I Wasn’t Always An Author/Publisher
Cuzzinnnnnn … cuzzin, I sure missed you this past week … grab some bannock, pour some mint tea, I got some struggles (and strengths) to share.
Ever heard that phrase “without struggle, there is no progress”? It’s from a speech by a badass dude named Frederick Douglass.
Whether you’re struggling now or struggled recently, know this: THE STRUGGLE BINDS US ALL. There is no escaping it. Sometimes you overcome it, sometimes you endure it, sometimes it consumes you. I am no different.
There is no shame in struggle.
Like right now, I am struggling financially … bigtime … no joke … and not no colonizer daddy-will-help-me broke, I mean rez ndn you-are-on-your-own-mofo broke … that “what daheck can I pawn?” stage … that “am I even eligible for payday loans?” stage … that “hmm, I wonder if I can still sell weed/my ass?” stage … that “Will Ghostwrite For Food” cardboard sign stage (lol).
I think to my Blackfoot self, “How daheck did this happen … you’re a broke ndn, yet again?”
Do I blame the intergenerational trauma? Do I blame the residential school trauma? Do I blame oppression? Do I blame depression? Do I blame colonialism? Do I blame cancer? Do I blame Trump? Do I blame my daddy? Do I blame your daddy? Who do I blame, dammit?
Blame it on the rain
‘cause the rain don’t mind
and the rain don’t care
you’ve got to blame it on something
Lol, sometimes you just gotta blame yourself for what you go through, because you knew better.
“For real though, I thought you were The Man, The Dude, The Guy … how … da … heck … did … this … happen … to … you … mofo … ???” you exclaim with verve, and an odd excitement.
Ya know cuzzin, lemme top up your tea - lets dig into my quagmire quandary.
I don’t remember much about being born, but I do remember this: I was conceived on April 25th … oh wait, too far back … lol
I grew up on the corner of Chaos and Hard Times, so I know poor. Everyone around us was broke too, so I didn’t even notice. My clothes were old, but grandma always made sure they were clean. I was the oldest, so I got hand-me-ups (lol). I have since learned a phrase that describes my childhood: it’s not about the resources you have, it’s how resourceful you are. Thinking back, I have lived by this since I was a li’l rez kid in federal day school on the Blood rez. The education was subpar, but the teachers really tried. There was abuse, yes, but most kids got it worse than me.
Even then I was figuring out ways to rise above, even if it was just a few dollars. I always knew there was a bigger plan for me. As a kid, I always had five bucks in my pocket, while everyone around me was always five bucks short:
I was the first on my rez to sell Xmas trees in my front yard
I caught gophers (live) and sold them to the farmers
I bought USA-only snacks and sold them in KKKanada for a profit
I made crafts for the Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump museum
I picked/sold saskatoons berries and made/sold frybread kits at powwows
I bought bags empty cans/bottles from other kids for half price, then sold them in town (Fort Macleod) for full price
I left the rez at 15, dropped out of high school, settled, married and divorced in Calgary. I tried out the workforce, but I knew I wouldn’t last. As a young adult, I had a job or ten:
I was a youth summer camp counselor for 6 years
I worked in substance abuse group homes for 7 years
I ran a team of 20 at the welfare office, helping clients get job-ready
I built a huge Native family program that provided free access to cool activities throughout the city
I worked in schools and educated faculty about KKKanada’s treatment of Indigenous peoples
At 34, after some awesome success with my very first book - UNeducation: A Residential School Graphic Novel - I finally figured out how to make my life’s calling into my career - help others share their story with the world, and more importantly, their descendants. Eaglespeaker Publishing was born!
Man, it was tough in the beginning though - everyone doubting me, me doubting me, pretty sure even my ancestors were in doubt, whispering to me “man, I don’t know ‘bout this one nephew grandson” (lol).
But I persevered, I endured, I ignored the doubtful demons, I made a dollar out of fifteen cents. I started out with just two or three authors, I hadn't published a damn thing yet, but still they trusted me with their stories, with their messages for their descendants. The honor was immense.
It took even longer to make it lucrative, it's difficult to move forward when it's not paying your rent. Eventually though, even my ancestors were all in. Whispering words of encouragement and gentle guidance in my eager ear. I knew it was them because I would go to sleep confused and wake up knowing exactly what to do.
I've always wanted other Indigenous authors to be able to duplicate what I do, so I kept my promotions and marketing grassroots, word of mouth, free. Then we started having some bestsellers - NAPI: The Trixster, Young Water Protectors - and things really took off. What a whirlwind, I wasn't prepared for any of it.
Still with me, cuzzin? Here, have another bannock, ‘cause this where it gets greasy. I have narrowed my journey from living-high-on-the-hog to ready-to-sell-my-blood-plasma in four steps:
I focused only on free grassroots book promotion strategies. I never spent a dime on ads, nor did I learn how to market in other ways. Bad mistake!
I moved across the country six years ago to KKKanada's ocean playground. It's a paradise in many ways, but it made me lazy in endless ways, riding that royalty wave. Bad mistake!
I went through a life-changing health issue this time last year (bladder cancer). I stopped almost everything business related. Bad, but necessary mistake.
I went throught a traumatizing mental health experience six months ago (see last week’s story). I stopped telling stories, I stopped posting on social media, I stopped reaching out to cuzzins like you. I just stopped. Bad mistake.
And that brings us to today cuzzin, just me and you sitting here on this bench, overlooking the vast ocean. Sharing our struggles, sharing our strengths. Sharing our pains, sharing our passions. Sharing our accomplishments, sharing our so-called failures. The struggle binds us all.
“We Indigenous people are the most resilient people in all the world, we are the only ‘minorities’ without a country to return to - this is it, these are Native lands.” I say to you, as we breathe in the moist ocean air.
“%$#@! YEAH!” you say, one fist in the air.
“Our ancestors harnessed the tools that surrounded them, we will do the same! If money is our only problem, then we are already rich. Greed is colonial, prosperity is traditional. We are our ancestors’ wildest dreams come true!” I say stoically to the ocean wind. My words echo across the vast blue waters, into the vast blue sky.
We do the cuzzin handshake, lock eyes for a second, nod in power, then we head to back colonization - fully decolonized.
THE STRUGGLE BINDS US ALL.
… I may be down, but I’m never out. When I’m close to defeat, I rise to my feet.
