Last time, I posted about four books by Indigenous authors and about Indigenous history, today I’m writing about three books by Indigenous writers.
“She was the chief. He rode a motorcycle. Somewhere in all this, she was sure, were the makings of a made-for-TV movie.” Instead, it’s a novel: Drew Hayden Taylor’s Motorcycles & Sweetgrass (2010).
Funny and accessible, Taylor’s style really moves. The novel opens with Lillian’s pending death, while the family argues “about what to do, and shuffle around her door like bees around a rotten apple.” He openly confronts political issues and embraces nuance:
“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. It’s an Anishnawbe thing.”
“Mon, I’m Anishnawbe. We all are.”
Lillian put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “No child, you’re what they call nowadays a First Nations. They don’t necessarily mean the same thing.”
The core of the novel rests with Virgil, who sees something astonishing while his grandmother is on her death bed, something he spends the rest of the novel grappling with and, ultimately, understanding. But, along the way, there’s a good bit of Maggie, who’s a believable and spirited character: “I suppose you think I’m some sort of damsel in distress that you can save?” John replies: “No, ma’am, I never make assumptions about a woman holding a tire iron.”
I started to read this while walking home from the library (which is to say, it’s immediately engaging, so I didn’t put it away after waiting for the excruciatingly long light where the highways cross) and I laughed out loud at least once (always near a spoiler, so I’m only sharing the chuckle-worthy bits).
Taylor’s style has a mythic feel, which is how I come to this latest poetry collection from Louise B. Halfe (Sky Dancer) from 2022. An introduction by Maria Campbell also takes the form of a poem, “warning” readers that laughter will ensue. Reading awâsis: kinky and dishevelled, there’s a consistent sense of playfulness even without an understanding of the Cree language. (Once or twice in a poem, there’s a Cree term, defined in the margins, but readers begin to recognise the key concepts that reverberate throughout the collection from Brick Books.)
The jacket copy defines awâsis as “illuminated child” and the poet’s acknowledgements define it as the “adult child within” and a “being lent a spiritual being” inviting us to open to experiencing these wawiyatâcimowinisa (funny little stories) first, then consider unravelling definitions. Most of the poems feel so organic it’s hard to extract a few lines, but “Dress-Up” begins like this:
“Awâsis often laughed at
how a woman
wiggled her hips to adjust her muffin top
as they were talking.”
and ends like this:
“She was peeved that pot-bellied men
could float over their pants,
while she grunted and sweated
on the treadmills.”
There’s a short interview with the poet here, which highlights the significant cultural elements at work in these stories and also offers a glimpse into her history and writing process.
Aimée Craft’s Treaty Words: For as Long as the Rivers Flow (2021) is one of those books that seems a little adult for a children’s book and a little simple for an adult’s book. The vocabulary is advanced and the colour palette in Luke Swinson’s illustrations is sophisticated: adult. It fits easily atop one of my hands, is about fifty pages long, and some pages have only a single sentence: child.
Ultimately none of that matters: I enjoyed this overheard conversation between a girl and her Mishomis, sitting beside the river. He explains to his granddaughter what her responsibilities are, to the land and the animals, and as a storyteller.
He gives the history of the word ‘aagoiidiwin’ used to embody the concept of a treaty as a way to work together, how treaties are “the basis of all relationships” and learned from the listening to and observing the world.
“But we have always known,” he says, “that we retained our sovereignty, laws, language, connection to the land, and ways of being. We agreed through the Treaty that we would live well side by side.” (Annick Press)
Next, I’ll write about three different works, but which of these do you think you’d read today?
NOTE: Whenever I post about Indigenous works, it’s quickly apparent how difficult it can be, especially for international readers, and for North American readers without ready access to a local independent bookseller who can access books from small and independent publishers, to access a book of interest. Of these three, only Drew Hayden Taylor’s is from a mainstream publisher. If you’re interested in the others, both Strong Nations (shipping from “B.C.”) and Good Minds (shipping from “Ontario”) might be useful for your Indigenous reading generally, and I’ve linked to the indie publisher for each of the other two titles, both of which offer epubs.
The poetry sounds good, but you’ve sold me on Motorcycles and sweetgrass.
I’m not sure I agree with Bill about N. American First Nations being middle class and Australians being underclass. I see FN people here as crossing all classes, which I feel it’s similar in North America. But that “First Nations” comment in the quote you shared intrigued me. Is the character saying the difference is that one identification is cultural and the other political?
Given how much you’ve enjoyed Thomas King, I’m sure you’d enjoy DHT too (though he has a couple that, like Tiffany Morris’s novella which we were discussing on your site recently, venture into some horror-ish territory, recognisable via their cover art).
I think, too, I’ve often suggested Indigenous writers from mainstream publishers for international accessibility but, in turn, they perhaps are the stories deemed most marketable, leaning more towards upper-middle and middle class, and perhaps the writers who depict a more hardscrabble existence aren’t forecast to be bestsellers.
It’s a glimpse into the past and, I believe, speaking to the movement that prioritised a unified Indigenous (First Nations AND Métis AND Inuit) identity, all the nations bound together to achieve justice and equality, whereas more recently the distinct membership in specific nations seems to be more highly valued. I suppose this is still ongoing, in some ways: the old Assimilation versus Tradition debate.
These all sound so appealing. I love the image of you reading Motorcycles and Sweetgrass as you walked home from the library! It made me realise that its something I used to do on my childhood library trips but no longer – I should get back to it, although then there were no roads to cross and where I live now there are several…
So you could probably read many more pages, with more traffic lights to assist you in your travels! hee hee It’s funny…the experience of reading books on the move like this tends to lodge with my memory of the book, later, too.
I read Motorcycles and Sweetgrass a year ago. I looked up my notes, such as they are, but they brought back very little. Three generalizations occur to me though – there is a lot of difference between the trickster magic of N American First Nations and the spirit worlds of Indigenous Australians; In books, N American First Nations people are middle class and Australian First Nations communities are underclass; and N American writers approach their First Nationness ironically, Australians with a gritty determination.
I remember recommending Drew Hayden Taylor for his sense of fun and humour (and I thought you’d like the love story in that one) but I also remember few details. More the feel. I wonder if one reason that class seems to be less prevalent in the Indigenous (and First Nations, Métis, Inuit) fiction from this part of the world you’ve read so far is that they’re often coming-of-age stories, when the children haven’t necessarily compared how different some more privileged families live outside their cultural experience. I think, for instance, in the later books of Eden Robinson’s trilogy, after he’s moved away from home, Jared sees some of that? But the differences are fascinating. Next year, I’ll have Praiseworthy in June (if I ever finish lol).