I welcome (and warn) new citizens of Canada ...

A couple times a month, I give a three minute speech to new citizens, as part of the IRCC Citizenship Ceremony (Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada). It's the final leg of becoming a citizen of this country, where the Oath of Citizenship is taken.

Words are my livelihood. Storytelling is my life. So, when IRCC first approached me, I only agreed to do it on two stipulations:

1. They do not alter my speech - uncut, unedited, uncensored

2. They do not ask me to do anything performative (dancing, drumming, storytelling, smudging the audience, etc)

They agreed and I have been welcoming new citizens ever since. I consider my speech to be less of a welcoming, and more a warning. I present to you my three minute speech, in full:

START

Oki nistoo niitaniko O'mahk'siik'iimi Pii'tai'poyi

Hello, my name is Jason Eaglespeaker.

I will now use the colonizer’s language, in hopes we may understand each other better.

Welcome to Turtle Island! I am both Blackfoot and Duwamish, my ancestors have been here for thousands of years. I am an Author, Illustrator and Book Publisher. I have published authors from over 375 First Nations.

I was asked to be here today and welcome you to our beautiful stolen lands.

Indigenous, Aboriginal, Native, First Nations, Indian – it can all seem confusing at first, which one is “right”? You’re not alone in your confusion, even people who have lived here their entire lives are unsure. Honestly, they’re all “acceptable”, it really depends on who you’re talking to.

In this country there are over 600 distinct First Nations - each with their own unique cultures, celebrations, beliefs, traditions and languages. You’re basically surrounded. The differences between these First Nations are as diverse as the differences between the nations that every one of you comes from. The UK, Germany, Ireland, Scotland – all are European, but their cultures, celebrations, beliefs, traditions and languages are completely different – just like First Nations.

Completely overwhelmed? I completely understand. It’s tempting to generalize all First Nations people as having the same culture, the same celebrations, the same beliefs, the same traditions, and the same language – just one big homogenous group.

Instead, challenge yourself … in fact, I challenge you, each and every one of you:

• I challenge you to know more than your neighbors about local First Nations peoples and the lands you occupy.

• I challenge you to rigorously research the unceded Indigenous territory you build on, live on, work on, play on and benefit from – and what happened to the original inhabitants.

• I challenge you to seek out authentically Indigenous books and publications and websites.

• I challenge you to learn everything you can about the dark sides of this country and take an active role in the reconciliation process – by financially supporting Indigenous artists and businesses, by honoring events like National Truth and Reconciliation Day, and by questioning/calling out systemic racism practices.

• I challenge you to educate yourself about the treatment of First Nations people in residential schools, and the sixties scoop - and the undrinkable water on reserves, and the broken treaties, and the thousands of Murdered and Missing Indigenous Women and the 94 Calls to Action from the Truth & Reconciliation Commission.

• I challenge you.

My time here is limited. I thank you for allowing me to be a part of your life for these mere moments. I hope my words resonate deeply, they are powerful seeds that will grow and flourish, if you tend to and nurture them.

Kiittamutsin (until we meet again)

END

I'm A Lone Blackfoot In Unceded Mi'kmaq Territory ...

Cuzzin, I used to write articles for magazines and such, but I quit a while back (I felt too tokenized). Take a look at the last article I wrote - for The FOLD, an architectural group in Calgary. I know nothing of architecture and design, so I found it interesting they approached me.

They asked for my opinion on “design and the built environment and missing narratives in predominant recorded histories of architecture” (whatever that means, lol). I, of course, wrote it in my own signature decolonized style. Here is the article, in it's entirety:

START

Trigger Warning: I revel in a colonizer’s discomfort.

THERAPIST: “So, what’s the problem?”

ME: “Well, it all started in 1492 …”

Lemme tell you something, my sisters and brothers of another color - it’s hard out here for an “Indigenous/Native/Aboriginal/Redskin/Indian/Merciless Savage.”

As a wee wee wee lad growing up on a remote white-man-made reservation, and the mean white-man-made streets of Calgary, I always felt a wee wee wee bit left out of the white-man-made architecture and design and “beautiful” buildings scene. Actually, I’m lying like a colonizer—I don’t know a #%$&@ thing about white-man-made architecture and design and “beautiful” buildings, nor have I ever really cared.

However, two things are certainly certain: I am a world-renowned guru on my own experiences, and when it comes to my personal perceptions and opinions, I am a #%$&@ badass-politically-(in)correct-idiot-savant.

“Blackfoot? Mi’kmaq? Unceded? Colonizer? 1492? Humor? Daheck does any of that have to do with design and the built environment and missing narratives in predominant recorded histories of architecture? This is not the forum for that!” you impatiently react.

“As a high school dropout—with no degrees, no diplomas and no certificates—I honestly have no clue. What I do know is: if your only response to Indigenous people speaking up is ‘this is not the forum for that’, you are part of the problem.” I dishonestly respond.

A few breaths/sentences ago, I said I really don’t care about white-man-made architecture and design and “beautiful” buildings, and now that I’ve had a few breaths/sentences to really think my darndest hardest about it all, I care even less.

So, what does an “Indigenous/Native/Aboriginal/Redskin/Indian/Merciless Savage” like me truly care about? I care relentlessly about what lies beneath the white-man-made architecture and designs and “beautiful” buildings.

I care relentlessly about the endless beautiful land, the endless beautiful stolen land.

“STOLEN?!? Whatchu talkin’ bout, Willis? I haven’t stolen a #%$&@ thing. How dare you blame me for my ancestors’ misdeeds and ulterior motives!” you angrily overreact, instantly offended.

I roll my eyes, Indigenously, and stoically retort “Well, allow me to retort. To truly be an active ally of Turtle Island’s Indigenous peoples, you must first acknowledge that you build on, live on, work on, learn on, play on, and benefit from, stolen Indigenous land—no matter where you are in quote unquote North America!”

Refuse to acknowledge that? Well then, my completely colonized “friend”, we are done here. Stop reading, close your mind back up, retreat to your comfort zone, your bubble, and continue to blissfully flow slow with the status quo, yo.

Still here? Down with brown? Oozing humility? Eager to be de-colonized? Well ‘den … SKODEN (“let’s go then”) … STOODIS (“let’s do this”) … SKOSTOODISDEN (“??????”) … but be aware, de-colonization stings, it doesn’t tickle.

Acknowledge this next: there’s no such thing as “Native Culture”, or “Native Themed”, or “Native Inspired”. There are over 1,200 distinct First Nations throughout Turtle Island—each with their own unique cultures, ceremonies, songs, languages, and beliefs. Know which one you are talking about. The differences between First Nations are as distinct as the differences between Caucasian Nations (i.e., Irish and Russian have very few similarities, besides both being Caucasian). You don’t ever hear anyone say “White Culture”, or “White Themed”, or “White Inspired”. You know why? Because that is an ignorant generalization. Understand, man?

If your mind is not blown by now, you’re either: Indigenous (you live the struggle) or sincerely self-educated (thank you) or married-in (lol). Check this out; that’s just the basics. The full story would make Christopher Columbus roll over in his grave—actually he’d claim someone else’s grave and roll over in that.

Us Blackfoot, way way way back in the day—which I’m pretty sure was a Thursday—we were nomadic, we followed the buffalo herds (before your ancestors wiped them out), so we put our braids together with our other Plains Indian cuzzins, thought our darndest hardest, and invented the first mobile homes—a.k.a. the infamous-timeless-often-appropriated tipi.

Time went on, we were starved into submission, we were forced onto reservations, we were forced into residential schools, then my family escaped to Seattle, then I was born, then I was forced to attend Indian Day School (a.k.a. Standoff Elementary, in Southern Alberta), then I escaped, then I grew up in Calgary—and nowadays, the dumbest question I get asked almost daily:

STRANGER: “Do Indians still live in tipis?”

ME: *glares at them, Indigenously

Growing up in a country that tried to erase your people and “kill the Indian in the child” makes one a tad leery, but you also get a tad used to it. Sometimes, you even kinda forget that you’re surrounded by colonial construction, you’re immersed in aggressive assimilation, your voice is unheard and unvalued, and you’re just a living Hollywood caricature to the masses, relegated to the past.

For that fleeting moment, that millisecond, those forgetful times are pure bliss – probably how white man feels.

A few years back I relocated from Alberta to Nova Scotia (for my young sons), and when I first arrived, I walked the historic Halifax downtown core. The endless old white-man-made architecture, designs and “beautiful” buildings (and fortresses and endless old graveyards) overwhelmed me.

I gently wept. I deeply wept.

Halifax is on unceded Mi’kmaq territory, so I frantically searched for Mi’kmaq representation in all the endless old white-man-made architecture, designs and “beautiful” buildings—alas, there was none to be found. I walked block after block looking for Mi’kmaq murals, statues, art–anything!—but still I came up empty. It was like a white-washed Twilight Zone, where aggressive assimilation prevailed.

I told myself: “Self, you’ve made a huge mistake moving here!”

Then I had what addicts and alcoholics refer to as “a moment of clarity”. I realized that back home in Calgary I had gotten so used to not feeling represented—especially in all the white-man-made architecture, designs and “beautiful” buildings surrounding me—that I stopped noticing and stopped #%$&@ caring (it has gotten better in Calgary in recent years, a bit more representation, thank #%$&@). Something about Halifax awakened those long dormant feelings. Maybe it’s because Mi’kmaq are a first contact tribe and were almost wiped out (like almost all other east coast tribes), so there’s even less reason for mainstream to even acknowledge them.

As we’ve firmly established, I couldn’t care less about white-man-made architecture, designs and “beautiful” buildings, but, think about this for a second: what would make me care?

In this age of instant access to information in the palm of our hands, ignorance is now a choice.

To me, it’s immediately (and joyfully) obvious when a non-Indigenous person is well aware that they build on, live on, work on, learn on, play on, and benefit from, stolen Indigenous land—and they have rigorously researched who the original inhabitants were, and what happened to them. I can tell in the first few sentences, they have depth in their conversations and their knowledge. They don’t ask basic, easily searchable, (dumb?) questions. They know not to ask a Math Professor “What’s 1+1?”

For me to truly care about white-man-made architecture, designs and “beautiful” buildings—and I guarantee 96.9% of all Indigenous people on Turtle Island will agree—the answer is simple:

DO YOUR #%$&@ RESEARCH !!!

Humble yourself, then un-educate yourself, ‘cause unless you attended an Indigenous High School or University, you were “educated” in a biased system. Your formal fundamental education is formally and fundamentally skewed. You must now authentically and sincerely self-educate. The resources are out there, in abundance. They surround you. Many answers are right there in the palm of your hand, right now—search, scroll, search, scroll, repeat.

Since you build on, live on, work on, learn on, play on, and benefit from, stolen Indigenous land—always be prepared to be called out by Indigenous people.

At the very least, we expect you to sincerely and authentically educate yourself, we expect you to know the basics—to know the history of the land you’re on, to know the continually broken treaties, to know the distinct First Nations—anything less is choosing ignorance.

Think of it this way: before you visit/move to a foreign country, you research the local people, the local culture, the local ceremonies, the local songs, the local language, the local beliefs, and more. Do the same here on Turtle Island; it’s the least you can do.

STILL NOT BLOWN AWAY ?!?

Well, check this out: I am a SELF made, SELF driven, SELF confident, SELF empowered, SELF determined, SELF improved, SELF educated, SELF employed, and SELF sufficient Author, Illustrator and Book Publisher. I have published authors from over 275 First Nations.

It all started from one single scrapbook I created (over a decade ago) about my family’s horrific experience in the notorious St. Paul’s Residential School in Southern Alberta. It’s called “UNeducation: A Residential School Graphic Novel”. To date, it has sold over 269,000 copies, and is now in libraries, universities, retailers and used in healing initiatives worldwide. It changed my life. It changed my family’s life.

That’s it, colonizer. My limit was 1500 words, but no one #%$&@ limits me!

END

You can read the article itself here:

https://thisisthefold.org/viewpoints14jasoneaglespeaker

I Was Saved By A Maritime Angel

Geeeez cuzzin, reminiscing on these past three years, The Great Purge of May 2021 (an upcoming story) was right rough for your Blackfoot Bro. It was my lowest point. My rockiest bottom. I was locked in perpetual hindsight.

You know how when your heart hurts so bad, in that moment you think it's gonna last forever? That's the feeling. When you reminisce, and regret, over and over and over again. That's the feeling. You end up so far down the rabbit hole, there aren't even any rabbits there. That's the feeling.

My live-in girlfriend had just left me, with only a note, at the height of the pandemic. I was blindsided and devastated.

I'm woefully weeping at Chocolate Lake in Kjipuktuk (Halifax) … with my big bag of Chocolate Kush, chugging a chocolate milk that tastes far beyond its expiration date. The early morning sun shines on my chocolate braids and my chocolate tears and my chocolate skin and the chocolate chip freckles on my arms.

It's just another manic Monday - I wish it was Sunday, 'cause that's my fun day, my "I-don't-have-to-run" day - but, no, I was officially alone for the first time in my life, far from my homelands, in unceded Mi’kmaq territory. I'm stuck in a loop, a furious fixation, imagining the endless echoes of my now 2/3 empty house. Will my cries of despair ricochet from wall to wall to wall?

Since I knew no one locally, I reached out to the social media masses, I asked for help ... four simple words: “I need a friend.”

… and a Maritime angel reached back1

She said: "Stay right there, you shouldn't be alone."

She arrived in 5 minutes, in a tiny grey 4 door with 3 hubcaps ... 'cause that's what angels drive.

She's a complete stranger, I’m an incomplete soul, we've never met, so I try not to look too distraught. I fail miserably.

She jumps out of her angel-mobile and says: "I just had my covid test, it's negative, can I hug you?" It was then I realized ... I can't even speak anymore.

She hugs me for a minute straight, or maybe it was an hour, it's exactly what I need.

She drives me to the ocean, and just lets me ugly cry and war cry and wimper cry for 5 hours, it's exactly what I need.

She brings me back from my brink, it's exactly what I need.

She sacrifices her precious time for a struggling stranger, it's exactly what I need.

She dropped me off with a whole new appreciation for this paradise I call home, it's exactly what I need.

I never saw her again ...

Where I'm from - the Blackfoot Confederacy - she would be considered a new sister. Us Blackfoot are big on honoring those who selflessly help others, we have entire ceremonies for it and everything.

In the years since, many more Maritime angels reached out, to: share a meal, collaborate on books, shoot the breeze, have our kids hang together, have a BBQ, go kayaking, stay in their seaside cabin, go deep sea fishing, pick fruit in their orchard, drink wine from their vineyard, practice martial arts, catch a mellow buzz together ... and so on and so on. Love and thanks to each and every one of them guys and gals, for reaching back.

I no longer feel alone, I no longer long for my homelands.

... and that's how a Maritime angel saved my sanity, with a hug

Always reach out. You're surrounded by angels.

I Used To Steal From Colonizers

When I was but a wee lad I had this wee problem – stealing from colonizers.

Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a problem, maybe it was my wee way of taking back Turtle Island, one wee theft at a time. Yeah, that’s it, let’s call it Repatriation.

I’m over it now though ... mostly, lol.

I’m in Grade 5 at GR Davis SR Elementary in Fort Macleod, Alberta, KKKanada - a bright white settler school nestled cozily at the corner of Entitlement Rd and Colonial Ave.

For two %$#@& years, those %$#@& Napikoan (white) boys bragged about their %$#@& pile of Nintendo games. They’d bring ‘em to school, show ‘em off, trade ‘em and laugh at us Kainaikoan (Blood) kids who didn’t have ‘em.

That damn Shane S. and Brad B. and Jeffrey J. and Mark A., those rich hockey heads, they were the worst of the worst of the Nintendo Napikoans, laughing at us Kainaikoan kids harder than those other Nintendo Napikoans ever did - taunting us, hip checking us into our lockers. Collectively, they had every Nintendo game there was, I know ‘cause I seent them all.

Those four f*ckers cornered me and Dean No Chief four times at Mac’s Inconvenience Store and gave us the Nintendo Napikoan beatdown/melee – other than dropping my Coke Slush though, it didn’t really hurt - on the rez us Kainaikoan kids hit much harder.

You know what though, cuzzin? This cuzzin was tired and sick of those four f*ckin’ Nintendo Napikoans, and their vicious vile ways, it was time to initiate "Operation Repatriation – Nintendo Version."

I was moving back to the rez school soon, so I didn’t have much time. I recruited Dean No Chief, Bonnie Butt, Shelly Raw Eater, Joe White Man (which is a great name for a Red Man), and Terry Scout, as Scouts, to scout out the Nintendo Napikoans/Cavalry - find out where they live, when they come and go, and what their school lockers combos are.

Boy, I tell you, us Blackfoot are the scoutiest of all scouts, especially that Terry Scout, they returned with intel in a mere 72 white man hours. Together we hatched the plan of all plans, the vengeance of all vengeances.

My last day at the bright white settler school, there was a Show n’ Tell day, and of course the four f*ckers bring in their Nintendo games to show off … but this time they each brought in their Nintendo systems, too. One even had a robot that worked with their Nintendo, Robby The Robot or something corny, lol.

My bus leaves to the rez at 3:20pm, it’s the first bus to leave. At 3pm, I leave class early, grab my duffle bag, head straight for each of those four f*ckers’ lockers, enter the combos, fill my duffle bag with all their Nintendo stuff – it’s jam packed – and beeline to my bus.

I am sweating profusely … it’s 3:18pm … two more minutes ‘til my bus leaves!

The door closes and Billy Boy The Bus Driver fittingly cranks “Bad To The Bone” by George Thorogood & The Destroyers. I settle back in my seat, giggle maniacally and cradle my two full duffle bags – one full of locker goodies, the other full of the rest of their Nintendo games (we had broken into their houses that morning and stole the rest).

They never did find out who did it, and if they did, no white parents dared come to the rez looking for us, lol.

… and that’s how the Blood rez got their first Nintendos

**Today I was adding a bunch of old school Nintendo systems and games to my iPhone (with this new emulator app called Delta) and it made me reminiscent of my thieving days and ways. Even in my wildest fantasies, young me hurriedly shoving Nintendo game cartridges into a duffle bag, could never have dreamed of having every Nintendo game on my phone … and in the middle of it all, memories of Operation Repatriation - Nintendo Version popped into my head. I hope you enjoyed my misadventure - and as for the Nintendo Napikoans, I always have, and always will, revel in a colonizer’s discomfort.

I Am A New Member of the Worst Club

Man, cuzzins, I have had quite the colonial medicine month.

Oh %$#@&, before I continue, ya best put the kids to sleep first or put a big screen in front of their beautiful little faces, ‘cause O’mahk’siik’iimi is ‘bout to elaborate like he’s never elaborated before. You’ve been warned.

Yeah, yeah, I know … I just referred to myself in the third person, but calm down young grasshopper … I literally stepped outside myself these past few weeks, and it was rarely by choice.

March 11th, 1pm ADT:

I go for a routine Ureteroscopy - it’s one way they destroy kidney stones (my two kidney stone bros are one centimeter apiece, much too big to pass!). First, they knock you unconscious (thank %$#@&). Then they put a tube (with a tiny camera and other tools) in your urethra - yep thru your weewee - allllll the way to your kidney. Then they put in a stent (another tube), then they destroy the kidney stone bros, then they leave in the stent for a week.

March 11th, 3pm ADT:

In a stupor, I awaken from zero dreams, having just time travelled 2 hours. As I slowly regain consciousness, I realize I am mumble ranting to the nurse about Oreo Double Stuffed Cookies and how they’re my colonization guilty pleasure. “Yeah, white man took our land, but … damn these Oreos!”

March 11th, 4pm ADT:

Dr Duplisea - the second white man to have ever been inside me - arrives (the first was a cavity search at the USA border, a story for another time, lol). I am 69% back to full consciousness, so his post-op jargon befuddles me, but I do remember him saying this (or maybe I was still high, idk):

“Jason (my colonial name), when I went in to destroy those kidney stones I found a cancerous tumor in your bladder. I lasered it out and sent it for testing.”

He went on and on, but I don’t remember anything else.

Wait what? Cancer? CANCER? cancer? caNCer? CAncER? cAnCeR????

I immediately thought of my two young boys, they’re still kids, I moved across KKKanada for them, they need me in their daily lives. At the same time, the other half of my brain thought of my adult daughter, and how I haven’t really been there for her since she was 12. She grew up to be a powerful woman, without me, her dad, and I will always be a coward for that.

Next I thought of those I have wronged … I am the last ndn to blame anything on my intergenerational trauma, heck I have healed AND learned how to harness my intergenerational trauma AND make it my career. When shared, that toxicity becomes medicine for others, your struggle becomes a guidebook for others, blah blah blah … but man oh man, cuzzins, I have also learned that, in innumerable unfathomable ways, that %$#@& intergenerational trauma is an inescapable monster, too. It rears its monstrous head and manifests itself in ways you don’t even think about until after long the fact. Trust me, your Blackfoot bro is no different.

March 11th, 4:05pm ADT:

A nurse is taking my blood sample in a final waiting room. She tells me about my post-op care, and answers questions while I wait for my ride home. It was at that moment I first notice an unfamiliar itch in my no-no square (lol). I remove the blanket covering my lower half and notice a giant catheter tube connected to me (thru me? in me?) - yes the urethra, yes the weewee hole. Up until that fateful moment I was but a weewee innocent catheter virgin, unaware of existence outside my virginal innocence.

My catheter cherry now forever broken, I am freaking the %$#@& out, yo! Luckily I am still kinda trippin’ that light fantastic, the deepest darkest recesses of my brain cling desperately to the meager remnants of my general anesthesia buzz. I am with it enough to realize that my nurse has just told another of my cancer diagnosis. WTF? Isn’t that my choice to tell others? Anyways, %$#@& it, I woulda dealt with it, but I was high.

March 11th, 9:30pm ADT:

That first night, it dawns on me, the gravity of my situation. A giant tube coming out of your orifice is not nearly as fun it sounds (ya weirdo). I go into full on panic mode, but it’s like a stuck panic, cause I can’t move properly anymore. It’s that stuck panic that gets me the most, cuzzin.

Years back, in my spelunking days, I got stuck deep in a cave at Ing’s Mine (near Bragg Creek, Alberta). I was stuck at a downward 3/4 angle for a good three hours while a buddy went for help. With some strategic pulls, I was freed. For years I was stricken with feeling trapped when I couldn’t leave a situation. Took me a long time to mostly get over it, and here I was, feeling that exact same trapped feeling again.

That first week, things got so bad, I called my ancestors collect. At first, my fiesty late uncle Marlin, refused to accept the charges (lol). Luckily, late grandma Leona pushed him away from the Creator’s rotary phone and listened closely to my pleas of pain. She told me, in Blackfoot: “Boy, Blackfoot do not avoid suffering, we embrace it. Struggle teaches us what comfort cannot.”

“Geez, Grandma why you always gotta have amazing undeniable wisdom???”

No response.

I embrace the suffering and spend the rest of the day chatting with various ancestors, they know I am immobile so of course they’re all lined up to give me a long overdue earful.

Later that eve, before I slip into my completely legal Ativan haze, I call my parents in Minneapolis. Mama empowers me like the gentle warrior she is, and raised me to be. My stepdad reiterates what others have said, but for some reason, it resonates coming from him. He says “thank goodness you had kidney stones, or your cancer would have gone undetected.”

That week has now grown into just over a month. The suffering is still there, and the terror still shows up once in a while, but its more emasculating than anything now, very minor.

As I continue in my cancer journey, I have learned many things:

• Do not fear getting tested, make it a priority TODAY. Your loved ones need you.

• Pay attention to your body and its symptoms.

• Be persistent with your doctor. I had been peeing blood for almost 18 months, at first they said it was kidney stones and I had to insist on a Urologist and testing.

• Your ancestors are listening, call to them when you are weakest. They will come to you.

• Try to make things right with those you have wronged. Remind those you care about that you care about them.

Next in my journey is my original surgery, my Ureteroscopy, I still have the kidney stones. Then its 5 years of monitoring my bladder, no chemotherapy … yet.

I reveal my struggles to you, because I always have. Vulnerability is my superpower. My pain is your medicine. My suffering is your healing. My story is your survival guide.

I Was Almost Famous

Cuzzin, this one time, Barbara Hershey saved a Blackfoot Hershey Squirt (me).

I’m filming “The Last of the Dogmen” in Canmore, AB. I’m an Archaeologist, and there’s this one scene where I had to carry a bunch of stone artifacts and put them on a table.

Simple, right? Well not for me, O’MAHK’SIIK’IIMI.

So the director goes “ACTION!” and Tom Berenger starts doing his cool Tom Berenger thing, and Barbara Hershey starts doing her cool Barbara Hershey thing.

Right. In. Front. Of. Me.

For a second, I forget I’m in a movie and go full fanboy. My braids stiffen up and I’m like “OMG, Barbara Hershey is Barbara Hershey-ing and Tom Berenger is Tom Berenger-ing right in front of me! OMG OMG OMG!!!”

Blackfoot are guided by our ancestors, so right then my late grandma Leona‘s voice echoes deep into the black matter of my brain “O’MAHK’SIIK’IIMI, you’re in a movie!”

Oh yeah!

I snap out of my Blackfoot blackout and pick up my tray of precious fragile artifacts. I walk smoothly towards the scene, Tom and Barbara are center screen, foreground, talking made up archaeological mumbo jumbo - something about a long lost tribe in the Rockies. Yeah, ok (lol).

I appear center screen, background.

Once again I forget I’m in a movie, and forget to watch where I’m walking.

Crash, boom, bang!

Blackfoot down, feet in air, artifacts smashed and tattered, film crew super silent, movie director extra pissed, Blackfoot very sad.

I panic, bust out crying, and run off the set, lol. I can still hear the director swearing “Dafuq is wrong with that guy. He can’t even walk!”

My grandma’s voice tells me “O’MAHK’SIIK’IIMI, keep your cool, don’t lose it on that Napikoan!”

I do the opposite and decide I’m going to run back home, right now, all the way to my rez, 100 miles away. I’m on my homeland anyways. How hard can it be, right?

I rotate east towards the foothills to begin my 100 mile run … and there stands the breathtaking Barbara Hershey.

I’m lost in her eyes as she gently tells me “don’t worry, it’s nothing, that old director was wrong, let’s finish this scene.”

I wipe my Blackfoot tears, pick up my pride, take a deep breath, tell my grandma she’s always right, and finish the scene like a champ.

Later, Barbara invites me to lunch and I ask her all about that movie “Beaches”, with Bette Midler - we laugh and laugh and laugh. I’ll keep that part of the memory to myself though.

CLICK HERE and skip to 3:12 to see me in the final scene!

Couple years later, I’m in this TV movie called “Children of the Dust”, with Sydney Portier, Farrah Fawcett and Billy Wirth. Billy played one of the vampires in “The Lost Boys”, and starred in our favorite movie, “War Party”. He’s a real cool dude, and invites me and The Shuswap (my bro, Kevin Sandy) to his fancy movie trailer.

I didn’t smoke weed at the time, but Kev sure did, so him and Billy roll it up, light up, smoke it up, inhaaaale, exhaaaale. A huge puff of ganja fills the RV. I go to get some air, and right at that moment there is a hard knock on the door. I open the door, a big puff of that sticky icky icky smoke bellows out … right in the face of …

SYDNEY #$%&@ PORTIER!!!!

… I panic, but he is cooler than a polar bear’s toenail. Sydney says, all regal sounding and stuff “Boys, I am flying to Paris to see my wife tonight. See you tomorrow on set. Smells good in there.”

… then he winks and leaves (lol)

The next day I got fired by the director, ‘cause I wouldn’t ditch an Elder lady in the jail wagon we were escaping from. I said “that’s not realistic, we wouldn’t just leave an Elder!”

I was immediatly escorted off the set.

So sadly, I have no clips for you of that movie. I did get to meet Farrah Fawcett though, wow!

I Used To Live In My Car

Geez you know cuzzin, me and my ‘03 War Pony, she and I have been all over Turtle Island - 423 reservations, 48 states, every province, the territories, Mexico too!

“Daheck is Turtle Island?” some clueless colonizer interrupts

“I don’t teach for free, you better go on YouTube and Google it”, I say, stoically, as I’ve said thousands of times when asked the bare basics that everyone occupying stolen lands should already know.

The gathered crowd says “YEAH”

Anyways, my War Pony’s odometer reads 469,669km, her and I are lost on a dusty dirt road in southern Saskatchatoon. Suddenly, she says in Blackfoot “O’mahk’siik’iimi, you don’t need any air conditioning, you Blackfoot can endure the sweatiest of sweatlodges!”

Before I get a chance to say “Tsaaaaa (no)”, her Blower Motor Resistor finally stops resisting and dies with a pitiful whimper. I’m not sure what a resistor resists, but I do know the comfortingly cold colonial air stopped blowing against my glistening de-colonized skin.

“CREATOR!!!” I war cry, one tightly clenched fist aimed at the sweltering sun.

… no response

You know cuzzin, I’ve never skid-addled before, but I seen these white guys in high school do it once, and it seemed worth a try. So I hit the accelerator and “give-er” (another white man slang I learned, I heard it on one of them Cable TV reality shows - pretty sure they all say it though).

My destination?

Saskatoon, Saskatchatoon!!!

“Umm, it’s Saskatchewan, I live there … I know”, another colonizer says, trying desperately to colonize the conversation.

Me: *rolls eyes, Indigenously

That Saskatchatoon heat though, makes my eyelids sweatlodge sweaty, plus I’m ten toes deep in Cree territory(!) — sworn mortal enemies of us Blackfoot.

Trembling, I tell my cool white man phone (to clarify, it’s the phone that’s cool) “Siri, book me a room in Saskatoon please, I’m done with this sweatlodge!”

“Room booked at Thriftlodge, Saskatoon”, Siri says

“How bad can it really be?”, I wonder

… it’s $&@?# rough, yo … little babies awake with their parents in the parking lot at 2am, a stale smell of neglect fills the air, a room with an anti-view that doesn’t lock properly, wickedly warped walls, absolutely abrasive toilet paper, tempermental taps, an abundance of bugs bugging me, a shower with no shower curtain, towels stained only slightly less than the sheets, a wood panel TV that sparks when you turn it on … etc etc $&@?# etc.

But I’m like $&@?# it I’m wasted, I happily find a dry spot on the bed and quickly fall asleep.

Soon as I wake up I can already tell the Natives are restless. There’s a knock at my door. Awwww, it’s two cute little kids. They ask if I’m going to breakfast, and then go on to tell me how cool the breakfast is … and there’s waffles! (lol).

The true deplorability of the motel facility is now as clear as an azure sky of deepest summer. I say good day to the bedbugs and walk on down the hall.

At breakfast, there’s nothing but skins! Even the staff - all Indigenous. I assume Cree and/or Di’ne, but never assume.

Those two little kids notice me and tell their dad, he says “sit with us”. The so-called breakfast is actually pretty sad, but I pretend to love it, for the kids.

One things for sure, everyone is poverty stricken. And no, it’s not white man broke, it’s ndn broke - BIG DIFFERENCE.

“Daheck is NDN BROKE???” another colonizer yells out. I calmy retort:

“Well, first you take regular poverty, then add on: intergenerational trauma; societal oppression; cultural genocide; environmental racism; aggressive assimilation; a government that tried (is trying) to erase you and your people; living under the restrictions of the Indian Act … etc etc $&@?# etc”

I suspect some of my ndn brothers and sisters live at the Thriftlodge for a month at a time. Some sell drugs there, some sell themselves there.

Everyone has so much to talk about, and I love stories, so I ask question after question. Back in my room, I’m packing up, and those two little kids come to my door, but this time they’re with six other kids, maybe eight. They all stand there and talk to me for a good half hour, chatting about their little lives. When they leave, it dawns on me that these children don’t know any different, and some of these parents are trying the best they can.

So … I decide to stay!

I book for another three nights … and wow, I made some amazing connections with people that are struggling for things that many of us take for granted (like a home). I even ended up working together with a few and publishing their books. These are the grassroots connections I would not have made in those fancy hotels and Airbnb’s.

Blackfoot way is to embrace suffering, we don’t avoid it. In a sweat lodge we endure the heat, in a fast we endure lack of food and water, at our Sundance we endure the elements and all the above.

Suffering and struggle help us to appreciate life. Suffering and struggle teach us more than happiness and comfort. When we share our struggles, they became a survival guide for others.

We can’t fear our own people. None of us are above struggle.

I Took My White Ex-Wife To The Rez, Chaos Ensued

My ex-wife is white and the first time I brought her to the rez is pretty crazy.

We had to get our newborn son Teeias registered at membership. On my rez both parents need to come in and sign a couple forms and pay five bucks, simple right?

We drive down in the old hotrod, my ‘72 Chevy Nova (which I bought instead of a family mini van, but that’s another story, lol).

The ex-wife is all “oooo” and “ahhh” as we cruise the rez.

“You mean, anyone can just come here? I thought there’d be reservation border guards or something”, she queries.

Me: *rolls eyes, Indigenously

Blackfoots ain’t used to a hotrod in their midst, so our arrival is anything but incognito. I hurry my white wife past the throngs of curious red skins, and beeline straight for the band office. Baby Teeias is hungry, so he is fussy, we rush through the paperwork.

“Huh-iya”, I exclaim in Blackfoot, “I forgot the five bucks!”

Half breed baby Teeias is just starting to cry as I leave my fully white wife alone with a bunch of stoic Blackfoots and rush out the door in search of five bucks.

I push thru the dense crowd surrounding my stupid hotrod, go to put in the key to open the door, look inside - Raynard Brave Rock is sitting in the drivers seat, pretending to drive, complete with pretend driving sounds. I sit in the passengers seat, and search frantically for five bucks.

Brave Rock is a bit high so he is kicking back being cool, he says “Why you trippin’, bro? Live and love, man, live and love!”

I explain my dilemma.

Brave Rock suddenly swings open the door, leaps from the seat, stands on the roof of my war pony, and yells in broken Blackfoot “Niskunis, kistoo O’mahk’siik’iimi noi sabooksis” (Friends, our brother needs five bucks!)

It’s the rez, so money is tight, but one by one, cuzzin after cuzzin came forward with the money that jingles. Some cuzzins only had a couple “brown brothers” (pennies) to offer, but offer they did.

Anyways, us Blackfoots gather just enough change to get my son registered as a legal Blackfoot. We’re all cheering and war crying and high fiving each other …

until

… I’ve always heard about conniptions, but I’d never actually seen one … just beyond the crowd of smiling red skins I see my white wife, crying hysterically. Her pearl white skin is now bright red (that happens to white people when they get worked up, it’s science. Go on Youtube and Google it, lol).

I yell for her, the red skin crowd parts like the Red Sea. I run towards my crying white wife, and my half breed baby in his cradle board on her back, scream crying. With the whole rez watching, she breaks down, bawling.

I finally get her into the car and she says, all in one breath, “Teeias wouldn’t stop crying, so the Blackfoot ladies started telling me to feed him, but I’m breastfeeding. They said ‘so what, we’re all women here’, but I’ve never felt so surrounded in all my life, so I ran out of the office crying, all the Indians looking at me, I was so scared, then I come outside and there’s even more Indians surrounding your stupid hotrod and you. I’ve never felt so surrounded in all my life, how about you???”

Me: “This is how Indians feel every day. Surrounded. Every. Single. Day. We’re just used to it.”

Here’s the funny part: towards the end of our marriage, she was going to the rez all by herself and learned Blackfoot from my grandma.

I Survived On Borscht & Bannock for a Year

I was 14 and just had to leave that #@$%& Blood rez, so I moved to auntie’s house in Calgary. Three hours on a Greyhound, I arrived in the city of dreams - flooded with smog, cabs and limousines.

“Man, I am hungry, yo! Luckily auntie’s place is only 4km away. These city ndns call that a ‘hike’, but us rez ndns call it ‘going to the nearest neighbor’s house’.” I boast loudly outloud to my newly city ndn self, but, you know, in broken Blackfoot.

Auntie, she had quite the spread – peeling wood paneling galore, shag throw rug that’s no longer shaggy, a beautiful velvet Elvis hanging slightly crooked on the wall, and I'm sure pretty next to it there was a faded tapestry with rez dogs playing pool on it or something. A whole couch to myself to sleep on? Yessss.

"I'm sittin' in the lap, sittin' in the lap of luxury, and it sure feels good to me", I sing outloud to myself, not in Blackfoot.

My garbage bag full of old, but clean clothes is really digging into my shoulder, so I pour everything into the matching set of greasy cardboard boxes auntie left for me beside my bed/living room.

“Eat, O’mah’siik’iimi, eat!” my stomach screams to me, but, you know, in Blackfoot.

After the splendor of the wood panels and faux shag, I am beyond excited at the treats awaiting me in auntie’s mustard fridge with the door duct-taped shut.

“NAA’HAA, a Rutabaga?” I say to myself, ‘cause I don’t know how to say rutabaga in Blackfoot. Yep that’s all that awaited me in her fridge, a lonely rutabaga … but man, was it tasty.

Stomach growling, I head to Plains Indian Cultural Survival School down the road. I quickly register myself, and the Secretary goes “OMG, is that your stomach I hear? Miss Isla, will you take this boy to the cafeteria?”

Miss Isla runs the cafeteria with an iron fist, but today she ran it with a golden heart. She tells me she’s Ukrainian, then asks “OH’MACK’SACK’A’ME’ME – ‘dis your Blackfoot name right, or no?”

I laugh “it’s O’MAHK’SIIK’IIMI … but, close enough.”

Her: “Well, O, me I don’t like hungry kids!”

Me, confused: “Umm, okay?”

Her: “So today, you no more hungry no more. Every school day, you come here, end of day, Miss Isla give you big bag o’ bannock and big bucket o’ beet borscht. Starting today, you understand this?”

Me, blown away, thinking to myself "Daheck is a borsh, anyways?", but I say: “Oh I understand!”

That first day, after school (and every day for a year), Miss Isla hands me a big bag o’ bannock and a big bucket o’ beet borscht. The bannock is cubed, like dice. It takes me a while to perfect my technique, but soon I figure out how to butter 10 tiny cubed bannocks all at once. FYI - ten tiny bannocks equals one regular bannock.

I had never eaten a beet before (nor since, lol), and I still can’t pronounce borscht properly, but man o’ man, Miss Isla was working wonders in that kitchen.

I love that woman.

My auntie never really had much food ‘cause there was lots of us to feed, and I never learned how to say rutabaga in Blackfoot, but she gave me a warm place to sleep and a safe place to write.

I love her, too.

I Was Raised With Wise Spoken Words

It’s 4:45am. Grandma is at my door.

“A good ndn is always up before the sun”, she gently whispers, in Blackfoot. I think I’m still dreaming

It’s 4:52am. Grandma is standing by my bed, lovingly taunting me, in Blackfoot, to get up already, with a bucket of ice cold water.

“NII’TAA’KIIT, O’MAHK’SIIK’IIMI” (Hurry up)

It’s 4:55am. Grandma is super hurriedly (and a bit angrily, lol) braiding my super long hair, 'cause us dang kids stayed up too late playing that dang Super Mario on that dang Super Nintendo, yet again

“Who is this dang Super Mar-eeo, anyways!? Why does he keep you up so dang late!?”

It’s 4:59am. Grandma is yelling at us, in Blackfoot, as we barely make the bus.

“GEEZ, YOU KIDS!!!”

It’s 5:03am. BillyBoy the Bus Driver is turning the bus around, ‘cause us dang kids forgot our dang lunch bags and our dang mitts

“GEEZ, YOU KIDS!!!”

… then I sit, for 3 hours, as countless other Blood rez kids are picked up enroute to the non-Blood-rez colonial settler school. I’ve got my trusty li’l dual-cassette ghetto blaster, so of course, I try to liven up the dejected ndn crowd and be a pretend Rez Radio DJ:

“Rockin The Reservation, coming to you live from the Big Yellow Bus, this is O’mahk’siik’iimi “Big Fist In The Air” Pii’tai’poyi, bringing you all the best in rez radio hits. Coming up next, a little bit of XIT, and their badass warrior song “Reservation of Education”

I crank that badboy. A big yellow bus full of little red skins, rockin’ the reservation! I lip sync my favorite lyrics, one tightly clenched fist in the air:

“When I was young, I heard of fate, but not the word SEGREGATE”

“When I was young, I heard of hate, but not the word DISCRIMINATE”

“I was told my way was wrong, and I must change to get along”

“Big yellow bus took me away, where I would learn a different way”

Us rez kids, we rocked that reservation, man!

… then, at school, it’s the same %$#@ routine every day:

Getting relentlessly teased (or hit on) because of my "beautiful" long hair

“HER name is Jason???”

Eating Bologna & Butter sandwiches every lunch hour, while everyone else buys Slurpees and fries and gravy and personal pan pizzas and sushi. I contemplate, real loud to myself, in Blackfoot:

“I wonder what that Napikoan (white dude) would do if I stole his fries, just like his ancestors stole our land?”

Getting constantly singled out by teachers and asked for "the Native perspective"

“Jason, do Native people still live in tipis?” (I glare at them, Indigenously)

… then the long bus ride home to the rez, -40 Celsius, in the dark. My thoughts are as clear as an azure sky of deepest summer, I gaze lovingly at my ancestors homelands and quietly contemplate the power of all the NAPI stories my grandparents told me

... then Grandma making me Stew & Bannock and Wild Mint Tea and Saskatoon Berry Pie and giggling and “making” me study and hustle and create and tell her all my stories - while all my friends were out partying and having a "good" time

That’s the secret of my success …

Yayay, It’s My Birthday!

Go go go, shawty, it’s my birthday! We’re gonna party like it’s my birthday. Sippin’ on some Mint tea ‘cause it’s my birthday … or however it goes (lol).

Every year on this special day there is an event like no other. Much more than just my lowly birthday - check this out - January 28th is actually three birthdays:

• The birth of my son, Shiloh Furius, now 9 (wow!)

• The birth of EagleSpeaker Publishing, now 15 (wow!)

• The birth of me, O’mahk’siik’iimi, now 50 (wow!)

50 years ago today, fresh out the womb, an old soul with a new attitude, my great-grandparents named me O’mahk’siik’iimi (also known by my colonial name, Jason Eaglespeaker). Right then and there, in a sterile Seattle University hospital room, they held ceremony and bestowed a powerful Blackfoot honor upon my newborn self - the role of “Piipiitakii” of my generation. From day one, I was raised traditionally by my grandparents (Leona & Glen Eaglespeaker) who taught me the immense power, and responsibility, of storytelling. They showed me how to harness the power of hundreds of timeless NAPI stories (a Blackfoot trickster figure) - to make sense of the world, empower my community, and achieve success in life.

15 years ago today, I looked excitedly at the original coil-ring version of my very first book, UNeducation Vol 1: A Residential School Graphic Novel. A single copy handcrafted by me and my family a mere month before, it has since gone on to sell well over 250,000 copies worldwide (wow!). The chronicles of my mother and her 8 siblings’ mandatory attendance in the notorious St. Paul’s Residential School (in Southern Alberta) is now read by people all over the world. Recently, I followed it up with UNeducation Vol 2: The Side of Society You Don’t See On TV - about the intergenerational impacts of residential schools, as seen through my own dysfunction. It was on this day, January 28th, I decided to become a Book Publisher. To help other Indigenous people experience the same freedom, outlets and reach I have. It was on this day, Eaglespeaker Publishing came to be.

9 years ago today, I became a dad for the third time. Yep, Shiloh was born on my birthday! I was right there in the delivery room that day, making sure not to peek around the curtain (lol). There’s something about having a kid when you’re in your 40’s, it’s like I was given another chance to do the best I can. I am now a lone Blackfoot in unceded M’ikmaq territory (a.k.a. Nova Scotia). So very far from my homelands, so very close to my sons. When their mother and I divorced, in Calgary, it was a no-brainer for me to move cross-country to her homelands and raise my sons around her and her amazing (huge!) family.