel de Champlain met Tessouat, a grand chief of the local Anishinabek nation. I guess every Canadian school boy and girl has heard of Champlain. But Tessouat? He was a great leader, yet very few know anything about him. This fact alone tells it all, doesn’t it? Champlain was a somebody, Tessouat a nobody, according to the writers of our history books.

It was Champlain who first called my ancestors ‘Algonquins’. No one knows for sure what word Champlain butchered to come up with it. ‘Algonquin’ is not a word in our language.

The People of the Great River, the People of the White Fish, the People of the Island and many other bands were the populace who held stewardship over a vast, rich and fertile territory. They were a great nation with many hundreds of thousands of members. They were peaceful and were as one with nature. They had at their disposal everything they needed to live long healthy lives; things like rivers, lakes and streams, fish and game in abundance. The land provided wild rice, berries, maple syrup, medicines and much more. The Jesuits recorded that “there are no fools among them (Algonquins)” meaning that no illnesses of retardation of any kind existed in the physical and mental realms of my ancestors, so strong and pure were their bloodlines.

Then Champlain arrived, and bloodletting as never seen before in this part of the world, began. War with the Iroquois and their British allies took a toll on the Algonquins. But it was the plagues brought here by Europeans which practically wiped us out. Tuberculosis, measles, mumps, smallpox, chickenpox and other horrific diseases killed too many to count. It is said that the common cold (we had no immunity to it) killed more Indians than all of the other diseases put together.

We haven’t fared well since Champlain arrived. Today, we are for the most part, uneducated and live on or below the poverty line. Things of addiction are rampant in our communities. We fight amongst ourselves, while the Europeans who followed Champlain here, prosper mightily.

When I look at the picture, which is our lot as Algonquins, I wonder why it all happened the way it did. Deception occurred. Treachery took place. And at the forefront, religion led the charge. The people, my ancestors, instead of holding fast to their ancient spiritual beliefs, caved and embraced something they should never even have pondered accepting. The rest, as they say, is history.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

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Cloud Healing

Posted on July 28, 2013 by South Wind

Years went by
And the little girl’s love of clouds
Grew stronger with each passing day
“They are islands” she said
“Carried by the winds
They have seen the oceans
And they have smelled the pines”

(from one of my short stories featured in Broad Winged Hawk, 2007)

We have forgotten the songs our ancestors sung while standing in a sacred circle in honour of the gentle clouds dotting the sky over the prairies, mountains, forests and waters of our homelands. It is sad that our teachers no longer tell us of the goodness clouds contribute, not only to our health, but also to that of all things which surround us. The eagle soars high, to be ever nearer to them, so important are clouds to all who live beneath them and who are touched by their shadows.

Mino-Manidò, the good spirit, has designed each cloud to bring health to something on the land. Such clouds are medicine. They traverse the blue sky – so slowly, one can feel their softness, at least in the spiritual sense. “Accept our prayer for peace and goodwill to all,” we should cry out to them as they pass and then make a humble request that the clouds will take our prayer to whomever it is who hears our words in the Land of Souls.

Clouds are great teachers. They speak of sharing and tolerance. They speak of the importance of touch and respect, and of holding on to something sacred until the right time has arrived to share it.

I have seen clouds the colour of cotton, of charcoal, and of steel. I have seen them painted yellow, red and purple by the sun. My heart has swollen with the passion clouds have placed into it. Clouds have helped me grow in my spirituality. I will be eternally grateful to them for this.

I recall a woman who was living in a state of severe depression. She told me she had nothing to look forward to and that her life was without purpose. I did not know what to tell her until I looked into the sky that day. The heavens were filled with massive clouds. They had been removed from a giant bowl in a wigwam in the spirit land. They had been kneaded by the touch of the good spirit and released into the sky to do their healing work.

Such clouds had never appeared in any sky on any day at any time of the million years Mother Earth has been here. And such clouds will never decorate any sky ever again for however long life lasts here on earth. But the same can be said of all cloud-filled skies. We are fortunate and blessed to see something to look forward to and wonder about. It is something to sing in honour of.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

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The Healing in ‘Sound’

Posted on July 21, 2013 by South Wind

When my drum sings
The trees and birds hear it
The ears of the four-legged
Welcome the sound into themselves
Grandfather Sun and Grandmother Moon
Bless the day and the night
When my drum sings

There are sounds which I hear every day I know I will never, ever hear again within the eternity that is the spirit land I will enter after I cross over to the ‘other side’. Examples? Sirens and bells, revving motors and angry voices, they will not be welcome at the place I hope to go after the hour of my death has arrived.

I offer prayers each day in thanksgiving that I possess the ability to hear. I do not take it for granted. Sound (‘madwewe’ in my language), even the word itself is beautiful to hear. All happy sounds produced by nature are things I dearly look forward to listening to as the days of our four seasons come and go.

The piercing call of the Blue Jay. I heard a Jay calling excitedly one day not far from my cabin. “What’s with him?” I asked myself. Then I heard a loud crash. A big tree, dead many years, could no longer be supported by its lifeless roots and down it went. On a windless day no less. I suspect that the Jay was resting on the branch of the tree and sensed the tree was fixin’ to hit the ground. “Get clear,” the Jay warned to all, “this old tree is going down.” With the crash of the tree, the Blue Jay’s calls warning of danger came to an end. Off he flew to rest elsewhere.

Words cannot describe the joy I feel when listening to the happy clatter chatter of the poplar leaves. They are like that fella we all know with the funny sounding giggles who always finds something to laugh about, no matter how desperate a tense situation might become. He is a good guy to have around when we’re singin’ the blues. Laughter is medicine. How about the sound of a torrential rain banging on a tin roof? Doesn’t it bring goosebumps to the surface of the hearts of young lovers when they hear it though?

I remember shortcutting through a farmer’s field as a boy of about eight years old and listening in wonderment to the swishing sound that the grasses, knee-high to me, were making at the urging of the wind. I was bewildered and totally in awe of what I heard. And you know, the same grasses, making the same sounds at night are heard differently by an eight year old boy. At night, the sound the long grasses make in the wind become scary. You hear something else in them beyond the ‘swishing’ sound. The darkness of the hour creates it in your mind only. It makes the heart pump faster and causes the imagination to run wild.

The best sound this old man, now starting into the winter of his years ever heard was the word ‘Mishomis’ when my three granddaughters grew in age to where they could say it. ‘Mishomis’ is ‘grandfather’ in the Algonquin language. A sweeter word is very difficult to find, in my not so humble opinion.

Perhaps words cannot describe the joy some sounds bring to my spirit but my soul knows what to do with them alright. It packages them in my circle where it will keep them well until I die and then I will take them with me to a grand place where they will stay with me forever.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

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The Curse of Job Thieves

Posted on July 14, 2013 by South Wind

It is dawn at my camp and I have just returned from a short walk. The dew was hardly present on the grasses and the low laying plants of the forest trail, for it is an overcast sky above my cabin. Rain is coming!

A mosquito, fat with Algonquin blood, is bouncing on the inside glass of the sliding door leading into the cabin. I know with all certainty that the insect has filled herself with my blood because I am alone here this day. She wants out. She has things to do and places to go. And this particular mosquito can only do those things with the blood she has drawn from my body.

It brings a memory of something one of my sisters told me a few years back. A colleague at her job site revealed to her that he had checked off the box asking the question “Are you Aboriginal?” on a questionnaire circulated amongst the workers by management. My sister, knowing full well that her colleague was not Aboriginal, asked him why he did so. “You never know these days,” he responded. “There might be a layoff here in the future and I’m betting that if there is, they’ll have to keep their minorities. I’m thinking ahead.” A pretty creepy guy to be sure.

A lot of other people have been ‘thinking ahead’ or so it seems with so many job seekers signing on as ‘First Nations’ or as ‘Métis’ when they believe a chance exists that doing so will secure steady employment for them. They steal something as precious as prosperity and security from someone else who is truly entitled to it. The job thieves have absolutely no qualms about doing so. How much more creepy can you get than that?

I have taken the ‘City’ section of ‘The Citizen’ near my chair and with it, gently guided the ‘full-blooded’ mosquito out of the cabin. “May you do well and have many offspring,” was my departing wish to her. The mosquito has gone off to do whatever needs to be done with my ‘First Nations’ blood and she has my blessings. How wonderful! But the people who do not have enough Aboriginal blood in them to even fill a mosquito but still declare themselves ‘Aboriginal’ and steal jobs and even our voices in the arts are on the wrong side of the area in me which grants blessings. I give them none.

Years ago, about 22 of them, I attended a sunrise ceremony at LeBreton Flats. It was an extraordinary spiritual happening. About 70 people of all ages participated. At least half of the people acknowledging and honouring Grandfather Sun were white. I mentioned to an old man I respected, how happy and hopeful it made me feel to see so many white people in the circle that dawn. The old man replied to my comment, “Yes, it is good that many white people are respecting our spiritual beliefs, but the ‘white man’ will not be happy with having a place in our circles, he will only be happy when he is running the circle and is in total charge of it.” In some instances, the old man was dead on the money.

There is a fellow I have known for a long time, at least 20 years. He often said, “I wish I had ‘Indian’ blood.” Well somehow, maybe by magic or perhaps through a warp in the twilight zone, he has acquired it. He identifies as ‘First Nations’ today and often dresses in a ribbon shirt and sings our ancient songs. I only know that Kichi Manido (God) had nothing to do with the ‘magic’ that placed blood, indigenous to this land into the veins and heart of the man who longed to be ‘Indian’ so long ago.

These thoughts have made my heart drum to a rhythm I am not happy with. Not at all refreshing like the sound I am hearing now of raindrops striking the tin roof of the cabin. Yes, I’ll go for a walk in the rain. I feel like I’m in need of a cleansing. And if the mosquito again takes my blood, I will not object. She only does with it what God has instructed her to do, which is more than can be said of those people who claim our blood only so they can steal what rightfully belongs to us.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

Note:
To those people who do indeed have First Nations blood, no matter how small the percentage, please know that I stand with you and will fight beside you in your struggle against those who would deny you what is rightfully yours.

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Healing in the Rain

Posted on July 8, 2013 by South Wind

I watch the rain descend
Scattered drops, plunging faithfully to their destiny
Innocence with an explosive end
North Wind must have let out a sigh
The drops have transformed
Scattered flakes, with no weight
Dancing about in their whiteness
No explosion, just water
Seeping into the thawed warm earth

(from my poem “March 21st, 6:15 a.m.” written in 1993)

As I put pen to paper on Bitobi Lake, I see that the tall poplars lining the southeast area of the bay where my cabin sits are predicting rain. The poplars are never wrong, when their leaves turn over in the passing breeze and expose their undersides to the birds and animals and to all the world, you can bet rain is on the way. How much rain? You never know how much water will fall until the rainclouds have come and gone.

I love the rain. I wonder why it is that human beings run like spooked deer to get clear of it when most all other life around us sings in honour of it when they find the blessings of rain are everywhere around them.

Just a few days ago I was watching sheets of rain descending from a dark sky outside the sliding glass door at my camp, when three young rabbits came racing into view. They hopped and leaped, helter skelter in the high grass of the cabin’s front yard. I was greatly impressed with their agility in speed and their graceful maneuvers. And I was certain the rabbits were thoroughly enjoying the damp grass and raindrops pelting down on them, not just in the physical sense but also in that of the spiritual. The spirit of the rain had beckoned to them to enter into it, to cleanse themselves and to play and they were only too happy but to accept the invitation.

The rabbits bounded over raspberry plants and dashed through the daisies, daffodils and goatsbeard scattered around the old wooden swing near the front door. Their fawn coloured fur became chocolate brown, so laden with water it was. Even their whiskers slightly drooped, weighted down with raindrops. The rabbits were the picture of health. Not that I give a damn but I’m sure Walt Disney would agree.

I had a hunch. A day later I was storytelling at a grade school. I asked the five year olds of the kindergarten class if they liked the rain. All shouted in agreement. I asked them if they ever played in the rain and they replied that no, their parents didn’t allow it. All the children said they would if they could.

To walk in the rain and benefit in all realms because of it is a natural thing to do. So why do we not do it? Why do we run from the rain? Have we become that much out of touch with our spiritual beliefs, we no longer care to have rainwater re-invigorating our senses?

Spring rains cleanse, summer rains guarantee a rich harvest, autumn rains are the water which break in nature, before a new understanding about what is purpose of life begins for all who wish to grow in spiritual knowledge and wisdom.

“Do you not know enough to get in out of the rain,” I’ve heard parents scream, when their children ‘soaked to the skin’ appear at the door after being caught in the rain. ‘Getting in out of the rain’ is unnatural to a child. To walk in the rain and let it touch you from head to feet is something refreshing, wonderful and natural. Their spirits signal it to the children as soon as the first raindrops touch them.

The mental and emotional will heal in the rain and the spiritual will grow in knowledge and purpose. Give it a try.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

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Abused and Murdered – Donna Jones

Posted on July 1, 2013 by South Wind

What is a man
Who no longer delights
At the songs of birds
Emerging from the forest

Who no longer cares
That healing medicines fill every dew drop

Who no longer honours the trees
As wiser beings than himself

Who no longer longs to walk
Barefoot in the rain

Such a man has been swallowed up
By his own ego and selfishness
He has doomed himself to live
Only as a machine, forever running away
From his duty and responsibilities
As a protector of what defines
A life of purpose
For him, a man

Donna Jones was, according to her family and friends, very much like a maple tree. She was strong, generous and sweet. All traits of the Canadian sugar maple. The maple leaf is green for most of its life and then, for a few short weeks, the season gifts the maple leaf with colour and amazing beauty. It can rightly be said that Donna Jones’ life was the maple leaf at its grandest time, not just for a few short weeks of the year though, but for each and every day of the year’s four seasons. Her honourable traits which were so natural to her, are symbolic of all which is good about Canada. The horror of her death however, is symbolic of one of the things gone terribly askew within the Canadian psyche.

Donna Jones’ death at the hands of a monster only came after her body endured unsurmountable pain and suffering beyond the comprehension of even the most hardened among us. She was scalded, shot with pellets, beaten to the point where her eyes were blackened and her nose broken – who knows what else. All of this over the last eleven days of her life. What kind of a creature kills like this in a civilized society? What sickness in the threads which bond us produced such evil?

I was present at Donna Jones’ memorial. I sat on a bench near the monument erected to honour battered women who died at the hands of the cruel, vicious control freaks who had conned the women into letting them into their lives. The cold, grey monument, designed to resemble a woman’s vulva, stands among the maples at Minto Park. Small stones, each bearing the name of a murdered woman, rest at its base. The small stones give the impression (at least to me) like they have just emerged from the womb of the mother stone, frightened and huddling now, around what would and should protect them. In the ‘good’ world I imagine, the fact that a baby is born female would guarantee ‘she’ would be honoured, respected and protected for being so all the days of her life.

A stone bearing Donna Jones’ name will soon be added. What name will be inscribed on the next stone to be planted at Minto Park? There will surely be many more. Will the name be that of your daughter or sister? Please think about this for a moment. There is a chance that your blood relative, a beloved woman of your family, will be murdered too. I cannot even imagine what it would be like for me to see the name of a daughter or granddaughter of mine to some day be found there at Minto Park. My heart grows heavy even at the thought.

When will it stop? I believe the killing of women by deranged men will at least slow down considerably if we begin to teach our boys today that using violence in any and all forms against women is wrong and is something we will no longer tolerate. The daddies and mommies today must take this serious enough to make a commitment for change now, not tomorrow. It should be mandatory that school children, boys and girls, beginning at age ten, should visit the monument honouring murdered women and be told why it stands there. The children can take it. They are wise and they will learn a powerful lesson by being there. The story of Donna Jones should be told in every classroom in Ontario. Women’s lives will be saved because of it.

Donna Jones was born on December 25th, on the same day a saviour was said to have entered the world in a stable in Bethlehem, to place peace and goodwill into the hearts of men. To some, the message was lost somewhere along history’s pathway. The monster who took away the life of Donna Jones never had any peace or goodwill in his heart for her nor did he for any other woman. He killed her and if we let her name and memory die, we will bring another terrible injustice into why Donna Jones lived and into how she died.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

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The Kitigan Zibi Pow Wow

Posted on June 8, 2013 by South Wind

Under a circle of sacred cedar
First Peoples singers
Humbly awaken the voice of the drum
Harmonizing with the hearts of good people
While the eagle’s prayer
Descends on the rays of the sun

A circle of happy dancers
Gently touching the earth
With moccasin attired feet
Declaring to Good Spirit
Their gladness at being
The original keepers of the land

Many circles are necessary to create the traditional Pow Wow. The first circle is the circle of cedar under which the drums sit and singers gather to sing their songs. The drums are circles, too. Then there is a circle of dancers, young and old. They gently touch the earth with moccasin attired feet, in harmony with the voice of the drums. Some of the dancers enter the circle to pray. Their dance is medicine. Others enter the circle to socialize or to practice and develop their dance styles. The dancers may have one or several of a great variety of reasons for being there.

At the edge of the dancing circle another circle begins. This is where the observers of the Pow Wow are gathered to watch the dancers and to listen to the drums and songs. Healing often takes place in this circle. It just happens. People reconnect spiritually, with something pure and real. Tears are often shed, tears brought forth by a renewed pride one finds again within themselves and by a feeling of humility which fills their hearts at knowing they are a human being, appreciating what it means to be thankful for untold blessings.

Beyond this circle, yet another circle begins. This circle is the space where people encounter old friends. Much handshaking and hugs occur in this circle. People give news from their territories to friends and old acquaintances. They might request blessings and prayers there from trusted pipe carriers and elders, for loved ones stricken with illness back home. They might proudly introduce new family members, grandchildren or sons and daughters to people they admire from far off communities.

The last circle on the grounds of the Pow Wow site is the circle of traders and food vendors who surround all. These good and talented people are so very welcome at the Pow Wow. The traders have with them, items of great beauty and of special meaning to passers-by, for sale. And the food vendors? Goodness knows, the Pow Wow would not be whole without them. Indian tacos + buffalo burgers + bannock and jam = yum yum. The last and greatest circle at the Pow Wow is the one made in the sky by the hawk or eagle. One or the other of these birds will always come to soar circles over the Pow Wow site. They are the icing on the cake. A blessing from Creator we can actually see. What a wonder.

It is true the circles of the Pow Wow are many and that we all benefit in some way because of them. Our spirits soar in the energy of these circles.

Never forget this though, the Pow Wow at Kitigan Zibi would not happen if not for the generosity of their volunteers. The volunteers are circles unto themselves. They give up a weekend out of their lives so that you and I and our families can experience something empowered to help us grow in our identity and in our spirituality. Words cannot fully express how we feel about them.

Kitigan Zibi (K.Z.) goes out-of-pocket at least $15,000 a year to host their Pow Wow. There is no charge to enter. It is free because of the generosity of the people of K.Z. Let’s not take this enormous generosity for granted. Why not send an email to K.Z. expressing your heartfelt gratitude. It is not too late to do so. Check out K.Z.’s website and tell them “Kichi Migwech”!!!

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

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Tribute to an Artist

Posted on May 30, 2013 by South Wind

JoAnn Daniels Gaaminjiminang ojijaakowin (Holds on to her Spirit) was born 63 years ago at a time when a blanket of great beauty and colour covered the land. The autumn blanket sewn by one of the season’s grandmother moons, must have touched baby JoAnn in a magical way, and blessed her with a rare physical beauty, so stunning she was as a full-blooded Ojibway woman.

JoAnn was an artist who worked with hides and beads. She was meticulous in her craft. Each and every bead her fingers touched had to be placed, ever so perfectly next to one pre-selected from a cup of hundreds, waiting to give the creation life. “Life” is indeed what such artwork is capable of. Its power can reach into the soul of an assimilated First Peoples’ individual and push him/her to rediscover a lost heritage. JoAnn knew this.

In the last weeks of her life, JoAnn the mother, sister, aunt, friend, and artist was not afraid of death. “I only wish I had another year,” she said, “so I could do a few things differently.” What those “things” were, are known only to JoAnn and perhaps to her closest relatives.

Shortly before she died, an elder acquainted with JoAnn was driving along a country road. JoAnn suddenly appeared in his mind. With her still in his thoughts he observed a small hawk leaving a roadside field. It struggled against the wind to do so. The hawk held something in its claws, a stick perhaps for a nest or maybe a small rodent, the elder wasn’t sure. The hawk, though experiencing great difficulty climbing the windy sky did not release what it was holding, so precious the item was to its survival.

Gaaminjiminang ojijaakowin “Holds on to her Spirit” passed away a few days later at dawn. What can be accurately said of any dawn is that no living thing on this earth knows with all certainty what shape its health will be in when the sun of that particular day sets. No man, animal, bird, fish, mountain or leaf knows for sure. The rising sun brings wonder and mystery. “Holds on to her Spirit” chose the dawn to take the hands of her pre-deceased mother and father and go with them to the Land of Souls. Like the small hawk who struggled to climb the sky, she had struggled through life, making the best of being raised by parents who had survived many abuses and traumas at Residential Schools. She fought the winds without ever letting go of her grace, charm, dignity and the passion she had for the health and well-being of her family.

Her sons can tell their children that “Holds on to her Spirit”, their loving Kokom (grandmother) left the hardships of this world when sweet blossoms covered the branches of fruit trees and May flowers stood scattered through the marshy forests of their territory.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

Donations to the Wabano Centre for Aboriginal Health (299 Montreal Rd., Ottawa K1L 6B8) can be made in JoAnn’s memory.

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Sakahàn

Posted on May 19, 2013 by South Wind

Proudly do I report the success of the launch of Sakahàn (Igniting a Fire) art exhibition at the National Art Gallery on Thursday, May 16.

My friends, artwork speaks. The voices emitting from the creations of our artists today are entities born in the chants of an ancestor sitting in the glow of a fire somewhere far into the past. The reach of the voice into your psyche depends on how open your mind is to the message of the artist. If you have even the smallest interest in the arts, then please, do yourself a favour and take in Sakahàn. Bring the little ones to it. Sow the seed, hear the voices, change your life and theirs.

The launch was perfect and made so because of many, including the Eagle River Drummers, Chief Gilbert Whiteduck, fire keeper Peter Decontie, community leader Claudette Commanda (all from Kitigan Zibi), Danielle Lanouette (Algonquin), the multi-talented Theland Kicknosway (Pottawatomi Cree), his mother Elaine Kicknosway (Cree), the hoop dancer Rhonda Doxtator (Mohawk). A special thank you for Jaime Koebel (Métis) and Greg Hill (Mohawk) who planned the launch: Kichi Migwech.

I also played a small part in the event as I opened the proceedings at the Gallery with a prayer. The following are words I wrote for “Sakahàn” and what the word means to me, an Algonquin spiritual advisor. The Gallery holds copyright to these words.

SAKAHÀN

by Albert Dumont for the National Gallery

The igniting of a fire by human beings at the commencement of a ritual or ceremony brings greater sacredness to a place already made holy by the blessings of Kichi Manido (Great Spirit). The First Peoples who lived on Turtle Island long ago were keenly aware that without fire, the sacred medicines of tobacco, sage, cedar and sweetgrass would not have the ability to carry prayers into the spiritual domain of Kichi Manido. Fire consumed offerings of cloth and berries on behalf of the First Peoples and by doing so, placed these offerings on the feasting blankets of their loved ones who had travelled to the Land of Souls before them.

The ancestors saw the great respect fire had for water and that fire could only live if the wind allowed it to. They saw that fire could only exist if it had the support and cooperation of other things placed on Mother Earth by Kichi Manido. With this knowledge, the First Peoples recognized fire as a wise teacher. They were drawn to sing honour songs for water, the winds and for the health of Mother Earth because of what fire had taught them.

A sacred fire sings a song. A melody to which fish, birds, animals and insects are attracted to. A sacred fire ignited after the moon has risen, burns in the centre of a circle of its own creation. All which is alive in this sacred circle of light has nothing to fear, evil and wickedness cannot enter there.

The sacred fire is a prayer onto itself. A prayer you can see and smell. A prayer you, as a human being, are invited to be part of. It touches you and teaches you lessons of spirituality. It humbles you. It allows you to sit in the centre of God’s blessing.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

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Assimilation? Never!

Posted on May 13, 2013 by South Wind

At a time of spiritual meditation
I am sometimes drawn
To point my face towards the sun
My eyes tightly shut
Still, through closed eyes
I see all the colours
Of a magnificent sunrise before me
Like the fire within the fire
The heart and spirit of the day
I see it

My childhood years and my years as a young adult were years when my spirit did not sing and dance when the eagle appeared in the sky. I denied my spirit a chance to sing for I was, at that time, on my way to becoming an assimilated Indian. I was lost. I did not stand proud as a sober Algonquin. I drank excessively and in doing so, brought heartache and tears to all who loved me. Had I continued as I was, I would either have died young in some kind of violent confrontation over foolishness or I would surely have slid into a city gutter as a hopeless and desperate alcoholic. But with the help of my ancestors I slowly regained my identity as an Anishinabe Inini (First Peoples Man). With it I discovered spirituality and with the blessings of Great Spirit by my side, I found my life of sobriety.

If the people who hoped to rob me of my true purpose of life had been successful, then today I would be an assimilated drunkard crawling in the sewer of rotgut, searching in its stench for something impossible to find there. In such a state I would not be regarded as a threat to corporations and governments who seek to rape my ancestral lands of their riches until there is nothing left on them but sand.

This land of the Algonquins was always fertile and great in natural resources. The riches on the land were not installed into it by Europeans or by anyone else who came here from a far away continent. The resources held by the land will remain where they are. If my voice has a say in it, the land will always be healthy. The next generations are counting on us to defend the land.

Whenever the opportunity arises I will dare to speak of my love for my family, my people, my land, and I will do so without fear and without concern for how superior-minded people react to it.

Keep the Circle Strong,
Albert “South Wind” Dumont.

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