No cause to grumble

Tu Tangata, Issue 2, 1 October 1981, Page 13

No cause to grumble

Maoris are not the only people with cause to grumble about the way they are treated. Here Gilbert Oskaboose writes about some of the hassles of being a Canadian Indian.

He writes in a light-hearted vein, but the similarities between what he writes and what many have experienced suggests there is a lot of truth behind the jokes.

Gilbert Oskaboose is editor of Indian News, in which this article first appeared. Advertising itself as “the next best thing to smoke signals”, Indian News is published in English and French by Canada’s Department of Indian Affairs. What’s it like to be an Indian? How many times have Indian people heard that question and how many attempts have been made to answer it once and for all.

An old chief with a penchant for purple prose might respond with something flowery like this: “There are many Indians, my son, therefore the answers must be as many as the marsh grasses that bend and sway in the evening breezes.” A young militant may be more succinct. “It’s the pits, man!”

If you were to catch me on one of my bad days which, incidentally, are coming closer and closer together, I’d probably say: To Be Indian ...

... Is to be expected to be an expert on all things pertaining to the Great Outdoors. An Indian must be totally familiar with the Indian, English and Latin names of all Canadian flora and fauna, be fully cognizant of their medicinal and/or magical properties, and, aside from knowing most moose by their first names, must be able to converse fluently with at least 15 separate species.

... Is to be painfully aware that most white folks sincerely believe your religion consists mainly of worshipping totem poles and talking to rocks.

... Is to have your child come home from an elementary class with the following pearl and know how insidious bigotry is and how young children are exposed to it. Teacher’s tip: The best way to remember the correct spelling of the word arithmetic is to incorporate the letters into a catchy little sentence like: A Red Indian Thought He Might Eat Tobacco In Church.

... Is to be a university educated, hard-working, tax-paying, lawabiding citizen with a good military record, a better-than-average vocabulary, a reasonably high IQ, a lovely family, a good home and still be legally defined as a “ward of the Government”.

... Is to come back from the barbershop and have your senses assaulted by at least one of the following bon mots:

“Hey! Didya get scalped or sump’ping? haw haw ...” “Oh Oh, somebody’s going on the warpath now. hee hee ...” ... Is to be introduced to someone and have their first question be: “Say, where kin I git a nice pair of mocassins cheap?” ... Is to pick up any Canadian daily newspaper and find: Every Indian movement, political or otherwise, labelled as “going on the warpath”; any Indian celebration and storm that happens to coincide attributed to “Indians dancing up a storm” and legislation that expressly forbids identifying criminals or their victims by racial origin neatly circumvented by the white press, pointing out that so-and-so resides on the so-and-so Indian Reserve.

... Is to have people endlessly commiserate with you over “the plight of your people.” Other races have predicaments, quandries, dilemmas, problems and troubles. Indians invariably have plights. Our foremost plight is having to listen to lines like this: “Youse guys wuz here first, you know, dis is all yer lan.” “I was brought up right beside a reservation. Hell, some of my best friends is Injuns.” ... Is to wonder when religious orders like the Jesuits and the Oblates, who have had “missions” in Indian Country for at least 400 years, will decide we have been sufficiently christianized for them to move on to greater things. Like I said, if you catch me on a bad day ....