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.